Just by switching the verb tense, a sweet sensory delight of a Christmas carol can be turned into a reflection of gossip. At best, it's a reflection of reputation. Separating out talking about someone as part of their reputation as opposed to gossip can be a little tricky and often needs clearly-defined morals and circumstances, both of which can be difficult to ascertain in and of themselves. Still, our reputations are important to us. What people think of us on and off the grapevine really matters. Their judgments of our actions can tip the balance over future opportunities and relationships. This is where real life gets a little hinky, because if you haven't figured out how true this little cliche is yet, you are about to: appearances can be deceiving.
***Reader warning--subject matter to follow may not be appropriate for all readers***
For instance, there was a night I went over to Bob's house to watch a movie. Bob and I have both agreed that we will not have sex until our wedding night, an expected but not-often followed idea in our society. We want to follow God's will for sexual relationships. My reputation is also included in this--many people know I am still a virgin, and I want to have that reputation intact on my wedding day. While we are physically affectionate, even to an extent in public, there are very clear lines drawn that the two of us do not cross.
So on this movie night, I plop down on his living room floor (more comfy than the two-seater couch by a long shot) and curl up under a blanket with a pillow to watch the film. He joins me, keeping some distance but still cuddling around my blanket cocoon. It's been a long week for both of us--his job is extremely physically taxing while my three jobs wear me out mentally and emotionally. We're well-fed, warm, and tired. Guess what happens? That's right--we fall asleep. I wake up disoriented, still wrapped securely in my blankets just a few inches away from Bob. I look at the clock. It's after midnight. As it takes about 45 minutes for me to get home, this is a VERY late date for me and we both have work in the morning. I stumble around, waking him with a quick kiss goodbye before grabbing my things and walking out into the brisk night air. As I slowly descend the porch steps, I see the neighbors across the street noticing my presence. My face burns with heat. I know what this must look like. A brief glimpse in the bathroom mirror had showed my rumpled clothes, smeared make-up, and destroyed hairdo. I look like the poster child for the Walk of Shame calendar.
Did Bob and I do anything wrong? In my mind, no. We didn't mean to fall asleep together. We definitely didn't fool around. My appearance, combined with the late hour, gave an impression that probably tarnished, if not ruined, my reputation with that neighbor (and whomever they tell). The question is, then, whose responsibility is it if others start hearing--and believing--that I'm not as chaste as I say I am?
Personally, I believe it's 50/50, even though in reality that's hardly the case. While I do have the responsibility to set an alarm on my phone, tend to my appearance before I leave Bob's house, and try to make sure we don't end up in situations (such as cuddling platonically on the floor) that could be potentially damaging to our reputations, I think the neighbors also have the responsibility to check out the situation before spreading the word. We have all lived through experiences where we made assumptions about people that ended up being dramatically--and sometimes painfully--wrong.
In our society, though, we do make assumptions about people every day--and those who see me from afar should get the same kind of image (though not as sharp--my closest friends will see pieces of my personality that strangers wouldn't) as those I am close to. My leaving Bob's house in such a disheveled state at a very late hour was the mistake. I need to be more responsible about leaving at an appropriate time, or picking different locations for our "together time," such as public places in town or watching movies at his mother's house. ((Granted, I know there are couples who do a lot in a parent's home, but I'm personally weirded out by even peck kisses in front of Bob's mom. I'm a little more affectionate in my parent's home, but still...there are extreme limits to what I will do in those places out of respect for my parents and my heebie-jeebies.))
After all, it's not just my reputation that's at stake here, but also my witness. That's really not something to mess around with.
Showing posts with label details. Show all posts
Showing posts with label details. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Choosing Sides
A few months I went to a high school basketball tournament at a local school. I followed my fiancee into his alma matter, looking around anxiously for people I might recognize from my own old high school. Our pasts were playing against each other tonight in two games--first girls, then boys. I didn't see anyone I either wanted to greet or drastically avoid, so I just let myself be led through the gym, up really steep steps, and onto an uncomfortable wooden bleacher. My eyes searched for two students I was currently teaching and who would be playing for Brashear--my old high school. I noted my finacee's nieces quickly. One played for Novinger's team and the other shouted encouragements from the sidelines with the other cheerleaders.
As the game started, I spotted the first of my students. She wasn't playing the best game, so I cheered extra loud for her. A few times, the people around me started giving me odd looks, but I assumed it was for being too loud. It wasn't until the second quarter that I realized that my fiancee had seated us not in the "available" side of the gym, but on the Novinger side. I was cheering on a Brashear player. Hello, CONFLICT!
Granted, the few women who were really shooting me dirty looks seemed to understand when I explained my situation--I'm cheering on individual players who are my students, not necessarily the team. They would nod as if thinking Why, yes, that does make sense. She's a teacher--she needs to support her students. I think that cheering for my fiancee's neice on the Novinger team helped.
As the game progressed, though, I found myself grinning when Brashear scored. Novinger seemed disorganized, especially on defense, and I took pride when girls, even the ones I didn't know at all, put more points on Brashear's side of the board. Apparently without realizing it, I had chosen a side despite being very proud and wanting a win for the sole Novinger player I knew.
It may not seem that odd that I picked my alma matter to support to most people...unless you've heard me talk about my experiences in this school. Granted, most of it would boil down to the usual teenage angst present in high schools, but my public school years were almost entirely miserable. A few teachers really inspired me, and not every day was a nightmare, but overall, I would NEVER want to relive a single day of my years at that school. While the school has changed a lot (and I taught there for a semester--talk about a creeptastic moment when I found THAT assignment out), I still get weird feelings every time I drive there, my inner self cringing as the gravel crunches under my tires. What am I doing here again? Are you NUTS?!?! Have you forgotten everything they put you through, how you promised you'd never return? There is nothing for you here--run now while you can!
If I dislike my past so much, and don't hold much faith in the crazy public school system I was brought up in, then why was I rooting for my hometown team? Why do we protect the familiar even when it's not at all good for us? When we're picking sides, are we doing it for the right reasons? Are we defending family members, people from our "hometowns", even though we know they're wrong but we feel like we have to protect "our own?" What kind of damage could this do to those outside our circles of influence...or even those we are standing up for?
I'm still proud of the Brashear girls--they deserved to win that night. They were, simply put, the better team on the court. My fiancee eventually forgave me my slight against his team, mostly because the Novinger boys won the next game and apparently I'm "too darn cute to stay mad at."
As the game started, I spotted the first of my students. She wasn't playing the best game, so I cheered extra loud for her. A few times, the people around me started giving me odd looks, but I assumed it was for being too loud. It wasn't until the second quarter that I realized that my fiancee had seated us not in the "available" side of the gym, but on the Novinger side. I was cheering on a Brashear player. Hello, CONFLICT!
Granted, the few women who were really shooting me dirty looks seemed to understand when I explained my situation--I'm cheering on individual players who are my students, not necessarily the team. They would nod as if thinking Why, yes, that does make sense. She's a teacher--she needs to support her students. I think that cheering for my fiancee's neice on the Novinger team helped.
As the game progressed, though, I found myself grinning when Brashear scored. Novinger seemed disorganized, especially on defense, and I took pride when girls, even the ones I didn't know at all, put more points on Brashear's side of the board. Apparently without realizing it, I had chosen a side despite being very proud and wanting a win for the sole Novinger player I knew.
It may not seem that odd that I picked my alma matter to support to most people...unless you've heard me talk about my experiences in this school. Granted, most of it would boil down to the usual teenage angst present in high schools, but my public school years were almost entirely miserable. A few teachers really inspired me, and not every day was a nightmare, but overall, I would NEVER want to relive a single day of my years at that school. While the school has changed a lot (and I taught there for a semester--talk about a creeptastic moment when I found THAT assignment out), I still get weird feelings every time I drive there, my inner self cringing as the gravel crunches under my tires. What am I doing here again? Are you NUTS?!?! Have you forgotten everything they put you through, how you promised you'd never return? There is nothing for you here--run now while you can!
If I dislike my past so much, and don't hold much faith in the crazy public school system I was brought up in, then why was I rooting for my hometown team? Why do we protect the familiar even when it's not at all good for us? When we're picking sides, are we doing it for the right reasons? Are we defending family members, people from our "hometowns", even though we know they're wrong but we feel like we have to protect "our own?" What kind of damage could this do to those outside our circles of influence...or even those we are standing up for?
I'm still proud of the Brashear girls--they deserved to win that night. They were, simply put, the better team on the court. My fiancee eventually forgave me my slight against his team, mostly because the Novinger boys won the next game and apparently I'm "too darn cute to stay mad at."
Sunday, November 21, 2010
A new baby about to be born...
Being a woman has some great advantages some days. I occasionally get doors opened for me, I can usually wheedle my way into having some guy (even a stranger) carry heavy boxes to my car, and I get all the pretty jewelry. :)
What's also neat, at least today, is ruminating over the fact that my gender is the one that gets to carry a child. I think of those verses in Psalms where we are knit together in our mother's womb...and as a writer I find a great parallel to my novels.
First, let's play with that verb. Knitting. I've crocheted for over 22 years (yeah, I'm old) and while it's a bit different than knitting, the symbolism still works. A single strand of thread is twisted, looped, and pulled, over and over again, until a cloth emerges. Depending on how you loop it, where you return to a previously-designed spot, and how loosely you hold the thread, you could end up with a warm scarf, a delicate lace doily, or even a thick blanket big enough to carpet your living room.
My one foray into knitting revealed how difficult it is to keep all those loops on those needles at one time...and how consistency is what pays off in the end. My enduring practice with crochet has taught me just how creative you can be with the process.
When writing, you truly are knitting (or crocheting) strands of thought together into a cohesive whole. You have characters, plot lines, a theme (or two), some suspense, perhaps a couple of red herrings, some bad guys, and lots of witty word plays (because writers just can't help themselves). We type in dialogue, rework scenes, play around with time (despite H.G. Well's good warnings), and create a beautiful piece of work out of several disjointed pieces of potential. I suppose that the arts give us as close of a glimpse as possible of what God must have felt like when He created everything--although He had no limits and is completely perfect.
Now let's move on to the idea of giving birth. All mothers may cringe in unison at this point.
Writing, revising, and basically getting a novel ready for publication is all about birthing. There are months of waiting for this child to arrive, whether it be to finally appear on my word processing screen or for the notice from the publishing company that they actually aren't rejecting me. Those months are filled with moments where you couldn't be happier about the new life emerging under your fingertips and moments where you can't wait for this to be over (and claim the whole process is overrated while you throw up for the fifth time that morning). They say that all the pain, drama, struggles, and long waits are forgotten as you hold that precious newborn fresh from the printing presses, your name lovingly scrolled across the cover. I haven't gotten to that point, mostly because my gestation period seems to be more like an African elephant than the average human female, but I'll smile and accept the experiences of others despite knowing that every person's journey is unique, special, and miraculous.
What's really interesting about a writer's gestation, though, is that not only are we almost always carrying mutiples, they tend to be born at different times. I'm just about fully dialated with A Daughter's Heart, ready to push that child into the world in just a month or so, but during the wait I've apparently gotten pregnant again. There's a new novel starting to be knitted together, weaving in more of my own experiences with a lot more research, personality psychology, and even darker themes than my first book. Welcome to conception, Secret Identity, the first of a trilogy exploring the lives of Megan, Areli, and Zivah--three women living in the heart of the Midwest with dangerous foes circling close. Want a peek at my little embryos? (Yes, I know this analogy has long since devolved into creepiness, but deal with it. I like it. :) )
A family killed, a terrorist bomb, a fragile life.
Tragedy has arrived in Clarkston.
Secret Identity.
Megan should be dead. Her whole family is instead.
A trip to visit her younger sister in college ends in an unspeakable tragedy, leaving the young nanny instantly alone. As Megan tries to piece together the lives of the people she should know the best, she stumbles across puzzling secrets powerful enough to kill. Will finding the answers bring her peace—or a matching gravestone?
Secret Betrayal.
Her latest date bombed. Literally.
Areli is the definitive party girl in Tel Aviv, ignoring the war in favor of the next good time. When her search for the ultimate rush lands her in the middle of a Hamas terrorist plot, she runs to Megan’s home in the U.S. Here she learns that the consequences for sin really are death—although with her younger sister Zivah being held hostage, she may not be the only one paying with her life.
Secret Fear.
There are some things she can’t hide from forever.
When Zivah discovers that scars aren’t the only thing she was left with from her harrowing experience with Hamas, she agrees to return to the U.S. and the safety of her old hometown. Clarkston isn't what she remembered, though, and a series of dramatic crimes push her and the town to the edge. As deadlines approach, Zivah must make decisions that will affect the future of this community, an innocent child, and her soul forever.
What's also neat, at least today, is ruminating over the fact that my gender is the one that gets to carry a child. I think of those verses in Psalms where we are knit together in our mother's womb...and as a writer I find a great parallel to my novels.
Congratulations on your 8-pound bouncing baby novel. Now to nurse...the paper cuts.
First, let's play with that verb. Knitting. I've crocheted for over 22 years (yeah, I'm old) and while it's a bit different than knitting, the symbolism still works. A single strand of thread is twisted, looped, and pulled, over and over again, until a cloth emerges. Depending on how you loop it, where you return to a previously-designed spot, and how loosely you hold the thread, you could end up with a warm scarf, a delicate lace doily, or even a thick blanket big enough to carpet your living room.
Or a rug to cover London, for my British readers.
My one foray into knitting revealed how difficult it is to keep all those loops on those needles at one time...and how consistency is what pays off in the end. My enduring practice with crochet has taught me just how creative you can be with the process.
Although there really should be limits to said creativity.
When writing, you truly are knitting (or crocheting) strands of thought together into a cohesive whole. You have characters, plot lines, a theme (or two), some suspense, perhaps a couple of red herrings, some bad guys, and lots of witty word plays (because writers just can't help themselves). We type in dialogue, rework scenes, play around with time (despite H.G. Well's good warnings), and create a beautiful piece of work out of several disjointed pieces of potential. I suppose that the arts give us as close of a glimpse as possible of what God must have felt like when He created everything--although He had no limits and is completely perfect.
Now let's move on to the idea of giving birth. All mothers may cringe in unison at this point.
To be fair, we'll show Yao Ming in the infamous position. Push, man, push!
Writing, revising, and basically getting a novel ready for publication is all about birthing. There are months of waiting for this child to arrive, whether it be to finally appear on my word processing screen or for the notice from the publishing company that they actually aren't rejecting me. Those months are filled with moments where you couldn't be happier about the new life emerging under your fingertips and moments where you can't wait for this to be over (and claim the whole process is overrated while you throw up for the fifth time that morning). They say that all the pain, drama, struggles, and long waits are forgotten as you hold that precious newborn fresh from the printing presses, your name lovingly scrolled across the cover. I haven't gotten to that point, mostly because my gestation period seems to be more like an African elephant than the average human female, but I'll smile and accept the experiences of others despite knowing that every person's journey is unique, special, and miraculous.
What's really interesting about a writer's gestation, though, is that not only are we almost always carrying mutiples, they tend to be born at different times. I'm just about fully dialated with A Daughter's Heart, ready to push that child into the world in just a month or so, but during the wait I've apparently gotten pregnant again. There's a new novel starting to be knitted together, weaving in more of my own experiences with a lot more research, personality psychology, and even darker themes than my first book. Welcome to conception, Secret Identity, the first of a trilogy exploring the lives of Megan, Areli, and Zivah--three women living in the heart of the Midwest with dangerous foes circling close. Want a peek at my little embryos? (Yes, I know this analogy has long since devolved into creepiness, but deal with it. I like it. :) )
A family killed, a terrorist bomb, a fragile life.
Tragedy has arrived in Clarkston.
Secret Identity.
Megan should be dead. Her whole family is instead.
A trip to visit her younger sister in college ends in an unspeakable tragedy, leaving the young nanny instantly alone. As Megan tries to piece together the lives of the people she should know the best, she stumbles across puzzling secrets powerful enough to kill. Will finding the answers bring her peace—or a matching gravestone?
Secret Betrayal.
Her latest date bombed. Literally.
Areli is the definitive party girl in Tel Aviv, ignoring the war in favor of the next good time. When her search for the ultimate rush lands her in the middle of a Hamas terrorist plot, she runs to Megan’s home in the U.S. Here she learns that the consequences for sin really are death—although with her younger sister Zivah being held hostage, she may not be the only one paying with her life.
Secret Fear.
There are some things she can’t hide from forever.
When Zivah discovers that scars aren’t the only thing she was left with from her harrowing experience with Hamas, she agrees to return to the U.S. and the safety of her old hometown. Clarkston isn't what she remembered, though, and a series of dramatic crimes push her and the town to the edge. As deadlines approach, Zivah must make decisions that will affect the future of this community, an innocent child, and her soul forever.
And we end with Little One swaddled in my only knitted project to date. Cue "awwww" to cover the weird sensations of being far too involved in my reproductive post.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Bittersweet Blessings
I'm addicted to Facebook...to a point, anyway. A certain somebody in my life can distract me well from my online pursuits. Ah, well, enough mushy stuff--back to the point. I love Facebook, being able to see pictures of my friends and family, keeping up with status updates, and even being reminded when I've forgotten someone's birthday.
I also like creative endeavors on Facebook. I've been known to upload pics and narrate them, leave quirky statuses, and play around with my quotes page. I posted a few statuses (stati?) that reveal two warring issues in my life--and no, I'm not talking about the plethora revealing that I'm having a hard time healing from my oral surgery (more about that drama later).
"I still don't know if I have a job come spring. May find out in a few weeks...or later. This is what I get for praying for patience."
"I wish I could whittle down responsibilities so I could just spend some quality time with the keyboard. I miss writing. I miss editing. I miss creating something that can really touch others."
Now, smart reader, you may already be seeing what the future foretells for this blog entry. I got my answer as far as a job situation: instead of the full-time with benefits job I was praying for, I received a part-time job at the maximum contract hours possible. I am thrilled to have a job and am very pleased with what I received--don't get me wrong. I do wish I could have picked up just one more class and therefore would be living at a much-higher salary and have health insurance. The thing is...look at the other status update. My heart has been longing to write.
I've rejoined the masses at NaNoWriMo again, but I have no delusions that I will ever reach anything close to 50,000 words this month (I have about 3,000 currently). There is just way too much going on in my life for such a project. Come spring, however, with working just one part-time job that only requires me to come into work 2-3 days a week, I'll have plenty of time to write. I'll also have days off to work on some home renovations, strengthening my relationship with my new love, and helping my family. God gave me my desires. I shouldn't be sad that I didn't get everything that I wanted.
I've had a lot of people tell me that things are really looking great for me and that I'm "living the high life." I would look around at my still part-time employment, lack of benefits, solid hit to my budget, and frustrations over stress and health and wonder what on earth they saw. Taking a step back, and having someone actually list things off for me, showed me that I should be counting my blessings. I:
*have a job. Not to be taken for granted in this economy.
*have a job that actually lets me be what I trained to be--a teacher (instead of other master's-level students who are now working at Wal-Mart as cashiers).
*have fairly good health, upgraded once my mouth heals.
*have the ability to pay for most of my doctor's visits, and am on 0% interest plans for the others.
*have a great church family and biological family who love me.
*have lots of extra things not many people can afford, like an iPod and a good cell phone plan with free texting.
*have a car that doesn't break down too often and is usually fixable for under $500.
*have a man who is sweeping me off my feet and loves me even when I'm unlovable.
*have, most of all, a wonderful relationship with Christ. Eternal salvation makes all this other drama and glitter fade to nothing.
So, I'll stop being a little glum and disappointed. I will be smiling and bubbly about the great things in life instead of all the stressors. I will thank God for giving me time to slow down and use the talents He has given me. I will also appreciate 1/2 of the grading, since I never seem to get any of that done anyway. :)
I also like creative endeavors on Facebook. I've been known to upload pics and narrate them, leave quirky statuses, and play around with my quotes page. I posted a few statuses (stati?) that reveal two warring issues in my life--and no, I'm not talking about the plethora revealing that I'm having a hard time healing from my oral surgery (more about that drama later).
"I still don't know if I have a job come spring. May find out in a few weeks...or later. This is what I get for praying for patience."
"I wish I could whittle down responsibilities so I could just spend some quality time with the keyboard. I miss writing. I miss editing. I miss creating something that can really touch others."
Now, smart reader, you may already be seeing what the future foretells for this blog entry. I got my answer as far as a job situation: instead of the full-time with benefits job I was praying for, I received a part-time job at the maximum contract hours possible. I am thrilled to have a job and am very pleased with what I received--don't get me wrong. I do wish I could have picked up just one more class and therefore would be living at a much-higher salary and have health insurance. The thing is...look at the other status update. My heart has been longing to write.
I've rejoined the masses at NaNoWriMo again, but I have no delusions that I will ever reach anything close to 50,000 words this month (I have about 3,000 currently). There is just way too much going on in my life for such a project. Come spring, however, with working just one part-time job that only requires me to come into work 2-3 days a week, I'll have plenty of time to write. I'll also have days off to work on some home renovations, strengthening my relationship with my new love, and helping my family. God gave me my desires. I shouldn't be sad that I didn't get everything that I wanted.
I've had a lot of people tell me that things are really looking great for me and that I'm "living the high life." I would look around at my still part-time employment, lack of benefits, solid hit to my budget, and frustrations over stress and health and wonder what on earth they saw. Taking a step back, and having someone actually list things off for me, showed me that I should be counting my blessings. I:
*have a job. Not to be taken for granted in this economy.
*have a job that actually lets me be what I trained to be--a teacher (instead of other master's-level students who are now working at Wal-Mart as cashiers).
*have fairly good health, upgraded once my mouth heals.
*have the ability to pay for most of my doctor's visits, and am on 0% interest plans for the others.
*have a great church family and biological family who love me.
*have lots of extra things not many people can afford, like an iPod and a good cell phone plan with free texting.
*have a car that doesn't break down too often and is usually fixable for under $500.
*have a man who is sweeping me off my feet and loves me even when I'm unlovable.
*have, most of all, a wonderful relationship with Christ. Eternal salvation makes all this other drama and glitter fade to nothing.
So, I'll stop being a little glum and disappointed. I will be smiling and bubbly about the great things in life instead of all the stressors. I will thank God for giving me time to slow down and use the talents He has given me. I will also appreciate 1/2 of the grading, since I never seem to get any of that done anyway. :)
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Check Your Tongue with Your Teeth
As a younger sister, I learned early how to share (and demand my part). For most of my friends, I don't mind sharing things that truly bother some people. If someone's really thirsty, I'll unscrew the top of my water bottle and let them drink. If they're hungry, I'll cut my lunch in half and offer it. In the case of my boyfriend, since we kiss each other, I figure it's perfectly acceptable to drink after each other and, in certain cases, eat off the other person's plate (this way I get the momentary bliss of a crispy french fry before I return to my responsible order of string beans and broccoli).
My pastor is another case, however. In the middle of a sermon, a gnat flew right into his mouth. He grimaced and asked for some water--fast. Since I was sandwiched between several people in the pew, I couldn't get up to get him water, so I offered him my half-full bottle. He turned it down. I wasn't offended, but did lightly tease him about "beggars can't be choosers." He didn't want to share some things with me. It's understandable--because there are some things I don't want to share with him.
Last night at church, it was announced (since the pastor and his wife are driving me) that I am about to get my wisdom teeth pulled on Friday. People prayed, which was comforting, and I'm a lot less nervous about this procedure than before. After the service, the pastor came to sit next to me and proceeded to tell me about his ordeal with getting his wisdom teeth pulled. The story started out on a high note--he woke up feeling just fine, very little pain. Then it took a very dark turn. He developed "dry sockets", which sounds innocuous if you're referencing lighting fixtures but is apparently Dante's eighth circle.
The story stretched on, including phrases such as "worst pain of my entire life," "filling holes," and "excruciating torture." I'm sure my eyes had to be reflecting my growing horror and unease. I'm a very imaginative person, and my pastor knows this. He paused in a Sunday School lesson regarding cannibalism to warn me as I was munching on my breakfast (a new habit as I can't eat before singing practice lest I lose my voice). He knows I'm a writer, which only furthers the need to watch what is said around me (although I find it funny when he rants about Christian romance novels...and that's what I write). I've admitted to both him and his wife that I'm nervous about the surgery and the recovery. And yet he's sharing his wisdom with me.
I don't mind listening to other people's stories--in fact, I love it. I get to learn about the person and possibly glean some ideas to twist into my next novel.
Still, I'm uneasy about the future, and getting yet another worst-case scenario in my head to add to all my other fears and doubts that had me sobbing into my boyfriend's chest for an hour Tuesday night wasn't exactly a great idea. I think a female friend noted my look of increasing dread, and so decided to step in. Just as my pastor is getting to the high point of his agonizing memories, she comments, "I had mine out when I was around your age, and I hardly had any problems. A little pain and bleeding, but it healed quickly without any drama."
Bless you, friend.
I understand the need to share horrifying stories, but I liken this to telling excruciating tales of how things went terribly wrong during the birth of a child to a woman in her third trimester (especially if it is her first child). We're already freaking out in vague terms and ideas--we don't need new specifics to color our fears in full Technicolor brilliance. I know it's a way of bonding, even a way we try to prepare others so they can avoid the mistakes we made. Sometimes, though, the trips through memory lane need to be scheduled for more opportune times...like a few months later when we can all look back on it and laugh (or wince).
My pastor is another case, however. In the middle of a sermon, a gnat flew right into his mouth. He grimaced and asked for some water--fast. Since I was sandwiched between several people in the pew, I couldn't get up to get him water, so I offered him my half-full bottle. He turned it down. I wasn't offended, but did lightly tease him about "beggars can't be choosers." He didn't want to share some things with me. It's understandable--because there are some things I don't want to share with him.
Last night at church, it was announced (since the pastor and his wife are driving me) that I am about to get my wisdom teeth pulled on Friday. People prayed, which was comforting, and I'm a lot less nervous about this procedure than before. After the service, the pastor came to sit next to me and proceeded to tell me about his ordeal with getting his wisdom teeth pulled. The story started out on a high note--he woke up feeling just fine, very little pain. Then it took a very dark turn. He developed "dry sockets", which sounds innocuous if you're referencing lighting fixtures but is apparently Dante's eighth circle.
Not to be confused with Dante's fifth circle, which is apparently an extreme form of unending constipation. Yeah, that'll ruin eternity for you.
The story stretched on, including phrases such as "worst pain of my entire life," "filling holes," and "excruciating torture." I'm sure my eyes had to be reflecting my growing horror and unease. I'm a very imaginative person, and my pastor knows this. He paused in a Sunday School lesson regarding cannibalism to warn me as I was munching on my breakfast (a new habit as I can't eat before singing practice lest I lose my voice). He knows I'm a writer, which only furthers the need to watch what is said around me (although I find it funny when he rants about Christian romance novels...and that's what I write). I've admitted to both him and his wife that I'm nervous about the surgery and the recovery. And yet he's sharing his wisdom with me.
I don't mind listening to other people's stories--in fact, I love it. I get to learn about the person and possibly glean some ideas to twist into my next novel.
I *so* want this shirt...because it is *so* true. Bwahahahaha!
Still, I'm uneasy about the future, and getting yet another worst-case scenario in my head to add to all my other fears and doubts that had me sobbing into my boyfriend's chest for an hour Tuesday night wasn't exactly a great idea. I think a female friend noted my look of increasing dread, and so decided to step in. Just as my pastor is getting to the high point of his agonizing memories, she comments, "I had mine out when I was around your age, and I hardly had any problems. A little pain and bleeding, but it healed quickly without any drama."
Bless you, friend.
I understand the need to share horrifying stories, but I liken this to telling excruciating tales of how things went terribly wrong during the birth of a child to a woman in her third trimester (especially if it is her first child). We're already freaking out in vague terms and ideas--we don't need new specifics to color our fears in full Technicolor brilliance. I know it's a way of bonding, even a way we try to prepare others so they can avoid the mistakes we made. Sometimes, though, the trips through memory lane need to be scheduled for more opportune times...like a few months later when we can all look back on it and laugh (or wince).
It's my new motto: A wise tongue is valued, but wise teeth are highly overrated.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
This Chocolate Bar is not a Lifesaving Device
My security has been threatened recently from many fronts. My job situation in the spring is up in the air with no safety nets surviving the storm of economics and my insane schedule. My health has thrown me a few curve balls that I'm somewhat managing. "Bob" is probably getting annoyed with my emotional swings, although he's being quite the trooper about it. I was shown some very powerful examples of how I may not be the personality type I thought I was--which may not mean anything to most people, but when it places me in a category that I don't find flattering in people, it was rather shattering. Add in the usual stress of two jobs, big projects lying uncompleted, and a cat who apparently feels a little abandoned himself, and I'm reeling.
Losing my good grip on my identity was probably the hardest blow. It's helping to illuminate some issues I've been having with adjusting to being with Bob, so that does have a solid benefit. My independent and co-dependent issues have been clashing hard. I work very well on my own--the flexibility of having little "overhead direction" allows my creative side the room it needs to roam about and still get things done, even if they are done differently than other people would do them. Being part of a couple, adjusting to nearly constant compromise, collaboration, and teamwork, has been very challenging. I love having someone to share things with, who can and will help, but it's hard dealing with not having as much "creative license" as I'm used to. It's hard to figure out when I need to push for more equality and when I need to just pick up the slack (because it's usually me who perceives there is slack, anyway, whether there is or not). It goes back to the issue of before--having needs and wants, not sharing them, and then getting upset/angry/worried/scared when they're not met.
When I'm feeling insecure, though, what do I do? Lately, eat chocolate, cry on people, and contemplate ways I can escape from everything and be safe (albeit alone and lonely). After a little while, I get distracted, the feelings fade, and I'm back to pushing through the week, encounter high stress...and then the cycle starts all over again.
What I'm doing is literally insane. I'm doing the same thing, treading water, and expecting it to eventually solve the problem (considering the currents I'm caught in, that's not going to happen). I'm subjecting the people around me to torrents of emotion that probably make less sense than a week of severe PMS (and no, I'm not hormonal that I know of). This is not a recipe for anything more than mere survival and testing the perseverence of the people around me.
My big problem is that I am avoiding the giant lifesaver in front of me, one I've known about this whole time, that has been willing and able to carry me through the seas and onto dry land again. Why I've avoided it, I'm not exactly sure. Maybe because it's not as tangible as the sea I know so well. Maybe because I'm stubbornly believing I can get through this through dry humor and patience; I don't want to admit I need more help after everything I've already taken. Maybe because I'm afraid of what it'll cost to take the way out. I may be forced to change, to give up some things I want so badly to stay in my life.
Could I still make it through the next two months without the lifesaver? It's possible, but given where I'm at, I'm not sure I can last that long. I'm almost positive my friends and family won't last that long. It's time for me to swallow my pride (that I can survive anything), take a chance on the safest bet around, and let God save me again. He made me. He gets it. He doesn't mind my insanity. He'll listen and give me peace again.
So, okay, God. Stick on the water wings. I'll wear them with pride. My Daddy bought them for me. :)
Losing my good grip on my identity was probably the hardest blow. It's helping to illuminate some issues I've been having with adjusting to being with Bob, so that does have a solid benefit. My independent and co-dependent issues have been clashing hard. I work very well on my own--the flexibility of having little "overhead direction" allows my creative side the room it needs to roam about and still get things done, even if they are done differently than other people would do them. Being part of a couple, adjusting to nearly constant compromise, collaboration, and teamwork, has been very challenging. I love having someone to share things with, who can and will help, but it's hard dealing with not having as much "creative license" as I'm used to. It's hard to figure out when I need to push for more equality and when I need to just pick up the slack (because it's usually me who perceives there is slack, anyway, whether there is or not). It goes back to the issue of before--having needs and wants, not sharing them, and then getting upset/angry/worried/scared when they're not met.
When I'm feeling insecure, though, what do I do? Lately, eat chocolate, cry on people, and contemplate ways I can escape from everything and be safe (albeit alone and lonely). After a little while, I get distracted, the feelings fade, and I'm back to pushing through the week, encounter high stress...and then the cycle starts all over again.
What I'm doing is literally insane. I'm doing the same thing, treading water, and expecting it to eventually solve the problem (considering the currents I'm caught in, that's not going to happen). I'm subjecting the people around me to torrents of emotion that probably make less sense than a week of severe PMS (and no, I'm not hormonal that I know of). This is not a recipe for anything more than mere survival and testing the perseverence of the people around me.
My big problem is that I am avoiding the giant lifesaver in front of me, one I've known about this whole time, that has been willing and able to carry me through the seas and onto dry land again. Why I've avoided it, I'm not exactly sure. Maybe because it's not as tangible as the sea I know so well. Maybe because I'm stubbornly believing I can get through this through dry humor and patience; I don't want to admit I need more help after everything I've already taken. Maybe because I'm afraid of what it'll cost to take the way out. I may be forced to change, to give up some things I want so badly to stay in my life.
Could I still make it through the next two months without the lifesaver? It's possible, but given where I'm at, I'm not sure I can last that long. I'm almost positive my friends and family won't last that long. It's time for me to swallow my pride (that I can survive anything), take a chance on the safest bet around, and let God save me again. He made me. He gets it. He doesn't mind my insanity. He'll listen and give me peace again.
So, okay, God. Stick on the water wings. I'll wear them with pride. My Daddy bought them for me. :)
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Don't walk--laugh it off.
I arrived at the university thirty minutes early for my class, plenty of time to snarf down a yogurt, print off my grading sheets for speeches, change shoes, and apply the bare minimum make-up for a professional look. After dumping everything onto my office table, I shoved the rubber doorstop under the corner of the door and ran down the hall to collect my printing rubrics. When I returned to my office, the doorstop was sitting quietly in the middle of the hallway, looking lost but unperturbed about it. My door was shut. My office door automatically locks. My keys were on the table.
Locking myself out of my office wasn't that huge of a deal. All I'd have to do is go to the department office and borrow the spare key. Today, however, was the day that the secretary wasn't there at 8am like she usually was. Public Safety officers could unlock the door for me, but there would be no way they'd get there in time for my morning class. I had no pen, no make-up, no stopwatch, and my purple toenails poked out of black Old Navy flip-flops. Hardly a good match to black dress slacks. I tried waiting as long as I could for the secretary, but with only five minutes left before class and a dozen nervous speakers waiting for me, I had to go. I borrowed a pen and stopwatch from another professor then went to class. I apologized profusely for my appearance--especially given that in the previous class period I had given these students a lecture on how important it was to be prepared and professional-looking. We had a laugh about it and everything was righted after class. For a few hours.
When I arrived at a high school around lunchtime to teach my class, I kept on my dressy shoes from the morning. It was a little difficult navigating the gravel lot in clunky heels, but I made it fine and began my trek around the wood-floor gym to the tiny classroom I taught in. About half-way through my walk, I noticed how incredibly shiny the floor seemed since the last time I was there...a second before my no-traction heels slipped in opposite directions in the wax and I fell. My knees bent as I did the splits, throwing most of my weight onto my left hip, knee, and twisted ankle. I have a phobia of falling. I hate it with a passion and don't even enjoy amusement park rides that "fall" much anymore. This fall only reinforced those fears--I did some damage. Thanks to God, I didn't break anything, but my knee and ankle were already swelling and my hip protested any move I made. I hobbled to my feet (still in the heels--I have a death wish, I suppose) and made my way to the classroom.
I somehow made it through class and stopped at home for an ace bandage for the ankle (I have yet to find a good way to do this for my knee/hip--if you know or have a good diagram, fill me in!). The pain wasn't really bad until a few hours later when I had driven three more times, ran two errands, and taught another two-hour class. By the time I was off to Wal-Mart to pick up food and a few necessities, the throbbing had triggered my fibromyalgia. I popped a heavy-duty painkiller on an empty stomach (a sign of how irrational I get when in pain--Heaven help me if I end up pregnant someday) and propped up my swollen leg on the table. Near the end of the night, I ended up having some hilarious girl talk with several good friends that ended up distracting me from the pain. After that, it was sore, but remembering some of the comments had me in giggles again and I didn't feel as bad.
I know it's incredibly cliche, but laughter is good medicine for both the body and the mind. I could have been angry, irritated, or embarrassed to the point of tears over being so unprepared for class. I could have been wallowing in despair and mopey grumpiness over not being able to walk or sit comfortably anymore. Instead, I was able to shake off the foreboding feelings and relax a little. The leg will mend (and it could have been my right and I would be stuck not being able to drive--there's a blessing in this fall already). I have an excuse to wear flip-flops to class for days. My students are playing nice because they know I'm hurting. Yet another instance of locking myself out will play out nicely in my humorous memoirs one day. It's all good.
So, to encourage you to laugh off something that's niggling at you, I'll close with some corny jokes told by my friends last night:
Q: Why did the chocolate-chip cookie go see the doctor?
A: He felt crumby.
Q: How do you make a tissue dance?
A: You put a little boogie in it.
Q: If you are an American going to church and an American coming home from church, what are you when you are getting ready for church?
A: Russian.
Ok, so these may be more groaners than side-splitters for you (or your seven-year-old). Sometimes, though, when you really need a laugh, the absurd works. Monty Python proves that.
Locking myself out of my office wasn't that huge of a deal. All I'd have to do is go to the department office and borrow the spare key. Today, however, was the day that the secretary wasn't there at 8am like she usually was. Public Safety officers could unlock the door for me, but there would be no way they'd get there in time for my morning class. I had no pen, no make-up, no stopwatch, and my purple toenails poked out of black Old Navy flip-flops. Hardly a good match to black dress slacks. I tried waiting as long as I could for the secretary, but with only five minutes left before class and a dozen nervous speakers waiting for me, I had to go. I borrowed a pen and stopwatch from another professor then went to class. I apologized profusely for my appearance--especially given that in the previous class period I had given these students a lecture on how important it was to be prepared and professional-looking. We had a laugh about it and everything was righted after class. For a few hours.
When I arrived at a high school around lunchtime to teach my class, I kept on my dressy shoes from the morning. It was a little difficult navigating the gravel lot in clunky heels, but I made it fine and began my trek around the wood-floor gym to the tiny classroom I taught in. About half-way through my walk, I noticed how incredibly shiny the floor seemed since the last time I was there...a second before my no-traction heels slipped in opposite directions in the wax and I fell. My knees bent as I did the splits, throwing most of my weight onto my left hip, knee, and twisted ankle. I have a phobia of falling. I hate it with a passion and don't even enjoy amusement park rides that "fall" much anymore. This fall only reinforced those fears--I did some damage. Thanks to God, I didn't break anything, but my knee and ankle were already swelling and my hip protested any move I made. I hobbled to my feet (still in the heels--I have a death wish, I suppose) and made my way to the classroom.
I somehow made it through class and stopped at home for an ace bandage for the ankle (I have yet to find a good way to do this for my knee/hip--if you know or have a good diagram, fill me in!). The pain wasn't really bad until a few hours later when I had driven three more times, ran two errands, and taught another two-hour class. By the time I was off to Wal-Mart to pick up food and a few necessities, the throbbing had triggered my fibromyalgia. I popped a heavy-duty painkiller on an empty stomach (a sign of how irrational I get when in pain--Heaven help me if I end up pregnant someday) and propped up my swollen leg on the table. Near the end of the night, I ended up having some hilarious girl talk with several good friends that ended up distracting me from the pain. After that, it was sore, but remembering some of the comments had me in giggles again and I didn't feel as bad.
I know it's incredibly cliche, but laughter is good medicine for both the body and the mind. I could have been angry, irritated, or embarrassed to the point of tears over being so unprepared for class. I could have been wallowing in despair and mopey grumpiness over not being able to walk or sit comfortably anymore. Instead, I was able to shake off the foreboding feelings and relax a little. The leg will mend (and it could have been my right and I would be stuck not being able to drive--there's a blessing in this fall already). I have an excuse to wear flip-flops to class for days. My students are playing nice because they know I'm hurting. Yet another instance of locking myself out will play out nicely in my humorous memoirs one day. It's all good.
So, to encourage you to laugh off something that's niggling at you, I'll close with some corny jokes told by my friends last night:
Q: Why did the chocolate-chip cookie go see the doctor?
A: He felt crumby.
Q: How do you make a tissue dance?
A: You put a little boogie in it.
Q: If you are an American going to church and an American coming home from church, what are you when you are getting ready for church?
A: Russian.
Ok, so these may be more groaners than side-splitters for you (or your seven-year-old). Sometimes, though, when you really need a laugh, the absurd works. Monty Python proves that.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Honesty Part II: Masking the Appearance of Trouble
While in worship at the ACFW conference, I heard slight whispers in the crowd.
"Look at her--she's really into it!"
"I think she's one of those pentacostals or something."
"The song must really be speaking to her."
I know these ladies never meant for me to hear them. After all, by all appearances, I was completely wrapped up in the moments of worship. My hands were raised, albeit only at the elbow--I usually extend them higher during powerful songs, my face was uplifted, my body swayed side-to-side and trembled slightly, and tears rolled down my cheeks before splashing onto my blouse. As a singer on my Baptist church's worship team, I do often do all of the above (tears are pretty unusual, though) when the moment is strong and I'm enveloped in the world of praising and praying to my God. I stop caring that my Pentacostal roots are showing and that I'm probably moving too much for the comfort of my congregation. I just do as I'm led to do.
My appearance of being lost in a moment with God during the conference wasn't reflecting the truth. I wasn't that into the song--it was one that, while it was nice, wasn't truly affecting me. One hand braced around my middle, the other raised from the elbow, I was beseeching God for something other than worship. I was desperately seeking help. I was in serious, extreme pain.
Living with fibromyalgia is a challenge beyond any other--random flares of pain, some of them intense enough to make me stop breathing or double over into a ball, happen without warning. I already knew my disease was going to be an issue due to the long hours in a car to travel to Indianapolis, sleeping in a new bed, not getting much sleep due to activities, and a lot of sitting throughout the day. The intense flare in the middle of worship, however, caught me off-guard. It was the strongest one I had had in over a year. The tears and shaking proved it.
Since it's incurable, I've accepted my fibromyalgia as my thorn in my side (a la apostle Paul). Since preventative medications don't work on my system, and I avoid pills as much as possible due to the risks of addiction and damaging internal organs, I'm left with pushing through the pain with the determination of a soon-to-be mother. It also means that I try to mask my pain as much as possible. There's not much anyone can do besides maybe put pressure on a trigger point or massage a cramped muscle into submission. There are very few people I know who would be willing to do this even if I had the gall to ask--and there are very few public situations where this wouldn't attract unwanted attention. Letting others know when I'm hurting gives me a label of "weak" or "delicate"...not the labels I want if I want to be able to serve in the ways I was made to do. No one asks a weak woman to babysit their children. No one asks a fragile person to cook a three-course Mexican dinner for a Bible study. No one allows her to play softball or help move furniture or carry in instruments or renovate a nursery. I can do these things, even if occasionally I pay for it with a flare or two. My life is a chance game, but I refuse to play it safe and let my malfunctioning nervous system win. So I hide the truth from even the people I love and who love me.
This is where the bigger problem comes in. While flares rarely reach a 13-14 on the 10-point scale (ACFW conference was a 14), I do have 9s or 10s occasionally. I had one during a church service while sitting next to my boyfriend. I hid it for the ten minutes it lasted, gritting my teeth, regulating my breathing, clenching my fists, and praying hard. After the service, my boyfriend mentioned that he was really touched by how emotionally moved I was during the prayer--he had felt me shaking. Exhausted, I told him nonchalantly what really happened. The next day, he called to say that I am to notify him in some way any time I have a flare around him--using code words, whispering in his ear, something. The request confused me. "Most of the time there's nothing you can do, and knowing I'm in pain will only hurt you as well, so why do you want to know?" His answer came with a strong "duh" tone. "Uh, so I can be concerned?"
Knowing someone you love is hurting and being powerless to do anything about it is one of the most hopeless and devastating situations to be in, at least in my opinion. Being honest about how my body's torturing me makes me less of a friend/partner and more of a burden. If there is something he can do, I can understand telling him, but all the time? Does he even understand how often I go through these flares and pains? Isn't it enough that my fibromyalgia makes my life difficult--does it have to affect him and other people as well? I'm not opposed to letting people know I have the disease necessarily, but exposing the realities as they occur...that's terrifying.
I'm still struggling with my strong sense of independence on this one. I really don't know if I'll be able to go through with whispering his selected code word into his ear the next time my back spasms. I really don't know if I'll be able to reveal to others when I'm not shaking due to the movements of God or low blood sugar (a nice excuse, really, because you usually get chocolate out of the deal) but rather due to muscles tightening past normal limits. I really don't know if I'll be able to show the fear and anxiety in my eyes instead of closing them when I realize I'm not able to breathe for a few seconds. The answer to where boundary lines belong with this disease is out there, somewhere. I hope I find it soon. Before the next flare around my boyfriend, anyway.
"Look at her--she's really into it!"
"I think she's one of those pentacostals or something."
"The song must really be speaking to her."
I know these ladies never meant for me to hear them. After all, by all appearances, I was completely wrapped up in the moments of worship. My hands were raised, albeit only at the elbow--I usually extend them higher during powerful songs, my face was uplifted, my body swayed side-to-side and trembled slightly, and tears rolled down my cheeks before splashing onto my blouse. As a singer on my Baptist church's worship team, I do often do all of the above (tears are pretty unusual, though) when the moment is strong and I'm enveloped in the world of praising and praying to my God. I stop caring that my Pentacostal roots are showing and that I'm probably moving too much for the comfort of my congregation. I just do as I'm led to do.
My appearance of being lost in a moment with God during the conference wasn't reflecting the truth. I wasn't that into the song--it was one that, while it was nice, wasn't truly affecting me. One hand braced around my middle, the other raised from the elbow, I was beseeching God for something other than worship. I was desperately seeking help. I was in serious, extreme pain.
Is she praying...or struggling with a migraine? How can you tell?
Living with fibromyalgia is a challenge beyond any other--random flares of pain, some of them intense enough to make me stop breathing or double over into a ball, happen without warning. I already knew my disease was going to be an issue due to the long hours in a car to travel to Indianapolis, sleeping in a new bed, not getting much sleep due to activities, and a lot of sitting throughout the day. The intense flare in the middle of worship, however, caught me off-guard. It was the strongest one I had had in over a year. The tears and shaking proved it.
Since it's incurable, I've accepted my fibromyalgia as my thorn in my side (a la apostle Paul). Since preventative medications don't work on my system, and I avoid pills as much as possible due to the risks of addiction and damaging internal organs, I'm left with pushing through the pain with the determination of a soon-to-be mother. It also means that I try to mask my pain as much as possible. There's not much anyone can do besides maybe put pressure on a trigger point or massage a cramped muscle into submission. There are very few people I know who would be willing to do this even if I had the gall to ask--and there are very few public situations where this wouldn't attract unwanted attention. Letting others know when I'm hurting gives me a label of "weak" or "delicate"...not the labels I want if I want to be able to serve in the ways I was made to do. No one asks a weak woman to babysit their children. No one asks a fragile person to cook a three-course Mexican dinner for a Bible study. No one allows her to play softball or help move furniture or carry in instruments or renovate a nursery. I can do these things, even if occasionally I pay for it with a flare or two. My life is a chance game, but I refuse to play it safe and let my malfunctioning nervous system win. So I hide the truth from even the people I love and who love me.
This is where the bigger problem comes in. While flares rarely reach a 13-14 on the 10-point scale (ACFW conference was a 14), I do have 9s or 10s occasionally. I had one during a church service while sitting next to my boyfriend. I hid it for the ten minutes it lasted, gritting my teeth, regulating my breathing, clenching my fists, and praying hard. After the service, my boyfriend mentioned that he was really touched by how emotionally moved I was during the prayer--he had felt me shaking. Exhausted, I told him nonchalantly what really happened. The next day, he called to say that I am to notify him in some way any time I have a flare around him--using code words, whispering in his ear, something. The request confused me. "Most of the time there's nothing you can do, and knowing I'm in pain will only hurt you as well, so why do you want to know?" His answer came with a strong "duh" tone. "Uh, so I can be concerned?"
Knowing someone you love is hurting and being powerless to do anything about it is one of the most hopeless and devastating situations to be in, at least in my opinion. Being honest about how my body's torturing me makes me less of a friend/partner and more of a burden. If there is something he can do, I can understand telling him, but all the time? Does he even understand how often I go through these flares and pains? Isn't it enough that my fibromyalgia makes my life difficult--does it have to affect him and other people as well? I'm not opposed to letting people know I have the disease necessarily, but exposing the realities as they occur...that's terrifying.
I'm still struggling with my strong sense of independence on this one. I really don't know if I'll be able to go through with whispering his selected code word into his ear the next time my back spasms. I really don't know if I'll be able to reveal to others when I'm not shaking due to the movements of God or low blood sugar (a nice excuse, really, because you usually get chocolate out of the deal) but rather due to muscles tightening past normal limits. I really don't know if I'll be able to show the fear and anxiety in my eyes instead of closing them when I realize I'm not able to breathe for a few seconds. The answer to where boundary lines belong with this disease is out there, somewhere. I hope I find it soon. Before the next flare around my boyfriend, anyway.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Little Moments
The clock in the living room ticks and tocks at a slight echo to the one in the kitchen, creating a surround-sound atmosphere of time passing me by. Every second comes, goes, and is never to return. When thinking of time in this slightly off-tempo beat of seconds, it's almost frightening. I'm aging in this chair, my clean skin from my recent shower already compiling oils, my hair acquiring a minute sheen that will end up turning my bouncy curls into somewhat-stringy locks by the end of the night. My watch battery will have lost some of its juice, my stomach will be empty and hungry yet again, and I will have failed to complete everything on my to-do list.
Right now, though, instead of forcing myself out the door to face a hugely-full day of teaching three classes, office hours, and preparing to hand over my third part-time job to a new person, I'm sitting in the most comfortable seat in my house. A cat is curled up alongside my hip and the top of my left leg, snoring softly as he warms my jean-clad thigh. Little One tends to annoy me more often than not. He'll beg to be let out, then run away and hide several times before you can either catch him and throw him out or he decides he's finally ready. He'll steal my food and watch me like a hawk while I'm eating, taking any opportunity presented to swipe some cheese or lick my yogurt. He insists on accompanying me to the bathroom because, after all, I'm just "sitting there" and have plenty of time to pet him. (I'm learning to try to head him off with a well-angled foot and shut the door firmly behind me.) Right now, though, he's being precious. A lap cat to the core, he is taking the chill from the air and telling me he trusts me, wants me, and thinks I'm the most comfortable spot in the house. Considering where all he sleeps, that's a rather nice compliment.
I should be putting on some eyeliner, grabbing something for breakfast, checking my three school e-mail accounts, and heading out the door to start my day. The quiet, punctuated only by half-purred snores and time ticking away, is intoxicating. Comforting. The kind of morning moment I want so much more than the drama that comes with my three jobs. I'm taking the time to write a little, pray, and consider just how much chocolate I will buy today so I can make it through the next week. It's a nice little moment that will end in just a few seconds. I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.
Right now, though, instead of forcing myself out the door to face a hugely-full day of teaching three classes, office hours, and preparing to hand over my third part-time job to a new person, I'm sitting in the most comfortable seat in my house. A cat is curled up alongside my hip and the top of my left leg, snoring softly as he warms my jean-clad thigh. Little One tends to annoy me more often than not. He'll beg to be let out, then run away and hide several times before you can either catch him and throw him out or he decides he's finally ready. He'll steal my food and watch me like a hawk while I'm eating, taking any opportunity presented to swipe some cheese or lick my yogurt. He insists on accompanying me to the bathroom because, after all, I'm just "sitting there" and have plenty of time to pet him. (I'm learning to try to head him off with a well-angled foot and shut the door firmly behind me.) Right now, though, he's being precious. A lap cat to the core, he is taking the chill from the air and telling me he trusts me, wants me, and thinks I'm the most comfortable spot in the house. Considering where all he sleeps, that's a rather nice compliment.
I should be putting on some eyeliner, grabbing something for breakfast, checking my three school e-mail accounts, and heading out the door to start my day. The quiet, punctuated only by half-purred snores and time ticking away, is intoxicating. Comforting. The kind of morning moment I want so much more than the drama that comes with my three jobs. I'm taking the time to write a little, pray, and consider just how much chocolate I will buy today so I can make it through the next week. It's a nice little moment that will end in just a few seconds. I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Distractions...
Just as prevalent as air molecules, just as dangerous as a drunk driver going 80 on a gravel road, just as persistent as a two-year-old fixated on a Dora doll...
Distractions. They're everywhere. It can be something we see, feel, smell, or think about. An odd sound, an old memory, a tickle at the nape of our neck. Some of it is due to our survival instincts, our need to be aware of our surroundings to be protected against danger (which is why I scream bloody murder when I finally feel the light tapping of spider legs against my leg--a deaf spider can't bite you because he's too busy howling in pain over his burst eardrums). Some of it is just environmental or the curse of a racing mind (my thoughts could beat Usain Bolt--love that last name--in a foot race any day). Some of it, though, is purposeful.
"I need a distraction." I've said this many times lately, a remark reflecting on my extremely busy and hectic life. I've spent hours chasing after distractions, letting my to-do list ferment in my purse as I instead watch a cute kid's movie, hang out with friends and family, and let this deliciously handsome man intent on courting me have the pleasure of my company for several hours. The people around me ask if I'm busy, and of course I am. I have lots of lesson plans to make and keep up with. I have a website that is a full month behind schedule for release. I have a novel to do a few last-minute touch-ups on. I have gradebooks to set up, attendance records to update, and mounds of paperwork to complete, file, and organize. What I need is to sit my butt down and get to work. What I want is to go dancing with my sweetheart, bake cookies until 2am, watch some TV (because I hardly ever get to during the school year), and snuggle with my cat. And sleep. Miss that terribly.
Someone fairly wise for his very young age told me once that I do way too much and need to take more time out each day for "fun" things--activities to rejuvenate my spirit and brighten my mood. Otherwise I'd end up bitter. Not good. The hazard is to create a good balance--I need to get my tasks done, but also live joyfully each day. I need to focus...instead of surfing about on Facebook for a few hours. I need to just get through that to-do list...instead of playing Freecell for thirty minutes while listening to an audiobook. I need to be grading...instead of watching YouTube videos (or uploading my own).
This week, my challenge is to make that to-do list and get through the whole thing by Friday so I can enjoy my last weekend before the conference. Praying for strength and concentration...now.
Distractions. They're everywhere. It can be something we see, feel, smell, or think about. An odd sound, an old memory, a tickle at the nape of our neck. Some of it is due to our survival instincts, our need to be aware of our surroundings to be protected against danger (which is why I scream bloody murder when I finally feel the light tapping of spider legs against my leg--a deaf spider can't bite you because he's too busy howling in pain over his burst eardrums). Some of it is just environmental or the curse of a racing mind (my thoughts could beat Usain Bolt--love that last name--in a foot race any day). Some of it, though, is purposeful.
"I need a distraction." I've said this many times lately, a remark reflecting on my extremely busy and hectic life. I've spent hours chasing after distractions, letting my to-do list ferment in my purse as I instead watch a cute kid's movie, hang out with friends and family, and let this deliciously handsome man intent on courting me have the pleasure of my company for several hours. The people around me ask if I'm busy, and of course I am. I have lots of lesson plans to make and keep up with. I have a website that is a full month behind schedule for release. I have a novel to do a few last-minute touch-ups on. I have gradebooks to set up, attendance records to update, and mounds of paperwork to complete, file, and organize. What I need is to sit my butt down and get to work. What I want is to go dancing with my sweetheart, bake cookies until 2am, watch some TV (because I hardly ever get to during the school year), and snuggle with my cat. And sleep. Miss that terribly.
Someone fairly wise for his very young age told me once that I do way too much and need to take more time out each day for "fun" things--activities to rejuvenate my spirit and brighten my mood. Otherwise I'd end up bitter. Not good. The hazard is to create a good balance--I need to get my tasks done, but also live joyfully each day. I need to focus...instead of surfing about on Facebook for a few hours. I need to just get through that to-do list...instead of playing Freecell for thirty minutes while listening to an audiobook. I need to be grading...instead of watching YouTube videos (or uploading my own).
This week, my challenge is to make that to-do list and get through the whole thing by Friday so I can enjoy my last weekend before the conference. Praying for strength and concentration...now.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Decisions
Anticipation tastes like good dark chocolate: complex, a little unexpected, but with sweet rewards at the end. My literary equivalent of 70% Madagascan cacao is currently swirling through my mind as I type. Today the 60% completion mark on in-depth edits is finished. I can see the finish line looming ahead, the knowledge that a read-aloud edit is almost here, and then...it's ready for submission. As much as I love working on this text, I'm ready for it to be out of my hands.
I click down to the next chapter, full of perky blue, yellow, and purple highlights. It's one I marked through my first revision process as needing a lot of work. Some of the edits are easy. I take out unnecessary adverbs, reform passive voice sentences, and fix a few typos. My fingers stall on the keyboard as I look at the next paragraph. What am I going to do with YOU?
I read it over in my mind and spot a head-jump to a different character. I change the description of emotion to a reflective facial expression. It solves the problem, but it's my go-to solution for my problems with popping suddenly from one character's mind to another's. I do it too often and the repetition is annoying even me. I insert dialogue instead. I read it out loud. I change the inflection of my voice and read it again. I groan. It's too interpretable.
I insert a few qualifiers around the quotes, giving some gestural clues. It's better, but seems wordy and clunky. I try using punctuation to show pauses--pauses reflect emotion. Then I remember that ellipses (...) are considered unprofessional. I use them all the time. I substitute em-dashes occasionally where a pause is really needed. Now it looks like a prose version of "Because I could not stop for Death--." I erase some of the dialogue. Now it's stilted and unrealistic. I delete all the dialogue and switch to a play-by-play of the character's thoughts. It's boring and feels like I'm trying too hard. I liven it up. Again, it's stilted and unrealistic. A lesson from a published author flashes through my mind of how suspense scenes, ones that build up action and increase the pace, need shorter sentences--long sentences slow down a reader. I cut down the sentences dramatically. Now it sounds choppy and simplistic. I want to throw my laptop across the room in frustration.
My novel is my brain child--as much as I love it, I also know it needs a lot of guidance and tough love to stand on its own in the sometimes-cruel world of publishing. Karen, Ben, and even gothic minor character Sunny Daize seem so real to me. I want them to shine in all their fallible brilliance (none of them are "Mary Sue" characters). It seems as much as I am a good writer, I am also a terrible one. I keep thinking with every page I scribble over, "This is going to work. This is going to endear the reader...or maybe not. No one is going to want to read this! No one is going to be unable to put this down!" I'm starting to feel incredibly bipolar.
Change is never easy. The whole time we're changing, we're constantly second-guessing ourselves. Is it really worth it? This isn't fun or simple. Was my old life really that bad? When we're talking about changes for a Christian, we get compounded with guilt. Guilt that we aren't changing as smoothly as we "should." Guilt that we are resisting the change. Guilt for failing to be successful. Guilt because we can't seem to move on.
While feeling guilty can be both a good and bad thing (a blog entry for another day), the crux of the situation seems to be about acceptance and faith. In order to deal with my failings, I need to remember on a logical, rational level that as long as I am on Earth, I will be a fallible human. I will sin. I will fall. I will try to change and I will have setbacks. It's not an excuse to sin (check out Galations for Paul's opinion on that subject), but it is a fact that I have to accept. Trying to be perfect, or expecting myself to easily conquer my sinful nature, totally diminishes--if not destroys--the need for the cross. If I could do it on my own, what's the point of having Jesus? I can't do it alone. I need faith. I need forgiveness. I need patience--but I know better than to pray for that one. :)
When I turn back to revising during the scant free moments in my schedule today, I need to have the mindset that it's ok to struggle. It's ok that I've rewritten a scene eight times and it's still not flowing right. I may just need to set it aside until I get the idea I need (like it's taken me four months to come up with the perfect name for my antagonist). I may need to wait and ask a fellow writer to help. I may need to just keep trying and appreciate what the struggle is teaching me about the craft. I may need to just pray and depend on my Father's wisdom instead of my own.
It's not easy. It's not simple. It's going to cost.
All the good things do.
I click down to the next chapter, full of perky blue, yellow, and purple highlights. It's one I marked through my first revision process as needing a lot of work. Some of the edits are easy. I take out unnecessary adverbs, reform passive voice sentences, and fix a few typos. My fingers stall on the keyboard as I look at the next paragraph. What am I going to do with YOU?
I read it over in my mind and spot a head-jump to a different character. I change the description of emotion to a reflective facial expression. It solves the problem, but it's my go-to solution for my problems with popping suddenly from one character's mind to another's. I do it too often and the repetition is annoying even me. I insert dialogue instead. I read it out loud. I change the inflection of my voice and read it again. I groan. It's too interpretable.
I insert a few qualifiers around the quotes, giving some gestural clues. It's better, but seems wordy and clunky. I try using punctuation to show pauses--pauses reflect emotion. Then I remember that ellipses (...) are considered unprofessional. I use them all the time. I substitute em-dashes occasionally where a pause is really needed. Now it looks like a prose version of "Because I could not stop for Death--." I erase some of the dialogue. Now it's stilted and unrealistic. I delete all the dialogue and switch to a play-by-play of the character's thoughts. It's boring and feels like I'm trying too hard. I liven it up. Again, it's stilted and unrealistic. A lesson from a published author flashes through my mind of how suspense scenes, ones that build up action and increase the pace, need shorter sentences--long sentences slow down a reader. I cut down the sentences dramatically. Now it sounds choppy and simplistic. I want to throw my laptop across the room in frustration.
Anger management is a lot easier when you can rationally think about the costs to replace necessary items beforehand...(although with how old this set is, it probably only costs about $20 nowadays).
My novel is my brain child--as much as I love it, I also know it needs a lot of guidance and tough love to stand on its own in the sometimes-cruel world of publishing. Karen, Ben, and even gothic minor character Sunny Daize seem so real to me. I want them to shine in all their fallible brilliance (none of them are "Mary Sue" characters). It seems as much as I am a good writer, I am also a terrible one. I keep thinking with every page I scribble over, "This is going to work. This is going to endear the reader...or maybe not. No one is going to want to read this! No one is going to be unable to put this down!" I'm starting to feel incredibly bipolar.
An author's love-hate relationship with writing brings a whole new definition to two-faced; although, with all the characters living vivid lives in our heads, we already have multiple personality disorder, so being just two-faced is probably a step in the right direction.
Change is never easy. The whole time we're changing, we're constantly second-guessing ourselves. Is it really worth it? This isn't fun or simple. Was my old life really that bad? When we're talking about changes for a Christian, we get compounded with guilt. Guilt that we aren't changing as smoothly as we "should." Guilt that we are resisting the change. Guilt for failing to be successful. Guilt because we can't seem to move on.
While feeling guilty can be both a good and bad thing (a blog entry for another day), the crux of the situation seems to be about acceptance and faith. In order to deal with my failings, I need to remember on a logical, rational level that as long as I am on Earth, I will be a fallible human. I will sin. I will fall. I will try to change and I will have setbacks. It's not an excuse to sin (check out Galations for Paul's opinion on that subject), but it is a fact that I have to accept. Trying to be perfect, or expecting myself to easily conquer my sinful nature, totally diminishes--if not destroys--the need for the cross. If I could do it on my own, what's the point of having Jesus? I can't do it alone. I need faith. I need forgiveness. I need patience--but I know better than to pray for that one. :)
When I turn back to revising during the scant free moments in my schedule today, I need to have the mindset that it's ok to struggle. It's ok that I've rewritten a scene eight times and it's still not flowing right. I may just need to set it aside until I get the idea I need (like it's taken me four months to come up with the perfect name for my antagonist). I may need to wait and ask a fellow writer to help. I may need to just keep trying and appreciate what the struggle is teaching me about the craft. I may need to just pray and depend on my Father's wisdom instead of my own.
It's not easy. It's not simple. It's going to cost.
All the good things do.
Friday, July 16, 2010
How to get out of a speeding ticket...
I have been pulled over a total of two times in my life. The first was a state trooper who stopped me to make sure that I knew I had a headlight out (I had bought a replacement bulb and was driving home so I could repair it...amusing timing). The second happened last night...but it wasn't so innocent.
In the town I live in, there's a back road I travel nearly every day that winds past a hospital. The speed limit sharply drops from 35 to 20 mph on a downhill curve by the emergency center. It's a tough thing to do, but I'm used to riding my brakes down the road. Last night, however, I apparently didn't hit them as hard as I usually do, because when I was halfway-past the hospital, I was still at 25mph. I saw the cop car in the parking lot just ahead. The first thought in my head was that he'd stay there for someone driving much faster--and after all, my brake lights were clearly on, so it was obvious that I was slowing down. I have *NEVER* been pulled over for speeding and RARELY ever drive more than five miles over the limit. This couldn't happen to me.
A few seconds later, the cop pulled out behind me. His lights turned on. My stomach twisted like a frustrated teen trying to work out a Rubic's Cube. Panic and reason battled for control of my thoughts, eventually working out a 50/50 split that had my hands shaking but my voice steady. I busied myself pulling my driver's license from my wallet, searching for my registration, and trying to find my most current insurance card (I never throw them out for some reason, so it took a good few minutes to find the one that wasn't expired). The police officer, a guy I didn't know--shocking for my hometown, actually--walked up to my window, asked for the paperwork, and retreated to his car. That minute was one of the longest minutes of my life. I was in trouble. I hated being in trouble. It's one thing to admit you were driving a little fast. It's another to have to literally pay for it.
The officer approaches my car again and hands me back my paperwork.
"Do you know why I pulled you over, Ma'am?"
I nod. "I'm guessing it's because I wasn't slowed down fast enough. I was hitting the brakes, but apparently since you pulled me over, I was still over twenty."
"I clocked you at 26."
I nod. There was no point arguing it. My old car had a faulty spedometer, but this one was fairly accurate as well as I knew. Now that I was thinking about the details, the needle had been resting above the long line marking the legal speed limit.
"So...do you think I should give you a ticket?"
My face must have shown just how confused and surprised I was at his statement, but his face remained impassive. Should he give me a ticket? What kind of question was that? How was I supposed to answer? For a moment, it felt like I had just been Punked or put on some crazy television hidden-camera show that would showcase a real American reaction when put on the spot. There was a correct answer to this, but it wasn't black and white. I wasn't purposefully driving too fast. I have a clean driving record. I know just about all the police officers (except this one, of course) in town and could have easily played the "friend" card. It wouldn't be lying to point out any of these things. I had excuses I could claim, too--I was tired, had bad allergies, the sun was actually in my eyes, etc. Dozens of "cover stories" raced through my mind, sorting themselves by believability and potential persuasive power. I opened my mouth after making a fast choice that seemed natural and right.
"Well, obviously I don't really want a ticket, but I understand if you have to give me one. Techically, I was breaking the law when I passed you. I'd appreciate a warning instead, but if you feel you should give me a ticket, that's fine. I'll pay it."
The words had barely left my lips when I heard a voice screaming at me inside my head. Did I really just suggest to a police officer to ticket me? How was I going to pay for it? What would my mother, who has shouted from her soapbox for years about how speeding tickets were the stupidest tickets anyone could get because they were completely avoidable, say when she found out? I had little idea what all was involved in paying for such a citation, either. Would I have to go to court, or would this be as simple as mailing a check to the appropriate state office? What about the points on my record? Loudest of all, had I completely lost my mind?!?!
In the sense of the world's opinion, I had lost at least my common sense. Using an excuse or trying to downplay the event would be the most logical choice...assuming that my goal was to get out of the ticket. That would be anyone's goal. At that moment, though, even though I knew I would have a hefty financial and emotional price to pay, I just didn't want to lie or bend the truth or "come up with something." Maybe I was more afraid of getting caught in an excuse or even, had I chosen to do so, a white lie. Maybe I figured in the long run that this wasn't that big of a deal.
I'm pretty sure the streak of extreme truth was more of a sign of my strong(er) walk with God. I did what He would want me to do--be honest.
Apparently I wasn't the only one surprised by my answer. The officer looked closer at me. "Excuse me, but did you just say you were ok with getting a ticket?"
I smiled. "I guess so, yeah. I mean, I can't really deny that I was going a little too fast." My shrug at the end hopefully conveyed what I couldn't find words to say. Although this is going to really be uncomfortable, it is the right thing to do.
The officer took a step back and smiled at me. "Well, then. In that case, Ma'am, you have a nice day."
I blinked at him, mutely watching him nod respectfully as he went back to his cruiser and talked briefly into his radio before driving off down the road. My shock permeated every inch of my being. It worked...and I hadn't even been trying.
Doing the right thing is rarely the easy thing to do. What makes it harder is that even if we do the "right" thing, there's no guarantee it'll work in our favor in the end by other people responding in kind or the situation coming to a satisfying close. If I had pulled out some of those excuses or "variations" on the truth, there's no way to know for sure if I would have been as successful in avoiding the ticket. My experiences with persuasion and knowledge I have of other people's encounters with cops tells me that I probably would have been ok using the not-so-squeaky-clean methods. What I gained yesterday was not just relief after a close call. I also gained self-respect and joy that God took care of me for doing His will. He would have provided the money if I had a ticket to pay, and directions for doing it properly so my name wouldn't end up in the newspaper under the police blotter.
So today I drove down that road...very, very slowly. God blessed me once. Next time, I might have more discipline in store than a simple warning.
In the town I live in, there's a back road I travel nearly every day that winds past a hospital. The speed limit sharply drops from 35 to 20 mph on a downhill curve by the emergency center. It's a tough thing to do, but I'm used to riding my brakes down the road. Last night, however, I apparently didn't hit them as hard as I usually do, because when I was halfway-past the hospital, I was still at 25mph. I saw the cop car in the parking lot just ahead. The first thought in my head was that he'd stay there for someone driving much faster--and after all, my brake lights were clearly on, so it was obvious that I was slowing down. I have *NEVER* been pulled over for speeding and RARELY ever drive more than five miles over the limit. This couldn't happen to me.
A few seconds later, the cop pulled out behind me. His lights turned on. My stomach twisted like a frustrated teen trying to work out a Rubic's Cube. Panic and reason battled for control of my thoughts, eventually working out a 50/50 split that had my hands shaking but my voice steady. I busied myself pulling my driver's license from my wallet, searching for my registration, and trying to find my most current insurance card (I never throw them out for some reason, so it took a good few minutes to find the one that wasn't expired). The police officer, a guy I didn't know--shocking for my hometown, actually--walked up to my window, asked for the paperwork, and retreated to his car. That minute was one of the longest minutes of my life. I was in trouble. I hated being in trouble. It's one thing to admit you were driving a little fast. It's another to have to literally pay for it.
The officer approaches my car again and hands me back my paperwork.
"Do you know why I pulled you over, Ma'am?"
I nod. "I'm guessing it's because I wasn't slowed down fast enough. I was hitting the brakes, but apparently since you pulled me over, I was still over twenty."
"I clocked you at 26."
I nod. There was no point arguing it. My old car had a faulty spedometer, but this one was fairly accurate as well as I knew. Now that I was thinking about the details, the needle had been resting above the long line marking the legal speed limit.
"So...do you think I should give you a ticket?"
My face must have shown just how confused and surprised I was at his statement, but his face remained impassive. Should he give me a ticket? What kind of question was that? How was I supposed to answer? For a moment, it felt like I had just been Punked or put on some crazy television hidden-camera show that would showcase a real American reaction when put on the spot. There was a correct answer to this, but it wasn't black and white. I wasn't purposefully driving too fast. I have a clean driving record. I know just about all the police officers (except this one, of course) in town and could have easily played the "friend" card. It wouldn't be lying to point out any of these things. I had excuses I could claim, too--I was tired, had bad allergies, the sun was actually in my eyes, etc. Dozens of "cover stories" raced through my mind, sorting themselves by believability and potential persuasive power. I opened my mouth after making a fast choice that seemed natural and right.
"Well, obviously I don't really want a ticket, but I understand if you have to give me one. Techically, I was breaking the law when I passed you. I'd appreciate a warning instead, but if you feel you should give me a ticket, that's fine. I'll pay it."
The words had barely left my lips when I heard a voice screaming at me inside my head. Did I really just suggest to a police officer to ticket me? How was I going to pay for it? What would my mother, who has shouted from her soapbox for years about how speeding tickets were the stupidest tickets anyone could get because they were completely avoidable, say when she found out? I had little idea what all was involved in paying for such a citation, either. Would I have to go to court, or would this be as simple as mailing a check to the appropriate state office? What about the points on my record? Loudest of all, had I completely lost my mind?!?!
In the sense of the world's opinion, I had lost at least my common sense. Using an excuse or trying to downplay the event would be the most logical choice...assuming that my goal was to get out of the ticket. That would be anyone's goal. At that moment, though, even though I knew I would have a hefty financial and emotional price to pay, I just didn't want to lie or bend the truth or "come up with something." Maybe I was more afraid of getting caught in an excuse or even, had I chosen to do so, a white lie. Maybe I figured in the long run that this wasn't that big of a deal.
I'm pretty sure the streak of extreme truth was more of a sign of my strong(er) walk with God. I did what He would want me to do--be honest.
Apparently I wasn't the only one surprised by my answer. The officer looked closer at me. "Excuse me, but did you just say you were ok with getting a ticket?"
I smiled. "I guess so, yeah. I mean, I can't really deny that I was going a little too fast." My shrug at the end hopefully conveyed what I couldn't find words to say. Although this is going to really be uncomfortable, it is the right thing to do.
The officer took a step back and smiled at me. "Well, then. In that case, Ma'am, you have a nice day."
I blinked at him, mutely watching him nod respectfully as he went back to his cruiser and talked briefly into his radio before driving off down the road. My shock permeated every inch of my being. It worked...and I hadn't even been trying.
Doing the right thing is rarely the easy thing to do. What makes it harder is that even if we do the "right" thing, there's no guarantee it'll work in our favor in the end by other people responding in kind or the situation coming to a satisfying close. If I had pulled out some of those excuses or "variations" on the truth, there's no way to know for sure if I would have been as successful in avoiding the ticket. My experiences with persuasion and knowledge I have of other people's encounters with cops tells me that I probably would have been ok using the not-so-squeaky-clean methods. What I gained yesterday was not just relief after a close call. I also gained self-respect and joy that God took care of me for doing His will. He would have provided the money if I had a ticket to pay, and directions for doing it properly so my name wouldn't end up in the newspaper under the police blotter.
So today I drove down that road...very, very slowly. God blessed me once. Next time, I might have more discipline in store than a simple warning.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Tiny Things
My drive home from church consists first of ten miles on a very twisting, curving road that is a nightmare in the winter months and can make you feel like you're on a terrific roller coaster when driving fast in the summer. There's rarely a stretch of road straight enough to help you avoid anything in your path. Potholes, the occasional plastic tumbleweed (otherwise known as the empty Walmart sack), and especially in these wild hills, animals are hard if not impossible to not hit with a resounding thud, clunk, or crash. I've been blessed so far in that I haven't taken any human or animal lives yet on this road (really praying that at least the former stays true). Not everyone is so lucky.
Sunday night I left the evening service a little late, but it was still very light out at 8:40pm. Cows and llamas dotted the mint-frosted hills in their usual chocolate sprinkle way, meandering slowly enough not to distract me too much as I followed the crumbled-edge pavement. About two miles down the road, I spotted what looked to be a medium-sized animal lying in my lane. When I approached closer, hitting the brakes, my eyes widened at what was really before me. There was an animal lying in its blood, clearly dead, but it was only a sparrow. What I had seen was a group of about ten more sparrows gathered around the fallen bird in a loose oval configuration.
I'm by no means an expert on sparrows, but I've never heard of or seen this phenomenon before. With their dark brown feathers and the first shadows of the night encroaching, the ring of creatures seemed to be mourning the loss of one of their own. Instantly I thought of Matthew 10:29, where God says He notices even the fall of a single sparrow. He was there, with those birds, and if animals have souls, then he was taking that little bird to Heaven with Him. Maybe it seems a little ludicrous, but the image of my Heavenly Father reaching down with his powerful and kind hands to escort a bird to the next life...it's so incredibly comforting to me. If He cares enough for sparrows to mourn each other, then how much must He care for even the smallest of my issues?
God knows everything that is going on in my life, even the things I don't see or understand. Not only does he know about all of these things, He *cares* about them. He's doing things about them, too. (A thought--ever think about what God's to-do list must look like? Mine seems so much more manageable now.) He's not going to leave me, lying on the side of the road, without help or sending someone to notice. God's got me. What more do I really need?
Friday, June 11, 2010
The Dandelion's Manifesto
Some say I'm a downright pest--
Poking my stalk in among the best,
Bouncing around on my own personal breeze,
Enjoying my days as if they were in ease,
Smiling and laughing though the rain will only drown
And the brilliant sun scorches everything brown.
Nothing's going to keep me down.
My exuberant petals spring from the earth
As if I was gifted Slinkies at birth
To propel me to heights I should never reach
'Cause the joy of my soul is a favorite fluid to leech.
I ruin perfect rows of perfectly planned pansies and petunias,
Purple poppies and potatoes and peas that go right through ya.
Where an exact order of beauty is established through selection and mutation,
I creep into the ranks, a new variable for computation.
My stalk's too fat, my leaves curl the wrong way,
My scent's intolerable, my roots have gone gray.
I ruin everything just by existing,
My rights and my desires--everyone's nixing.
Since I am not always self-sustaining and "properly" entertaining,
economical and ecological
with a smile maniacal
as I recite alphabetical
what is right and good and Cosmo-certified to work in 30 days or your money back
Not that it'll get you back on track
With the credit cards
And manicured yards
Botox injections and
Heart infections
Revealing the disease
If you please
Is not curable by the pill
Or by giving "reality" audiences a thrill
Or through donating large sums to charity
(As though dollars ever buy us clarity).
It's healed through tears,
Fighting constant fears,
Ignoring hateful leers,
Stubbornly insisting, "I'm HERE!"
And nothing's gonna keep me down.
So bring on the Weed-B-Gone,
Pour it out from dusk 'til dawn,
Rip up my supports deep in the earth,
Declare my agony's result is stillbirth,
Refuse to allow me to live or exist
As you get high on your powerful twist
Of what you claim is "the way it's gotta be--"
And there is utterly no reason for me
To breathe
To live
To smile
To give
'Cause my life is a hint of something soul-saving sweet,
But with your lack of faith, it'll be a bitter-tasting treat.
My God-given, spirit-pleasin' remedy
Is just what our P.C. world needs:
A little faith, hope, and love,
Truth without the kid gloves,
The kind of power that can conquer America's permanent frown,
Because you can't keep an agape weed like me down.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Further Adventures at Wal-Mart...as it's the most populated area in town...
Every year my father inflates a 8-foot swimming pool, parks it in the backyard, and then overchlorinates it to the point where only he is brave enough to sit in the water that decimates bug life faster than a Tim-Taylor-superpowered-bugzapper (since I used to invest so much in dying/highlighting my hair, I wasn't insane enough to ruin my hairdresser's expensive work for just five minutes of buoyancy). Every year he keeps "forgetting" to take it down...until really late in the season where the water's starting to freeze on top. Between the chemicals and the ice, let's just say that these pools didn't last more than a couple years around our house. Last year's entry into the wild world of Sackville looked to have survived the winter...until Dad started to fill it and found a huge, gaping hole in the bottom. He then decided, due to financial issues, to 86 his swimming plans this year. I, being the good daughter with a savings account (love you, Sis!), decided to spoil him for Father's Day and buy him a replacement pool. Besides, I'm giving up coloring my hair and figure the bleach will just help me return to my natural color faster. :)
So I trek into Wal-Mart, select the new pool, hoist it through the checkout, and cart it to my car. It's when I'm attempting to put this very ungainly, very heavy box into my backseat that I find major conflict. This box is heavier than I remember it being. It's also getting consistently caught on the edge of the cart, which is continuously wheeling away from my car thanks to a sloped parking lot. Two tries only succeed in making my lower back ache, my shoulder pop, and nearly landing me in a heap on the ground as I attempt to control too many moving objects at once. It is at the moment that I'm glaring at this now obnoxious present when I hear laughter. It's not very loud, not overwhelming, but just the soft chuckles of someone observing what must look like the equivalent of an uncoordinated penguin troop performing Swan Lake.
Parked in the row behind me is a big red SUV...with a hefty-looking 40+ year-old man in the driver's seat. Now, normally I'd just ignore him, or at the most, smile embarrassedly while trying for a third time to wrangle the plastic pool of doom. This time, however, I've had a great time at music practice. I've eaten a fair amount of sugar. I'm high on life. I open my mouth.
"Well, if you're going to get such a kick out of this free show, the least you could do is come over here and help me!" My teasing remark, sassy and full of enough sweetness to counteract the sarcasm, works like a charm. The gentleman exits his vehicle, showing off his lovely work-roughed jeans and faded t-shirt, and saunters over to my car. He puts one strong hand on the edge of the cart and anchors it against the wheel well. "Ok, then, I'll hold 'er steady while you haul it in there."
Time out.
I'm sorry, but did my audience, obviously much bigger and stronger and very MALE, just take the easy job in this ordeal? I mean, I know our current world culture has more of a humorous attitude towards chivalry.
I know that even simple chivalric manners, like opening car doors, seems to be a thing of the past (although I was delighted to find that there are guys out there still insisting on this little treat...and they're forgiving when our decades-old habit of having to open our own car doors kicks in before they can circle the car).
Despite this, the current situation was obviously one in which the correct thing was not being done. Yes, I am technically strong enough to haul the box in my backseat (I've carried much heavier things before with few problems) and the problem is more of one of logistics and not strength. Still, if guys in China are completely comfortable--and often insist upon--carrying their girl's purse...
...then the chivalry isn't about doing what we can't do. I can open my own door. It's just nice to have someone to help me, to take care of me, to show me a little extra respect and help when it's appropriate (grabbing a girl's puse without permission is known as mugging--not the thing to do).
So my response to Mr. Helpful? Playful banter, of course, full of smiles and sassy expressions. :)
Mr. Helpful: Ok, then, I'll hold 'er steady while you haul it in there.
Me: Um, no, I will hold 'er steady and you will haul the pool in there.
Mr. Helpful: (chuckles) But you're a strong young'un!
Me: But you're the guy LAUGHING AT ME.
((Still chuckling, Mr. Helpful easily hoists the pool into my backseat and gently closes the door. Mrs. Helpful just happens to approach at this moment, her shopping cart overflowing with bagged purchases.))
Mrs. Helpful: I thought you were going to stay in the car...?
Mr. Helpful: She made me come help her load her car after she caught me laughing at her.
Mrs. Helpful: (big smile at me) Well, then, you can get your butt over here and load up our car.
Mr. Helpful: I knew I shouldn't have laughed...
So, lessons for today:
1. Park in the flat section of the lot.
2. Teasing others can earn you extra (home)work.
3. A little Southern accent and a big smile still charms the opposite sex.
Fun for every family unafraid of sanitizing their genes...and the resulting cancer outbreaks
So I trek into Wal-Mart, select the new pool, hoist it through the checkout, and cart it to my car. It's when I'm attempting to put this very ungainly, very heavy box into my backseat that I find major conflict. This box is heavier than I remember it being. It's also getting consistently caught on the edge of the cart, which is continuously wheeling away from my car thanks to a sloped parking lot. Two tries only succeed in making my lower back ache, my shoulder pop, and nearly landing me in a heap on the ground as I attempt to control too many moving objects at once. It is at the moment that I'm glaring at this now obnoxious present when I hear laughter. It's not very loud, not overwhelming, but just the soft chuckles of someone observing what must look like the equivalent of an uncoordinated penguin troop performing Swan Lake.
It's only cute if you're three years old and still look good in a leotard.
Parked in the row behind me is a big red SUV...with a hefty-looking 40+ year-old man in the driver's seat. Now, normally I'd just ignore him, or at the most, smile embarrassedly while trying for a third time to wrangle the plastic pool of doom. This time, however, I've had a great time at music practice. I've eaten a fair amount of sugar. I'm high on life. I open my mouth.
"Well, if you're going to get such a kick out of this free show, the least you could do is come over here and help me!" My teasing remark, sassy and full of enough sweetness to counteract the sarcasm, works like a charm. The gentleman exits his vehicle, showing off his lovely work-roughed jeans and faded t-shirt, and saunters over to my car. He puts one strong hand on the edge of the cart and anchors it against the wheel well. "Ok, then, I'll hold 'er steady while you haul it in there."
Time out.
I'm sorry, but did my audience, obviously much bigger and stronger and very MALE, just take the easy job in this ordeal? I mean, I know our current world culture has more of a humorous attitude towards chivalry.
See? Soldiers know how to treat a lady (at least I'm assuming that's a lady).
I know that even simple chivalric manners, like opening car doors, seems to be a thing of the past (although I was delighted to find that there are guys out there still insisting on this little treat...and they're forgiving when our decades-old habit of having to open our own car doors kicks in before they can circle the car).
The manners and his suit have become "old-fashioned," but her hairstyle has come back into fashion at least three times.
Despite this, the current situation was obviously one in which the correct thing was not being done. Yes, I am technically strong enough to haul the box in my backseat (I've carried much heavier things before with few problems) and the problem is more of one of logistics and not strength. Still, if guys in China are completely comfortable--and often insist upon--carrying their girl's purse...
My purse, coincidentally, is about 2/3 the weight of the pool most days... (My school packback has reached 100 pounds before...and you wonder why I go monthly to a chiropractor).
...then the chivalry isn't about doing what we can't do. I can open my own door. It's just nice to have someone to help me, to take care of me, to show me a little extra respect and help when it's appropriate (grabbing a girl's puse without permission is known as mugging--not the thing to do).
So my response to Mr. Helpful? Playful banter, of course, full of smiles and sassy expressions. :)
Mr. Helpful: Ok, then, I'll hold 'er steady while you haul it in there.
Me: Um, no, I will hold 'er steady and you will haul the pool in there.
Mr. Helpful: (chuckles) But you're a strong young'un!
Me: But you're the guy LAUGHING AT ME.
((Still chuckling, Mr. Helpful easily hoists the pool into my backseat and gently closes the door. Mrs. Helpful just happens to approach at this moment, her shopping cart overflowing with bagged purchases.))
Mrs. Helpful: I thought you were going to stay in the car...?
Mr. Helpful: She made me come help her load her car after she caught me laughing at her.
Mrs. Helpful: (big smile at me) Well, then, you can get your butt over here and load up our car.
Mr. Helpful: I knew I shouldn't have laughed...
So, lessons for today:
1. Park in the flat section of the lot.
2. Teasing others can earn you extra (home)work.
3. A little Southern accent and a big smile still charms the opposite sex.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
The difference between small and insignificant
I read this at church last week, mostly on a whim (I wrote it that afternoon in the softball dugout) and because a friend of mine and her husband encouraged me to...and I figure that if God speaks through other people to me, I need to start listening more.
Sooooo...the reading went well, even if most of the audience didn't *quite* know what to call it. "Your poem...story...reading...oh, whatever it was, honey, it was good." Hehehe. For your reading pleasure, I present my new poem, still a bit rough around the edges but not half bad. :)
I thought it would be awesome
To have a Mentos God
A God who would drop
Into my Diet Coke Life
And create a chain reaction that would
Douse everyone within a
10-foot radius.
A candy-coated God,
Instantly effective,
Infinitely attractive,
A catalyst for an explosive combustion that would spill
My contents
My heart
My faith
Onto the world.
Instant dazzle.
No work on my part, just a willingness to be open
To His presence.
It worked for others--a bright, passionate light that
Inspired
Oohs and ahhs
Like a 4th of July fireworks show over the Potomac
(Before budgets constricted the celebration).
You've heard about these
Sonic Boom Christians.
They had books written about them,
Their diaries published,
Hallmark movie specials, and
Colorful inspirational inserts in
Sunday bulletins.
Their lives meant something on a grand scale--
And no one could deny the effects of their
Carbonated demise.
So I prayed for the kind of drama that would turn me into
God's perfect 2-liter bottle.
And wished.
And prayed.
And imagined.
And prayed.
All I got was the mundane, very
Un-tv-worthy existance of
An old dollar bill.
No powerful ministry,
No Barbara Walters knocking on my door,
No satisfaction of knowing I have,
In one fell swoop,
Propelled thousands of bubbling Christians to
Heaven's door.
Just a crumpled dollar bill.
I've been forgotten and left behind in the mud,
Caustically bleached in the washer,
Mangled and marred by insensitive people.
The face of a leader that I was
Designed to
Display is
Faded and
Shaded
Almost beyond recognition.
He's still there, but no one seems to pay attention.
I'm not even generic Cola.
All I've done is help Carrie pay this month's rent.
And brought a smile to little Kevin's face when Mama had
Just enough
To buy that Happy Meal.
And symbolized the start of the new business downtown that,
After two years,
Was able to sponsor a youth softball league
And got dozens of kids off the streets.
I was used to minister to a foreign exchange student
During her first Wal-Mart trip with a
Member of Campus Crusade for Christ.
I was used to bail a teenager out of jail
When he thought
No one cared
Anymore.
I was used to send a missionary to China--and his
Brilliant blast to Heaven claimed eighty souls for
Christ before they took
His life.
So maybe I won't implode over the masses in
True Mythbusters Special fashion.
Maybe I won't be a conduit for an impressive shot of
Divine power,
A flash of glory for even the
Blind to follow.
Maybe, in years to come,
No one will remember I existed.
But for right now
Today
I can touch
One
More
Person
In a small way--and that might make a
Beautiful,
Soul-saving difference after all.
It's a multitude of tiny,
Individual bubbles
That overflows the edge.
Sooooo...the reading went well, even if most of the audience didn't *quite* know what to call it. "Your poem...story...reading...oh, whatever it was, honey, it was good." Hehehe. For your reading pleasure, I present my new poem, still a bit rough around the edges but not half bad. :)
I thought it would be awesome
To have a Mentos God
A God who would drop
Into my Diet Coke Life
And create a chain reaction that would
Douse everyone within a
10-foot radius.
A candy-coated God,
Instantly effective,
Infinitely attractive,
A catalyst for an explosive combustion that would spill
My contents
My heart
My faith
Onto the world.
Instant dazzle.
No work on my part, just a willingness to be open
To His presence.
It worked for others--a bright, passionate light that
Inspired
Oohs and ahhs
Like a 4th of July fireworks show over the Potomac
(Before budgets constricted the celebration).
You've heard about these
Sonic Boom Christians.
They had books written about them,
Their diaries published,
Hallmark movie specials, and
Colorful inspirational inserts in
Sunday bulletins.
Their lives meant something on a grand scale--
And no one could deny the effects of their
Carbonated demise.
So I prayed for the kind of drama that would turn me into
God's perfect 2-liter bottle.
And wished.
And prayed.
And imagined.
And prayed.
All I got was the mundane, very
Un-tv-worthy existance of
An old dollar bill.
No powerful ministry,
No Barbara Walters knocking on my door,
No satisfaction of knowing I have,
In one fell swoop,
Propelled thousands of bubbling Christians to
Heaven's door.
Just a crumpled dollar bill.
I've been forgotten and left behind in the mud,
Caustically bleached in the washer,
Mangled and marred by insensitive people.
The face of a leader that I was
Designed to
Display is
Faded and
Shaded
Almost beyond recognition.
He's still there, but no one seems to pay attention.
I'm not even generic Cola.
All I've done is help Carrie pay this month's rent.
And brought a smile to little Kevin's face when Mama had
Just enough
To buy that Happy Meal.
And symbolized the start of the new business downtown that,
After two years,
Was able to sponsor a youth softball league
And got dozens of kids off the streets.
I was used to minister to a foreign exchange student
During her first Wal-Mart trip with a
Member of Campus Crusade for Christ.
I was used to bail a teenager out of jail
When he thought
No one cared
Anymore.
I was used to send a missionary to China--and his
Brilliant blast to Heaven claimed eighty souls for
Christ before they took
His life.
So maybe I won't implode over the masses in
True Mythbusters Special fashion.
Maybe I won't be a conduit for an impressive shot of
Divine power,
A flash of glory for even the
Blind to follow.
Maybe, in years to come,
No one will remember I existed.
But for right now
Today
I can touch
One
More
Person
In a small way--and that might make a
Beautiful,
Soul-saving difference after all.
It's a multitude of tiny,
Individual bubbles
That overflows the edge.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Paying Attention
Today I made a big mistake while teaching. I work in a computer lab, and the teacher's computer can be projected onto a large screen at the front of the class--ideal for watching films, discussing papers together, etc. I had powered it up to walk students through how to format their portfolios that are due in two days and everything was going fine. The instructions over, I gave them class time to work on their projects while I pulled up old essays to finish grading.
What I didn't realize was that while I was commenting on drafts, saving new copies, and entering their grades into my Excel workbook, I had left the projector on. Anyone who cared could have looked up from their screen and saw not only their grades but the grades of all their classmates.
Oops.
Luckily, only one student noticed and he was so upset about his own grade that he didn't really pay attention to anyone else's. He brought my snafu to my attention and I quickly switched off the feed before, hopefully, anyone else had noticed.
While I'm thoroughly embarrassed and not too thrilled with myself for doing this, it did teach me a valuable lesson. I really need to pay more attention to what I'm doing, and not just in the classroom.
What am I spending my time on, really? What am I saying during those "unimportant" moments? How am I reacting to small details as well as big ones? What "unconscious" mannerisms do I have that don't necessarily reflect Christ? This time of reflection reveals a lot about myself--and a lot of areas that I need to work on.
Today I learned more than just double-checking the projector. What will you learn about yourself by looking a little closer at the things we do without realizing?
What I didn't realize was that while I was commenting on drafts, saving new copies, and entering their grades into my Excel workbook, I had left the projector on. Anyone who cared could have looked up from their screen and saw not only their grades but the grades of all their classmates.
Oops.
Luckily, only one student noticed and he was so upset about his own grade that he didn't really pay attention to anyone else's. He brought my snafu to my attention and I quickly switched off the feed before, hopefully, anyone else had noticed.
While I'm thoroughly embarrassed and not too thrilled with myself for doing this, it did teach me a valuable lesson. I really need to pay more attention to what I'm doing, and not just in the classroom.
What am I spending my time on, really? What am I saying during those "unimportant" moments? How am I reacting to small details as well as big ones? What "unconscious" mannerisms do I have that don't necessarily reflect Christ? This time of reflection reveals a lot about myself--and a lot of areas that I need to work on.
Today I learned more than just double-checking the projector. What will you learn about yourself by looking a little closer at the things we do without realizing?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)