Every day I go swimming
Pools of salt water that start a deep jade
You point out the flecks of brown and blue
Then the pools shimmer, spill over
Into translucent drops
Picking up smeared colors
As they drain.
Yet like the bottomless pit
The pools never stop refilling
For each day we dive in again
And watch ourselves drown
"It wasn't like this before"
You say.
"I don't understand why."
I say.
"It'll get better in time."
We say.
But it hasn't yet.
There are many reasons why the pools can't
Just stay intact, whole, sparked instead of soaked
We can come up with so many
Like life in general;
Like pressures of techtonic plates
Shifting us into new worlds, new lives,
Letting the magma beneath rumble to the surface;
Like something mysteriously gender-specific;
Like the weather.
The one credit of nearly drowning every day
Is that you appreciate what moments of life surround death;
You holding my hand
You trying to absorb the pain
You daring to change my direction
You encouraging, reassuring, giving me courage to fight
You attempting, daily, to save me.
You never running away to save yourself.
The English language needs a stronger sentiment than
"Thank you."
Showing posts with label fellowship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fellowship. Show all posts
Monday, March 7, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Honesty 101
As someone who works at a highly-regarded university in the Midwest in the Communications department, you would think that I'm a fairly good communicator. Like I teach my students when we cover the communication cycle, there is always interference (otherwise known as "noise") that makes messages garbled, misunderstood, or just plain nonsensical. One form of interference that I have to deal with daily is my poor hearing. I often rhyme out words I hear and it's especially difficult for me to hear well in crowded/noisy rooms. Not being able to understand others, especially when the people around me seem to be doing just fine, annoys me to no end--and I get discouraged, uncomfortable, and tend to withdraw from the group. My problem-solving skills tend to focus on what I can change about myself to work with others, not have others shift to work around me. After all, we're supposed to love our brothers (and sisters) more than ourselves...so wouldn't that mean just dealing with the problems and only focusing on them?
Not exactly. By not communicating my needs, especially ones that aren't that big of an issue (for the most part, no one would begrudge me asking for us to move to a quieter spot. After all, if I can better listen to them, then I can minister to them more--it becomes a win-win situation for all.), I'm only hurting myself and my friends/family. Ignoring my needs and emotions will only poison my time with these wonderful people and make me less of a good support for them. I have to be brave enough to ask for help and prayer with my own issues...and be honest about what's really going on.
The big issue? Fear. I'm afraid I'll lose my friends, my family, because I'm too needy or demanding or something like that. After all, it's happened before. By not being honest, though, I'm not encouraging a real relationship with these people--just empty or superficial shells of friendship and fellowship where I can't trust the person (and maybe the God within) with my vulnerabilities. A recent two-day talk with a very close friend about some serious miscommunications really drove this point home. I was so afraid of hurting her (because I knew how sensitive she was) so I didn't confront her appropriately with the results of some of her actions. Instead, I hid the pain and the discomfort, pretending to be my usual bubbly self. When I got to the point where I couldn't hide anymore, I nearly washed my hands of the relationship and ran away. Part of it was because I couldn't bear to witness the effects of my words on her. Part of it was because I didn't know how to tell her that I was angry and felt like I couldn't trust her sometimes. She meant (and still does mean) so much to me that I didn't want to risk losing her, but as I've learned recently, it's not a bad thing to be angry. Anger is a positive emotion--it's what you do with it (kill, vandalize, hide in the corner) that makes it a negative thing. After all, even the only perfect man who ever lived got angry (John 2:13-22). We did talk things out, and while I never expressed my feelings of betrayal, I think she got the point. If she didn't...I'll soon know.
Jesus commanded us to love one another (John 13:34). Part of love is being honest (1 Cor. 13:6). We can't hide behind fear and think our silence and crossed fingers will make everything better eventually. We have to be brave.
Not exactly. By not communicating my needs, especially ones that aren't that big of an issue (for the most part, no one would begrudge me asking for us to move to a quieter spot. After all, if I can better listen to them, then I can minister to them more--it becomes a win-win situation for all.), I'm only hurting myself and my friends/family. Ignoring my needs and emotions will only poison my time with these wonderful people and make me less of a good support for them. I have to be brave enough to ask for help and prayer with my own issues...and be honest about what's really going on.
The big issue? Fear. I'm afraid I'll lose my friends, my family, because I'm too needy or demanding or something like that. After all, it's happened before. By not being honest, though, I'm not encouraging a real relationship with these people--just empty or superficial shells of friendship and fellowship where I can't trust the person (and maybe the God within) with my vulnerabilities. A recent two-day talk with a very close friend about some serious miscommunications really drove this point home. I was so afraid of hurting her (because I knew how sensitive she was) so I didn't confront her appropriately with the results of some of her actions. Instead, I hid the pain and the discomfort, pretending to be my usual bubbly self. When I got to the point where I couldn't hide anymore, I nearly washed my hands of the relationship and ran away. Part of it was because I couldn't bear to witness the effects of my words on her. Part of it was because I didn't know how to tell her that I was angry and felt like I couldn't trust her sometimes. She meant (and still does mean) so much to me that I didn't want to risk losing her, but as I've learned recently, it's not a bad thing to be angry. Anger is a positive emotion--it's what you do with it (kill, vandalize, hide in the corner) that makes it a negative thing. After all, even the only perfect man who ever lived got angry (John 2:13-22). We did talk things out, and while I never expressed my feelings of betrayal, I think she got the point. If she didn't...I'll soon know.
Jesus commanded us to love one another (John 13:34). Part of love is being honest (1 Cor. 13:6). We can't hide behind fear and think our silence and crossed fingers will make everything better eventually. We have to be brave.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Awkward Steps...
I'm going to date myself with this post. Prepare yourself.
Remember that Sesame Street game, the one with the cool song, "One of these things is not like the others...one of these things is just not the same..."? The object was for children to notice patterns, develop cognitive skills. Since they personify practically everything from shoes to goldfish to cupcakes, I wonder if the writers for this show ever thought about what it's like to be that one out-of-place item.
It's a feeling I think everyone experiences from time to time, but one that I struggle with a lot. Satan knows it's an easy button to push for me. When I feel awkward or uncomfortable, my extroverted personality does a 180 and I either try to fade into the background (hard to do when you are over six feet tall) or withdraw, even to the point of leaving/running away.
Knowing that I "don't belong" is just one tiny step away from rejection, or so Satan tells me. That these are lies doesn't always sink in...and my pattern of behavior holds.
Just yesterday I "escaped" from the church I've been attending since January. I've talked about this issue of feeling as though at any moment some preschooler will walk up to me and point, "That's the one who doesn't belong!" (Ok, maybe not anything quite that dramatic, but the point's valid.) I looked around the sanctuary of visiting people and couldn't think of a thing to say to anyone or any way to join in on a conversation. I felt lost and craved the safety of being alone, in my car, listening to an audiobook or thinking through the scenes I wanted to write for my new novel. In my fantasy worlds, I control things. I'm never awkward. I never say the wrong thing--or if I do, I can rewind and try again with no penalties. There's no one to accidentally offend, no one who can really hurt me, no one to give me a pity smile as they try to understand what on earth I'm talking about. In a way, I'm God. It's a powerful place...and ultimately a lonely and empty one.
My fantasies are good in that they become Christ-driven stories for me to write, but escaping into them too much just takes me away from the blessings I could be receiving from the people I love. It'll take time for me to completely trust my new church family, but so far, they've accepted me. I've found ways to help them...and the rewards for getting involved and taking risks have been incredible. Why did I do the Magic Schoolbus thing and "take chances, make mistakes, get messy!" with such fallible people? At those times, I was trusting God to love, protect, and guide me. Ouch. Guess what I wasn't doing last night. Ouch again.
It's amazing that, with such an awesome, powerful, sovereign God, I have such problems letting Him take over all the time. It's not like I ever do a better job than He does. I suppose letting go, even to Someone you trust and love, is not a one-time decision but a daily--or even hourly--decision.
So...here goes trying for a stronger faith first in my God, one step at a time. God, guide me, and help me remember just how much I trust You.
Remember that Sesame Street game, the one with the cool song, "One of these things is not like the others...one of these things is just not the same..."? The object was for children to notice patterns, develop cognitive skills. Since they personify practically everything from shoes to goldfish to cupcakes, I wonder if the writers for this show ever thought about what it's like to be that one out-of-place item.
It's a feeling I think everyone experiences from time to time, but one that I struggle with a lot. Satan knows it's an easy button to push for me. When I feel awkward or uncomfortable, my extroverted personality does a 180 and I either try to fade into the background (hard to do when you are over six feet tall) or withdraw, even to the point of leaving/running away.
Hey, it's not easy blending in with spiral-print purple vinyl!
Knowing that I "don't belong" is just one tiny step away from rejection, or so Satan tells me. That these are lies doesn't always sink in...and my pattern of behavior holds.
Just yesterday I "escaped" from the church I've been attending since January. I've talked about this issue of feeling as though at any moment some preschooler will walk up to me and point, "That's the one who doesn't belong!" (Ok, maybe not anything quite that dramatic, but the point's valid.) I looked around the sanctuary of visiting people and couldn't think of a thing to say to anyone or any way to join in on a conversation. I felt lost and craved the safety of being alone, in my car, listening to an audiobook or thinking through the scenes I wanted to write for my new novel. In my fantasy worlds, I control things. I'm never awkward. I never say the wrong thing--or if I do, I can rewind and try again with no penalties. There's no one to accidentally offend, no one who can really hurt me, no one to give me a pity smile as they try to understand what on earth I'm talking about. In a way, I'm God. It's a powerful place...and ultimately a lonely and empty one.
Apparently this girl is not only lonely, but also double-jointed (or about to realize her back HURTS).
My fantasies are good in that they become Christ-driven stories for me to write, but escaping into them too much just takes me away from the blessings I could be receiving from the people I love. It'll take time for me to completely trust my new church family, but so far, they've accepted me. I've found ways to help them...and the rewards for getting involved and taking risks have been incredible. Why did I do the Magic Schoolbus thing and "take chances, make mistakes, get messy!" with such fallible people? At those times, I was trusting God to love, protect, and guide me. Ouch. Guess what I wasn't doing last night. Ouch again.
Hey, Bob? We're going to need the industrial-sized version for this boo-boo.
It's amazing that, with such an awesome, powerful, sovereign God, I have such problems letting Him take over all the time. It's not like I ever do a better job than He does. I suppose letting go, even to Someone you trust and love, is not a one-time decision but a daily--or even hourly--decision.
So...here goes trying for a stronger faith first in my God, one step at a time. God, guide me, and help me remember just how much I trust You.
Although I may not have scored high on the trust meter with God, I just earned massive cool points by posting a pic of Indiana Jones on my blog. Go me.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Let me be busy (or else I'll eat cake)
I was working away in the kitchen of a friend's house as she, her husband, and her children bustled about to prepare for a birthday party for the eldest girl. I had arrived a little later than planned (mostly due to *lots* of emergency responders on the highway--welcome to Fourth of July mayhem), but had instantly gotten to the business of stringing decorations, taping streamers, and coaxing sheet cakes out of uncooperative glass pans. When the mother was attacked by a wasp, I shooed her and her children inside while I armed myself with Raid and went on the offensive (anyone who knows me knows that my instinct is to run, scream bloody murder, and hide in the bathroom when stinging insects are around).
This is not a good picture of a wasp. This is a ruined picture of a flower. *shudders*
The cakes were just about finished with my haphazard decorating skills when the first party guests arrived. Before long, the house and yard were full of kids and friends, of whom I knew about half pretty well.
Instead of letting things fall to someone else to finish, though, and beginning my socializing, I stayed in the kitchen. It was easy to justify for a little while. There was a pile of tropical fruits to cut up and arrange. Counters needed to be wiped down. There were my dirty prep dishes to wash--I can't make a mess and "leave it" for someone else to clean when I'm a guest in someone else's home. A hundred little details needed my attention and I stayed busy in the small area of the kitchen. The father of the birthday girl thanked me nearly every time he passed by, although the last time he just muttered, "You work too hard, girl." I just smiled and rinsed off a serving tray.
I do love to cook and bake. Preparing food for people makes me overflow with joy, and while I don't always enjoy cleaning, I don't mind it most of the time; periodically I even get a little anxious when I see something messy and know I could help clean it up (funny how that only occasionally kicks in at my own house). I love to serve people, help them with their needs, and make their lives better. Easing the strong vibrations of stress and tension that flowed from the parents before the party made me feel helpful, important, and wanted. I didn't need anything more than the look of relief and sincere appreciation in the mother's eyes as she looked at the finished projects over a bandaged finger and her calmed-down baby. It was fun for me to help design decorations and help corral children. It was powerful being the one who could step in, get the important work done, and be the calm and serene one in the midst of mini-crises (especially because if this had been my party, I would have been freaking out, too). I kept very busy...until everything was done.
The bad thing about a hefty to-do list for an event is that eventually it will be completed. I stood by the sink of clean dishes, eying the fully-stocked table of food, and thought "Well, now what?" Most people would have then thrust into the party, talking with others, finally grabbing some food for themselves, and generally have a great time. I felt awkward and froze. My safety net was the kitchen. Suddenly I didn't know how to talk to people. Being rejected hadn't been an issue when I was fumbling my way through slicing a watermelon.
My results with the stubborn melon and an oversized knife were a bit prettier, but this is so much more impressive on the entertainment factor.
After thirty minutes of standing around and pretending I had things to do, I eventually maneuvered myself to a place where I could gracefully exit. Guilt twanged a bit in my core (or was that hunger? Besides a few chunks of pineapple, I hadn't bothered to eat--too busy, other people wanted that food, etc.) as my car rolled away, the first to leave. I knew that I wasn't likely to get into a confrontation with anyone. From what I had learned over the past five months, I was surrounded by loving people. As soon as my usefulness was over, though, I felt every bit of the outsider, the "newbie" interloper who just doesn't fit in. I'm too young or old, smart or ignorant, liberal or conservative. A voice in the back of my mind pointed out just how much I stand out like the proverbial sore thumb...and eventually people tire of the offensive element and push/cut it out. I knew it was Satan whispering these lies to me. My faith is stronger than it has ever been. I knew better. I still ran.
You don't have to be a Carrol fan to realize that very memorable characters suddenly taking off at top speed tends to be noticeable, and a bit of a drag.
I can list a whole host of great reasons why I felt like this. I can justify every reaction, blame my misgivings on an ugly past that rears its head more than a bucking bronco. It's not going to change my behavior, my feelings, or my fears the next time I accept an invitation to a party or assist during a church event. The problem is deeper than just understanding the why behind it. I have to fight that reason. I have to change. I have to take more risks and be vulnerable again, no matter how many times I get hurt.
Funny--I suddenly feel too exhausted to move.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Held in Heaven
If you asked me if there was one thing I could change about how my relationship with God works, most days I'd probably say that I'd like to have regular, face-to-face conversations with Him where I could ask questions and get (hopefully) straight answers. That this sort of reduces the need for faith...well, that's an unfortunate side effect. Lately, though, my heart has been changing my usual answer to that "genie wish" question. I want some cuddle time with Jesus.
We as human beings need to touch and be touched (although how much and to what degree varies widely). Babies can die if they aren't loved on enough. I'm a very touchy-feely person and adore hugs. I get a few each Sunday during our church's meet and greet...but there are times I need more than just that. I need a cuddle. When I was dating a guy, I practically glued myself to him on the few times I was able to see him because I was so desperate for that kind of safety, love, and security that comes with cuddling and hugging, holding and being held. Now that I'm single again, it's hard to find someone willing and able to be a cuddle buddy. I do have a teddy bear I still sleep with every night partially for this reason (and it keeps me from flipping over and squishing my cat at 3am).
Still...cuddling with an inanimate object just isn't fulfilling enough. Sure, Beary Michael is a great listener and hasn't complained once, but he also gets thrown to the floor and ends up burning his fur on the heat registers (ever see a white bear with brown stripes?). He fits perfectly within my arms, but I can't remotely fit in his. I need something, someone, alive. My cat might work, but he's not remotely a lap cat (more like a proximity cat...he'll sleep with me occasionally and usually is in the same room, but rarely ever on my lap). So...my options are pretty much limited to humans now (especially as I'm no Brittney Spears and DO NOT find a python's squeeze remotely comforting).
Hugging humans is great...except for finding good situations for doing so. Most of my good friends who would qualify for cuddle buddies are extremely busy women...like me. :) I feel guilty talking to them on the phone for half an hour when I'm upset. Asking for even a five or ten-minute cuddle session seems absolutely ridiculous. Besides, finding opportunities or appropriate places for such sessions is even harder sometimes than finding someone to do it with.
One solution to my need for this kind of affection has been gifted to me in the form of children. I babysit for a couple of girls (9 and 11) while their mother is overseas. I've known the family for years, and am close to the girls anyway, but over the past month of babysitting after a three-year hiatus, I find myself becoming extremely affectionate towards the girls. I tussle their hair, tickle ribs, give hugs, and kiss their foreheads goodnight as I put them to bed. When we sack out to watch a movie, they usually curl up on the couch with me, letting me stroke their hair or trail my fingers up and down their arms like my mother used to do to me when I was sick as a child. They miss that female touch...and I'm more than willing to share in such moments. I want to be in their shoes, but can't. I can, however, live vicariously through them.
Still, when their mother comes back next week, when school starts, when they are finally old enough not to really need a babysitter (which will happen all too soon), I'll be left without my two adorable cuddle buddies. God, in His infinite wisdom, put me in a church that already has a good smattering of babies and several more on the way. Babies. The perfect solution for a woman who needs physical attention. They need to be held and they hold onto you. They adore and love you (as long as they don't realize that they want their real mothers more at the moment) without judging...and think rocking to sleep is one of the best things in the world. What a coincidence--so do I.
Still, I can't always grab my pastor's daughter from his wife's arms and carry her off for cuddle'n'fun time whenever I'm needing it. She's growing up...and her mother rather likes having her daughter around her (go figure). Even if God blesses me with a husband and a family of my own someday--which He may not, and for reasons I know are for the best for me and my ministry to others--I still won't have unlimited access to the kind of peace, comfort, love, and tranquility that comes from sweet hugs and being held/holding others. The world doesn't revolve around my desires (although if it did...wow. Talk about a huge blessing and a huge mess all in one :) ). That's why my deepest genie wish is for cuddle time with God. Omnipresent partners who are infinitely kind, loving, forgiving, giving, patient...it's the perfect situation. God can soothe my soul in the relationship we have now, and does on a daily basis. Many days, though...I want to be held by my Creator, have Him stroke my hair, and just love me in one of the most powerful ways I know. I think I'll spend at least half of my eternity in Heaven in that position. :)
Until I get to those bejeweled gates, though, I'm still looking for those cuddle partners, people made in the image of the One I love more than anyone else who can minister to me until I see Him face-to-face. Any takers, apply immediately.
Squeeze as tight as you like.
We as human beings need to touch and be touched (although how much and to what degree varies widely). Babies can die if they aren't loved on enough. I'm a very touchy-feely person and adore hugs. I get a few each Sunday during our church's meet and greet...but there are times I need more than just that. I need a cuddle. When I was dating a guy, I practically glued myself to him on the few times I was able to see him because I was so desperate for that kind of safety, love, and security that comes with cuddling and hugging, holding and being held. Now that I'm single again, it's hard to find someone willing and able to be a cuddle buddy. I do have a teddy bear I still sleep with every night partially for this reason (and it keeps me from flipping over and squishing my cat at 3am).
This photo should be just as endearing and cute if she was in her thirties.
Still...cuddling with an inanimate object just isn't fulfilling enough. Sure, Beary Michael is a great listener and hasn't complained once, but he also gets thrown to the floor and ends up burning his fur on the heat registers (ever see a white bear with brown stripes?). He fits perfectly within my arms, but I can't remotely fit in his. I need something, someone, alive. My cat might work, but he's not remotely a lap cat (more like a proximity cat...he'll sleep with me occasionally and usually is in the same room, but rarely ever on my lap). So...my options are pretty much limited to humans now (especially as I'm no Brittney Spears and DO NOT find a python's squeeze remotely comforting).
Hugging humans is great...except for finding good situations for doing so. Most of my good friends who would qualify for cuddle buddies are extremely busy women...like me. :) I feel guilty talking to them on the phone for half an hour when I'm upset. Asking for even a five or ten-minute cuddle session seems absolutely ridiculous. Besides, finding opportunities or appropriate places for such sessions is even harder sometimes than finding someone to do it with.
Two is company...and this is just *WRONG*. If you have to put on nametags before cuddling, it's not a good cuddle. It's creepy (especially if you noticed some of those hands are on butts). Not cool.
One solution to my need for this kind of affection has been gifted to me in the form of children. I babysit for a couple of girls (9 and 11) while their mother is overseas. I've known the family for years, and am close to the girls anyway, but over the past month of babysitting after a three-year hiatus, I find myself becoming extremely affectionate towards the girls. I tussle their hair, tickle ribs, give hugs, and kiss their foreheads goodnight as I put them to bed. When we sack out to watch a movie, they usually curl up on the couch with me, letting me stroke their hair or trail my fingers up and down their arms like my mother used to do to me when I was sick as a child. They miss that female touch...and I'm more than willing to share in such moments. I want to be in their shoes, but can't. I can, however, live vicariously through them.
Someday...this will be me with my own daughter instead of a borrowed one.
Still, when their mother comes back next week, when school starts, when they are finally old enough not to really need a babysitter (which will happen all too soon), I'll be left without my two adorable cuddle buddies. God, in His infinite wisdom, put me in a church that already has a good smattering of babies and several more on the way. Babies. The perfect solution for a woman who needs physical attention. They need to be held and they hold onto you. They adore and love you (as long as they don't realize that they want their real mothers more at the moment) without judging...and think rocking to sleep is one of the best things in the world. What a coincidence--so do I.
Go on, baby. Make my day.
Still, I can't always grab my pastor's daughter from his wife's arms and carry her off for cuddle'n'fun time whenever I'm needing it. She's growing up...and her mother rather likes having her daughter around her (go figure). Even if God blesses me with a husband and a family of my own someday--which He may not, and for reasons I know are for the best for me and my ministry to others--I still won't have unlimited access to the kind of peace, comfort, love, and tranquility that comes from sweet hugs and being held/holding others. The world doesn't revolve around my desires (although if it did...wow. Talk about a huge blessing and a huge mess all in one :) ). That's why my deepest genie wish is for cuddle time with God. Omnipresent partners who are infinitely kind, loving, forgiving, giving, patient...it's the perfect situation. God can soothe my soul in the relationship we have now, and does on a daily basis. Many days, though...I want to be held by my Creator, have Him stroke my hair, and just love me in one of the most powerful ways I know. I think I'll spend at least half of my eternity in Heaven in that position. :)
Until I get to those bejeweled gates, though, I'm still looking for those cuddle partners, people made in the image of the One I love more than anyone else who can minister to me until I see Him face-to-face. Any takers, apply immediately.
Soon, God...soon.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Logic Bombs
A friend of mine was telling me the other day about a situation she found herself in a few years ago. She was at church and a few older people had mentioned that they didn't think her attire was quite appropriate for being in services. She saw absolutely nothing wrong with the outfit--it covered everything, was a moderate length, and there was only a tiny hint of cleavage (and she's a very buxom woman, so it's hard to avoid "showing the line"). Being judged isn't something any person wants to have happen, and some respond very strongly to this kind of scenario. I've seen women burst into tears immediately after the confrontation, locking themselves into bathroom stalls for nearly an hour. I've seen women decide to "give 'em a show" in order to contrast "truly inappropriate" attire with what they normally wore--in one case, a 30ish lady donned stripper heels, a miniskirt that didn't even cover the bottom of her bottom, and a top that left nothing to the imagination.
I can understand that instinct to pull out the logic bomb on people who, to us, have such ridiculous opinions that it offends us. I've had students deem me as stupid and apalling due to my weight right in front of me and during class. At that moment, I pulled out the biggest logic bomb I had and let it explode all over their judging faces. Not only did I disprove that fat people are always jolly (my German-Austrian temper was highly evident), but I also pulled their logic out and showed all the holes involved in making assumptions about people simply because of outward appearances. Problem was, we as humans make assumptions all the time. If I see someone who looks like they're a heavy drug user fiddling around my car when there are no other cars parked remotely close to mine, I'm going to suspect that they're trying to break in and steal something. It's a defensive mechanism that originates within our primal instincts of survival.
We should confront those with mistaken assumptions, especially if they are potentially damaging to other people, and logic bombs can help. Paul pulled one in Galations 2:11-16. Peter was falling back into his legalistic ways and, due to being a major influence on so many, was causing others to fall away from the truth. In front of the others, Paul chastises his friend and mentor, reminding him, and those following him, of the truth.
Sometimes a logic bomb can go the wrong way, though, blowing true logic all to pieces instead of demolishing falsehoods. (If you don't believe me, go to the E.R. on Independence Day and count all the injuries from fireworks that "weren't supposed to do that.") The woman who decided to channel her inner Brittney Spears and let it all hang out in church? It was definitely an explosive move...and not one that necessarily reflects the point she was trying to make--that she has discernment when it comes to dressing. Yes, showing up the "enemy" can be very self-satisfying. Doing so, however, is not always the most effective at actually resolving the situation. Those students in my class learned that I was a caring, very intelligent, and capable person not through my outburst but through my day-to-day dealings with them in the class. I had one-on-one conferences with them over their papers that really highlighted just how much I knew...and how much I could really teach them.
What should we do when we find ourselves chastised for something we don't see as wrong? Well, there are a few options. Talk to the people involved, find out why they have the issue, and see if you can come to an understanding (sometimes we really do have to "agree to disagree" and let it go at that). If they are staunch on the issue, especially if they claim it is tempting/harming others, then the Bible clearly states what our solution has to be: give it up. We wouldn't have wine bottles everywhere when inviting a recovering alcoholic to our house, so why would we flash cleavage and thigh at men who are recovering adulterers or porn addicts? If we want others to respect our choices and needs, we need to respect theirs. Otherwise, we're heading for war...and those bombs really hurt.
You don't have to cover every inch of skin, but the congregation can't blur you out, either.
I can understand that instinct to pull out the logic bomb on people who, to us, have such ridiculous opinions that it offends us. I've had students deem me as stupid and apalling due to my weight right in front of me and during class. At that moment, I pulled out the biggest logic bomb I had and let it explode all over their judging faces. Not only did I disprove that fat people are always jolly (my German-Austrian temper was highly evident), but I also pulled their logic out and showed all the holes involved in making assumptions about people simply because of outward appearances. Problem was, we as humans make assumptions all the time. If I see someone who looks like they're a heavy drug user fiddling around my car when there are no other cars parked remotely close to mine, I'm going to suspect that they're trying to break in and steal something. It's a defensive mechanism that originates within our primal instincts of survival.
While I'm sure the rhyme has helped many a person stay safe when dealing with snakes, I just scream and run no matter what they look like--that way instead of a 50% chance, I'm hitting closer to 100% of surviving the encounter.
We should confront those with mistaken assumptions, especially if they are potentially damaging to other people, and logic bombs can help. Paul pulled one in Galations 2:11-16. Peter was falling back into his legalistic ways and, due to being a major influence on so many, was causing others to fall away from the truth. In front of the others, Paul chastises his friend and mentor, reminding him, and those following him, of the truth.
Sometimes a logic bomb can go the wrong way, though, blowing true logic all to pieces instead of demolishing falsehoods. (If you don't believe me, go to the E.R. on Independence Day and count all the injuries from fireworks that "weren't supposed to do that.") The woman who decided to channel her inner Brittney Spears and let it all hang out in church? It was definitely an explosive move...and not one that necessarily reflects the point she was trying to make--that she has discernment when it comes to dressing. Yes, showing up the "enemy" can be very self-satisfying. Doing so, however, is not always the most effective at actually resolving the situation. Those students in my class learned that I was a caring, very intelligent, and capable person not through my outburst but through my day-to-day dealings with them in the class. I had one-on-one conferences with them over their papers that really highlighted just how much I knew...and how much I could really teach them.
What should we do when we find ourselves chastised for something we don't see as wrong? Well, there are a few options. Talk to the people involved, find out why they have the issue, and see if you can come to an understanding (sometimes we really do have to "agree to disagree" and let it go at that). If they are staunch on the issue, especially if they claim it is tempting/harming others, then the Bible clearly states what our solution has to be: give it up. We wouldn't have wine bottles everywhere when inviting a recovering alcoholic to our house, so why would we flash cleavage and thigh at men who are recovering adulterers or porn addicts? If we want others to respect our choices and needs, we need to respect theirs. Otherwise, we're heading for war...and those bombs really hurt.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Getting Uncomfortable
A friend of mine changed her status on Facebook to "If we want to grow, we are always out of our comfort zones." I've heard this sentiment before, usually with the imagery of stagnant ponds that, while they are useful, aren't the beautiful bodies of water that can really make a difference (tell that to the family of tree frogs who thoroughly enjoy the unchanging pond off my backyard, but....point made). This one brings to mind a tender green shoot of a plant, having to push through first earth, then air that is often unforgiving and rarely protecting. Honestly, that plant was safer under a layer of black dirt, even with the beetles scurrying around down there.
I made a choice a few weeks ago to put myself in a new and rather uncomfortable situation: I joined my church's recreational softball league. To put this in context for you, I am very unathletic. I'm tall, overweight, not very coordinated in a gross-motor way, my hand-eye coordination works excellent with embroidery needles but not so much with large balls that could potentially concuss my skull, and I have a multitude of physical problems that make sports difficult (no cartilidge in my knees and fibromyalgia, mainly). I don't even necessarily like sports. I am easily the worst player on the team and not just because I don't even understand all the basic rules of baseball (let alone slow-pitch softball).
The thing is, our city's recreational league rules demand that there be at least four girls playing on each team at all times. The pitcher and catcher must be of opposite genders. At least two girls must be on the infield besides the pitcher/catcher. Batters must be lined up in alternating gender order. If there aren't enough girls on the team, the team forfeits...and loses a costly deposit. Needless to say, our church was having issues getting enough girls. The first few times the pastor asked the congregation for volunteers and a few friends invited me, I shrugged them off. I'm not an athlete. I'll be gone several weekends visiting my boyfriend. It wouldn't work. I'm not comfortable playing sports--and I don't like doing things, especially publically, if I don't think I'll be very good at them.
God had other ideas. Within a week, I had been dumped by my boyfriend and had two ladies practically push me into going to a practice for the team just so I wouldn't be stuck moping around the house, trying to kill off old feelings and deal with being a single woman again. "A little exercise will help distract you, and besides, you need to be around Christian friends right now." I was needed and apparently wanted despite having nothing substantial to offer the team besides my gender. I showed up.
Through a couple practices and a tragic double-header game, I decimated any high hopes of being an asset to the team. I can throw shorter distances ok, but catching is not my strong suit and batting...I'd have better luck if the ball was five feet in diameter. It took me a game and a half to realize, as catcher, that I was supposed to try to catch the foul balls. I kept, to my dismay, squealing and jumping out of the way of close pitches as I batted, terrified of getting hit (not that it kept me from some painful impact bruises). A few bad catches, the ball hitting my left forearm twice with considerable force, ended up jamming the nerve in my arm and I lost the use of my hand for nearly an hour. I tried cracking jokes all the time to relieve the tension I felt, the feelings of being a failure, and basically to keep myself from crying in pain and anger. Not everyone got them...and few of them were laughed at. Apparently my discomfort wasn't so hidden after all.
The logic that a very unathletic girl in athletics probably wouldn't be successful was something to fight against. I was a very intelligent, stubborn, persistent, and often patient person. God wouldn't have pushed me into this activity to make a fool out of me...would he?
Besides a nice dose of humility, something even Paul said was needed for Christians, I believe that God wanted me to stretch myself. I'll never be scouted by a professional team and may never actually hit a ball and get on base in my lifetime (although getting "walked" to first is such a wonderful blessing). I do need to try new things, keeping my focus on being out there, in this crazy uncomfortable world, so I can shine with God's love and be a witness for Him. I can't show my faith if I'm sequestered in my house or only venturing out to do things I know I'm good at (although, if I am willing to remember, I wasn't always good at those things, either).
Surprise of all surprises, I rather like softball. I'm watching baseball games on TV and picking up some ideas. I'm getting excited about games and want to do what I can, as much as I can, to support my church in this ministry. I never would have done this if I hadn't been in so much emotional turmoil over the dissolution of my long-distance romance. Already there is a silver lining, a purpose to losing a guy I thought I could marry someday. Now I'm looking forward to finding a new guy who is even better for me...and who knows. Maybe he'll like softball, too.
I made a choice a few weeks ago to put myself in a new and rather uncomfortable situation: I joined my church's recreational softball league. To put this in context for you, I am very unathletic. I'm tall, overweight, not very coordinated in a gross-motor way, my hand-eye coordination works excellent with embroidery needles but not so much with large balls that could potentially concuss my skull, and I have a multitude of physical problems that make sports difficult (no cartilidge in my knees and fibromyalgia, mainly). I don't even necessarily like sports. I am easily the worst player on the team and not just because I don't even understand all the basic rules of baseball (let alone slow-pitch softball).
The thing is, our city's recreational league rules demand that there be at least four girls playing on each team at all times. The pitcher and catcher must be of opposite genders. At least two girls must be on the infield besides the pitcher/catcher. Batters must be lined up in alternating gender order. If there aren't enough girls on the team, the team forfeits...and loses a costly deposit. Needless to say, our church was having issues getting enough girls. The first few times the pastor asked the congregation for volunteers and a few friends invited me, I shrugged them off. I'm not an athlete. I'll be gone several weekends visiting my boyfriend. It wouldn't work. I'm not comfortable playing sports--and I don't like doing things, especially publically, if I don't think I'll be very good at them.
God had other ideas. Within a week, I had been dumped by my boyfriend and had two ladies practically push me into going to a practice for the team just so I wouldn't be stuck moping around the house, trying to kill off old feelings and deal with being a single woman again. "A little exercise will help distract you, and besides, you need to be around Christian friends right now." I was needed and apparently wanted despite having nothing substantial to offer the team besides my gender. I showed up.
Through a couple practices and a tragic double-header game, I decimated any high hopes of being an asset to the team. I can throw shorter distances ok, but catching is not my strong suit and batting...I'd have better luck if the ball was five feet in diameter. It took me a game and a half to realize, as catcher, that I was supposed to try to catch the foul balls. I kept, to my dismay, squealing and jumping out of the way of close pitches as I batted, terrified of getting hit (not that it kept me from some painful impact bruises). A few bad catches, the ball hitting my left forearm twice with considerable force, ended up jamming the nerve in my arm and I lost the use of my hand for nearly an hour. I tried cracking jokes all the time to relieve the tension I felt, the feelings of being a failure, and basically to keep myself from crying in pain and anger. Not everyone got them...and few of them were laughed at. Apparently my discomfort wasn't so hidden after all.
The logic that a very unathletic girl in athletics probably wouldn't be successful was something to fight against. I was a very intelligent, stubborn, persistent, and often patient person. God wouldn't have pushed me into this activity to make a fool out of me...would he?
Besides a nice dose of humility, something even Paul said was needed for Christians, I believe that God wanted me to stretch myself. I'll never be scouted by a professional team and may never actually hit a ball and get on base in my lifetime (although getting "walked" to first is such a wonderful blessing). I do need to try new things, keeping my focus on being out there, in this crazy uncomfortable world, so I can shine with God's love and be a witness for Him. I can't show my faith if I'm sequestered in my house or only venturing out to do things I know I'm good at (although, if I am willing to remember, I wasn't always good at those things, either).
Surprise of all surprises, I rather like softball. I'm watching baseball games on TV and picking up some ideas. I'm getting excited about games and want to do what I can, as much as I can, to support my church in this ministry. I never would have done this if I hadn't been in so much emotional turmoil over the dissolution of my long-distance romance. Already there is a silver lining, a purpose to losing a guy I thought I could marry someday. Now I'm looking forward to finding a new guy who is even better for me...and who knows. Maybe he'll like softball, too.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
An Awkward First...
Tonight I went to my first birthday party. Granted...there might have been party or two in my very young past, but I don't really remember much about them and so I don't really count them. I've been invited to a handful...but I don't usually go. Tonight I expected to spend about an hour singing a very familiar song, watching people eat cake, and then go home to talk to my boyfriend (long-distance relationship) and do some grading. Instead, I got schooled on birthday fun.
I must say that my favorite parts of the evening weren't the quick chats with new and good friends, or even learning a new card game with my pastor and several other women. It was playing with the babies. I adore children...and hanging out with the pastor's kids really reminded me of just how much I miss being with them on a regular basis. Kids just fill this hole in my heart. Maybe it's knowing I'm very much needed, desired, appreciated. Little ones are good at showing that. :)
I did have a good time. I did feel rather awkward at times. While I had my excuses--ranging from a very long day at work, being around a lot of people (I get overwhelmed in crowds), dealing with fibromyalgia symptoms, and feeling rather exhausted--most of it was due to me not really knowing how to deal with these people. They were all from the church, so I was watching what I said and did (some jokes fell flat quickly, and then I just didn't know what to say). I felt intimidated by the overexuberant personality of my pastor, something that usually makes me smile but tonight made me feel like I wanted to withdraw. Then again, I have been going through a self-isolation phase, where I desire to be alone or just with a small group of a select few.
I was so worried about doing or saying the wrong thing, figuring out how to interact with people, and trying to hide my social anxieties that I forgot the most important part of fellowship: relaxing and trusting the people around me. They weren't going to judge me because I got frustrated learning a new game or if I hadn't gotten up in time to avoid breaking a chair (talk about uber embarrassing). Instead of taking a deep breath, being myself, and laughing and having a good time, I put on a mask and dropped details to get across that I wasn't quite myself and shouldn't be pushed into things. It worked, for the most part, if by working it meant that I felt awkward and was grateful for an excuse (grading) to eventually leave.
I was honest, but not in the right way or for the right reasons. I could argue very well that my behavior was understandable....but understandable doesn't equate being right. Let's face it, folks--I'm human and I screwed up again. :)
If there's another party that I happen to get invited to, I'll have to be brave. I'll have to stop hiding behind my tiredness, my fears, my anxieties and just let myself shine, both the good and the bad. If I'm truly to bond with these members of the church, if I'm seriously thinking about taking a step towards membership myself for the first time, then I need to be trusting in God. He'll make sure that while I may not be the life of the party (who can outshine Pastor John...really?), I can be a well-burning candle among the festive midst.
I must say that my favorite parts of the evening weren't the quick chats with new and good friends, or even learning a new card game with my pastor and several other women. It was playing with the babies. I adore children...and hanging out with the pastor's kids really reminded me of just how much I miss being with them on a regular basis. Kids just fill this hole in my heart. Maybe it's knowing I'm very much needed, desired, appreciated. Little ones are good at showing that. :)
I did have a good time. I did feel rather awkward at times. While I had my excuses--ranging from a very long day at work, being around a lot of people (I get overwhelmed in crowds), dealing with fibromyalgia symptoms, and feeling rather exhausted--most of it was due to me not really knowing how to deal with these people. They were all from the church, so I was watching what I said and did (some jokes fell flat quickly, and then I just didn't know what to say). I felt intimidated by the overexuberant personality of my pastor, something that usually makes me smile but tonight made me feel like I wanted to withdraw. Then again, I have been going through a self-isolation phase, where I desire to be alone or just with a small group of a select few.
I was so worried about doing or saying the wrong thing, figuring out how to interact with people, and trying to hide my social anxieties that I forgot the most important part of fellowship: relaxing and trusting the people around me. They weren't going to judge me because I got frustrated learning a new game or if I hadn't gotten up in time to avoid breaking a chair (talk about uber embarrassing). Instead of taking a deep breath, being myself, and laughing and having a good time, I put on a mask and dropped details to get across that I wasn't quite myself and shouldn't be pushed into things. It worked, for the most part, if by working it meant that I felt awkward and was grateful for an excuse (grading) to eventually leave.
I was honest, but not in the right way or for the right reasons. I could argue very well that my behavior was understandable....but understandable doesn't equate being right. Let's face it, folks--I'm human and I screwed up again. :)
If there's another party that I happen to get invited to, I'll have to be brave. I'll have to stop hiding behind my tiredness, my fears, my anxieties and just let myself shine, both the good and the bad. If I'm truly to bond with these members of the church, if I'm seriously thinking about taking a step towards membership myself for the first time, then I need to be trusting in God. He'll make sure that while I may not be the life of the party (who can outshine Pastor John...really?), I can be a well-burning candle among the festive midst.
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