I need bricks to fall to learn something. And not just once. I should keep a mason on hand. And an ambulance for the trauma to my head, because I keep hitting it against this same wall.
I have these great light bulb moments and I think I've got something conquered. And for a while, I do. But there is one thing. One besetting sin that has had a hold on me for as long as I can remember, only I didn't know it. And it has affected everything I do. Colored the way I see the world, and I just realized that most of the time, I'm seeing red.
I've always thought of myself as a mature Christian. I know God's Word. I've hidden some of it in my heart and can quote it to you. I've been through painful situations, and although I may have stumbled through them with about as much grace as a bull in a china cabinet, I came to the other side with my faith intact. But a daily, moment by moment maturity is a whole different animal. A heart of real faith is always growing and strengthening, not just surviving on what it learned from yesterday's pain. And lately, I've been one aorta short of a heart of faith.
This, in itself, is a dandy epiphany, but without putting my finger on the cause of it, I'm doomed to short-lived victory again. So God, being God and all, sent me something last night, in the quiet of my room.
It was a brick.
Actually, it was several.
"Lord, I am tired of this. I feel so insignificant. So disregarded. I know in my head these things aren't true, but they FEEL true, so how do I deal with that? Why have you let this happen? Why won't you do something? Why don't you take away the pain? Or the people who cause the pain? See, then I could press through this because they wouldn't be around to make me feel bad. I'll even give up television, cause Lord knows -- I mean YOU know -- how bad that can make me feel. One hour of viewing and I'm mad cause my husband doesn't act like that, my body doesn't look like that, my tan - the one that magically made me 5 lbs lighter - has faded, and there's no halo-like light around my face every time people look at me. So I can live without that. But would You just take care of the other stuff? The REAL people? Then I know I could get stronger and stop getting knocked down. And if I stop getting knocked down then I'd grow and mature and life would be better and that's what You want for me, right? Consistent maturity. Not this stop & start stuff but real growth. So yea. That's a superb plan. Move 'em out and I'll be great."
"Well, I could to that. But what are you doing about you?"
Brick Number One.
"I...well I'm right here, reading Your Word. See I'm right here in the Beatitudes. Sermon on the Mount stuff. It says you'll bless if I'm more merciful. And meek. I can do meek."
"Uh-huh. So You want my blessing?"
"I do! I NEED it! I'm drowning!"
"In what?"
"In weakness. In the world's opinions of me."
"I see. And, what is that to you?"
Brick Number Two.
"Well I know I'm not supposed to care, but..."
"But what? What is that to you?"
"I see where this is going. Peter, right? You said 'follow Me' to him and he asked You about the other guy. I remember. We've been down this line of questioning before."
"Yes, we have. My question is how did we get here again?"
"All righty. You asked for it. It's because You keep leaving me out! You're ignoring me! God, you are not paying attention."
"I see."
"Do You? Do you really? Cuz I'm not kidding! You keep taking me into these hard seasons, and not only that, but while I'm here in the dark of this winter, everybody else is singin' summertime! What is UP with that? What have I done? Why are You mad at me?!"
"You think I'm mad at you?"
YES! And You know what? It makes me mad right back! I don't deserve this! I've served you all my life!"
"Have you?"
"Don't do that. Don't keep answering my questions with questions."
"I'm sorry. What would you have Me say?"
"You're doing it again! Can we get back to me here?"
"No problem. Let's get back to you. I'm not mad at you."
"Then why? Why are You blessing everybody else except me? Why aren't you answering ME? My prayers? My PLEADINGS?"
"Have you pleaded? Because I don't recall that. I recall a lot of judging others on why they shouldn't be receiving blessing. I recall you taking up an offense for others whom you feel have been slighted and asking Me why I haven't fixed it. You've yelled at me for not healing you. I don't mind that, but I don't remember any pleading. I don't remember you admitting you needed Me. "
Brick Number Three.
"I....pft....I have it written right here in my journal. My prayers, right next to where I wrote scriptures. Where I wrote Your Word!"
"I see that, and I remember when You wrote it. I watched. But your mind was not on the right thing then. It was not on Me, or what you needed. It was on them."
"....sigh.....ok, but......"
"I was asking then, but you weren't listening."
"YOU were asking? It thought we were talking about me asking! What were you asking?"
"The same thing I'm asking now. What is that to you?"
"............I...I ... God, you don't know...there are so many other things You could allow, but why this?"
"You've claimed Me omniscient. Omnipotent. All knowing, all powerful. You even wrote it down, right there."
"But I'm so wounded. I can't get past it. Things have been so unfair. And this sickness. Unbearable."
"I see. And you think I wouldn't know about that."
"...I have no response to that."
"Well that's a start. You've had a lot of answers for how I should handle things of late. Not having one is a nice change."
"That hurt."
"I know, but it has to be said. You've been angry, and I don't mind. Things have been hard. Bad things have happened to you while good things have happened to others. You've tried to retreat because being around those good things when you're hurting is painful. You're tired, I know. I've allowed you some time for that. For grief and sorrow. But you haven't come to Me, really come to Me, in a long time."
"I read Your Word almost every day..."
"I know. But it hasn't helped. And I know why."
"Why?"
"Because you weren't reading with your heart open. You weren't really seeking Me, or listening to Me. You were focused on everything and everyone else. What they said. What they didn't say. What I was doing in someone else's life. What I wasn't doing in yours. I've been trying to talk to you. To comfort you and encourage you. To show you what comes next. But you just wouldn't listen."
"I....I was looking on someone else's paper."
"Yes."
Brick Number Four.
"I was looking at someone else's paper and trying to take their test instead of my own. And the Teacher gives us each a different test, so looking at their paper is...pointless...ludicrous...meaningless..."
"Now you remember. We have been here before."
Silence.
"It's ok."
"I'm so sorry. For not listening. For being so selfish. For self-righteousness. For not focusing on You. Your plan. Your heart for me. For not looking for You in every circumstance. For trying to apply Your Word to everyone else's life but mine. For looking at their test papers. For being Peter again."
"It really is OK. You can see from my Word how much I loved him. And how much I love you. I'm not mad at you. I have not forgotten you. You and your life are special. Precious. Purposed. Meaningful. Sometimes people will disregard you. Sometimes I will not give you what you think you want. But that doesn't mean you are insignificant. You are never insignificant to Me. I want you to remember this. Remember. Remember that waiting on Me brings strength. Growth. Maturity.
Since ancient times no one has heard, no ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God besides Me who acts on behalf of those who wait for Me."
"Thank You isn't enough but it's all I can find. Thank You for loving me. For having purpose for me. For always bringing me back, even when I don't know I've left."
"I love you, Tamara. I know your name. The number of hairs on your head. The words you're unable to speak. I know it all. And I love you."
Less than 24 hours after this conversation with my Father, I received a card in the mail from a precious friend. She told me how much she loved me. And she reminded me how many other people I have in my life who do, too.
Brick Number Five.
God is not just good. He's very thorough.
(I'd like to thank my former pastor Gary Miller for teaching me that looking on someone else's test paper is a sure way to hit a brick wall of discouragement, doubt and fear. I'm praying to hold on to that lesson once and for all.)
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
"You Staying Busy?"
I have a friend, a stay home mom who home schools her children like myself, who said people keep asking her this question as an opener. Like, "Hi! How are you? You staying busy?"
Hmmm. Am I supposed to??
Now if you ask my husband this question with regard to his work, I know you're asking out of genuine concern, 'cause he needs to be busy or we don't eat! But that's not what I'm talking about. I think we've become confused about the difference between busy and productive. The former doesn't necessarily mean the latter. Is it really a badge of honor if I say I haven't seen my house since last Tuesday?
Rest. Repose. We need it. And not just when the sun goes down. If my days are so full of activity that I don't connect with my children, who benefits? If my evenings and weekends are so packed that I don't have any alone time with my husband, how does my marriage survive?
A few weeks ago I woke up feeling anxious. I was so stressed about my day's schedule, and the fact that it was going to be repeating itself every week until Christmas, that I could hardly function! I was overwhelmed and asking myself, "What have I done? What have I committed myself to and why did I do it?" My man, sensing my anxiety, suggested I was overbooked and asked me to look at what could be excluded from my week. Now I hate to admit this, but I don't always think his ideas are brilliant and worth an immediate, "Yep, gettin' right on that." But once I did figure out that I was over-extended and decided what I could and should give up, and I actually did it, my lungs involuntarily let out the biggest sigh of relief I had heard from myself in quite a while! He was right. Bless his man heart that's always trying to fix something when I just need him to listen, he was absolutely right. And there was nothing in my weekly schedule that you'd look at and say was frivolous. It was all pretty good stuff, weekly Bible study and all. But I didn't have a week night at home from Sunday through Thursday. And my husband usually has to work late on Fridays. Something had to go, and when it did, my family had a new woman in the house. And thankfully it was me.
I don't think we're supposed to just "stay busy" for the sake of saying we are. What's wrong with answering, "Not a thing!" when someone asks what you did last night? "I rested! I recuperated from the previous non-stop 24 hours that couldn't be extracted from my schedule and it. was. great."
I grew up with two of those people who can't sit still. One of them raised me and the other one always talked me into doing something I didn't really want to. My Daddy is not a work aholic. He was very available to us growing up, and still is, but he does love his projects. He's always got something going. But he'll be the first one to tell you that when he tells himself to rest (and he has to tell himself because the idea doesn't come naturally) he always feels better and gets more accomplished after a little down time. The other "let's DO something!" red-head who shall remain nameless has crossed to the dark side in recent years. She still wants to do stuff and be where the people are, but she's all about the rest, too. You can even find her home on a Friday night every once in a while.
So, feel no guilt over those free evenings! You don't have to fill them up! Enjoy them! If something gets cancelled, leave the spot on the calendar blank! Take a breather! Buy a t-shirt that says, "I'm NOT staying busy. And I'm awesome."
"Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
Matthew 11:28
"I will refresh the weary and satisfy the faint."
Jeremiah 31:25
Hmmm. Am I supposed to??
Now if you ask my husband this question with regard to his work, I know you're asking out of genuine concern, 'cause he needs to be busy or we don't eat! But that's not what I'm talking about. I think we've become confused about the difference between busy and productive. The former doesn't necessarily mean the latter. Is it really a badge of honor if I say I haven't seen my house since last Tuesday?
Rest. Repose. We need it. And not just when the sun goes down. If my days are so full of activity that I don't connect with my children, who benefits? If my evenings and weekends are so packed that I don't have any alone time with my husband, how does my marriage survive?
A few weeks ago I woke up feeling anxious. I was so stressed about my day's schedule, and the fact that it was going to be repeating itself every week until Christmas, that I could hardly function! I was overwhelmed and asking myself, "What have I done? What have I committed myself to and why did I do it?" My man, sensing my anxiety, suggested I was overbooked and asked me to look at what could be excluded from my week. Now I hate to admit this, but I don't always think his ideas are brilliant and worth an immediate, "Yep, gettin' right on that." But once I did figure out that I was over-extended and decided what I could and should give up, and I actually did it, my lungs involuntarily let out the biggest sigh of relief I had heard from myself in quite a while! He was right. Bless his man heart that's always trying to fix something when I just need him to listen, he was absolutely right. And there was nothing in my weekly schedule that you'd look at and say was frivolous. It was all pretty good stuff, weekly Bible study and all. But I didn't have a week night at home from Sunday through Thursday. And my husband usually has to work late on Fridays. Something had to go, and when it did, my family had a new woman in the house. And thankfully it was me.
I don't think we're supposed to just "stay busy" for the sake of saying we are. What's wrong with answering, "Not a thing!" when someone asks what you did last night? "I rested! I recuperated from the previous non-stop 24 hours that couldn't be extracted from my schedule and it. was. great."
I grew up with two of those people who can't sit still. One of them raised me and the other one always talked me into doing something I didn't really want to. My Daddy is not a work aholic. He was very available to us growing up, and still is, but he does love his projects. He's always got something going. But he'll be the first one to tell you that when he tells himself to rest (and he has to tell himself because the idea doesn't come naturally) he always feels better and gets more accomplished after a little down time. The other "let's DO something!" red-head who shall remain nameless has crossed to the dark side in recent years. She still wants to do stuff and be where the people are, but she's all about the rest, too. You can even find her home on a Friday night every once in a while.
So, feel no guilt over those free evenings! You don't have to fill them up! Enjoy them! If something gets cancelled, leave the spot on the calendar blank! Take a breather! Buy a t-shirt that says, "I'm NOT staying busy. And I'm awesome."
"Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
Matthew 11:28
"I will refresh the weary and satisfy the faint."
Jeremiah 31:25
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The Point System
Miles. Discounts. Cash Back. There's something Dave Ramsey doesn't teach you. How to deal with point system envy.
There needs to be a point system for not having a credit card and never flying anywhere. I could clean up on that. The last time I was on a plane was....Christmas 2008? Or was it summer 2007? Yea, I got miles. Miles on the flip flops I wear to the mail box. But that's only when I realize I haven't seen any mail in a while cause my husband's been storing it in the black whole of his white truck. Things go in there, but they don't come out. "Honey do you have the receipt for the (fill-in-the-blank-here but whatever it is, it's broken but hopefully still under warranty if we can just find the receipt)?"
"Yea, I think so. It's in my truck............Where are you going?"
"To buy a new one."
I used to struggle with self worth because I didn't go to college. I don't have a degree. But now I have a new trigger. I have no miles. I'm delighted to be on the all cash system, and no credit card bills coming in is wonderful. But have you seen those commercials? Those shiny blue and silver cards are beautiful. And do you have those friends who fly everywhere free? I want to stow away in their bags. Just once. Even if it's a business trip to Arkansas, just so I can participate in those "I used my miles" conversations.
And those discount hotel search ads with the happy people lying on the beach in serenity. Who are they kidding? We used one of them once. There was no serenity. We got stuck in Cincinnati, something wrong with the plane, and they wouldn't put us on another flight. "Yes sir, how can we help you? Of course! There's another flight going out in 2 hours. Oh, wait...You purchased with Expedia/Orbit/Priceline. I'm sorry. You're at the bottom of the customer totem pole. What does that mean? Well basically it means we gave you our left overs because you tried to get something cheaper and consequently we have nothing left to give. No, no, we're not punishing you for using a discount service. We're just treating you, your wife and your 2 small children as the grand losers of travel. But thank you for calling. And Happy New Year!"
That was the same trip on which we tried to rent a car with a debit card. If you're feeling good about your financial choices, just give that a whirl. Nothing can shoot your self-esteem into the death spiral like a smiling customer service agent's rejection. I have no idea why I care what this stranger on the other side of the counter thinks, but I do. And she's entirely too happy about telling me no.
So Dave, I'm a little miffed. Not at you. It's not your fault. Your program is fantastic and it works. It's the system. It's all upside down. Where are the points for cutting up the cards? For drving by Taco Bueno instead of driving thru? But I guess in everything good and worth waiting for, there are growing pains and discipline to get through. So I won't bend. No sir. I'll just keep staying home and wait for the point system on most pajama changes in a week. My notice on that should be coming any day now. In the mail. I've got my flip flops by the door.
There needs to be a point system for not having a credit card and never flying anywhere. I could clean up on that. The last time I was on a plane was....Christmas 2008? Or was it summer 2007? Yea, I got miles. Miles on the flip flops I wear to the mail box. But that's only when I realize I haven't seen any mail in a while cause my husband's been storing it in the black whole of his white truck. Things go in there, but they don't come out. "Honey do you have the receipt for the (fill-in-the-blank-here but whatever it is, it's broken but hopefully still under warranty if we can just find the receipt)?"
"Yea, I think so. It's in my truck............Where are you going?"
"To buy a new one."
I used to struggle with self worth because I didn't go to college. I don't have a degree. But now I have a new trigger. I have no miles. I'm delighted to be on the all cash system, and no credit card bills coming in is wonderful. But have you seen those commercials? Those shiny blue and silver cards are beautiful. And do you have those friends who fly everywhere free? I want to stow away in their bags. Just once. Even if it's a business trip to Arkansas, just so I can participate in those "I used my miles" conversations.
And those discount hotel search ads with the happy people lying on the beach in serenity. Who are they kidding? We used one of them once. There was no serenity. We got stuck in Cincinnati, something wrong with the plane, and they wouldn't put us on another flight. "Yes sir, how can we help you? Of course! There's another flight going out in 2 hours. Oh, wait...You purchased with Expedia/Orbit/Priceline. I'm sorry. You're at the bottom of the customer totem pole. What does that mean? Well basically it means we gave you our left overs because you tried to get something cheaper and consequently we have nothing left to give. No, no, we're not punishing you for using a discount service. We're just treating you, your wife and your 2 small children as the grand losers of travel. But thank you for calling. And Happy New Year!"
That was the same trip on which we tried to rent a car with a debit card. If you're feeling good about your financial choices, just give that a whirl. Nothing can shoot your self-esteem into the death spiral like a smiling customer service agent's rejection. I have no idea why I care what this stranger on the other side of the counter thinks, but I do. And she's entirely too happy about telling me no.
So Dave, I'm a little miffed. Not at you. It's not your fault. Your program is fantastic and it works. It's the system. It's all upside down. Where are the points for cutting up the cards? For drving by Taco Bueno instead of driving thru? But I guess in everything good and worth waiting for, there are growing pains and discipline to get through. So I won't bend. No sir. I'll just keep staying home and wait for the point system on most pajama changes in a week. My notice on that should be coming any day now. In the mail. I've got my flip flops by the door.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Legacy
Grandchildren are the crown of grandparents, and parents are the glory of their children.
Proverbs 17:6
I am so in awe of God's sweet timing right now I can hardly stand it. Today marks the 13 year anniversary of my Mom's last day on this earth, and of course my mind is flooded with memories. I see it as no accident that right now, in my continuing Bible study on Ruth, the author is talking about the incredible legacy her grandfather left her. "At its simplest, I've been given a stunning heritage I did nothing to earn, and that's the beauty of legacy. It's a gift we leave for others."
My Mom was amazing. Ask anybody who knew her! There is not enough paper, no lap top large enough, to write about all that she left me. Stricken with Multiple Sclerosis in her mid 30's, Jeanne Louise Lee, former school teacher, could have been anything but gracious. Anything but a prayer warrior. Anything but a quick-witted conversationalist. Anything but merciful. Anything but completely confident that God had not abandoned her. Anything but faithful. But she was all these with a thousand etceteras.
As strange as it sounds, the fact that she had this dreaded disease did not make her "sick" in our eyes. On the contrary, she was healthy as a horse. She just couldn't walk. It was chronic progressive MS. It started in one leg and she only needed one crutch. Then two. Then a wheelchair sometimes. Then a wheelchair all the time. By my senior year in high school, she was completely bed ridden. It was a debilitating, awful disease and it put her body, heart and soul through agonizing, grueling effects that would make the strongest of men buckle. In fact, most men would have left at the sight of their tennis playing, long-legged beauty being robbed of her body little by little. But she and my Daddy were not most people. And still, my Mom was not sick. Our lives were just a little different. She couldn't be left alone for long periods of time, and eventually not at all. So I wasn't allowed to have a job during my teens. Not a problem! Our dinnertime meals went from her delicious four course cuisine to Steak Umm sandwiches and tater tots. I love tater tots! We had major family meetings in her bathroom rather than at the kitchen table, but that was just because it was so difficult to pick up a 130 lb woman and get her muscle-spasming body into the sitting position on the toilet. Once we got her there, she preferred staying a while! So we'd all hang out in the bathroom. That's not so weird. Nor is the fact that sometimes, when trying to get her back into bed, we would get the giggles at the crazy things her legs were doing and we'd completely miss. And no one was laughing harder than Mom.
The last year of her life was very different and traumatic for our family. It wasn't marked by laughter and was anything but what we had become accustomed to. She contracted pneumonia, and after several trips to the ER and 3 hospital stays, a very wise and merciful doctor finally caught on to what was happening. The MS had made it's way into her lungs and throat. She could hardly breathe and she could no longer swallow. She needed oxygen, a feeding tube and a tracheostomy. As my Daddy, sister and I stood reeling from this news, the doctor explained she simply couldn't survive any other way and asked us to make a decision. In just a matter of hours, after over 25 years of "only" having lost the use of her limbs but still plenty able to holler from the bathroom when she was ready to get up, my mother lay in ICU unable to speak because of the hole cut in her throat and the tube inserted into it, forcing air into her lungs. After several days of just accepting, dealing, comforting and accepting again, we slowly got the hang of things and adapted to our new normal. Mom got great at mouthing slowly, and we became excellent lip readers and learned all the literal ins & outs of a ventilator. Her condition would both improve and decline several times over those fall and winter months. We even got to bring her home for Christmas, at which time I discovered I was expecting my first baby. But her time at home was short, and things only became worse. Finally, on August 5, 1998, with our precious family of four there in her room at the long term care facility, her heart quietly stopped. Within a few moments all the machines were silent, and we had a funeral to plan.
As I said earlier, MS is a debilitating disease. If there's a more descriptive word for not only steals your physical health but all your dignity as well, feel free to put it in place of debilitating. But as unusual as our usual was, and as painful as those last weeks and months were, they could not rob me of the mother I had for the first 30 years of my life. There had been laughter. And I hold it close as one of the most precious gifts my parents gave me. I remember her teaching me how to fold my socks together and put them in my antique white dresser drawer when I was 5. I remember her using those same socks to roll my hair on Saturday night. I remember how she would frost her hair and let me pull it through the holes in that crazy cap that made her look like an alien. I hold dear how much she loved Fritos and Coke and said that Pepsi was made and consumed by communists. I'm proud to be an OU football fan simply because she was, and I'm proud of the fact that she was a Dallas Cowboys fan when no one else was. I remember her Bible in her lap every day, her adorable red reading glasses on her face. I remember turning the pages for her when she couldn't. I loved putting her make-up on while my sister did her hair and hearing her say, as if I hadn't heard it before, "Make my eyebrows look like commas." I remember her impeccable taste in clothes. The smell of her perfume. How she taught us that beige is a real color. I love that everytime my parents would go somewhere, my dad would come home, smiling, and say, "Girls, your mom was the belle of the ball as always." I remember how much she loved him. How fervently she would pray for me. For all of us. I remember the sound of her voice. I remember walking the halls of hospitals and nursing homes and hearing sweet people call out, "You must be Jeanne's daughter! You look just like your momma!" I see her in her granddaughter's face. I love that I bear her name. I remember the masses of people who came to her funeral. How we celebrated an incredible life that day, and how proud I was. And so grateful that God would choose her, a woman of noble character, as my mother. As the wonderful grandma I would tell this baby about. I remember that just 4 weeks after that glorious celebration of a life lived with faith and grace, I would welcome Tristan Nicole to the world and speak of the Grandma she never met. I remember the precious moments I've had with both my daughters as I tell them how countless people said to my sister and I that day in August, and many times since, "I know we've never met, but I knew your mother. And her faith and her testimony changed my life."
Legacy. A stunning heritage I did nothing to earn. What a gift.
Proverbs 17:6
I am so in awe of God's sweet timing right now I can hardly stand it. Today marks the 13 year anniversary of my Mom's last day on this earth, and of course my mind is flooded with memories. I see it as no accident that right now, in my continuing Bible study on Ruth, the author is talking about the incredible legacy her grandfather left her. "At its simplest, I've been given a stunning heritage I did nothing to earn, and that's the beauty of legacy. It's a gift we leave for others."
My Mom was amazing. Ask anybody who knew her! There is not enough paper, no lap top large enough, to write about all that she left me. Stricken with Multiple Sclerosis in her mid 30's, Jeanne Louise Lee, former school teacher, could have been anything but gracious. Anything but a prayer warrior. Anything but a quick-witted conversationalist. Anything but merciful. Anything but completely confident that God had not abandoned her. Anything but faithful. But she was all these with a thousand etceteras.
As strange as it sounds, the fact that she had this dreaded disease did not make her "sick" in our eyes. On the contrary, she was healthy as a horse. She just couldn't walk. It was chronic progressive MS. It started in one leg and she only needed one crutch. Then two. Then a wheelchair sometimes. Then a wheelchair all the time. By my senior year in high school, she was completely bed ridden. It was a debilitating, awful disease and it put her body, heart and soul through agonizing, grueling effects that would make the strongest of men buckle. In fact, most men would have left at the sight of their tennis playing, long-legged beauty being robbed of her body little by little. But she and my Daddy were not most people. And still, my Mom was not sick. Our lives were just a little different. She couldn't be left alone for long periods of time, and eventually not at all. So I wasn't allowed to have a job during my teens. Not a problem! Our dinnertime meals went from her delicious four course cuisine to Steak Umm sandwiches and tater tots. I love tater tots! We had major family meetings in her bathroom rather than at the kitchen table, but that was just because it was so difficult to pick up a 130 lb woman and get her muscle-spasming body into the sitting position on the toilet. Once we got her there, she preferred staying a while! So we'd all hang out in the bathroom. That's not so weird. Nor is the fact that sometimes, when trying to get her back into bed, we would get the giggles at the crazy things her legs were doing and we'd completely miss. And no one was laughing harder than Mom.
The last year of her life was very different and traumatic for our family. It wasn't marked by laughter and was anything but what we had become accustomed to. She contracted pneumonia, and after several trips to the ER and 3 hospital stays, a very wise and merciful doctor finally caught on to what was happening. The MS had made it's way into her lungs and throat. She could hardly breathe and she could no longer swallow. She needed oxygen, a feeding tube and a tracheostomy. As my Daddy, sister and I stood reeling from this news, the doctor explained she simply couldn't survive any other way and asked us to make a decision. In just a matter of hours, after over 25 years of "only" having lost the use of her limbs but still plenty able to holler from the bathroom when she was ready to get up, my mother lay in ICU unable to speak because of the hole cut in her throat and the tube inserted into it, forcing air into her lungs. After several days of just accepting, dealing, comforting and accepting again, we slowly got the hang of things and adapted to our new normal. Mom got great at mouthing slowly, and we became excellent lip readers and learned all the literal ins & outs of a ventilator. Her condition would both improve and decline several times over those fall and winter months. We even got to bring her home for Christmas, at which time I discovered I was expecting my first baby. But her time at home was short, and things only became worse. Finally, on August 5, 1998, with our precious family of four there in her room at the long term care facility, her heart quietly stopped. Within a few moments all the machines were silent, and we had a funeral to plan.
As I said earlier, MS is a debilitating disease. If there's a more descriptive word for not only steals your physical health but all your dignity as well, feel free to put it in place of debilitating. But as unusual as our usual was, and as painful as those last weeks and months were, they could not rob me of the mother I had for the first 30 years of my life. There had been laughter. And I hold it close as one of the most precious gifts my parents gave me. I remember her teaching me how to fold my socks together and put them in my antique white dresser drawer when I was 5. I remember her using those same socks to roll my hair on Saturday night. I remember how she would frost her hair and let me pull it through the holes in that crazy cap that made her look like an alien. I hold dear how much she loved Fritos and Coke and said that Pepsi was made and consumed by communists. I'm proud to be an OU football fan simply because she was, and I'm proud of the fact that she was a Dallas Cowboys fan when no one else was. I remember her Bible in her lap every day, her adorable red reading glasses on her face. I remember turning the pages for her when she couldn't. I loved putting her make-up on while my sister did her hair and hearing her say, as if I hadn't heard it before, "Make my eyebrows look like commas." I remember her impeccable taste in clothes. The smell of her perfume. How she taught us that beige is a real color. I love that everytime my parents would go somewhere, my dad would come home, smiling, and say, "Girls, your mom was the belle of the ball as always." I remember how much she loved him. How fervently she would pray for me. For all of us. I remember the sound of her voice. I remember walking the halls of hospitals and nursing homes and hearing sweet people call out, "You must be Jeanne's daughter! You look just like your momma!" I see her in her granddaughter's face. I love that I bear her name. I remember the masses of people who came to her funeral. How we celebrated an incredible life that day, and how proud I was. And so grateful that God would choose her, a woman of noble character, as my mother. As the wonderful grandma I would tell this baby about. I remember that just 4 weeks after that glorious celebration of a life lived with faith and grace, I would welcome Tristan Nicole to the world and speak of the Grandma she never met. I remember the precious moments I've had with both my daughters as I tell them how countless people said to my sister and I that day in August, and many times since, "I know we've never met, but I knew your mother. And her faith and her testimony changed my life."
Legacy. A stunning heritage I did nothing to earn. What a gift.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
At The End of The Day...
....all you have is family...your friends are what really matters...you only have to answer to yourself...as long as your kids are happy...
...isms. That's what I call these little nuggets. This particular one, "at the end of the day...", followed by various fill-in-the-blanks, used to really bug me. The only thing that could make me madder was "it is what it is." Does anybody really feel better after that one?
I think I've recently experienced a mid-life crisis. I've said that before when in the throws of life-changing events, but this time, I mean it. Because there's no event to speak of. I'm just feeling old. And unnecessary.
But God...
When I was 18, age 33 seemed ancient. "But you're not 33!" My point exactly! Because when I was 18, forty-something wasn't even in my stratosphere of reality. Thirty-three was about as far as my mind could get. And yet here I am, ten years past ancient. My sister gave me a birthday card once that said, "If I had known I was going to live this long, I'd have taken much better care of myself." So true! She knows I'd have turned down a lot more cheeseburgers and never set foot in a tanning salon! She's heard me whine about my hips having their own zip code and seen my bathroom drawers full of wrinkle cream! Now don't get me wrong, I don't spend every day in my bathrobe wishing for do-overs. There are actually days when I'm immensely proud of my life and feel pretty crisis-free. My daughters, for example. They are 10 and 12 and I have never enjoyed their stages of life as much as I'm enjoying these years. That's saying a lot for me, because I love babies. Just typing the word makes my heart flutter. My insides literally leap when I see a newborn. I'd have one right now if God would let me, but apparently I'm done. I've had four miscarriages and will have to wait until eternity to hold those I've never met face to face. But that's a whole other blog for a whole other day! The point is, as much as my biological clock doesn't just tick but rather gongs at the sight of a new bundle of joy, I am absolutely, thoroughly enjoying these preteen years even more. And I couldn't be prouder of who these beautiful young girls whom God has entrusted to me are growing up to be.
Still, there are days, more than I care to admit, when that ugly, purposeless feeling rears its ugly head. Days when I do lament the cheeseburgers of my youth. Days when my husband doesn't take out the trash and I trip over it on my way to the car again, and how could he do that knowing that I'm so hormonal and in desperate need of chocolate, which by the way, he didn't bring home last night?! Does this man not have a calendar? Days when I'm grossly misunderstood. Days when I do the right thing and nobody notices. Days when I do the right thing, nobody notices, and other people do the wrong thing and get all kinds of accolades. Days when my friend's husband not only takes out the trash but sends her flowers. With gift cards for chocolate. Days when I'm not just overlooked, but used as the doormat to get to the ones I was overlooked for. Days when my very best simply isn't good enough, and the reason I know is because the shouts of joy the other guy gets are heard from a mile away, and the silence I hear after my best efforts is deafening. Days when, "at the end of the day," I'm thinking I shouldn't even be allowed to leave the house because the world should not have to look upon me.
I don't know who came up with that let it roll of your back ism, but it's not one of my favorites, either. The heartbreaking days and seasons I go through don't roll. They stab. Firmly and brutally into the exposed heart I wear on my sleeve. And all this has had me wrapped up in an ugly little box, secured nicely with a bow of bitter.
But God...
...in His relentless pursuit of this mess that I am...
... Just. Will. Not. Leave me there...
I subscribe to all kinds of daily emails. Fab, Fit & Fun, living with allergies & asthma, what Jillian Michaels wants to yell at me about, spiritual encouragement, etc. (I like to think I'm a well rounded girl.) One day last week I got an email about the way we view our days; how we begin them with morning and end them with night, and how God may view the beginning and ending points of our 24 hour day a bit differently. Our Pastor at church has touched on this same thing recently, so I did a little digging, and what better place to start than, well, the beginning. "And there was evening, and there was morning. The first day." Genesis 1:5. I admit it always confused me, but I overlooked it. I didn't think it was a mistake in scripture, I just didn't understand it, so rather than ask somebody or research it, I just sort of skimmed over it and moved on. But this email got me to thinking that overlooking these words had been terribly detrimental to my routine; my approach. If God set it up so that the beginning of a day was at sunset, then my day is actually supposed to begin with winding down. With settling in. With rest.
I decided to put this into practice last week while my husband was out of town. Yes, he does that a lot, but he's cute and everybody loves him so we let him go. There are many traditions that take place in our king sized bed (get your mind out of the gutter - I just said he wasn't home) and one of those is that, while daddy is away, the girls sleep with me. Rather than staying up unconscionably late that week, we actually headed to bed at a reasonable hour and did some chatting and reading. We talked about everything from crackle nail polish to 'what exactly did that boy say to you?' to 'Mom do we get to go to Heaven before all that really bad stuff is going to happen?' And then they would fall asleep and I would do some reading and praying on my own, all the while thinking of those precious moments as the beginning of my day rather than something we crammed into our last waking hours. And the results have been remarkable.
The sun setting as I begin my day with my two favorite people under the age of 13, their asking me all kinds of questions and trusting that I actually have the answers. The night growing as I begin my day with a study on a woman of incredible character named Ruth. Talk about your midlife crisis -- this chick and her mother-in-law could've thrown THE biggest 'God is SO Not Paying Attention to Me' party. (In fact mom-in-law kinda did which I really dig about her, but what's even better is that God didn't let her linger there for long.) My side of the world winding down as I begin my day with prayer for my husband. Preparing for rest and asking God to bless those resting hours of my family so that we could accomplish what He had for us when the sun came up at His command, and not a minute before. Knowing that, as I fall asleep, God is fast awake and fully in control of all that has passed through His heart to get to mine.
At the end of the day, hurt. Misunderstood. Broken. Unnecessary to some. Not good enough. Crisis in progress.
But God...
In His relentless pursuit of this mess that I am, sees me as beautiful. Worth saving. Filled with His gifts. Completely necessary for His work. Usable for His glory. Created for His purpose. Crisis interrupted...
Because at the end of the day, I'm just beginning.
...isms. That's what I call these little nuggets. This particular one, "at the end of the day...", followed by various fill-in-the-blanks, used to really bug me. The only thing that could make me madder was "it is what it is." Does anybody really feel better after that one?
I think I've recently experienced a mid-life crisis. I've said that before when in the throws of life-changing events, but this time, I mean it. Because there's no event to speak of. I'm just feeling old. And unnecessary.
But God...
When I was 18, age 33 seemed ancient. "But you're not 33!" My point exactly! Because when I was 18, forty-something wasn't even in my stratosphere of reality. Thirty-three was about as far as my mind could get. And yet here I am, ten years past ancient. My sister gave me a birthday card once that said, "If I had known I was going to live this long, I'd have taken much better care of myself." So true! She knows I'd have turned down a lot more cheeseburgers and never set foot in a tanning salon! She's heard me whine about my hips having their own zip code and seen my bathroom drawers full of wrinkle cream! Now don't get me wrong, I don't spend every day in my bathrobe wishing for do-overs. There are actually days when I'm immensely proud of my life and feel pretty crisis-free. My daughters, for example. They are 10 and 12 and I have never enjoyed their stages of life as much as I'm enjoying these years. That's saying a lot for me, because I love babies. Just typing the word makes my heart flutter. My insides literally leap when I see a newborn. I'd have one right now if God would let me, but apparently I'm done. I've had four miscarriages and will have to wait until eternity to hold those I've never met face to face. But that's a whole other blog for a whole other day! The point is, as much as my biological clock doesn't just tick but rather gongs at the sight of a new bundle of joy, I am absolutely, thoroughly enjoying these preteen years even more. And I couldn't be prouder of who these beautiful young girls whom God has entrusted to me are growing up to be.
Still, there are days, more than I care to admit, when that ugly, purposeless feeling rears its ugly head. Days when I do lament the cheeseburgers of my youth. Days when my husband doesn't take out the trash and I trip over it on my way to the car again, and how could he do that knowing that I'm so hormonal and in desperate need of chocolate, which by the way, he didn't bring home last night?! Does this man not have a calendar? Days when I'm grossly misunderstood. Days when I do the right thing and nobody notices. Days when I do the right thing, nobody notices, and other people do the wrong thing and get all kinds of accolades. Days when my friend's husband not only takes out the trash but sends her flowers. With gift cards for chocolate. Days when I'm not just overlooked, but used as the doormat to get to the ones I was overlooked for. Days when my very best simply isn't good enough, and the reason I know is because the shouts of joy the other guy gets are heard from a mile away, and the silence I hear after my best efforts is deafening. Days when, "at the end of the day," I'm thinking I shouldn't even be allowed to leave the house because the world should not have to look upon me.
I don't know who came up with that let it roll of your back ism, but it's not one of my favorites, either. The heartbreaking days and seasons I go through don't roll. They stab. Firmly and brutally into the exposed heart I wear on my sleeve. And all this has had me wrapped up in an ugly little box, secured nicely with a bow of bitter.
But God...
...in His relentless pursuit of this mess that I am...
... Just. Will. Not. Leave me there...
I subscribe to all kinds of daily emails. Fab, Fit & Fun, living with allergies & asthma, what Jillian Michaels wants to yell at me about, spiritual encouragement, etc. (I like to think I'm a well rounded girl.) One day last week I got an email about the way we view our days; how we begin them with morning and end them with night, and how God may view the beginning and ending points of our 24 hour day a bit differently. Our Pastor at church has touched on this same thing recently, so I did a little digging, and what better place to start than, well, the beginning. "And there was evening, and there was morning. The first day." Genesis 1:5. I admit it always confused me, but I overlooked it. I didn't think it was a mistake in scripture, I just didn't understand it, so rather than ask somebody or research it, I just sort of skimmed over it and moved on. But this email got me to thinking that overlooking these words had been terribly detrimental to my routine; my approach. If God set it up so that the beginning of a day was at sunset, then my day is actually supposed to begin with winding down. With settling in. With rest.
I decided to put this into practice last week while my husband was out of town. Yes, he does that a lot, but he's cute and everybody loves him so we let him go. There are many traditions that take place in our king sized bed (get your mind out of the gutter - I just said he wasn't home) and one of those is that, while daddy is away, the girls sleep with me. Rather than staying up unconscionably late that week, we actually headed to bed at a reasonable hour and did some chatting and reading. We talked about everything from crackle nail polish to 'what exactly did that boy say to you?' to 'Mom do we get to go to Heaven before all that really bad stuff is going to happen?' And then they would fall asleep and I would do some reading and praying on my own, all the while thinking of those precious moments as the beginning of my day rather than something we crammed into our last waking hours. And the results have been remarkable.
The sun setting as I begin my day with my two favorite people under the age of 13, their asking me all kinds of questions and trusting that I actually have the answers. The night growing as I begin my day with a study on a woman of incredible character named Ruth. Talk about your midlife crisis -- this chick and her mother-in-law could've thrown THE biggest 'God is SO Not Paying Attention to Me' party. (In fact mom-in-law kinda did which I really dig about her, but what's even better is that God didn't let her linger there for long.) My side of the world winding down as I begin my day with prayer for my husband. Preparing for rest and asking God to bless those resting hours of my family so that we could accomplish what He had for us when the sun came up at His command, and not a minute before. Knowing that, as I fall asleep, God is fast awake and fully in control of all that has passed through His heart to get to mine.
At the end of the day, hurt. Misunderstood. Broken. Unnecessary to some. Not good enough. Crisis in progress.
But God...
In His relentless pursuit of this mess that I am, sees me as beautiful. Worth saving. Filled with His gifts. Completely necessary for His work. Usable for His glory. Created for His purpose. Crisis interrupted...
Because at the end of the day, I'm just beginning.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Clueless
The lips of fools bring them strife, and their mouths invite a beating. Proverbs 18:6
I cannot tell you how excited I was to discover this verse. I was even more excited when I heard author/speaker Steve Arterburn give his interpretation. He says it means if someone says something stupid to you, you get to hit them. I gave him a standing ovation.
Humans. We’re a funny bunch. And by funny I mean what Steve said – stupid. But we’re not allowed to say that word at my house. So I’ve come up with another one. Clueless. It sounds more polite, but it’s actually not. To be completely and utterly without a social clue. That’s not pretty. It comes in many forms, this clueless thing. A rude comment. A slap in the face disguised as a joke. Sometimes I think we just repeat things we heard someone else say, having no idea how truly thoughtless we're being. But how do we get that way? How is it that some of us manage to go through daily life without someone grabbing our little faces and saying, “Excuse me, you’ve just put your cluelessness on display for all the world to see, but don't worry. I’m here to help. It's a 12 step program, but first we need to know where it all started for you. So who do we call? Who is responsible for your having no idea how to communicate like a grown-up? Your mother? Is it her fault you have no tact? Did she ever tell you that it’s OK to have an unexpressed thought?”
And don’t get me wrong, I’ve had moments of my own. Many, many moments when someone should’ve grabbed my face and said, “Stop talking. Stop talking now.” But they didn’t, and I ended up making a clueless fool of myself. I have no doubt people have gotten into their cars at the end of an evening with me and said things like, “Can you believe her? Did I hear her right?” I’ve said some really dumb things. But I like to think I’ve learned from those awful memories. It’s the ones who never seem to learn anything and yet continue to be allowed to roam free that amaze and astound me.
“You OK?” they asked.
“Me? Yes, I’m fine! Why?”
“You look sick.”
Um…what? Now if I had been feeling under the weather, I would have welcomed the sympathy. But I was dandy. I’d stood in front of the mirror for an hour and a half applying full make-up and perfecting my hair. (You thought I was gonna say duct taping myself, didn’t you?) I’d even remembered all my vitamins and taken in plenty of fluids that day. I’m not sure why this person felt compelled to ask. Maybe despite my best efforts, I looked horrible. But still, why risk it? I mean, unless I’ve indicated that I’m under the weather, or I’m bleeding from the nose or mouth and seem to need assistance standing erect, why in the world would you tell someone they don’t look well?
Too benign? OK how about this. I was a blonde once. Here’s what went down when a 'friend' saw me for the first time.
“You’re blonde!!”
“Yea!”
.....uncomfortable pause...."You don’t really have the coloring for that.”
After I came to, having passed out from sheer mortification, I thought of all the things I should have said. If only I’d known about that verse…
And it gets worse than just insulting my appearance. Someone once told me I wasn’t parenting correctly. No, they didn’t come right out and use those words, but isn’t the inference behind “You should not home school your kids” that I’m doing it wrong? No question as to why I’d made that choice. Just a bold statement that it wasn’t the right one. For my children. Whom I birthed. Long and laboriously and without their assistance, thank you very much.
And speaking of birth, how about that heartfelt question people ask when they hear of a baby on the way to a household that all ready has a few. “Again?” or “What number is this?” And I’m not talking about the well-meaning folks who truly want to know. I mean we really can lose count with some people, can’t we? I have a friend of a friend up north and because we’re not consistently in touch, I missed a baby or two and I had to ask what number the last one was! It happens. But I’m referring to those nurturing folks who are asking because they think that particular number of existing children is just too many. Never mind that God says children are a gift and a blessing from the Lord. We do have a carbon footprint to consider, after all, and don't they know how much this is going to cost them and their planet? Don't they know what causes that? Well, yes. Yes, they do, and apparently they're pretty good at it. I have an idea. How about you ask God all your 'I'm more enlightened than you' questions? Ask Him why He keeps blessing those people. Tell Him how absurd and expensive it is. Go ahead. I’ll wait here.
I don’t remember what I said most of the times I’ve encountered the clueless. But I have to warn you, I don’t intend to be caught off guard anymore. No more fainting in humiliation. I’ve been rehearsing several scenarios. I don't have anything for hair color yet, and I don't think I'll need it anytime soon because I happen to enjoy being a brunette. (I wonder why?) But here’s one in particular for all future unsolicited parental instruction:
“I’m sorry. Forgive me. How could I have been so blind? All these years my husband and I have been praying for wisdom in raising our children. Asking God for discernment so we would know what is best for them as individuals. And now, suddenly, in this very moment, I realize I should not have been asking their Creator. I should’ve been asking YOU!! Thank you! Thank you for setting me straight. I get it now, and I’ll be calling you for all future life decisions. Like when she should be allowed to drive. Or when she thinks she’s found ‘the one.’ We’ll want to make sure we get those right, so I’m putting’ you on speed dial. Number one. Right now.”
And if that doesn’t work, I’m invoking Proverbs 18:6 and saying Steve and God said it was OK.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Not Enough Duct Tape
There will be days when I'm feeling particularly deep and spiritual and will want to share it. This will not be one of them.
I bought the duct tape for a secret project I was going to tackle while my husband was out of town last week, but I never got around to it. This is actually a very good thing.
First, a little background. I have a one track mind. By this I mean that when I get an idea, I can't think about anything else. The idea is the fox and I'm the bloodhound. That's background fact #1. Background fact #2 is that lately, and by lately I mean starting in 1996, I've become obsessed with my weight. I lost almost 30 lbs last summer. During Christmas, I gained 10 of them back. By March I'd lost them again. Now here we are in June and those pesky 10 have picked up 2 more. I have never gotten the hang of eating properly. I like to say that it's because until age 26, I didn't have to. I don't think God plays fair. He lets you eat fast food for the first half of your life without consequence, and then suddenly you land a man and that cute little size 4 red plaid dress you were wearing the first time your husband noticed you won't go past your hips. What's that about? And don't get me started on gravity. But I digress. That's another day.
Another background fact is that I'm an instant gratification kinda gal. I started cutting my own hair years ago when I couldn't get in to see my fabulous Las Colinas stylist on the same day my bangs went rogue. I have no patience.
Which brings us to last week. I'd stood in front of the mirror a thousand times too many and imagined what it would look like if I could take a knife and whack off the parts I didn't like. Enough was enough. If liposuction isn't in my future, then there has to be a Plan B. And it has to happen now. So off to the hardware store I went.
I heard the rattle of the bag from the other room. "Mom, what are you gonna do with this?" I couldn't tell them the truth, so it was time to make that decision. You know the one: do I lie to my children or tell them the truth and reveal that their mother is a crazy bloodhound? I went for the former. Mother of the Year would have to wait.
By the time I had gotten around to putting my plan into action, it was Sunday morning and my husband was home. But he was still asleep, so I thought I was good. I'm always the first one up on Sundays. I got my stool and put it in front of the bathroom mirror, got my scissors and my new shiny roll of duct tape, and off I went. I started at the afore-mentioned hip area. Three times around should do it. I started to put on my skirt when I heard him. You see, I hadn't realized how much noise I was making. Not only is duct tape loud, but it makes an unmistakable sound. Especially to the ears of a handy man like mine. "What are you doing?" I ignored it. I was finished anyway. He'll go back to sleep. I got my skirt on. From the front, perfection. I had done it. I had lobbed off my upper thighs without a knife. I stepped off the stool and got my shoes. I went out into the bedroom and he looked up.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing. I'm leaving. See you soon." I whispered.
At this point, for reasons unknown except that God actually does love me, I casually ran my hands across the back of my skirt. I can't really describe what I felt except to say it was some sort of new development. Like a growth. A big roll where there had never, ever been one before. I went back into the bathroom and got back on the stool. I turned to check the rear view when I saw it. There was this....shelf. I hadn't realized it, but all that stuff I was binding had to go somewhere, and it went up, in a terribly unattractive place. My rear. Not a problem. I dropped my skirt (which fell off effortlessly, what with me having just lost 3 inches and all) and grabbed the tape again. I started at the problem area and went around a few times when I heard it again. "What are you doing?" I checked the clock and kept going. Sound check was fast approaching and I did not have time to answer these ridiculous questions at 7:40 in the morning. Can't a woman get ready for church without interruptions? I put my skirt back on. This time I didn't have to turn around. The shelf had moved to my waist. And only on one side. I looked like a hunchback who couldn't even get that right. I inched my way around on the stool to check the back to see what was going on. This was not good. While the mid-rear shelf was gone, other things had gone south. I grabbed the tape and started again. This was getting complicated. The lower I had to go, the harder it was going to be to walk. I don't have time for this! Glancing at the clock again I was in full panic mode. I was wrapping faster than an elf on Christmas Eve, tossing the tape from one hand to the other. I'd developed quite a rhythm. After more than a few times around at this super pace, I had the lower problem solved. Awesome. I'll have to take really small steps but I can do this. I'll just make sure no one's behind me when we're walking up the steps to get on stage. No big deal. I continued upward to address the issue on the side. 'I wonder if it will hurt to take this off? Not now, Tamara. Beauty is pain. And at least you're not working up a sweat putting on your Spanx.' This was a wonderful thought. I wasn't going to need another shower after putting on an undergarment. Fueled by this enthusiasm I went faster. His voice was getting louder now but I couldn't be bothered with explanations. I kept going. And going. My entire mid and lower sections were bound. Good thing my shirt was black. But what was up with my knees? All that stuff had been smushed down to my legs! But my skirt was long enough. I just won't be able to cross my legs. I can still make this work. OK time to assess. Let's see what we've got. I tossed the roll on the counter and went for the skirt. That's when I realized the flaw in my plan. I had managed to bind all my unwanted parts quite successfully, but I hadn't factored in actually being able to get down from the stool. Or breathing. I couldn't do either. Dang it, if I could just get the skirt on - it will hang so cute, I just know it! (Remember the one track mind thing?) But there was no way. I was literally stuck, 12 inches off the ground, in front of my mirror, looking at this ridiculous image of myself covered in grey. And then it happened. "TAMARA! What are you DOING?!" He wasn't going to be ignored anymore. And the terrible cursed fact was, I needed him.
As I was calling for him I started to try to get it off. This is when I discovered that duct tape is not only loud, but terribly sticky. In fact, terribly doesn't cut it. And neither do scissors when it's attached to your underwear.
"HELP!" I yelled. "I can't get out!" He came through the bathroom door. He didn't stop to ask. He didn't even look surprised. Because he wasn't. He had known all along what I was doing. The man lived with me. It didn't take a genius.
He sat down on the edge of the bathtub and started to cut me out of my duct tape tomb. I was clawing at the front. "Strings??!! It's -- there's all these -- it turns into strings?? I can't -- it didn't work!!" He was just nodding and smiling. "I know babe. I know."
Miraculously and sweetly, he freed me. He even spared the Victoria's Secret underwear from a single clip. And me & my hips made it to sound check on time.
I noticed a little piece of tape on the stage that morning and had to chuckle. OK, I didn't chuckle. I threw up in my mouth a little, and then I tried not to cry.
But today, with about 96 hours between me and my statue, I think I've actually learned something. I know it won't work. I no longer have to be obsessed and preoccupied. There is no instant gratification when it comes to hippage. Starving myself last summer did absolutely no good because I couldn't keep it up. Having 28 less pounds of me was wonderful while it lasted, but the obsessive way I got there was not maintainable. And when I was finished, there was still a McDonald's on every corner and a Snickers at every Target checkout. I still say God doesn't play fair, but that belief hasn't gotten me very far in this particular area. So now I can move on to reasonable things like eating salad for dinner and spending more quality time with Eva The Elliptical and Tony the P90X man. Go figure.
I bought the duct tape for a secret project I was going to tackle while my husband was out of town last week, but I never got around to it. This is actually a very good thing.
First, a little background. I have a one track mind. By this I mean that when I get an idea, I can't think about anything else. The idea is the fox and I'm the bloodhound. That's background fact #1. Background fact #2 is that lately, and by lately I mean starting in 1996, I've become obsessed with my weight. I lost almost 30 lbs last summer. During Christmas, I gained 10 of them back. By March I'd lost them again. Now here we are in June and those pesky 10 have picked up 2 more. I have never gotten the hang of eating properly. I like to say that it's because until age 26, I didn't have to. I don't think God plays fair. He lets you eat fast food for the first half of your life without consequence, and then suddenly you land a man and that cute little size 4 red plaid dress you were wearing the first time your husband noticed you won't go past your hips. What's that about? And don't get me started on gravity. But I digress. That's another day.
Another background fact is that I'm an instant gratification kinda gal. I started cutting my own hair years ago when I couldn't get in to see my fabulous Las Colinas stylist on the same day my bangs went rogue. I have no patience.
Which brings us to last week. I'd stood in front of the mirror a thousand times too many and imagined what it would look like if I could take a knife and whack off the parts I didn't like. Enough was enough. If liposuction isn't in my future, then there has to be a Plan B. And it has to happen now. So off to the hardware store I went.
I heard the rattle of the bag from the other room. "Mom, what are you gonna do with this?" I couldn't tell them the truth, so it was time to make that decision. You know the one: do I lie to my children or tell them the truth and reveal that their mother is a crazy bloodhound? I went for the former. Mother of the Year would have to wait.
By the time I had gotten around to putting my plan into action, it was Sunday morning and my husband was home. But he was still asleep, so I thought I was good. I'm always the first one up on Sundays. I got my stool and put it in front of the bathroom mirror, got my scissors and my new shiny roll of duct tape, and off I went. I started at the afore-mentioned hip area. Three times around should do it. I started to put on my skirt when I heard him. You see, I hadn't realized how much noise I was making. Not only is duct tape loud, but it makes an unmistakable sound. Especially to the ears of a handy man like mine. "What are you doing?" I ignored it. I was finished anyway. He'll go back to sleep. I got my skirt on. From the front, perfection. I had done it. I had lobbed off my upper thighs without a knife. I stepped off the stool and got my shoes. I went out into the bedroom and he looked up.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing. I'm leaving. See you soon." I whispered.
At this point, for reasons unknown except that God actually does love me, I casually ran my hands across the back of my skirt. I can't really describe what I felt except to say it was some sort of new development. Like a growth. A big roll where there had never, ever been one before. I went back into the bathroom and got back on the stool. I turned to check the rear view when I saw it. There was this....shelf. I hadn't realized it, but all that stuff I was binding had to go somewhere, and it went up, in a terribly unattractive place. My rear. Not a problem. I dropped my skirt (which fell off effortlessly, what with me having just lost 3 inches and all) and grabbed the tape again. I started at the problem area and went around a few times when I heard it again. "What are you doing?" I checked the clock and kept going. Sound check was fast approaching and I did not have time to answer these ridiculous questions at 7:40 in the morning. Can't a woman get ready for church without interruptions? I put my skirt back on. This time I didn't have to turn around. The shelf had moved to my waist. And only on one side. I looked like a hunchback who couldn't even get that right. I inched my way around on the stool to check the back to see what was going on. This was not good. While the mid-rear shelf was gone, other things had gone south. I grabbed the tape and started again. This was getting complicated. The lower I had to go, the harder it was going to be to walk. I don't have time for this! Glancing at the clock again I was in full panic mode. I was wrapping faster than an elf on Christmas Eve, tossing the tape from one hand to the other. I'd developed quite a rhythm. After more than a few times around at this super pace, I had the lower problem solved. Awesome. I'll have to take really small steps but I can do this. I'll just make sure no one's behind me when we're walking up the steps to get on stage. No big deal. I continued upward to address the issue on the side. 'I wonder if it will hurt to take this off? Not now, Tamara. Beauty is pain. And at least you're not working up a sweat putting on your Spanx.' This was a wonderful thought. I wasn't going to need another shower after putting on an undergarment. Fueled by this enthusiasm I went faster. His voice was getting louder now but I couldn't be bothered with explanations. I kept going. And going. My entire mid and lower sections were bound. Good thing my shirt was black. But what was up with my knees? All that stuff had been smushed down to my legs! But my skirt was long enough. I just won't be able to cross my legs. I can still make this work. OK time to assess. Let's see what we've got. I tossed the roll on the counter and went for the skirt. That's when I realized the flaw in my plan. I had managed to bind all my unwanted parts quite successfully, but I hadn't factored in actually being able to get down from the stool. Or breathing. I couldn't do either. Dang it, if I could just get the skirt on - it will hang so cute, I just know it! (Remember the one track mind thing?) But there was no way. I was literally stuck, 12 inches off the ground, in front of my mirror, looking at this ridiculous image of myself covered in grey. And then it happened. "TAMARA! What are you DOING?!" He wasn't going to be ignored anymore. And the terrible cursed fact was, I needed him.
As I was calling for him I started to try to get it off. This is when I discovered that duct tape is not only loud, but terribly sticky. In fact, terribly doesn't cut it. And neither do scissors when it's attached to your underwear.
"HELP!" I yelled. "I can't get out!" He came through the bathroom door. He didn't stop to ask. He didn't even look surprised. Because he wasn't. He had known all along what I was doing. The man lived with me. It didn't take a genius.
He sat down on the edge of the bathtub and started to cut me out of my duct tape tomb. I was clawing at the front. "Strings??!! It's -- there's all these -- it turns into strings?? I can't -- it didn't work!!" He was just nodding and smiling. "I know babe. I know."
Miraculously and sweetly, he freed me. He even spared the Victoria's Secret underwear from a single clip. And me & my hips made it to sound check on time.
I noticed a little piece of tape on the stage that morning and had to chuckle. OK, I didn't chuckle. I threw up in my mouth a little, and then I tried not to cry.
But today, with about 96 hours between me and my statue, I think I've actually learned something. I know it won't work. I no longer have to be obsessed and preoccupied. There is no instant gratification when it comes to hippage. Starving myself last summer did absolutely no good because I couldn't keep it up. Having 28 less pounds of me was wonderful while it lasted, but the obsessive way I got there was not maintainable. And when I was finished, there was still a McDonald's on every corner and a Snickers at every Target checkout. I still say God doesn't play fair, but that belief hasn't gotten me very far in this particular area. So now I can move on to reasonable things like eating salad for dinner and spending more quality time with Eva The Elliptical and Tony the P90X man. Go figure.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
It's Not My Fault
When I was in high school I was told I needed to do 2 things. One was work for Hallmark Greeting Cards. The other was become an English teacher. I was also voted most likely to have a top 40 hit somewhere in the future. Let's tackle that one right off the bat. I do love to sing and I was brought up doing it. And in my small Arizona town consisting of a McDonald's and one movie theater, the collective idea that I could be famous someday based on my rendition of 'Open Arms' seemed completely reasonable. After all, my only competition on 1985-ish radio were Cyndi Lauper, George Michael and that lead singer for the Bangles. Of course there was Whitney, but since she has no equal you can't really factor her in. Thus I figured I could handle George and the nasal girls. But then in the early 90's I moved back to my Texas roots, and what they say is true. Everything here is bigger, and the talent is no exception.
That brings us to option one above, teacher. While I am known as the Grammar Queen amongst my family, (and it's a title I wear proudly) and I do pay entirely too much attention to how people misuse their apostrophes, I can think of plenty of other things I'd rather do besides diagram a sentence, and the fact that this sentence hasn't ended yet tells you that I'll employ poetic license over that run-on rule every time.
Onward to the greeting cards. This was suggested by all my BFF's because I wrote poems every time there was a life-altering event in any of our lives. In high school, that usually meant 2 poems every day. Before lunch.
So while you'll probably never hear Ryan Seacrest say my name, and you won't see my cheesy poems on any cards, and the only people to whom I'll be teaching English will be my children (and my husband who has a language all his own), you will, should you choose to glance at it, see this blog. My blog. My outlet for all those pent up feelings I've apparently felt the need to write about for most of my life. Before the Internet, my sister told me I needed to write a newspaper column. Well, they never called either, so here we are. My column. I titled this first one in honor of said sister, who grew up hearing me say those words probably as often as I wrote poems. "It's not my fault." You see, she and all those BFFs and teachers in high school made me think I was some kind of writer. It only took me a couple of decades to think they might be on to something, and now that I do, we can all blame them.
I all ready have the title for my next entry. I won't give it all away, but I will tell you it involves duct tape. And not in a good way.
That brings us to option one above, teacher. While I am known as the Grammar Queen amongst my family, (and it's a title I wear proudly) and I do pay entirely too much attention to how people misuse their apostrophes, I can think of plenty of other things I'd rather do besides diagram a sentence, and the fact that this sentence hasn't ended yet tells you that I'll employ poetic license over that run-on rule every time.
Onward to the greeting cards. This was suggested by all my BFF's because I wrote poems every time there was a life-altering event in any of our lives. In high school, that usually meant 2 poems every day. Before lunch.
So while you'll probably never hear Ryan Seacrest say my name, and you won't see my cheesy poems on any cards, and the only people to whom I'll be teaching English will be my children (and my husband who has a language all his own), you will, should you choose to glance at it, see this blog. My blog. My outlet for all those pent up feelings I've apparently felt the need to write about for most of my life. Before the Internet, my sister told me I needed to write a newspaper column. Well, they never called either, so here we are. My column. I titled this first one in honor of said sister, who grew up hearing me say those words probably as often as I wrote poems. "It's not my fault." You see, she and all those BFFs and teachers in high school made me think I was some kind of writer. It only took me a couple of decades to think they might be on to something, and now that I do, we can all blame them.
I all ready have the title for my next entry. I won't give it all away, but I will tell you it involves duct tape. And not in a good way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)