My great-grandmother's house had what I liked to think of as a parlor. I suppose most people would call it a living room, but with the roses blooming on the wallpaper and the old pump organ in the corner, it was everything I imagined a parlor to be.
I never met my great-grandmother, but my grandma's sister, my great-aunt Esther, lived in that old farmhouse her whole life, looking after her mother throughout the stages of what might have been Alzheimer's and tending the cows in the pasture and the flowers lovingly planted all around the yard. Esther never married, and though I was too young to really talk about such things with her, I think she must have been lonely sometimes. My grandma said she fancied a young man at one time, but he thought of her more as a sister than a potential bride and married another.
Esther was a true salt-of-the-earth woman. She was small and reed-thin, with skin ruddy from the sun and wind and gray hair cropped just below her ears. In my mind she always wore a cotton dress with an apron, knee-high stockings, and black buckled shoes, and her voice crackled when she talked. All those years she lived in that house, she never installed indoor plumbing but instead used the little outhouse from her childhood. She had a small pump for water in the kitchen, but my siblings and I especially enjoyed helping Esther get water from the big pump out in the pump house.
Though my grandma had two sisters, neither had children of their own, so my dad was the only child among the three, and from what I've heard, my dad's aunts adored their red-headed nephew like no other. When he was a kid, my dad spent time during the summers out at Esther's farm building playhouses in the fields and chasing after his dog Penny. He also spent time keeping his grandma company so Esther could get her work done. Esther's mother, I'm told, was in the habit of wandering off, so Esther would bring her along when she did her chores around the farm and try to keep her occupied by having her hold the tails of the cows while Esther milked them.
It was during those summers when my dad and his grandma sat in the parlor and played church. I'm sure my dad knows the story much better than I do, but I've heard he preached many a sermon long before the idea of attending seminary ever sparked his imagination. And my great-grandmother sang the hymns so deeply embedded in her memory the dementia couldn't touch them. I can envision the scene in my mind so clearly--a little freckled-faced boy and his grandma enjoying time with their Savior.
Fast-forward some forty years, and the scene isn't that different. The youngest son of the freckled-face boy is standing on a small platform in the living room of his house wearing a "gown" his grandma made from an old white dress and preaching a sermon on John 3:16. The sermon is followed by his older sister plunking out "Silent Night" and "Glory Be To Jesus" (the only two hymns she can play with both hands) on the piano, while both children sing the words they know by heart.
What started in the parlor of the old farmhouse continued in the living room of the house in the suburbs. That's powerful stuff.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
I'm just saying is all.
I'm not the kind of person who jumps on every rickety wagon that goes clattering by when it comes to my health and well-being. With all the "studies" that reveal conflicting information and "new research" that may either solidify or debunk old research, not to mention the "oh, we said this but now we realize something else is actually true" scenarios, I've really had to educate myself about what I should and should not do to be conscientious consumer.
Until about a year ago, I never thought much about things like where my food came from or what kind of impact my lifestyle had on the environment and on other people. Maybe the fact that I do think about such things now has to do with my generation. It seems to be a common goal among many of my friends and acquaintances to live more like people did a hundred years ago in terms of getting food from a farm instead of a corporate conglomerate, being active despite having a desk job, conserving natural resources, and trying to buy local products instead of those produced by exploited people in developing countries.
Of course, with this new awareness comes a great deal of responsibility--and that for me is the hardest part. I cannot feed myself or my family feed-lot-raised beef or eggs and meat from antibiotic-and hormone-filled chickens that never see the light of day. I just can't do it. This means paying more for grass-fed beef and free-range chicken and eggs from the farmer's market or co-op and eating less of it because it costs more. This also means very little fast food. Knowing where my meat comes from and not eating fast food are healthy decisions, but sometimes I want a McDonald's cheeseburger so much it hurts. Seriously.
When it comes to label reading, we tried the baby-step method. We started simply--no foods containing high fructose corn syrup or anything hydrogenated or partially hydrogenated were allowed in the shopping cart. It wasn't too much of a sacrifice, as there are usually alternatives. But then we started looking at food labels for anything modified, I knew my Little Debbie days were over, as were the days of pretty much anything packaged. I had to draw the line, though, when it came to refined sugar. Giving up Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines was not a problem, as I bake at home using raw sugar. It was the bread products that broke me. I tried making bread and buns in my bread machine, but I just couldn't get them to taste the same...not to mention the fact that it takes four hours.
And then there's the organic-or-not-organic debate. Frankly, I think buying organic has become much too trendy for the label to mean much of anything. Many organic brands are owned by large food-producing empires that also produce non-organic brands, so I don't really trust them. That's just me being skeptical. But there are some organic brands I know and trust, and while we get our produce from the farmer's market in the summer, we do try to get organic produce from the store in the winter.
Being socially conscious has even reached into my chocolate-eating habits. Several of my coworkers feel the same way about food as I do, so we share information. Around Halloween, someone e-mailed me a list of chocolate manufacturers that use child labor in developing countries to harvest the cocoa beans. And so the Hershey's chocolate went the way of the McDonald's cheeseburgers and the Little Debbies. Who'd have thought the choice of which chocolate I buy would matter? But even on the smallest level, it does. At least I keep believing that at some level the choices I've made and continue to make will make a positive difference in the grand scheme of things.
I still have so much to learn and many changes to make to be the best steward I can of the body and resources I've been given. Someday we'd like to have a few acres of land so we can have a big garden and some chickens, but until then I need to work on my canning skills and read up on how to actually get the eggs from the chickens. I sometimes think if I didn't have a job and if I actually liked to spend time in the kitchen, I could do a whole lot more to provide the absolute best for my family, like cook grains in a rice cooker and figure out creative ways to use tofu. But I do have a job and I don't like to cook, so that's that. Between Kev and me, we do what we can with what we have, and for now that will have to be good enough.
Until about a year ago, I never thought much about things like where my food came from or what kind of impact my lifestyle had on the environment and on other people. Maybe the fact that I do think about such things now has to do with my generation. It seems to be a common goal among many of my friends and acquaintances to live more like people did a hundred years ago in terms of getting food from a farm instead of a corporate conglomerate, being active despite having a desk job, conserving natural resources, and trying to buy local products instead of those produced by exploited people in developing countries.
Of course, with this new awareness comes a great deal of responsibility--and that for me is the hardest part. I cannot feed myself or my family feed-lot-raised beef or eggs and meat from antibiotic-and hormone-filled chickens that never see the light of day. I just can't do it. This means paying more for grass-fed beef and free-range chicken and eggs from the farmer's market or co-op and eating less of it because it costs more. This also means very little fast food. Knowing where my meat comes from and not eating fast food are healthy decisions, but sometimes I want a McDonald's cheeseburger so much it hurts. Seriously.
When it comes to label reading, we tried the baby-step method. We started simply--no foods containing high fructose corn syrup or anything hydrogenated or partially hydrogenated were allowed in the shopping cart. It wasn't too much of a sacrifice, as there are usually alternatives. But then we started looking at food labels for anything modified, I knew my Little Debbie days were over, as were the days of pretty much anything packaged. I had to draw the line, though, when it came to refined sugar. Giving up Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines was not a problem, as I bake at home using raw sugar. It was the bread products that broke me. I tried making bread and buns in my bread machine, but I just couldn't get them to taste the same...not to mention the fact that it takes four hours.
And then there's the organic-or-not-organic debate. Frankly, I think buying organic has become much too trendy for the label to mean much of anything. Many organic brands are owned by large food-producing empires that also produce non-organic brands, so I don't really trust them. That's just me being skeptical. But there are some organic brands I know and trust, and while we get our produce from the farmer's market in the summer, we do try to get organic produce from the store in the winter.
Being socially conscious has even reached into my chocolate-eating habits. Several of my coworkers feel the same way about food as I do, so we share information. Around Halloween, someone e-mailed me a list of chocolate manufacturers that use child labor in developing countries to harvest the cocoa beans. And so the Hershey's chocolate went the way of the McDonald's cheeseburgers and the Little Debbies. Who'd have thought the choice of which chocolate I buy would matter? But even on the smallest level, it does. At least I keep believing that at some level the choices I've made and continue to make will make a positive difference in the grand scheme of things.
I still have so much to learn and many changes to make to be the best steward I can of the body and resources I've been given. Someday we'd like to have a few acres of land so we can have a big garden and some chickens, but until then I need to work on my canning skills and read up on how to actually get the eggs from the chickens. I sometimes think if I didn't have a job and if I actually liked to spend time in the kitchen, I could do a whole lot more to provide the absolute best for my family, like cook grains in a rice cooker and figure out creative ways to use tofu. But I do have a job and I don't like to cook, so that's that. Between Kev and me, we do what we can with what we have, and for now that will have to be good enough.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
This PK's Life, part 1
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| A Pastor's Family |
Fortunately, my 35-year-old self tends to dig a bit more deeply into my growing-up years (it’s all part of the whole maturing thing), and I think being a pastor's kid has shaped who I am in ways I've not spent much time reflecting on. That’s why I wanted to write this series of blog posts—to explore what it was about my dad’s profession that influenced my choices and outlook on life.
Growing up, I remember getting strange responses from people when I told them my dad is a pastor. At my first after-school job during high school, my coworkers would apologize every time they accidentally said a curse word...because my dad is a pastor. People I didn't know personally would ask me to babysit their kids because they assumed I was trustworthy...because my dad is a pastor. Elementary school classmates wanted me on their team when we played Bible trivia...because my dad is a pastor. Just a few years ago when I told one of my coworkers what my dad does for a living, she said, "Oh, we need to go to lunch and talk about that further"...because my dad is a pastor. I have a vague recollection from fourth or fifth grade of someone in my class saying he thought pastors' kids were supposed to be perfect (ha!), and it always puzzled me when people said things like, “I’ve heard pastor’s kids rebel when they grow up. Are you going to become a wild child?” Huh?
We were just kids, my siblings and I. We liked the same things other kids liked and felt the same things other kids felt. Our parents had expectations of us to be on our best behavior and to be respectful and responsible, but other parents had the same expectations for their kids. So what made, and continues to make, us different?
That is indeed the million dollar question, and I'm not sure of the answer.
Maybe I'll start with the obvious. I think one big thing my siblings and I experienced that maybe other kids didn’t was a unique perspective about ministry. I have a very vivid memory from when I was five or six years old of my dad taking my sister and me with him when he went to the nursing home to visit the church members who were residents there. My mom would tell us we were going to visit the grandmas and grandpas, and my sister and I both loved those times. The grandmas and grandpas would hold us on their laps, tell us stories, and give us candy from their pockets.
We didn't know we were involved in ministry; we just enjoyed basking in the attention given us by people who probably had far too few visitors. We didn't know our dad was teaching us to offer love to others and be Jesus’ hands and feet. But he was—not with words but by example.
Just this winter, my church offered the opportunity to volunteer at a local care center. When I saw the announcement in the bulletin, the memory of visiting the grandmas and grandpas in the nursing home three decades ago flashed in my mind, and it didn’t take me long to sign up.
Of course, when it came to ministry, we had double the influence, with my dad being a pastor and my mom being a parochial school teacher. I always remember my mom being actively involved in the Sunday school and vacation Bible school programs at whatever church my dad served, and she also played organ and accompanied the choir. Once we kids had flown the coop, she started leading women’s Bible studies and helping organize various events. Needless to say, all throughout my formative years my family spent a whole lot of time at church.
This meant that my siblings and I participated in all sorts of church-related tasks. When I was in second grade, my dad took a call to a congregation that didn’t yet have a church building, so church services were held in the local American Legion Hall. To this day, the smell of stale beer and burnt popcorn and the tinny sound of an out-of-tune piano take me back to those years when my family got up very early on Sunday mornings and arrived before anyone else to vacuum the carpet, set up folding chairs and a makeshift altar and, my mom says, to clean up beer cans, though I don’t remember doing that.
There was a special closeness among the members of the congregation who worshipped in that Legion Hall. There was an appreciation for a place to gather and an excitement for the future. I imagine it probably seemed strange to me at first, not worshipping in a church, but I remember being proud to be part of it. Thanks to that beer-can-littered Legion Hall, it didn't take long for me to understand that ministry can happen anywhere.
Well, I’ll stop here for now. I keep going off on tangents and then cutting and pasting what I wrote in a different file to use later. I suppose thirty-plus years of memories might come out in a bit of a jumbled mess.
Hmmm, I could really go for a good potluck about now.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Even in our brokenness...
It's a classic episode in most sitcoms: While their parents are away, the kids play ball in the house or have a wild party or do something or another that breaks their mom's favorite vase or lamp or figurine. Because there is still time before their parents are due home, the kids gather up the pieces and glue them together. Then, usually one of two things happens: 1) the vase or lamp or figurine looks like it did before it was broken, but when Mom gets near it, it shatters into pieces because the glue doesn't hold, or 2) the kids get nearly the whole vase or lamp or figurine put back together before they realize they're missing a piece, so they try to position the said object in such a way that no one would notice. In the end, the kids usually end up confessing to their parents, which would have been the easiest solution to the problem to begin with, but that's why I'm not a sitcom writer (among other reasons).
I've been thinking a lot about brokenness, not in terms of vases or lamps, but in terms of people. It seems like lately the news has featured story after story of people's lives and families being torn apart by natural disasters, war, crime, death, abuse, addiction, illness, deceit, selfishness, pride, you name it. And then there are the stories that aren't on the news--the personal fractures each one of us has. Some are obvious and some hidden from view, but all of them leave us bleeding and aching.
We live in a culture that doesn't look too kindly on broken people. Broken lives are messy, and broken families are complicated. Look at Humpty Dumpty; he's still splattered all over the sidewalk because not even the king’s best men could mend him. Bookstores have scores of resources to help people fix their lives, and well-intentioned organizations want to offer a hand, but given Humpty’s situation, it’s easy to give up hope.
I asked Kev about the physics involved with gluing something back together. If a person had all the pieces to, say, a broken vase or lamp, and glued them exactly in place, would the glue hold? Kev said it would depend on the strength of the glue. When it comes to putting together the pieces of a broken life or family, the glue is going to make all the difference.
For some people, bitterness is the first glue of choice. I’ve been there. It feels good at first to get really angry and focus all one’s energy on how unfair everything is. It’s quite convenient to blame someone or something else for the internal damage and to let resentment reign over reason. But that bitterness is gangrene in a wound, and after a while, the poison spreads to relationships and hurts other people. It seems like quick fix, but like the vase that shatters in the sitcom, the glue of bitterness doesn’t hold.
Then there’s the problem of the missing piece. I’ve been there too. Maybe through sheer will power we think we’ve managed to pull ourselves out of the mire and, one painful piece at a time, put the fragments together…only to end up with a hole. So we try to fill the hole. Maybe we try to keep ourselves busy all the time so we don’t have to think about it. Maybe we try all kinds of new things and make all kinds of big plans and try to find joy in it all, but we can’t because there’s something missing. Some people look for relief in a bottle or in a one-night stand or in the accumulation of more and more “toys,” but that missing piece continues to be missing.
That’s when we go to our Father and confess. That’s when we lay our broken heart or crushed spirit down at our Savior’s feet and pray for healing. He’s been waiting for us to come to him; he’s been reaching out his hands this whole time. He binds together the pieces of broken lives with forgiveness and grace, giving us the strength to forgive and offer grace to others. He reinforces the bonds with a peace beyond our biggest expectations that enables us to accept our circumstances with hope and trust his sovereignty.
When we go to Jesus to put us back together, there are no missing pieces in the end, but there are changed lives. Like anything that’s been broken and put back together, we’re not going to be the same as we were before; the cracks are going to show. A person broken and made whole again will have scars. Someone who has lost a love one will need to mourn. A reconciled family will need to learn to trust again. But with time, the scars fade. And with Jesus walking beside us, one day at a time seems the perfect pace.
The LORD is close to the brokenhearted
and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
~Psalm 34:18
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Oh, Mimi!
I was awakened at 2:00 this morning by the familiar ug, ug of my cat retching, right beside my bed.
"Oh, Mimi," I sighed.
Preferring to wait until daylight to clean it up, I nudged Kev, who kind of opened one eye.
"Don't step in the cat puke," I mumbled, before rolling over and going back to sleep.
Unfortunately, this was not the first time I had to warn Kev not to step in whatever Mimi's left behind--be it a hairball or partially digested cat food...or, because Mimi thinks she's part dog, whatever she scavenged out of the kitchen garbage can that did not agree with her sensitive kitty tummy. But I suppose its the price we pay for being pet owners.
Anyone who's met Mimi can attest to the fact that she's no ordinary cat. Some may say she's a bit of a snob, selective in whose lap she sits in or whose stomach (or face) she walks over. Others may comment on her particular good looks, as one of Kev's friends proclaimed, "I'm not too much of a man to say your cat has beautiful eyes." Those allergic to or afraid of cats might say, "Go away, Mimi!" when she chooses pay them special attention, and cat lovers may feel be offended when they call her but she doesn't come; she is, after all, rather coy, and will play with the affections of those too eager to please.
Oh, Mimi.
Mimi and I have been together for more than six years now. In 2004, when I came back to the States after living in China for two years, I was eager to find a job and get my own place. Having lived with two roommates in an apartment this size of a goldfish aquarium in a country where personal space is hard to find, I was looking forward to living by myself in a city with easy access to wide open places. Don't get me wrong, I loved my roommates and Beijing, but always seeing myself as a bit of a lone wolf, I wanted to live alone again. I never figured into the equation the fact that I'd be lonely. While in Beijing it was a rare treat to have the apartment to myself, in Minnesota it was depressing.
"You should get a cat," was my friend Janet's advice when I told her my predicament.
We never had cats growing up because half my family is allergic to them, but the idea was appealing. "A cat? I don't know anything about cats," I replied.
"You'll figure it out," she said. "They're not hard to take care of. You just need to feed them and keep their litter box clean. They're great!"
After getting some books from the library and doing some research into the secret lives of cats, I ran to Walmart and bought some supplies. Then I gave Janet a call. "Will you help me pick out a cat?"
So one Saturday morning, Janet and I headed to Humane Society to find me the perfect feline companion.
It was a bit overwhelming, trying to choose one from among all the cats in cages looking for a home, but when we saw the scrawny brown tabby with the big green eyes pushing her little paw through the bars of the cage, Janet's face lit up. "This could be the one!" she announced.
When we took the little tabby out of her cage and went into the get-to-know-your-potential-new-pet room, she sniffed around for a minute before jumping into my lap, purring like a well-oiled machine. I picked her up so I could look into her face. "Well kitty, looks like it's going to me you and me."
After filling out the paperwork and paying the adoption fee, I tucked the brown tabby in her cardboard carrying box snugly into the back seat of my car. As I drove home that sunny October morning, I remember feeling knots in my stomach and thinking, "Oh my goodness, I've just taken responsibility for another life for the next twenty years. This is scary stuff."
And it was a bit scary. I felt tied down, like I no longer had the option of taking long-term trips out of the country. Even going away for a few days meant I had to find someone to take care of the cat. But at the same time, this little kitty with the big green eyes made herself right at home in my life.
I decided to call my new friend Mimi, which is the Chinese equivalent of "meow." As we got used to each other's routines, Mimi realized that jumping on my face in the middle of the night would get her nowhere except kicked out of the bedroom, and I realized that no matter how many different cat beds I bought, Mimi would never be a cat that slept in a cat bed. I learned not to leave a loaf of bread on the counter because Mimi would bite a hole in the plastic and nibble on the bread, and Mimi learned that if she chased after her little jingle balls and brought them back to me, I would throw them again.
Six years later, Mimi doesn't play fetch too much anymore, but she still tries to sleep on my face. When I pull in the driveway after work, I see her little head sticking out from the vertical blinds in the living room before she turns and runs for the door to welcome me home. She and Kev have developed a mutual respect involving sardines and their own methods of communication. Kev thinks he can interpret her meows. I'm skeptical about that.
And even though there's the occasional hairball in the bedroom...or living room...or hallway, there's something special about being the one Mimi loves most and hearing her little footsteps following me around the house and feeling her warm body by my feet at night.
Oh, Mimi.
"Oh, Mimi," I sighed.
Preferring to wait until daylight to clean it up, I nudged Kev, who kind of opened one eye.
"Don't step in the cat puke," I mumbled, before rolling over and going back to sleep.
Unfortunately, this was not the first time I had to warn Kev not to step in whatever Mimi's left behind--be it a hairball or partially digested cat food...or, because Mimi thinks she's part dog, whatever she scavenged out of the kitchen garbage can that did not agree with her sensitive kitty tummy. But I suppose its the price we pay for being pet owners.
Anyone who's met Mimi can attest to the fact that she's no ordinary cat. Some may say she's a bit of a snob, selective in whose lap she sits in or whose stomach (or face) she walks over. Others may comment on her particular good looks, as one of Kev's friends proclaimed, "I'm not too much of a man to say your cat has beautiful eyes." Those allergic to or afraid of cats might say, "Go away, Mimi!" when she chooses pay them special attention, and cat lovers may feel be offended when they call her but she doesn't come; she is, after all, rather coy, and will play with the affections of those too eager to please.
Oh, Mimi.
Mimi and I have been together for more than six years now. In 2004, when I came back to the States after living in China for two years, I was eager to find a job and get my own place. Having lived with two roommates in an apartment this size of a goldfish aquarium in a country where personal space is hard to find, I was looking forward to living by myself in a city with easy access to wide open places. Don't get me wrong, I loved my roommates and Beijing, but always seeing myself as a bit of a lone wolf, I wanted to live alone again. I never figured into the equation the fact that I'd be lonely. While in Beijing it was a rare treat to have the apartment to myself, in Minnesota it was depressing.
"You should get a cat," was my friend Janet's advice when I told her my predicament.
We never had cats growing up because half my family is allergic to them, but the idea was appealing. "A cat? I don't know anything about cats," I replied.
"You'll figure it out," she said. "They're not hard to take care of. You just need to feed them and keep their litter box clean. They're great!"
After getting some books from the library and doing some research into the secret lives of cats, I ran to Walmart and bought some supplies. Then I gave Janet a call. "Will you help me pick out a cat?"
So one Saturday morning, Janet and I headed to Humane Society to find me the perfect feline companion.
It was a bit overwhelming, trying to choose one from among all the cats in cages looking for a home, but when we saw the scrawny brown tabby with the big green eyes pushing her little paw through the bars of the cage, Janet's face lit up. "This could be the one!" she announced.
When we took the little tabby out of her cage and went into the get-to-know-your-potential-new-pet room, she sniffed around for a minute before jumping into my lap, purring like a well-oiled machine. I picked her up so I could look into her face. "Well kitty, looks like it's going to me you and me."
After filling out the paperwork and paying the adoption fee, I tucked the brown tabby in her cardboard carrying box snugly into the back seat of my car. As I drove home that sunny October morning, I remember feeling knots in my stomach and thinking, "Oh my goodness, I've just taken responsibility for another life for the next twenty years. This is scary stuff."
And it was a bit scary. I felt tied down, like I no longer had the option of taking long-term trips out of the country. Even going away for a few days meant I had to find someone to take care of the cat. But at the same time, this little kitty with the big green eyes made herself right at home in my life.
I decided to call my new friend Mimi, which is the Chinese equivalent of "meow." As we got used to each other's routines, Mimi realized that jumping on my face in the middle of the night would get her nowhere except kicked out of the bedroom, and I realized that no matter how many different cat beds I bought, Mimi would never be a cat that slept in a cat bed. I learned not to leave a loaf of bread on the counter because Mimi would bite a hole in the plastic and nibble on the bread, and Mimi learned that if she chased after her little jingle balls and brought them back to me, I would throw them again.
Six years later, Mimi doesn't play fetch too much anymore, but she still tries to sleep on my face. When I pull in the driveway after work, I see her little head sticking out from the vertical blinds in the living room before she turns and runs for the door to welcome me home. She and Kev have developed a mutual respect involving sardines and their own methods of communication. Kev thinks he can interpret her meows. I'm skeptical about that.
And even though there's the occasional hairball in the bedroom...or living room...or hallway, there's something special about being the one Mimi loves most and hearing her little footsteps following me around the house and feeling her warm body by my feet at night.
Oh, Mimi.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
There's no other like my mother
I called my most loyal blog follower today (my mother), and after she inquired about my husband's health (he's got something like the flu) and my plans for the afternoon (shopping and laundry), our conversation went something like this:
Mom: You haven't written on your blog lately.
Me: I know. I think I have writer's block.
Mom: You could write about having writer's block.
Me: Well, I also downloaded this really cool app to my new phone. It's this word game...
Mom: Mmmmhmmm.
Me: Okay, okay, maybe I'll write something this weekend.
Leave it to my mom to get me motivated.
So even though I thought I had word-game-app inflicted writer's block, I decided I would try to post to my blog today, for my mother's sake, and that the topic of my blog would be the very person who misses it the most when I don't show up for writing--my mom.
As I was shopping at Target this afternoon, I tried to locate in the recesses of my brain some memories of my mom that would really reflect who she is and what she means to me. The first one that came up kind of surprised me. After I reflected on it for a while, though, it started to make sense.
The summer I was thirteen, my family went to Glacier National Park for vacation. My dad worked there one summer in the 1970s and has a reverence for the place that runs deep within him. He hadn't been back to Glacier for almost twenty years and wanted to capture everything about our trip on video.
I just have to take a moment to describe my dad's video camera. In 1988 the palm-size video camera was only a speck in someone's imagination; our video camera was the size of a small child and had to be connected to a power pack at all times. This meant that one of us had to carry a backpack holding the power pack, which was tethered to the video camera with a three-foot cord, while my dad carried the camera. The camera recorded footage on a full-size VHS tape. There's one particular scene on our two-hour-long Glacier National Park video in which one of my brothers is wearing the backpack holding the power pack while my dad is filming. My brother, none too fond of bees at the time, nearly pulls the camera out of my dad's hands while trying to thwart a particularly persistent bumble bee. And, much to my brother's chagrin, we have it all on tape.
Anyway, I digress.
On our vacation to Glacier National Park, we were standing on a grassy hillside speckled with wildflowers and framed on three sides by purple mountains majesty when my dad, caught up in the beauty around him, decided his video needed some background music. He had all of us stand in a row and sing the chorus from one of the songs of Isaiah. It's a beautiful song, and we all knew it well, but as my dad slowly panned the camera past our faces, my sister and I, in our cooler-than-cool pink pleated stonewashed jeans, barely moved our mouths as our eyes darted back and forth looking for anyone who might possibly see us. My younger brother, not quite sure singing on a mountainside was such a bad thing but not wanting to give the impression he was enjoying himself, moved his mouth to the words, but whether any sound came out is yet to be determined. My youngest brother, the lovable ham that he was, sang out loud and clear and didn't care who heard him...though my sister and I no doubt wished he'd tone it down a bit. My mom had her arm around my youngest brother, and when my dad got to her face, she was singing with the joy of someone who understood that surely it is God who saves us, and he's stronger than any of the seemingly infallible mountains, and if we trust him, we don't ever need to be afraid. She understood the significance of the song in that particular setting, and she sang like she meant it.
I love that about my mom: She lives life like she means it. She gives her all to whatever she does, motivated by a deep and seasoned love for Jesus and a firm grip on his promises. She'll be the first to admit that in her more than 30 years as a teacher, her almost 37 years as a pastor's wife, her almost 36 years as a mother, her one year as a missionary in Africa, and her 65 plus years as a believer, there have been a lot of ups and downs, and her faith in God and in the good of humanity has been stomped on and violently shaken. But she never gives up--not on her family, not on her ministry, not on her Savior.
A more recent memory of my mother is from just a month or so ago when I was visiting my parents for a weekend. I went into my parents' bedroom to talk to my mom and there, on her rocking chair, was her open Bible, the pages ear-marked and filled with handwritten notes, the cover faded and worn smooth from being held in her hands. I imagine if her Bible is anything like mine, there are probably tear stains on some of the pages and prayers penciled in some of the margins.
That image of my mom's open Bible encompasses so much of my mom's character and reminds me of the living legacy she and my dad have passed on to all of their kids, the very same legacy their parents passed on to them. It's not millions of dollars or property or priceless heirlooms, all of which mean nothing at the end of this life; instead, they've given us the gift of a planted seed of faith and an appreciation for its value.
I really meant for this blog post to highlight several of the ways my mom is so precious, but I'll end it here for now. I'm sure there will be many more posts to come about my mom...and my dad, as well...given their influence on who I am. It's interesting, though, how I don't really spend a lot of time consciously thinking about who my parents are as people and how they've contributed to my life. Something I love about blogging is it makes me slow down and reflect and remember.
So, Mom, I guess my writer's block was all in my head. And now that I'm done, I'm going back to my word game. Love you!
Mom: You haven't written on your blog lately.
Me: I know. I think I have writer's block.
Mom: You could write about having writer's block.
Me: Well, I also downloaded this really cool app to my new phone. It's this word game...
Mom: Mmmmhmmm.
Me: Okay, okay, maybe I'll write something this weekend.
Leave it to my mom to get me motivated.
So even though I thought I had word-game-app inflicted writer's block, I decided I would try to post to my blog today, for my mother's sake, and that the topic of my blog would be the very person who misses it the most when I don't show up for writing--my mom.
As I was shopping at Target this afternoon, I tried to locate in the recesses of my brain some memories of my mom that would really reflect who she is and what she means to me. The first one that came up kind of surprised me. After I reflected on it for a while, though, it started to make sense.
The summer I was thirteen, my family went to Glacier National Park for vacation. My dad worked there one summer in the 1970s and has a reverence for the place that runs deep within him. He hadn't been back to Glacier for almost twenty years and wanted to capture everything about our trip on video.
I just have to take a moment to describe my dad's video camera. In 1988 the palm-size video camera was only a speck in someone's imagination; our video camera was the size of a small child and had to be connected to a power pack at all times. This meant that one of us had to carry a backpack holding the power pack, which was tethered to the video camera with a three-foot cord, while my dad carried the camera. The camera recorded footage on a full-size VHS tape. There's one particular scene on our two-hour-long Glacier National Park video in which one of my brothers is wearing the backpack holding the power pack while my dad is filming. My brother, none too fond of bees at the time, nearly pulls the camera out of my dad's hands while trying to thwart a particularly persistent bumble bee. And, much to my brother's chagrin, we have it all on tape.
Anyway, I digress.
On our vacation to Glacier National Park, we were standing on a grassy hillside speckled with wildflowers and framed on three sides by purple mountains majesty when my dad, caught up in the beauty around him, decided his video needed some background music. He had all of us stand in a row and sing the chorus from one of the songs of Isaiah. It's a beautiful song, and we all knew it well, but as my dad slowly panned the camera past our faces, my sister and I, in our cooler-than-cool pink pleated stonewashed jeans, barely moved our mouths as our eyes darted back and forth looking for anyone who might possibly see us. My younger brother, not quite sure singing on a mountainside was such a bad thing but not wanting to give the impression he was enjoying himself, moved his mouth to the words, but whether any sound came out is yet to be determined. My youngest brother, the lovable ham that he was, sang out loud and clear and didn't care who heard him...though my sister and I no doubt wished he'd tone it down a bit. My mom had her arm around my youngest brother, and when my dad got to her face, she was singing with the joy of someone who understood that surely it is God who saves us, and he's stronger than any of the seemingly infallible mountains, and if we trust him, we don't ever need to be afraid. She understood the significance of the song in that particular setting, and she sang like she meant it.
I love that about my mom: She lives life like she means it. She gives her all to whatever she does, motivated by a deep and seasoned love for Jesus and a firm grip on his promises. She'll be the first to admit that in her more than 30 years as a teacher, her almost 37 years as a pastor's wife, her almost 36 years as a mother, her one year as a missionary in Africa, and her 65 plus years as a believer, there have been a lot of ups and downs, and her faith in God and in the good of humanity has been stomped on and violently shaken. But she never gives up--not on her family, not on her ministry, not on her Savior.
A more recent memory of my mother is from just a month or so ago when I was visiting my parents for a weekend. I went into my parents' bedroom to talk to my mom and there, on her rocking chair, was her open Bible, the pages ear-marked and filled with handwritten notes, the cover faded and worn smooth from being held in her hands. I imagine if her Bible is anything like mine, there are probably tear stains on some of the pages and prayers penciled in some of the margins.
That image of my mom's open Bible encompasses so much of my mom's character and reminds me of the living legacy she and my dad have passed on to all of their kids, the very same legacy their parents passed on to them. It's not millions of dollars or property or priceless heirlooms, all of which mean nothing at the end of this life; instead, they've given us the gift of a planted seed of faith and an appreciation for its value.
I really meant for this blog post to highlight several of the ways my mom is so precious, but I'll end it here for now. I'm sure there will be many more posts to come about my mom...and my dad, as well...given their influence on who I am. It's interesting, though, how I don't really spend a lot of time consciously thinking about who my parents are as people and how they've contributed to my life. Something I love about blogging is it makes me slow down and reflect and remember.
So, Mom, I guess my writer's block was all in my head. And now that I'm done, I'm going back to my word game. Love you!
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Sometimes you just have to go after the gumballs.
Last week when I was visiting my sister and her family in Tucson, we went to my favorite gelato place for desert (after going to my favorite pizza place for lunch). My nephew chose bubble gum gelato, and the kind lady behind the counter gave him an extra supply of gumballs in a little paper cup. As we sat outside eating in the lovely Tucson sun, a gust of wind picked up the paper cup, the gumballs, and a bunch of napkins and sent them flying across the sidewalk. My nephew jumped out of his chair and hurled himself onto the sidewalk after the gumballs. He quickly scooped them all up before they rolled too far and then returned to his chair. Meanwhile, my sister chased after the napkins and paper cup.
When my sister got back to the table, she chastised my nephew for only going after the gumballs and not helping collect the other things that had blown away. He kind of shrugged a bit sheepishly, and I laughed and said to him, "Sometimes you just have to go after the gumballs, right?" He quite agreed.
Just that morning I had been thinking about how I hadn't been able to fulfill my blog-a-day goal. Instead of feeling bad about it, though, I was okay with it because it wasn't due to me being lazy or blowing it off; I simply had other things to do, like spending time with my in laws, hanging out in the youth center at church, going to a play with my good friend, taking a trip to see my sister. I liked this feeling of freedom without guilt.
I recently heard a news story about how multitasking is a myth. After testing a variety of individuals who claimed to be excellent multitaskers, a research study revealed that these people who were supposedly multitasking actually did quite poorly on all the tasks they were trying to accomplish at once. If they had just focused on one task at a time, they would have done much better. In our pushing the vacuum cleaner while texting while paying the bills while walking the dog society, the idea of slowing down and deliberately choosing how we spend our time often gets swept under the rug.
Of course, I'm a fine one to talk. There have been times--more often than not, I'm afraid--when I've almost hyperventilated thinking about all the things I have to do. Actually, I should say all the things I think I have to do. I remember several years ago paying a visit to some friends of mine who have four kids, full-time jobs, and a ton of commitments. When I came into their kitchen shortly after dinnertime, the whole family was getting up from a homemade meal, and right then and there it hit me: They deliberately made the choice to spend time together as a family. They chose how to spend their time, and I think they chose wisely.
I've tried to model the attitude of my friends. The dishes in the sink, the unsorted mail on the counter, the unfed cat--all these things can wait. Time spent chatting around the dinner table or visiting with friends or serving at church or scouring the Scriptures is worth way more to me than a spotless house, a menu plan, a half an hour of exercise, what have you. Some days I can fit it all in, and some days I can't. On those days that just don't seem to have enough hours, I'm learning to chase after the gumballs and let go of the rest. And boy does it feel great!
When my sister got back to the table, she chastised my nephew for only going after the gumballs and not helping collect the other things that had blown away. He kind of shrugged a bit sheepishly, and I laughed and said to him, "Sometimes you just have to go after the gumballs, right?" He quite agreed.
Just that morning I had been thinking about how I hadn't been able to fulfill my blog-a-day goal. Instead of feeling bad about it, though, I was okay with it because it wasn't due to me being lazy or blowing it off; I simply had other things to do, like spending time with my in laws, hanging out in the youth center at church, going to a play with my good friend, taking a trip to see my sister. I liked this feeling of freedom without guilt.
I recently heard a news story about how multitasking is a myth. After testing a variety of individuals who claimed to be excellent multitaskers, a research study revealed that these people who were supposedly multitasking actually did quite poorly on all the tasks they were trying to accomplish at once. If they had just focused on one task at a time, they would have done much better. In our pushing the vacuum cleaner while texting while paying the bills while walking the dog society, the idea of slowing down and deliberately choosing how we spend our time often gets swept under the rug.
Of course, I'm a fine one to talk. There have been times--more often than not, I'm afraid--when I've almost hyperventilated thinking about all the things I have to do. Actually, I should say all the things I think I have to do. I remember several years ago paying a visit to some friends of mine who have four kids, full-time jobs, and a ton of commitments. When I came into their kitchen shortly after dinnertime, the whole family was getting up from a homemade meal, and right then and there it hit me: They deliberately made the choice to spend time together as a family. They chose how to spend their time, and I think they chose wisely.
I've tried to model the attitude of my friends. The dishes in the sink, the unsorted mail on the counter, the unfed cat--all these things can wait. Time spent chatting around the dinner table or visiting with friends or serving at church or scouring the Scriptures is worth way more to me than a spotless house, a menu plan, a half an hour of exercise, what have you. Some days I can fit it all in, and some days I can't. On those days that just don't seem to have enough hours, I'm learning to chase after the gumballs and let go of the rest. And boy does it feel great!
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