tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72050444591789092952024-03-05T05:55:20.501-05:00The Coffee Cottage Real Life. One Sip at a Time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger546125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-84822079896203262882021-09-16T10:07:00.212-04:002021-09-19T20:42:34.507-04:00Heading Home<p>The first green sign for the Delaware Memorial Bridge always elicited a quickening of my spirit, already anticipatory but a bit dulled by the long stretch of Route 41 endured in the pre-dawn dark for what felt like hours. We're almost halfway there! </p><p>The first sign of our nearness to the Ninth Street Bridge was the blue strips of water slicing through the tall green grass that seemed to wave its welcome to the place I drew pictures of on the manilla papers tucked in my purple Trapper Keeper, starting back in May.</p><p>The sight of the Ninth Street Bridge caused a loosening of the seat belt, arms around the back of my mom's headrest, and a huge smile. Sometimes, and it was a real bummer, the light at the drawbridge would turn yellow just as our wood-paneled van started up its length. We'd wait, and wait, and wait as a meandering yacht would sail through the center of the structure, like the Israelites through the Red Sea, but with less urgency. After its passage, the grated door would ease back into the center of the bridge, and off we'd go, the smell of the saltwater and boardwalk, Johnson's popcorn and Morrow's Nut House roasted peanuts filling our nostrils and welcoming us to the best week of summer at Grandpa and Grandma's condo by the beach.</p><p>Active anticipation, generated by a joy in the journey. These memories are a gift.</p><p>Sometimes I pine for them. Not just sometimes, often...and more so these days. </p><p>It is not as if I never liked where I lived most of the year, the town that I left to go to the place I loved. I did. I was invested in constantly rearranging my Strawberry Shortcake-themed room, pouring my energy into creating games with my playground friends, and finding satisfaction in babysitting my Amish babysitters when they were supposed to be watching me (they were always easy to watch because they were watching our big box television downstairs). Along with that came my struggles to get beyond my learning disability, my fear of suddenly not being able to breathe (long story), and other worries that clouded my little world. My everyday home was full of all of the stuff of life--the hard and the heavy, along with the good and great. I fully lived where I was, but I always knew summer was coming and the culmination of each year was arriving at a place where I knew no sorrow or disappointment (ok, <i>except</i> the year I got chickenpox -and that other time when I ran into a light pole on the boardwalk while on my grandpa's fold-up bike). The small shore town in New Jersey and the people in it gave me the purest moments of joy and contentedness in my childhood.</p><p>***</p><p>Today from where I stand, in my home, in my hometown, in my country, I feel a distinct sense of heaviness, as if the devil has his thumb pressed down on the people of Earth. He knows his time is short and he is working overtime at deepening division between everything that could be divided, causing confusion and major detours and doubts in our spirits. Home here on planet earth has felt especially hard and difficult to navigate these last two years.</p><p>I feel it. I see it. I want to hunker down and live in a hole some days...</p><p>...until I remember; the best time of my life is yet to come.</p><p>The reality is, I am not here to stay. No one is. We're all headed somewhere else, each of us seeing the end of this life and the start of next a bit differently. For me, every morning is one morning closer to the place my spirit anticipates my arrival to. The reality of a joy-unending, whole-hearted, unhurried, unworried destination to look forward to is a gift! A delight! A thrill! It should imprint a permanent sparkle in my eye and a quickening of my spirit. I could sketch about it in the folds of my journal (if I journaled).</p><p>My real Home, my True North, contains a lifestyle reflecting the attributes above, one that is available, in small part, in every hard and happy(ish) moment right now. Sometimes uncertainty pulls my mind so close to the ground, it is easy to forget my all-inclusive membership privileges</p><p>of joy, </p><p>of peace, </p><p>of patience, </p><p>of kindness, </p><p>of gentleness </p><p>and of self-control are not being withheld until the by-and-by. They are not dependent on a political party or contingent on favorable conditions. They are ready for pick-up and beg to be used in the here-and-now, not to make our lives more comfortable, but to give a cushion to hearts in hard places--ours and that of our neighbor.</p><p>My destination does not end with what I gain in the future. It is meant to completely shake up my perspective and affect how I approach each day of my journey there. </p><p>When I live like my citizenship is more there than here, nervous energy fuels me, always looking over my shoulder and dreading tomorrow. When I channel my best energy to instead devoting my days to storing up the treasures I will unpack later, offering the too-good-to-be true perks of citizenship to a cause where justice and mercy, love and wholeness are given away for free, the difference to those around me should be not only a refreshing one but also an open invitation to learn more about this way of life available to anyone, at any point in history, in any place on Earth, no matter what to join in on the best days of our lives, no matter where or how long we live- in this part of them.</p><p>I guess what I'm saying is: I am tired of being tempted to be fueled by fear, overcome with the evil around or found cowering in a hole I have dug for me and my family. While it is true hard days have come and harder days may be ahead, there is ALSO too much good ahead, too much hope available on-tap even- and especially- now. I so deeply want to be a whimsical, sleeves-rolled-up spirit of a person who <i>actively anticipates</i> the place she is headed to while offering bits and pieces of the destination to the here and now. Wouldn't it make those around me curious as to what is keeping me going, causing me to spread joy and kindness and love even when where I live no longer looks or feels as familiar to me as it once did? </p><p>***</p><p>As I pine for the places I used to visit as a child, it has dawned on my spirit that these treasured moments are pinpoints, guideposts, reminders of what I am <i>really</i> longing for: my true Home. While slowly moving through each day on our tired planet, I hope to bring others around me along on my travel through each day on it, even if it is bumpy and begs for more comfortable seating. All the best moments from all our happiest "happy places" added up could not compare to half a second of what is ahead.</p><p>Chin up, eyes clear, heart-focused, joy unleashed. We're on our way.</p><p>***</p><h1 class="quoteText" style="background-color: white; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-weight: normal; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;"><i><span style="color: #990000; font-size: medium;">“There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind."― <span class="authorOrTitle" face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif" style="font-weight: bold;">C.S. Lewis</span></span></i></h1><div><i><span class="authorOrTitle" face="Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></i></div><p><br /></p><p>
<img align="left" src="http://i386.photobucket.com/albums/oo310/shabbycreations2/JeanePostSig.png" style="border: 0px;" />
</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-63100485483818587212021-08-25T17:04:00.009-04:002021-08-25T18:29:10.919-04:00An Open Letter To Leaders in Impossible Places<p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Hello, kind reader (all four of you!)</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>The words of this letter have been floating around my overly crowded head for some time. I finally made time to pin them down, sort them out and send them in letter form to the people who are tasked with the impossible: making most people satisfied. It is a cruel and thankless world out there, and anytime the words given to me can assist in even the most minuscule way, I am grateful to share them. This could probably be sent to almost any school board, anywhere...and if you feel led to customize it to make it your own and share with yours, feel free.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Peace to you,</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>J.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">August 25, 2021<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">To Whom It May Concern:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">I am a resident of Conestoga Valley School District,
mom of five children who are currently at all levels of education offered therewithin
and am writing to say it has been hard being human, mostly always, but never
more than these past many months. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">The last word, the having of it, is seemingly one of the
greatest desires of every one of my five amazing and strong-willed children. Our
family structure was Divinely designed to include our children being born
within three years of each other, paving the way for a very active, spirited dynamic
in which I am daily (multiple times daily, really) called to act as judge, referee, and negotiator. It is almost never that, in any of those roles, I make a call in
which everyone is pleased. In fact, before I’m even involved, most everyone involved
in any situation has already assumed their normal positions of self-defense
and have pigeon-holed the different personalities to their typical reactions. There
are moments when I have two (or more) young people passionately demanding that it is THEIR
side of the story/cause/plight/fight/debate which is the accurate one and that it would be ludicrous for me to believe the other side. I’m damned
if I do, damned if I don’t. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">All this to say, the dynamics in the fallout of a
worldwide pandemic played out in a school district (or anywhere, including text
threads and Instagram stories) are not completely unfamiliar to me. I have
those in my life who I love who have been dramatically affected by Covid and
whose experience on the front lines of medical care has caused deep respect
for the damage it can do. I have those in my life who I love who believe the
measures put in place are a means of government control and pharmaceutical
gain. I have those I love who praised the Heavens the day a vaccine was made available
to them and those who would not near that needle, even on a cold day in Hell. I
also have a whole lot of people who find themselves somewhere between the
parameters depicted above. It has become, sadly, increasingly easy to place
each other to one side or the other, forgetting that beneath every word that
comes out of our mouths are a myriad of experiences, family histories, and fears
that make up a person’s perspective. It is much easier to lump another human in
the prefabricated pigeon-holes passionately fueled by media (social and
otherwise) and let anger fume and fester. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">Meanwhile, our children are watching. Future leaders
are taking note without lifting a pencil. They’ll remember how their parents
reacted to a dark moment in history.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">I am not writing to promote the wearing of masks or not,
the need for vaccination or not or any of these topics that make me want to
curl in a fetal position and listen to Christmas music when I hear (or more
likely read) respectable adults losing their minds over it. My family and I had
a “lovely” three-week COVID experience in April. Seven positive COVID tests now
grace our medical records and I thank God that for <i>my</i> children
(certainly not the case for all), the experience was completely unremarkable
and that their greatest health risk was having their mother lose <i>her</i>
mind in her role as an interim (at-home) School Principal. I have respect for
the fact that this is a virus that has upended the lives of so many people and I
also choose not to live in fear of COVID for my children as much as I do the children
of parents who are so angry with EITHER SIDE of this (or other) issue their children
are internalizing it and mimicking the animosity to those around them.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">As I often tell my children when I’m in the midst or
after delivering a verdict in any given situation, “I could be wrong. I am only
human. I’m doing the best with what I know”. This is true for anyone making a
judgment call in this current culture.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">As we continue to navigate the nuances, nuisances and
nasty threats of COVID, may we first remember to take a deep breath and as
decisions are made by leaders who never asked to be handed this crisis, may we the first judge our own response and assumptions, listen with intent, and show our
children what it looks like to offer principled yet grace-filled and empathetic
responses in a world where it feels impossible to make a decision that satisfies
the wishes and quells the fears of all sides.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">My thanks to the Board of Directors and Dr. Zuilkoski
for doing the best with what they know. I might not always agree with the
specifics, but I appreciate all that our administration and staff are doing to create
as positive and normal a year as they can for each and every student.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: times;">Sincerely,</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;">Jeane’ </span></p><p><img align="left" src="http://i386.photobucket.com/albums/oo310/shabbycreations2/JeanePostSig.png" style="border: 0px;" /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-89921722639509543702020-10-07T18:57:00.006-04:002020-10-08T07:38:05.062-04:00Hanging Up On Phone Addiction<p><i>*Hello! The following is an essay I wrote for my Composition 101 course (In case you didn't know, I am a (very part time) college student for the very first time.). I thought perhaps my thoughts might mirror yours and I would LOVE suggestions on how you've kept smartphones from taking over your life. </i></p><p><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">The cord was as taut as it could get, stretched around the corner of the kitchen into the powder bathroom where I sat in the darkness, on the floor, talking to my best friend about the sighting of her current crush. My mom knocked on the door, again, sending a muffled reminder that I had to get off the telephone. I said my reluctant goodbye, promising her I would meet up with her in front of the school the next morning and emerged from my conversation cocoon. I hung up the phone on its holder fastened to the wall and walked away.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">Boy, I miss those days.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">Back then, I could not have projected that someday I (and my children) would struggle to hang up the device we call a “phone” today, but not because I’m talking on it. Talking is the least of the activities we engage with on our smartphones, the small piece of technology that has, in a relatively short time frame, taking up a big part of our lives. According to Pew Research Center, “The vast majority of Americans – 96% – now own a cellphone of some kind. The share of Americans that own smartphones is now 81%, up from just 35% in Pew Research Center’s first survey of smartphone ownership conducted in 2011.”</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">If a smartphone was simply for making and taking calls, this essay would be about how to extract my children from the powder room when they’re talking to their friend for too long. It is not, however, simply a phone. It is a gateway to every perceivable bit of information, desirous and otherwise. As a popular tech website defines it this way: “A smartphone combines a cellphone with email and Web, music and movie player, camera, camcorder, GPS navigation, voice recorder, alarm clock, flashlight, photo album, address book and a lot more. It is also a personal assistant that delivers information and answers questions about almost everything. A lot more personal than a personal computer, a smartphone is generally within reach at all times.” At all times, indeed.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">My eldest child turned 14 in July and I remember the summer he was born I sheepishly decided to join a new(ish) platform called Facebook. I say sheepishly because my younger sister had informed me that this was a tool mainly for college-aged students who wanted to get to know other people on campus. As we now know, it quickly became much, much more than that. For years, it was the place on my computer where I got to share snapshots of our lives, find out what happened to MY college roommate, and occasionally ask for the best place to pick pumpkins (or the like). Slowly, silently, this novel and occasional engagement with social media-and others like it (such as Instagram) became something I could access on a hand-held phone and it stealthily worked its way into my subconscious as an addiction, even as until recently, I would have never seen it as such.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">It is only now, as I have felt the demands of life pile up (illuminated in the backdrop of a world-wide pandemic) that the glow of the phone has felt more like an unhealthy attempt to numb the stress of it all. Is it too strong to suggest addiction? Not according to Nicholas Kardaras, Ph.D., <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Glow-Kids-Screen-Addiction-Hijacking/dp/1250146550/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&hvadid=78683852806500&hvbmt=be&hvdev=c&hvqmt=e&keywords=glow+kids&qid=1602111247&sr=8-1&tag=mh0b-20" target="_blank">author of Glow Kids</a>, who writes, “ Perhaps most shocking of all, recent brain-imaging studies conclusively show that excessive screen exposure can neurologically damage a young person’s developing brain in the same way that cocaine addiction can.” He speaks of a developing brain, but even those brains that are already developed are prone to being rewired.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">Furthermore, in a study by The Journal of Democracy, Ronald Deibert notes, “Social media stimulate us in a powerfully subconscious and hormonal way. They affect the human brain in the same way that falling in love does. Levels of oxytocin—sometimes called the “love hormone”—rise as much as 13 percent when people use social media for as little as ten minutes. People addicted to social media “experience symptoms similar to those experienced by individuals who suffer from addictions to substances or other behaviors”—such as withdrawal symptoms, relapse, and mood modification. Is it accurate to describe our embrace of social media as witting when that embrace has the properties of an addiction?”</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">If you look for it, there is a devastating amount of such findings tucked in and throughout the very internet the research proves dangerous when consumed in unhealthy doses (you do have to look though, the internet does not like its dirty laundry hanging out in the open). It is possible that if this technology weren’t held in our hands, and within close reach at all times, that the negative effects of this would be so damning. Still. I have my smart phone and for months, I’ve grown increasingly aware of the time-sucking, mind-dulling effect it is having on me and those of my children who have one.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">Last week I verbally vomited all over my Instagram story, a place I rarely post to, but the culmination of bad tastes that social media and time in front a screen was giving me left me vulnerable to such an ordeal. I waxed on (and on) about how tired I was of the feeling that I’m a slave to my smartphone and how difficult it is to see my children beginning to treat their devices as if they were a third hand and an unalienable right. I bemoaned the days of a phone being attached to a cord and on the other end of the line there was another human whose tone and inflection I was actually listening to and reasoning with. I spoke of the heaviness of having to process all the opinions (from ridiculous to reasonable) on all the topics (from inane to important) and how they were cluttering my brain, clouding my reasoning and clogging my ability to sift information in a healthy way.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">After spewing all my pent-up digital frustration, the response from my humble number of friends following my diatribe was immediate and immense. The overwhelming amount of messages in response were akin to a resounding “Amen” from a congregation of unwilling tech addicts who know better, want to do better and aren’t quite sure how to weed out the technology that has overtaken they and their family’s lives.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">One friend sent me a link to an<a href="https://www.independent.co.uk/news/long_reads/smartphone-get-rid-social-media-change-life-online-capitalism-internet-detox-control-a7910066.html" target="_blank"> article by Thomas Goulding</a> titled “How getting rid of my smartphone revolutionized my life”. In it he writes, “ Researchers are fairly successful uncovering the ocean of evidence that suggests living completely immersed in the “information ecosystem” of smartphone, internet and social media feed – as billions of people do every day worldwide- is seriously detrimental to one’s mental health and cognitive capacity.” He goes on to warn, “We lose the ability to deeply concentrate and contemplate. We have higher general levels of anxiety and emotional anesthesia. We struggle to retain memory in the same way, outsourcing this function to Google. Our minds are becoming more like automated data-processing machines, drained of creative dynamism and vibrancy.”</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">The fact that I can hardly write this piece without checking Instagram (my last hold out that is no longer on my phone, but still holding on in a laptop tab) tells me that this is not a problem easily solved. There are ways to establish healthy boundaries, such as no phones in bedrooms, no social media apps on the phone, etc. I’m open and researching best practices for keeping technology on a (tight) leash, but right now I am simply grateful I’ve been able to see the severity of the problem and to acknowledge that, even though others might be faring worse than I, an addiction is…addictive, no matter the severity. (In my research, I stumbled across the book “<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tech-Wise-Family-Everyday-Putting-Technology/dp/0801018668/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&hvadid=77790501592383&hvbmt=be&hvdev=c&hvqmt=e&keywords=the+tech+wise+family+andy+crouch&qid=1602111050&sr=8-1&tag=mh0b-20" target="_blank">The Tech Wise Family</a>” and it already has me reordering/refining my habits).</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">This summer our family spent a few weeks in the middle of nowhere in Maine. Sitting by a lake, with little to no coverage (thus my phone collecting dust on the dresser), I read an article titled “Pre-Digital Connectivity” in the July issue Down East Magazine which shed light to a little -known radio program still airing in a small circumference of the state. The writer described Phone Mart as “a 10-minute interlude that sociologists should study for the insight it offers into rural life, economics and the availability of snowplow blades. Phone Mart has been our social media since long before <em style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: inherit;">that</em> social media.”</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">The article went on to describe the call in’s from a wide spectrum of people with an equally wide variety of needs. There are offers of firewood for sale, a reminder of the upcoming pork luncheon hosted by the Masons and a PSA reminding pet owners to bring their animals in before winter weather settles in. There was also the endearing request by an elderly woman who called in to ask (in a “thin crackling voice”) that someone send her a Valentine's Day card because she is just so lonely. Bless it all. The author concludes, “If sociologists were tuning in to Phone Mart, one thing they would be hard-pressed not to notice is how polite and humane the exchanges are”. Humane exchanges? In 2020? Imagine that!</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">I know we can not bring back our analog-based past in its entirety and that there is no choice but to be the adult and figure out a way to establish healthy, emotionally-optimal use of technology to our advantage and not our detriment. While I long for the days when we were tethered to each other by way of frequency waves and spiral cords, I still have the choice to hang up the aspects of my smartphone that keep me looking down and inward. Today, I hear the sound of knocking at the door of my conscience and I know it is time to put down the phone far more than I pick it up.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><br style="box-sizing: inherit;" /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">Works Cited</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">“Smartphone.” PCmag.com, 2020, <a href="http://www.pcmag.com/encyclopedia/term/smartphone" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: inherit; color: #1b6d91; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration-line: none; transition: box-shadow 0.3s ease-out 0s, border-color 0.3s ease-out 0s;">www.pcmag.com/encyclopedia/term/smartphone</a></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">“Mobile Fact Sheet.” PewResearch.org, June 12, 2019,</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><a href="http://www.pewresearch.org/internet/fact-sheet/mobile/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="background-color: transparent; box-sizing: inherit; color: #1b6d91; font-weight: 700; line-height: inherit; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-decoration-line: none; transition: box-shadow 0.3s ease-out 0s, border-color 0.3s ease-out 0s;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">www.pewresearch.org/internet/fact-sheet/mobile/</span></a></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Kardaras PhD., Thomas. <em style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: inherit;">Glow Kids</em>. St. Martin’s Griffin, 2016</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Deibert, Ronald J. "The Road to Digital Unfreedom: Three Painful Truths about Social Media."<em style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: inherit;"> Journal of Democracy</em>, vol. 30, no. 1, 2019, pp. 25-39<em style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: inherit;">. ProQuest</em>, http://search.proquest.com.ezproxy.hacc.edu/docview/2177204183?accountid=11302, doi:http://dx.doi.org.ezproxy.hacc.edu/10.1353/jod.2019.0002.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Crouch, Andy. <em style="box-sizing: inherit; line-height: inherit;">The Tech-Wise Family</em>, Baker Books, 2017. Kindle.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; color: #5d656f; font-family: "Open Sans", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.875rem; margin: 0.9375rem 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Burke, Michael. “Pre-Digital Technology.” Down East Magazine, July 2020, pp. 48-50</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>
<img align="left" src="http://i386.photobucket.com/albums/oo310/shabbycreations2/JeanePostSig.png" style="border: 0px;" />
</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-19800410987675866902020-09-18T11:24:00.015-04:002020-09-18T14:08:32.967-04:00Little Fires<p><br /></p><p>Imagine with me if you will or want to:</p><p><br /></p><p>A big, beautiful stretch of land. People who have inhabited it for a relatively short amount of time have set up camps. They used to be less definitive, but now there are quite obviously two, with a third in the middle (but you have to look close). </p><p><br /></p><p>On one side of the horizon, a group of people has amassed around a large fire, seemingly very concerned and concerted in their joint efforts to make certain is as robust and resilient as it can be, not afraid to go to unconventional measure to make it loom larger. </p><p><br /></p><p>On the other side of the horizon, another group are also feverishly working together to throw in more kindling, hefting heavy logs and liberally dousing ethenol in hopes their well-established fire will prevail the other. </p><p><br /></p><p>There is a somewhat disoriented crowd in the middle, equipped with all the elements required to build their own fire, but they are feeling a little paralyzed and possibly intimidated by the sheer strength of the fires on either side of them. What's interesting, they note, it is not unusual to see a woman or man from one fire dart to the other, in order to aid another when they need a ride to the doctor, or take them a meal when they have a baby or lend them a stick of butter when they are in a cake making bind. Otherwise, the groups stay mostly to themselves, high-fiving each other when a particularly potent piece of kindling creates an emphatic advance to their fire. </p><p><br /></p><p>The group on the left considers the smoke from the fire on the right to be tinged with the aura of self-centered, close-minded and antiquated kindling of the hell and brimstone variety. They can't stand the smell and hope to extinguish it.</p><p><br /></p><p>The group on the right considers the smoke from the fire on the left heavy-laden with traces of kindling composed of moral decay, reckless irresponsibility and the destruction of freedom. They fear the smell and rally their troops to stand against it. </p><p><br /></p><p>The group in the middle grows increasingly nervous, anxious, their stomach twisting into knots as the smoke from either side overwhelms their ability to breathe. "To which side should I go to?", they wonder. Many of these folks in the middle deeply love and are dearly loved by those on either side and get nervous or defensive when they feel commanded to change or shame or vilify one or the other. They know there is so much more to any one of us than the ring of fire they are around. They have been the ones to hold their hand when a diagnosis is given, to cry with them when their marriage disintegrated and to listen carefully when a general injustice became personal. It does not matter what smoke they smell of, the virtues and vices they struggle with are human ones and as it turns out, it does not matter where one stands, the internal struggles and joys look a lot the same. It just takes intention to stop and remember with smoke so thick that even on a clear day, it is impossible to see the internal workings of a human based on their outside and against the caricature the culture paints of those who stand by them.</p><p><br /></p><p>Don't be fooled. It is not that the ones in the middle have no grit or conviction. They too desire liberty and justice for all and were willing to add their part to either fire as needed and at times, the need was great and getting singed by the flame is sometimes proof of care to those on fire themselves. The problem was, they were uncomfortable staking out in one place because they knew two things:</p><p><br /></p><p>1. There was a whole lot of hope and hurt around <i>both </i>fires. Not <i>all</i> was toxic on either side and one could find some wise, hopeful solutions for the concerns that threatened a whole-hearted life in the midst of either. Both are guilting of using fear as a fire starter (and maintainer).</p><p>2. They, the middle ones, are invested but not permanent dwellers. It was easy to forget their True Place of Belonging is not around either fire ring. While from time to time they have stepped up to either blaze to contribute out of a conviction of the moment, they do not feel comfortable staking their tent there, even as the camaraderie feels strong and sure. They were sojourners, headed to a land of Light and Goodness and it was their hope to let their lives cast off a bit of a preview of what it might feel like to live in such a place.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>And so...</i></p><p><br /></p><p>They stayed in the middle. They built and tended to their own little fires in order to burn up their worries, their cares, their fears of having to keep a distance from either side, casting it all up to the One who holds the entire landscape (seen and unseen) in hands bigger than the Universe. The little fires not only served to burn off their own worry but to offer solace to whoever came along (from either direction) and needed a safe place to regroup and remove themselves from the intensity of the heat. They sat around their little fires, inviting others to join, leaning in and listening first, constantly conferring with the One who is Wisdom to sift through what was heard. Some called it spineless, but they found strength and purpose at staying in the middle. If an ariel view were permitted, it might appear that all these little fires between the two big ones created a cord that kept the land from completely going up in flames.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxKLJX29Evy9J1n_MtynaW5exTDr_pO6ETXYrwH1q4RgfyyQFjGtQnJ7rgwqRLRKZrm8Z69MoeOnhoEhpvx7efQASZ7y85hC4Nhgwqd4OIZtYP6Cx15B2nLem7mZQ2-nr-zm3cSZy3odk2/s2048/unnamed+%25285%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxKLJX29Evy9J1n_MtynaW5exTDr_pO6ETXYrwH1q4RgfyyQFjGtQnJ7rgwqRLRKZrm8Z69MoeOnhoEhpvx7efQASZ7y85hC4Nhgwqd4OIZtYP6Cx15B2nLem7mZQ2-nr-zm3cSZy3odk2/w300-h400/unnamed+%25285%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Hi.</p><p>I didn't want to write this, but I felt prompted to enough that it felt disobedient not to. To those who might not have caught the reference, I am a Jesus-follower who believes in His way and how He points to a Kingdom that is not only to come (our True Home), but a Kingdom that here and and now. We, His followers, are the "here and now" and I'm afraid I haven't been a very accurate representation, even right this moment. I am totally in need of and a daily recipient God's grace and strength to be a decent, albeit distorted, reflection of His way. If any of my words have any meaning or impact, I take no credit. I'm simply typing out imperfect dictation. </p><p><br /></p><p>IF you feel "in the middle" as I do, I simply want to metaphorically rub your back and say "it's ok". I get it. Take a few deep breaths. You're not the only one who gets nervous when those who deeply love are deeply committed to either fire. Somedays, it would be really nice just to go back to being completely enveloped by one camp or another, as there are many we deeply love in the midst. Take heart, middle dweller. Our God is not nervous, He is not wringing His hands and holding his breath, hoping the next headline magnifies His message. He's got a better-than-bird's-eye-view and this is just a small slice of a big history He's been working on for a long time (to our way of thinking). </p><p><br /></p><p>IF you or someone you love camped by a big fire, this does not make them wrong/bad/out of step nor does it make you more righteous for being in the middle. God does need and use people close to either fire. They are not to be demonized, as He created loves them and could have very likely led them to that place. Sometimes, He needs people close to the center to achieve His purposes. Because of smoke that ALWAYS clouds our vision, we cannot be the judge of jury of anyone but ourselves. We can trust that if He has someone in the place He wants them and it doesn't seem right to us, that doesn't make them wrong. <i>It is not the proximity to the fire that makes it dangerous, but the belief that it is the most all-consuming and important element for bringing a preview of God's Kingdom to the here-and-now. </i></p><p><br /></p><p>BACK to being in the middle: If you're tending your little fire and feel a bit insecure and politically homeless as you watch the shared passion pulling and fueling people together, here are three resources I cannot recommend highly enough. One of the authors is long gone to our True Home-a teacher in the league of CS Lewis and NT Wright who wrote the book I value most second to the Bible, the other is an incredibly smart young woman who was recently featured in the New York Times (this book is both smart and engaging!) and the third is a man in Nashville who hasn't hid his struggles with depression and performance fatigue as he humbly shepards a church family in Nashville, Tennessee. I have tremendous respect for all three. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Gentle-Answer-Secret-Weapon-Against/dp/1400216559/ref=sr_1_1_sspa?crid=UKFN4LPJV807&dchild=1&keywords=a+gentle+answer+scott+sauls&qid=1600439260&sprefix=A+gentle+Answer%2Caps%2C173&sr=8-1-spons&psc=1&spLa=ZW5jcnlwdGVkUXVhbGlmaWVyPUE1STFYU0FHME9CRFkmZW5jcnlwdGVkSWQ9QTAxMDMxNTgxTTMyMTJLNExXNDRRJmVuY3J5cHRlZEFkSWQ9QTA5MTMyNDBOQTVJT0hHTjJMUTUmd2lkZ2V0TmFtZT1zcF9hdGYmYWN0aW9uPWNsaWNrUmVkaXJlY3QmZG9Ob3RMb2dDbGljaz10cnVl" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBOftQb9KqnlA42PvbUZaUd5dg67Y3pH8QtZZOQM7TUaw60F8ohxBki3Oeub2KOIySSQbr-okKE8YdUpUNjpyiD_O-hwvoxo1Og0mJZ3eaOBEAdO3eQtFDDt_3mdZR3P8tVRt7YNZAOwWH/s320/51FrvKeKObL._SX323_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Liturgy-Politics-Spiritual-Formation-Neighbor/dp/0830848304/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3A3I5A0IS70Y4&dchild=1&keywords=liturgy+of+politics&qid=1600439475&sprefix=liturg%2Caps%2C321&sr=8-1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="323" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTubGz4IfUb06pfAjrN13-GrnKae8vWnnKtXY3BcoKdX8HHBQYQaDXanuH18LKWMCXmswHnadEIYJ51AeoQY5H0Q632kecJSffMLuOnB-HCgDDC38XOGY1ROvlrjQyQmC_mJnSGDC4cdrz/s320/51eD1bCsg5L._SX321_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Gentle-Answer-Secret-Weapon-Against/dp/1400216559/ref=sr_1_1_sspa?crid=UKFN4LPJV807&dchild=1&keywords=a+gentle+answer+scott+sauls&qid=1600439260&sprefix=A+gentle+Answer%2Caps%2C173&sr=8-1-spons&psc=1&spLa=ZW5jcnlwdGVkUXVhbGlmaWVyPUE1STFYU0FHME9CRFkmZW5jcnlwdGVkSWQ9QTAxMDMxNTgxTTMyMTJLNExXNDRRJmVuY3J5cHRlZEFkSWQ9QTA5MTMyNDBOQTVJT0hHTjJMUTUmd2lkZ2V0TmFtZT1zcF9hdGYmYWN0aW9uPWNsaWNrUmVkaXJlY3QmZG9Ob3RMb2dDbGljaz10cnVl" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="329" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoAxkUbo0ymXqF2_041_oar_hsYZEavQplSby2QZef2LzeWJ23BkSRBfyoVyXQb4TWJOUNlr86QjzebfiR_S6PiB5VG8yFKlU0NlssVTvuCAUWKpOdg0w_w_jZxDF9jf9-2PYFLJhLrAJm/s320/51XlE3M5HVL._SX327_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div>This is also a good listen by Scott Sauls: <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7IdwFixApbo" width="320" youtube-src-id="7IdwFixApbo"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>We don’t yet see things clearly. We’re squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won’t be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We’ll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!</b></i></div><div><i><b><br />But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love.</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>1 Corinthians 13:12</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>Love and grace to all of you, no matter where you are.<b><i><br /></i></b><p>Jeane'</p><p>
<img align="left" src="http://i386.photobucket.com/albums/oo310/shabbycreations2/JeanePostSig.png" style="border: 0px;" />
</p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-90359908357387323232020-05-08T19:04:00.000-04:002020-05-08T20:20:10.862-04:00The Mother Hood & Why You Belong Here<br />
The Mother Hood.<br />
<br />
It is a place which demands a response when thought of, either of ones own experience in it as a child and from either an association or seeming distance from it as an adult. It is an experience lit with varying shades of emotion, from sun-lit joy to a gray shade of grief and for most, a combination of emotional patterns. As we approach Mother's Day, my mind wanders to the women I know who are finding themselves in the hard and holy spaces that encompass this place.<br />
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There is the little girl inside who is still working, after years of therapy, to repair what her mother knowingly or unknowingly destroyed. There is also the little girl inside who was loved well, albeit imperfectly, and used that love as a building block to grow up and into herself.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHOaLR1AQc9Qgg9mImDPyzVASzjgvvybZKml1OIsl-Mqr9HkZ5kiBKFf57E_NXyPFBHPFENtjsaXdEBW0DMKCE3FIyYFXGo8t0QpLD8e-zrTuwcypqSSXogHjACGL5zWkszanaSV7Jl-a/s1600/IMG_20180505_185948_215.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1489" data-original-width="1600" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHOaLR1AQc9Qgg9mImDPyzVASzjgvvybZKml1OIsl-Mqr9HkZ5kiBKFf57E_NXyPFBHPFENtjsaXdEBW0DMKCE3FIyYFXGo8t0QpLD8e-zrTuwcypqSSXogHjACGL5zWkszanaSV7Jl-a/s400/IMG_20180505_185948_215.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo credit: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/coolspringgarden/?hl=en" target="_blank">Cool Springs Garden</a></td></tr>
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<br />
There is the woman who at (mostly) the expected time, in (mostly) the way she hoped for became part of the Hood by a traditional means and is undertaking its duties as best as she knows how. There is also the woman who ran into this Hood unexpectedly, and either gave the life growing inside to another woman to raise or found herself in a place were she felt cornered and alone, fearful for herself and her unborn child, choosing to end the pregnancy before it progressed any further, both with their own hidden brand of grief. There is yet another woman, who has done all she could, through years of dead-ends and dashed monthly hopes, injections and projections, hope carried and miscarried...all to find herself feeling excluded from the Hood her heart was set on. And she grieves, as she should.<br />
<br />
There is the woman who mourns the loss of her mother, the one who is here, whose form is still in the flesh, but whose memory has betrayed her body forcing a slow goodbye. There is the woman who braces herself for all the holidays approaching with a catch in her heart, for it is the "first" without her mother's physical presence here with her. There is the woman who, in the isolating times we find ourselves in, weeping for the mother who lives alone, who she cannot hug or let those beautiful, worn hands hold hers. These women grieve a light dimmed, as they should.<br />
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There is the woman who has taken in and taught twenty or more children every year, releasing them at the end of nine months only to take twenty more three months later. There is another woman who can say words to the children who call her "aunt" and she may not know it, but her voice carries more weight than that of their mother. There are those for whom motherhood is not a possibility or perhaps keen desire, and they've chosen to keep it close to their heart, yet their life is made of countless moments in which they stop to share, to care, to sit with another woman in her pain. They are defined by who they are, what they do, not what they are called.<br />
<br />
There is a woman, and it can be any one of the women described above, whose heart has been...<br />
<br />
bruised and blessed,<br />
<br />
gutted and fortified,<br />
<br />
lost and found,<br />
<br />
broken and reborn...<br />
<br />
...and she continues to take one step in front of the other, recycling all of her hope and heartbreak to tend to those in her sphere.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lkZSJAL5TDsPY41um_c5sFOzGpsI2rHcwcHn4bdCf5fDdZCp8dybBeuymbslwN3PnTdk9e2k-svc8RfGBVXd3-GOP5c60oZnIANL-fI6HAc4g2GsbMrayiwu7TXhyphenhyphenq0wTTosaAU2y0vR/s1600/Cool+Spring-Oct+2017-42.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6lkZSJAL5TDsPY41um_c5sFOzGpsI2rHcwcHn4bdCf5fDdZCp8dybBeuymbslwN3PnTdk9e2k-svc8RfGBVXd3-GOP5c60oZnIANL-fI6HAc4g2GsbMrayiwu7TXhyphenhyphenq0wTTosaAU2y0vR/s400/Cool+Spring-Oct+2017-42.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo credit: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/coolspringgarden/?hl=en" target="_blank">Cool Springs Garden</a></td></tr>
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There is a beautiful tendency built into the spirit of most every woman to nurture. Properly tended, it will manifest and tunnel and channel itself in various forms. It is love put into action, and when applied to themselves and then to whomever life brings into their path, even if just for a moment, it is a distinct trademark of one who lives within the Mother Hood.<br />
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Being called "mom" is a gift to be sure, but it is not the highest honor nor does it offer an exclusive membership to life in the Mother Hood. There is a vast village of women whose lives have been colored with such a wide variety of experiences, and no matter what their station or status, when they use their beautiful, broken hearts to love on the people in their path (<i>including their own selves, the little girl to the one they are now, the one who God delights in</i>), they all share the same address.<br />
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Happy (and healthy, in body and spirit) to all the amazing women I know.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-48652166756131025522020-01-09T21:37:00.000-05:002020-01-10T09:15:00.497-05:00In The Middle of PeriLand<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /><br />Are you in your late thirties or in your forties?<br /><br /><br /> Have you always considered yourself a reasonable, nice(ish) person?<br /><br /><br /> Do you love the benefits that come with age, such as wisdom and the refining of what you truly care (and don't care) about?<br /><br /><br /> Yet do you also ever wonder....<br /><br /><br /> ...If you're going a little bit crazy? <br /><br /><br /> ...Why your body doesn't agree with the age you're mind still tells you you are (twenty-eight)?<br /><br /><br />If so, this may be for you. <br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3fKy2s8FDnjS-YtEG_UZ1715UXLl9155gs5w7n-xQ3ZqYIYcYyOach6ZsX6AwRRJ7eXqatQ0o1roMFJIxpuc155Sd1CbNscy_VyshZtdSuaiHfDvTlLzE3vkxBKFt_-mGEJfSHczEaOt-/s1600/cruella-de-ville.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3fKy2s8FDnjS-YtEG_UZ1715UXLl9155gs5w7n-xQ3ZqYIYcYyOach6ZsX6AwRRJ7eXqatQ0o1roMFJIxpuc155Sd1CbNscy_VyshZtdSuaiHfDvTlLzE3vkxBKFt_-mGEJfSHczEaOt-/s400/cruella-de-ville.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /> <br /> <br /> <br />I sat in the dark of my room, door locked to keep myself separated from the fray more as an act of protection for them than a survival mechanism for me (although it was that too). The changes I was seeing were gradual but steady and increasingly infringing in my life, so much so that my family has come to believe Cruella DeVille makes a cameo into our family life about once a month, for several days. If only they knew HOW HARD Cruella tries to keep her low simmering rage at bay...she doesn't like the way she is any more than they do. My husband can always tell when Cruella's appearance is nigh, but he's smart enough to not make mention of it and tries his best to act surprised when, on occasion, he's told that she's here for a visit. For both me- an average, nice(ish), God-fearing and loving woman- these darker feelings I've been unwillingly overtaken by for brief snippets is only a small part of the changes I've noticed as I've settled into my forties, a decade I otherwise, so far, am very happy to be in. And so in the dark, phone perched on my bloated belly (because I ate spinach, or maybe it was the afternoon coffee), I took a deep dive into Google to try and find a little understanding.<br /><br /><br />***<br /><br /><br />For many (but certainly not all) women fortunate to approach and reach our forties, there is a series of "conditions" which are cause for pause...of the Perimeno sort. The years preceding The Great Change (menopause) are marked with their own distinctive perils, but if you Google that word, you will find 98% of the websites you click on offer a very generic, bland description of the symptoms which forced you to a search engine in the first place. No one really talks about it, nor does Peri feel as legit as her older sister, Meno. But just because it might not FEEL as legit does not make it less a reality.<br /><br /><br />So, should you have found this post while Googling "Perimenopausal rage and other symptoms" or the like, you've come to the right place. I have consulted a few friends and we've compiled a short list of what is "normal" if you're in smack dab in the middle of the middle of life. <br /><br /><br /><b>You might be in Peri-Land if you...</b><br /><br /><br />...find yourself fingering a stiff hair (or three) in the lower chin region that you somehow missed in your morning pluck session. You can barely resist touching it, all at once repulsed and zealous in your desire to locate a tweezer before a healthy goatee forms.<br /><br /><br />...have a middle section that seems to have grown a protective inner-tube like circle around your entire body. Handles appear desirous to stay securely in place towards the back and you consider that perhaps if small children would ever need something to hang on to in rushing waters, they would come in very handy and might even save a life.<br /><br /><br />...find yourself wanting to eliminate the handles you have in the back and the soft, overlapping skin in the front. But it seems no matter what you do, they really like where they are and when it comes down to it, you know your body will never be it's 21 year old version again. And you find yourself doing the hard work of accepting it.<br /><br /><br />...You have a bad cough and pack extra pants for work just in case you have an accident in public. You worry about sneezing too hard and avoid jumping on trampolines without necessary protection.<br /><br /><br />...You find bra shopping as desirable as a root canal, sans Novocaine. Akin to finding a suitable container for a stretched tube sock with a golf ball at it's bottom, good support is hard to find.<br /><br /><br />...You cannot handle repetitive sounds, tapping, mouth noises, questions and utterances of your name, especially during choice days of any given month. One utterance too many and you are prone to loosing it, causing looks of caution and "back away from the mother" warnings to be given in code.<br /><br /><br />...You find the most frequent workout in your week is bouncing back and forth between issues with your children and issues with yourself. You find yourself in moments of despair, wondering how it will all pan out (and if you'll avoid a nervous tick in the end). <br /><br /><br />... You hope that the neighbors didn't see you throwing your child's scooters across the driveway, screaming and then grabbing the keys and driving out of the driveway as though you just got a police call. <br /><br /><br />... You desire more and more to keep things simple and care less about trends and what others are doing. <br /><br /><br /> ...You value sleep over early morning workouts.<br /><br /><br />...Your “smile lines” stay even when you stop smiling!<br /><br /><br />...You truly enjoy going to bed at 9pm, “puttering” around the house and find you have developed a fondness for plants and bird watching (neither which talk back to you).<br /><br /><br />...You start sounding like you mom, saying things you swore you'd never say (probably while fingering a chin hair).<br /><br /><br />...You notice the beauty you never knew you had until it was fading, yet also the strength, determination, and utter contentment with who you are and where you are in life. <br /><br /><br />... You also (even with the above being true) realize you are getting older and time isn't on your side, and you wonder if you have the courage to do something new, even now.<br /><br /><br />...You, if you're raising children, realize how not-that-far-below-the-surface your own middle school self is. No one told you that fighting the instinct to project your own insecurities and experiences on your child and their experiences would be a mole you have to continually wack. <br /><br /><br /><br />***<br /><br /><br />This list is just a <i>small</i> representation of the every-day symptoms of the gritty and good sort that many real women have shared with me, along with a few of my own (and Cruella's) observations. Feel free to add your own in the comments below. Writing them out can be downright therapeutic. <br /><br /><br />You may have experienced some, all and or any of these at any given time, all the while being deeply grateful for the life you have. You're just doing the best you can. You may have no idea what on earth this list is talking about...and if so, good for you (but we probably won't be close friends). I know there are plenty of ways to practically approach all of these things, but none compare with being open and honest with each other about the struggles, be they weak or strong, tiny or tall. I hope this little article can give at least one woman in this middle place the feeling of being understood as they grow up and onward and into an even more beautiful, strong version of themselves. We all need each other in the middle of whatever land we find ourselves in. It's hard be human. Be gentle with yourself, and the woman throwing scooters across the driveway next door.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><img align="left" src="http://i386.photobucket.com/albums/oo310/shabbycreations2/JeanePostSig.png" style="border: 0px;" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-54902946105744423662019-03-17T18:39:00.000-04:002019-03-17T19:00:00.875-04:00Credit and Blame in the Parenting Game<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZjr4UUqLtcb5n17qWW2uy26LQYzxTyF0rh9qcXB3EHqmrv82IkQZnEE0x7uNcGgEtJtk-i0mdRjknWbZ9kir6XjIAe1Nhf92uA7P-gnm8tedJvOF_0xtQlwFObRQ0WIZftZenT8_ZZ-V/s1600/shareImage+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZjr4UUqLtcb5n17qWW2uy26LQYzxTyF0rh9qcXB3EHqmrv82IkQZnEE0x7uNcGgEtJtk-i0mdRjknWbZ9kir6XjIAe1Nhf92uA7P-gnm8tedJvOF_0xtQlwFObRQ0WIZftZenT8_ZZ-V/s320/shareImage+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There are people in this world who simply should not be parents.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'm not here to write about them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I've just got to say a word about the rest of us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The large majority of us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We are parents who...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...send our children to private school, or public school, or school them at home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...feed our children an organic, meatless diet or drive-thru McDonalds or serve cereal for dinner.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...spend countless hours on the sports fields or in on mountain trails or theater seats, watching them figure out themselves in their extracurricular pursuits.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...discipline in a traditional sense and those who have a live and let live approach.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...hover and helicopter, free-range it and focus on outcomes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...let them have their first phone at five years old and those who make them wait until they can pay for their own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...have chore charts and organized domestic lifestyles, bitter souls who have forsaken said charts and those who never even tried. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...potty trained in the womb and those who make the toddler beg to pee in the potty(and all those in between).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...those who worked full time, employed daycare, missed some milestones, and those who stayed at home, often pulled out their hair and saw it all go down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All of us, so different. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All of us, approaches uniquely our own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All of us, hoping, praying, working for the best possible outcome.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All of us...without a guarantee.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In parenting, while there might be a few "good practices", there is no golden ticket.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We are raising neither reflections of ourselves </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">nor robotic beings for whom we maneuver with a remote control. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Early in my parenting career I was told "Neither take too much credit for your child's successes nor too much blame for their failings". It has stuck in my spirit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The older I get and the more I experience not only my own home life but now (working in a high school office), the more this statement comes to life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our children possess their own wills.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">They have been given their own choices to make.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We can do what we can while they're little, but do not rest your laurels/hopes/dreams on the way you are parenting. Rest them on God, who knows your child--their vices and virtues--far more than you do. Pray for them, do your (imperfect) best and know that they very well, for all your efforts, make decisions that will leave you in tears, on your knees and wondering what on earth you did wrong.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This past week I have seen a mother weep for the one, major poor decision her daughter made that will impact the rest of her year. I have heard a father request prayer for a son whose rebellion seems a million miles beyond their reach. I have seen one of my children stand up for the vulnerable and one of them be unkind to another. I have a child who is always looking out for me and another who seems at times, devoted to getting me zipped into a white coat/behind bars. This parenting thing, no matter how you go about it, is HARD sometimes. It is also worthwhile and the thing that grow us (the parents) up perhaps even more than the child.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We are moms and dads who...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...fall down and get back up again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...put an arm of support around the other mom or dad whose child is messing up big time and saying "this could be me" and "you're an amazing parent in this moment".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...know that there is a Divine and specific plan for our children and we pray they have eyes to see and the will to follow it. We know it might be messy before it gets good.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...acknowledge we are not God, and because we're not, we'll mess up and do this raising of people imperfectly. We do our best, pray for mercy and enjoy the small victories--on our part and theirs-- when they happen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And most of all, we celebrate the small (and big) victorious along with the crash and burn failures with open hands, knowing that while we are instrumental, we are not the conductors of the people God has given us to raise.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I hope you find a little comfort in that like I do.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-74709913610501232132019-02-17T15:15:00.003-05:002019-02-17T15:29:27.561-05:00A Fellow Named Floyd (& The Wonder of Whimsy)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Floyd.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He has been known for many things. In the early fifties, he was a part of 511 Airborne Division of the United States Army, serving as a paratrooper in Korea. He has been a faithful husband for nearly 64 years to his bride, Patricia and through the years, logged thousands of miles as a truck driver. He joyfully sings in the finest community choirs and hands out Friends and Family Coupons from the local department store when their running the yearly sale. These are just a very few facts about a man named Floyd. The children of our church family simply know him as "The Candy Man".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Every Sunday the bevy of boys in the row in front us (ours included) have been conditioned to excitedly await the passing of the plate and the ushers have learned to brace themselves for the onslaught of hands seeking the Root Beer Barrels and Fire Balls hidden under white offering envelopes, placed there first by Floyd, who is one of the first to pass the plate in his pew up front. Every Sunday he's there (which is nearly every), he'll give you a warm greeting, his hand subtly reaching into his sport coat and reappearing with a licorice string or coffee caramel. He's kind, he's warm, he's funny...and even though it may seem simple, his endless pockets of hard candy belie a soft heart ever ready to hand out a little TLC. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Floyd's got whimsy and whimsy is wonder-full quality to bestow into the lives of those who have come to expect status quo in the nooks and crannies of life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The risk of whimsy is perhaps being misunderstood or inducing eye rolls from the more rigid among us. The wonder of whimsy is sneaking in a little joy between the junk mail and jaded expectations of the every day, handing out small pieces of hope that pull the human heart out of it's funk.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When I pause to consider, I can pull up the faces of those who in my past and present whose lives possess this hallmark of playfulness, and I desperately want to be more like them. The thing with whimsy is it never presents itself quite the same way. It comes from the heart of each individual, never forcing itself on another, but instead offering small acts of care in the most unexpected ways...yet once it's discovered you possess it, there comes an unspoken expectation that the sweet stuff will be waiting in the offering plate each Sunday. Perhaps this is the best kind of dependency we humans can wish for each other...that our love clothed in the wonder of whimsy never wears out or runs dry.</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-70936815910510082732018-12-10T22:06:00.002-05:002021-11-14T10:43:41.767-05:00An Open Letter to Tiffany & Co.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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December 9, 2018<br />
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Tiffany & Co.<br />
1414 Walnut Street<br />
Philadelphia, PA 19102<br />
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To Whom It May Concern:<br />
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Yesterday my husband, who was experiencing symptoms of the common cold, made the unfortunate mistake of taking a nighttime cold medicine during the day. This rendered him unable to function and left me with the prospect of a long day with five spirited children who are seemingly out to rob their mother of her sanity, particularly this time of the year (although they are generally an equal opportunity bunch...any time of the year is a good time of year to unite only long enough to drive their dear old mom to the brink). This is important for you to know, as this was the fear which motivated me to spontaneously load up my elementary-aged clan into our ten-seat Ford Transit Van, along with all the frozen Uncrustables and Sunchips we could find to pack for lunch and head from Lancaster, Pennsylvania into the big city of brotherly love, Philadelphia. I was recently reminded the old Wanamaker building (now Macy's) still had their famous (and free!) Christmas light show and in the age of Amazon, I wanted my children to experience what soon may be a historical delight within an actual historical department store at Christmas. This is where we were traipsing toward as we walked towards Walnut from our parking space near 15th Street.<br />
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As we came upon Tiffany's, I verbally lassoed my excited offspring to stop and reverse course back to the van, explaining that for nearly half a year I had stashed a beautiful, broken bracelet (gifted to me on my fortieth from a treasured friend) in the glove compartment of our van, in hopes that I'd someday have the time to drive to Tiffany's where it was from to have it repaired. Naturally, they complained for the entire three minutes it took to retrace our steps to our commercial-grade vehicle to retrieve the hidden treasure inside.<br />
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As we walked back toward your establishment, I felt a rising panic. Who, in their right mind, would take five children, dressed in anything but their Sunday best into one of the most iconic stores in the world? Visions of Holly Golightly contrasted with the reflection of a middle aged mother (with five curious children) as we stood outside the entrance. This was a huge risk on my part, but I was desperate to have those heavy beads of Tiffany silver gracing my wrist again. "Children. I am serious when I say there are armed guards on every floor, cameras at every turn. I want all ten of of your hands in your pockets and the ONLY noise you may make is the sound of breathing." Sure, it may have a little over the top, but I wasn't going to take any chances.<br />
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We walked in and I felt myself bracing for instant judgment as we rounded the crystal corner. Serenity and sophistication greeted us, two very unfamiliar sensations in our daily lives. The impeccably dressed gentlemen smiled as I firmly directed the children to line up along the wall, apologetically introducing myself as one who needed a gifted piece of jewelry repaired (as if they were suspecting I was waltzing in to browse their selection of jeweled necklaces). He kindly smiled and without the slightest trace of judgement, directed me to Customer Service on the second floor.<br />
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Up to floor two the six of us climbed, in our clunky boots and half-clean winter coats. Again, I directed the children to sit along the wall when Ms. Bisram, a lovely lady with a warm smile greeted not just myself, but all of us. She seemed to instantly sense my unease and stated "Just let them be who they are. Relax. You're welcome here" with such sincerity that I had no choice but to actually believe her. She took my bracelet--and my dignity--and handled both with care, leaving me feel a little less harried middle-aged mom and a little more Holly Golightly. We left with her kind holiday greetings following us back down the stairs to the first floor where the gentleman who first greeted us pulled me aside and said, "Ma'm, you're doing a wonderful job with your children". I nearly hugged him.<br />
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Tiffany & Co., I may only have one piece of your jewelry to my name, but you have given me the gift of perspective that is worth it's weight in all of your silver and gold. It is this: <i>Every human wants to be felt worthy of where they walk and toward whom they walk. </i>Whether it's a world-famous jewelry store, a house of worship or the home of a stranger or the estranged...we long to feel worthy of the footsteps we feel fearful to take.<br />
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Thank you to the man and woman who carry the name of your brand in my mind, for their treatment of a customer who, at first (and fifth) glance held no promise of delivering more than a trip to the second floor on the bottom line of their daily profits. It was an experience my children and I will not soon forget. To those who tread toward our lives with a wary step, may we remember the grace to welcome them to be who they are, the invitation to relax and the offer of a sincere welcome as though they belong, for indeed, they do. For all that you sell, our first thought of Tiffany & Co. is all that we felt. May we all consider to learn from this example.<br />
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Warmly,<br />
<br />
Jeane` Miller<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-76876319866959481242018-11-30T09:19:00.002-05:002018-11-30T09:26:20.691-05:00Men in White Tights<br />
It feels as though it were just yesterday.<br />
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Our sixth grade class, along with the rest of the middle school were dismissed during the December school day, bundled up and onto a big yellow school bus to head over to another, bigger private school. We were being introduced to a bit of culture, a showing of The Nutcracker Ballet by a troupe who hailed from Europe, I think. Not all the details of that day are as lodged in my brain as others are, much to my lifelong chagrin.<br />
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I sat next to Wanda Martin. She was a grade above me (I felt so cool sitting next to her) and we shared not only the same last name, but also the fact that we were one of three girls in our respective families, with zero brothers to speak of. We were pure hearts, at the cusp of our teenage years, and at least in my world, the most I had ever seen of "what lies beneath" on a man was a from a Ken doll..and accidental sighting of my father dashing from the bathroom to the bedroom in his BVD's before a Christmas dinner. (In case you're wondering, I am <i>deeply </i>grateful for the gift my innocence was). At twelve years old, I was both innocent and curious, a perfect blend of qualities for what lie before me as I sat perched on the pew, unsuspecting, in the Lancaster Mennonite High School auditorium.<br />
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The curtains parted, anticipation high, as the beautiful ballerinas began to pirouette and parade across the stage. But no one warned us of the impending male onstage presence. Our visions of sugar plum fairies and swans took a sudden dive, as men in second-skin white tights started dancing across the set, their bits and pieces on center stage. I can't speak for Wanda, but I clearly remember the temperature of the room spiking and my face flushing as I simply could NOT tear my eyes away from the barrage of "Christmas packages" I had never asked for, flying across my field of vision. All the anatomy queries in the back of my head were being in answered in literal leaps and bounds in front of my eyes. I would still pay for a screen shot of my face in those first moments.<br />
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It was not long after, I learned of another commonality Wanda and I shared. In embarrassing/awkward situations, my automatic response is to laugh. Uncontrollably. This is exactly what happened to both of us shell-shocked girls at the very same moment. You may be familiar with the unfortunate sensation of laughing on a pew: it's impossible to hide or contain one's laughter as it reverberates through the entire section of seating. We received multiple glances from other students who were mature enough to handle this sampling of culture with class and ease. The teacher behind us put a hand on my shoulder as a caution, but I couldn't stop, no matter how hard I tried. I bit the sides of my mouth to the point of bleeding to get the spasms under control, to no avail. This is the second most impressionable memory of that day...the laughter that overtook my body at the sight of scenes untold (Year later, I tried very hard to keep from repeating this reaction on my honeymoon night as I learned this is not a favorable response to such "things").<br />
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Anyhow.<br />
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This morning my two sixth graders headed out to school, where shortly after their arrival they will bundle up and be herded onto a bus which will take them to the very same auditorium to watch the very same performance. My daughter has several brothers, which reduces her chances repeating my history, but still, I worry for her, hoping they've replaced the pews with single chairs in case she shares my genetic disposition.<br />
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How is it that I have a daughter who is walking into a memory that doesn't feel so far away?<br />
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It feels as though it were just yesterday.<br />
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Thus concludes the end of this inspirational blog post. You're welcome.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-9062176697435818502018-11-07T09:52:00.000-05:002018-11-07T13:21:48.459-05:00Redefining A Tribe<br />
I don't write often, but when I do it is usually because a.) a little free therapy is needed after a "real life" experience (see last post) or b.) I've been given a Divine nudge I can't ignore.<br />
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Today's post falls under the b.) category and it has to do with a word that means well, but more and more I get a little wary...and weary..from it. Maybe you do too.<br />
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No doubt you've seen plenty of messages like this:<br />
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This quote can often be found as the caption of a picture of a bevy of beautiful women, arms thrown around each other free from the context of every day life, under a string of lights at a cozy local restaurant or away for the weekend in an out-of-town inn or jamming it out at an old-school concert. The point isn't where, it is what: a group of women who have found safety and belonging in a circle of friendship.<br />
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Some times a tribe consists of the same women who have known each other a long time, or a short time, but they are somehow-be it geographically or historically- connected. Once or twenty times a year they all come together and enjoy the beautiful feeling of being knowing and being known. This is a lovely thing, not to be shamed but celebrated. Yet, when looking at such pictures, one can feel the chilly wind of discontent when you cannot copy and past the same scene in your own experience.<br />
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The aforementioned tribe is not a bad thing. It is a GREAT thing. It is, I believe, what women need. We need each other. In no way do I want this post to be taken as one finding fault with the above scenarios. The message here is not "<i>but</i>"...it is "<i>and</i>".<br />
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Here is the <i><b>and</b></i>...<br />
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Some times a tribe is made up of only two people. Or, in my case, a tribe is made up of women who rarely (if ever) interact with each other, never get together in one place and have no ties with each other, other than the fact that they are a part of Jeane' Miller's lifeline. I might not have pictures to post of all of us looking darling during a weekend away all together, but I have phone logs showing that when I called Annie at 9am last Wednesday, she picked up and listened, laying down her schedule to speak Truth into my spirit. She lives in New York, and often times we go for months without talking (texting is another story) but she's as near and dear a member of my "tribe" as I could possibly ask for.<br />
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Tribes aren't about numbers.<br />
Tribes aren't about excursions.<br />
Tribes aren't about show.<br />
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Tribes are for cherishing, even if you only have one other member.<br />
Tribes are for including, when you feel you have met someone God knew you needed on this leg of the journey.<br />
Tribes are for quietly having your heart watered by the honest feedback, raucous laughter and the knowing that even if you aren't having sleepovers and artsy excursions to prove it, you are known and loved by another, even in spite of the weaknesses you've exposed. Your spirit is the litmus test for a healthy tribe, not the number of pictures you have of each other.<br />
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Friendships change. This is a hard truth that can feel personal. Sometimes it is, most times, it isn't. Friendships change because seasons of life change. Not so long ago, I was able to be a much better friend to far more people. Because of my personality (Enneagram 7/Sanguine/ENFJ), I often feel badly for not being what I used to be to many amazing women I hold dear and think THE WORLD of. I really wish I had more of myself to extend. Yet I am in a season of life where more is demanded of me emotionally and mentally. When my five children were younger, I was physically exhausted but determined (and delighted) to exercise my right to remain an interesting human woman and devoured time with friends since I had the margin to do so. It's different now. And that is just how it is. Instead of feeling defeated by it, I'm looking for the gold in it.<br />
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The gold is, I have many amazing women in my life. Some I talk to often, some hardly at all (still feel badly about that). I've also got a tribe who God has piece-mealed together for me. It's small, but it's mighty. It neither travels together nor knows each other well for the most part. They might not be Instagram worthy, but they are worth their weight in gold.<br />
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So.<br />
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That's it.<br />
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If you have a tribe of women-- be it one or five, two or twenty--celebrate it! But just remember that tribes take on all different forms, and perhaps the group of women you're waiting for are already there.<br />
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Much love,<br />
Jeane`<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-69178719617506195682018-10-18T15:24:00.001-04:002018-10-18T21:31:09.639-04:00Whole and Healthy<br />
Hi. I'm Jeane`.<br />
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I am forty-one and feeling fine.<br />
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Not fine as in "Oh girl, you look <i>fiiiine</i>".<br />
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Just fine, as in "I'm doing fine, thanks". I am many more pounds than I was 20 years ago and my body has changed in such ways that I'm quite sure it couldn't ever go back to it's original tautness without going under the knife. I'm not completely resigned to where I am at, neither do I feel a passion for trying to knock myself out figuring out what makes me look like I'm about to give birth at the end of every day (I've deduced the primary cause of my bloatation is breathing in fermented fumes coming from the direction of the pubescent feet in my home). I have zero desire to be a perky and passionate beach body nor do I want to deprive myself of my beloved creamer in my coffee (does it count I only use flavored Coconut milk?). I just want to be a happy person who is somewhat trim, thankful for legs to walk with and isn't afraid to enjoy a good juicy hamburger every now and again. I am what I am, and I'm ok with it.<br />
<br />
Mostly.<br />
<br />
Today was a wide open day in between two work days. I decided to delve into a little self care (can I admit that phrase, well meaning as it is, always makes me roll my eyes?) and I took a good, long three mile walk. I have not done this in....some time. I put on my old off-brand "athletic" capris, pairing it with a generously sized aqua tee-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a family resort we visited this summer. I figured the bright color would alert distracted drivers and cast a cheerful vibe. The crew neck of the shirt nearly came to my adam's apple, covering my ample bossum with bright red lettering. My cheap socks had stretched themselves despite their underuse, with the heel portion bubbling over the back of my New Balance sneakers, giving the appearance of a surplus of ankle fat. I whipped my oily-at-the-roots-brittle-at-the-tips hair into a ponytail and secured it under the baseball cap of my <a href="https://www.hopeinternational.org/" target="_blank">favorite micro-finance organization</a> (sorry, Peter!). Off I went on a brisk walk in which I breathed in the crisp fall air, felt my thighs quivering at several up-hill stretches and broke but a tiny sweat. This is why, when I came home, I opted against showering and instead grabbed my purse to run to Costco and a rare trip to our new Whole Foods, crossing my fingers I would see no one I knew.<br />
<br />
Pulling into Costco, I glanced quickly at my reflection in the rear view mirror before heading in, wincing at the manly reflection looking back at me. Other then my ponytail and sagging chest area, it would be difficult for the common eye to discern my gender. Hopefully, this elusiveness would keep me incognito and get me in and out without recognition. I actually prayed I wouldn't run into any High School crushes (since God doesn't have any other more pressing issues to intervene in).<br />
<br />
Breezing through all of Costco without seeing anyone I knew (praise be), I got in the shortest line I could find. In front of me was a woman I couldn't stop staring at. She appeared to be my age, but blond and tan with perfect black capris covering her slender legs and sockless, sleek sneakers on her tiny feet. Paired with her black bottoms, she wore a grey knit sweater, with a deep v down the back, held together with a satin bow at the top. Exposed in the "V" of her sweater was one of those darling, delicate lacy bralettes I see advertised stores I feel too old for. As she moved her grocery items (Kale and carrot juice, naturally) onto the black belt, she chatted easily with the cashier, her blond ponytail perkily bouncing behind her Patagonia ball cap, and I could smell a musky vanilla scent radiating off of her and meeting my nose as I stood there staring with my rotisserie chicken pieces and french loaves of bread in my arms, smelling of a body that should have showered hours ago. I'm sure if the security cameras had been trained on me, it would have captured a look of wonder and bewilderment on my face, as if I was observing a being from another planet.<br />
<br />
The beautiful thing, I thought to myself, is that I can stare and admire but not beat myself up for looking like the middle-aged mom sort I am. I'm getting older and wiser and less obsessed about my appearance. There's far more to me than what I look like. Way to go, me!<br />
<br />
This is what I was thinking as I pulled into Whole Foods, in a quest for my new <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Vermont-Village-Cranberries-Blueberries-Turmeric/dp/B078RT22PM/ref=sr_1_3_a_it?ie=UTF8&qid=1539889499&sr=8-3&keywords=vermont+sipping+vinegar&dpID=51%252B4BZ9NYtL&preST=_SY300_QL70_&dpSrc=srch" target="_blank">favorite drink.</a>With every step closer to the entrance and into the folds of this Health Food Uptopia, my confidence leaked out of the bottom of my stinky capris. As I squeaked past all the toothpaste tubes void of all the cancerous chemicals found in mine at home, I felt the growing need to keep this trip short. They did not have what I was looking for, so I grabbed a box of their lemon-lime soda instead (as well as a box of seltzer water I pretend to enjoy) and headed to check out, where I also picked up two bags of Justin's Dark Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup Mini's as a reward for walking all those miles (two for seven dollars, if you have your Amazon Prime app on your phone which I did not. The cashier took pity and gave it to me anyway). As I started to load the soda boxes into my large, commercial looking van, the cardboard gave way and 12 soda cans fell to the ground, rolling hither and yon, under BMW's and Cadillac SUV's. Millennials in their tweed overcoats and leather satchels were coming in and out of the store, no doubt wondering what a middle aged woman in the parking lot was doing dodging between and stretching out under automobiles in search of dented cans. I felt their pitying glances. One of the lost 12 had sprung several leaks and I had to run it to the nearest trash can, excusing myself as two executives stood talking business in front of it.<br />
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<br />
Huffing and puffing, after what felt like an eternity of retrieving errant cans from under cars, I heaved myself into the front seat and just laughed. The good news, I texted my sister, is that I got a good post-workout (ie: walk) stretch in and now I was ready to go home and shower. The forecast of looking like a human woman again was looking good.<br />
<br />
<br />
The walk I took this morning actually was the best thing I could have done for my body and spirit. Even though I could be fitter, thinner, tanner, toner and any other adjective you want to throw in the mix, I was reminded as I put one foot in front of the other, that it is a gift to be able to do just that. It is a sign of health to be able to see the blue sky, smell fall in the air, hear the birds chirp. It is a luxury to know there is a warm shower awaiting me at some point in the day and to know that my worth won't be found at the end of a workout or strict eating regime (even as they, like anything else, have it's place and good purpose!). What I am today is wholly lovable and lovely, just as I am...and just as you are.<br />
<br />
Peace and love to you.<br />
<br />
<img align="left" src="http://i386.photobucket.com/albums/oo310/shabbycreations2/JeanePostSig.png" style="border: 0;" />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-74182514614036495912018-09-06T15:57:00.003-04:002018-09-06T18:32:29.810-04:00The Importance Of The Small-Scale <br />
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Hello, there!<br />
<br />
Nearly two years has passed since I've opened the door to this proverbial cottage. It has crossed my mind now and again to dust off this negected space and try my hand at typing out my thoughts again, but it was only today I decided to go further and actually step over the threshold.<br />
<br />
I don't know why today is the day, other than to say I'm finally comfortable with the fact that while there are more than enough words in the world, there is still room for mine and if need be, they will be delivered to those who might benefit from them. I've grown up in bits and pieces in the time I've been away from this space, bringing me to a place of personal freedom in accepting--even embracing (mostly)--who I am and what I can/cannot contribute. I'm glad for this, because at the very same time, I am doing my level best to keep a tight grip on my sanity on the daily. Speaking of which...<br />
<b><br /></b>
<i><b>"When my children were babies and toddlers, I had so many more people over to my house! I did book clubs! Why, I hosted big themed parties and my friend circles were far wider. What happened? Shouldn't it have been harder then, when dirty diapers and baby gates were involved? I feel as though I have far less now capacity than I used to."</b></i><br />
<br />
I had this basic conversation with three different (strong, high-energy, hard-working) women in a matter of days. We're all different, we all would say from past experience we are capable of multi-tasking fairly well...and we all have school-aged children , some on the cusp or now into their teen years. And we're not doing all the perphial things we used to do and (for me) unable to be a deeper friend to as many as I used to. Whatever happened?<br />
<br />
The life is being sucked out of us, that's what.<br />
<br />
(I'm KIDDING.)<br />
<br />
(Kinda.)<br />
<br />
<br />
I've been ruminating on this the past few weeks and one small conclusion I've come to is, at least in parenting, when my children were younger, it was a very physically demanding job without much mental stimulation (adult-wise), so I had to create that for myself. Between naps, early bedtimes and being entirely in control of their schedule, I pulled it off. But NOW, ooooh Sweet Baby James, NOW I've got to call to attention every reluctant, dusty old brain cell for full engagment with hormonal-riddled human beings of the adolescent varierty. This oft leaves me with ZERO left over energy for anything other than a glass of cabernet and a date with Frasier or the intense desire to stare at the ceiling with no one saying any words in my general direction, two miles out.<br />
<br />
Times have changed. Apparently, this is what time does...and we flex and grow, morph and shrink along with it.<br />
<br />
While I've made great strides in accepting this particular season in life<i>, </i>it's not unusual for me to be wisteful for the days where I could invest more in people or jump at any chance thrown at me (and oftentimes, by me). Where I used to be able to see and have space for a large swath of life and living, these days I feel rather near-sighted. The big picture is my natural lens, but in the present I can only see what is right in front of me, and doing that thing is an act of faithfulness. I'm less quick to sign up, invite in or extend myself. I'm an extrovert growing up in a season of limits. It's not bad, it's just different...and sometimes, blah.<br />
<br />
One of the perks of growing older is discovering true life, liberty and pursuit of happiness is found on the small scale. Big scales can be wonderful if that's part of the path charted for you (which it well may be for a time), but true contentment isn't found in the "big" moments or in the center of extra-cirriculars. Any big-scale experience worth having is one parked by the curb of a home of a contented heart. Nurture the heart, flame contentment and let the wind blow where it may. Just as this season has come upon me, it will leave, and a new one will begin. If I'm not solid within, I'll be aimless without.<br />
<br />
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***</div>
<br />
<br />
Another reason writing has gone by the wayside is my desire for neat tidy endings and yet I do not write fiction, so it is not entirely possible for me to construct one with my intergrity intact. I don't do pat answers, how-to's (except maybe in jest!) or write to impress. I simply write what I'm learning, unlearning, letting go of and holding close along the way. Maybe you'll relate, maybe you won't. That's ok. I'm mainly showing back up here because I have a nudge to and usually the person who benefits the most from the pinning down of my thoughts is me.<br />
<br />
If you are one of the rare people who haven't had their fill of words, and would like to subcribe to my humble little abode here, there's a space above to sign up. Either way, go in peace and may you feel loved and understood today.<br />
<br />
Warmly,<br />
Jeane`<br />
<img align="left" src="https://i386.photobucket.com/albums/oo310/shabbycreations2/JeanePostSig.png" style="border: 0px;" />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-84541158584411577392016-09-09T21:11:00.003-04:002016-09-09T21:52:58.412-04:00The Golden Egg<br />
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<br />
Once in a while God plucks a memory from the lowest drawer, the one containing our earliest recollections.<br />
<br />
Once in a while, God pulls out forgotten memories, employing a past experience to meet a present needed reminder.<br />
<br />
Once in a while, the eyes of my near-sighted heart are open enough to capture the memory, study it and know it's been brought back out for a reason.<br />
<br />
<b>The Memory.</b><br />
<br />
It was Easter some year in the very early 1980's. I recall standing with my parents, along with hundreds of other parent's and their anticipatory children, on the expansive grassy knoll at Long's Park in Lancaster. I probably had on my bleach-white knee-socks and Buster Browns. I know I had a pastel plastic woven basket in my hand. The announcement came from the ampitheater, seemingly a mile away.<br />
<br />
"Welcome to the {whatever year} Long's Park Easter Egg Hunt! As you can see there are hundreds of plastic eggs filled with candy all over the grounds. There is, however, ONLY ONE GOLDEN EGG. Whoever finds that golden egg should deliver it to us up front and we will give you a gift certificate to a local toy store for {what I remember as being a million dollars}. When the whistle blows, you can start collecting your eggs! Are you ready!? {Hundreds of tiny, sugar-hungry squeals} On your MARK. Get SET. GO!!!!"<br />
<br />
The whistle blew and hundreds of tiny hands grabbed eggs of yellow, green, blue and pink. But not mine.<br />
Nay, I darted like a rabbit on speed all over kingdom come, my big brown eyes roving the landscape for a fleck of gold bounced off the sun. I panted as I zipped in between trees, scanned the underbrush and zoomed in on spaces I thought no one had been.<br />
<br />
I snapped out of my furious search when, several moments later, the announcer stepped back up to the mic to announce the golden egg had been found. And it wasn't me.<br />
<br />
Walking back to my parents, dejected and forlorn, I remember my mom's astonished expression at my empty basket. There had been HUNDREDS of plastic eggs, enough for all of the children to have an overflowing basket. But mine had none. Not a one.<br />
<br />
"All I wanted was the golden egg".<br />
<br />
They belted me in the back of their car (no five-point harness to be had. Just a simple strip of sturdy cloth, and somehow I survived), and I cried me a river the whole way home.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The Present.</b><br />
<br />
It's been two weeks that God's been pushing this file back to the forefront. I finally decided to earnestly reopen and linger on it. When I did, I knew why it was brought back out for me.<br />
<br />
I've been expending my mental energy racing around, searching for the golden egg that will bring me purpose, fulfill my dreams, use my gifts, earn me a living, applaud my (albeit limited) talents. Daily I'm surrounded by scenes of women who are racing past me, who have seemingly found their life's purpose and are thriving in the use of their obvious talents. I've been discounting the daily, stepping over the ordinary in pursuit of an empty, elusive grand prize. My human nature whispers one of two lies when I'm in the midst of the hunt for purpose. Either it's:<br />
<br />
<i>"She's/They've found the golden egg I wanted. Game over". </i><br />
<br />
OR (far more often)<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Just wait. You're not time isn't yet. Hold tight. Keep the home fires burning, do what is expected and just try enduring the challenges you're facing raising your strong willed child(ren). If you can just race pass all of that, THEN you'll probably find it. So don't waste your time looking around now. Let it come to you down the road."</i><br />
<br />
As I considered these false conclusions, it became clear the reason this file was pulled: To remind me I've been down this road before and it yielded nothing but an empty basket and a bushel of tears.<br />
<br />
<b>Here's the thing:</b><br />
<br />
Wherever I am at, there's an egg at my feet, waiting to be picked up and not stepped over. It might look like all the rest, but it's not. It is meant for me and it's meant to be opened.<br />
<br />
No matter how random/thankless/mundane/temporary/inconsequential/AVERAGE/painful/<br />
expected/simple/challenging it may appear to be, if I pry it open, God in His good time, will uncover a nugget of gold nestled deep within for me to add to my awareness of what He's made me for. As I keep walking, slowly but surely, I'll pick up other mostly unremarkable eggs along the way, each pertaining their own weight in gold...and eventually, when my time on this side of Heaven is complete, I'll have an imperfect, but solid golden egg.<br />
<br />
The not-so-secret is these nuggets are rarely laid out in the open or nestled among popular opinion, bestselling pages or staged platforms. They aren't prizes to be won, they are gradual rewards for seeking and finding, especially when it's just God watching. They are nestled deep down in daily relationships and personal encounters...both those between God and I and the people He's placed in my life to love, whether as a mother or a stranger, a neighbor or a customer, a friend or a foe.<br />
<br />
The truth is, no matter where we are at or how hopeless or haphazard it feels, there is a little piece of a golden egg at our feet, a nugget of great value waiting to be added to our understanding who we are, not what we do or have to prove.<br />
<br />
All that's required is simply picking it up and trusting it is more than enough for now.<br />
<br />
<img align="left" src="http://i386.photobucket.com/albums/oo310/shabbycreations2/JeanePostSig.png" style="border: 0px;" />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-77797078709269221342016-08-03T18:56:00.002-04:002016-08-03T22:51:20.508-04:00Mainely Real Life<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18.48px;">My hand gripped the arm rest, legs stiffened themselves against the floor and the force of gravity pushed my head against my head rest as our aging minivan came to a screeching halt along the shoulder of yet another stretch of road. As our brakes smoked, the stand-still sent a shock of silence over the occupants. My husband's seat belt clicked, he left his post behind the steering wheel and slid open the side door.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.48px;">"LISTEN TO ME CLEARLY: IF I HAVE TO STOP ONE. MORE. TIME. WE WILL TURN THIS SHIP AROUND AND GO BACK FROM WHENCE WE CAME. HAVE I MADE MYSELF PERFECTLY CLEAR?!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18.48px;">Five small noggins nod without a word. Van door </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18.48px;">slams. Husband resumes his position in the driver's seat. I massage my neck and sigh deeply as we merge back into traffic. I handed him his ear protection and we continued.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18.48px;">And this was only five hours into a twelve hour trip (which we broke up into an overnight) to our now-annual trip to majestic Maine, Vacationland. Along with all the suitcases, water shoes and bug repellent</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18.48px;">, I had also packed my expectations that the simplified, lake-side change of pace in the great out-of-doors would be tonic for what ailed our children, a case of chronic conflict. I had high hopes the state would live up to it's motto in a very personal way..."The Way Life Should Be".</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.48px;">We all have our battles that we're fighting from one time to another and I have come to surmise that the Summer of 2016 will go down in the Miller annals as "The Summer of Sibling Unrest".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18.48px;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.48px;">I mean, it's not NON-STOP. They do pause to sleep. And when they're not together. Sometimes, during a blue moon, if they all want to go the same place, do the same thing, they harmoniously work together to attempt a successful outcome, proving to their parents that they are capable. I keep telling them that they love each other and will always be there for each other, knowing that deep, deep, deep, deep down they do and they will.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18.48px;">A week into our time in the most glorious state in all the land, Maine had still not worked it magic. We were still pulling over on </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">day trips</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18.48px;"> still hearing bickering from sun up 'til sun down over THE DUMBEST STUFF ("I called dibs to hold the watermelon and he took it from me!") and I honestly didn't know if I wanted to stay the extra few days we were slated to stay. On top of Cadillac Mountain, I forced them to hold hands so I could take a picture of our opposite realty. They were so pleased as is obvious:</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.48px;">We woke up on Day 8 and decided to take the children on a redemptive hike to a remote Indian reservation leading to a spectacular lake, a relatively simple hike that we had turned into a three hour ordeal of bug-biting misery last year when we took a wrong turn. We unloaded, asking everyone to be very quiet, as it was likely we could see a moose along the trail and we wanted to enjoy hearing all the sounds of the forest. Two minutes into the hike, there was already discord over mosquito nets and whose walking stick was better. Five minutes into it, as we reached the fork on the trail the sounds bickering were rising and I was done. Turning around, I put up my hand and commanded everyone to halt. I'll spare you the entire lecture, except for this last part.....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18.48px;">".....If I hear ONE MORE NEGATIVE WORD from ANY of you, ALL of you will automatically be enrolled in an hour-long lecture taught by yours truly here. Instead of roasting marshmallows around the campfire or watching a movie, you will enjoy 60 minutes of hearing your mother's voice lecturing you about peace and love and kindness and charity. You will have to take notes. There will be no snacks and </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">no bathroom breaks. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18.48px;">YOU DECIDE."</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.48px;">Now, I am going to give you a visual of what I looked like as I barked out these words and you can see that I have two, maybe three years until they would laugh me up and down the mountain. (Lest you are staring in envy at my head-gear, my husband so generously lent it to me to repel the mosquitoes. It's safe to say no living creature was tempted to nibble at my neck, including the owner of neck-flap wonder.)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.48px;">Even now, I am pretty sure there were a few eye rolls coming from the middle of the pack, but I let them go. Needless to say, the threat of hearing my voice droning on during prime evening hours afforded us an enjoyable family hike that ended at Endless Lake, which is where Heaven and Earth touch.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.48px;">After that hike, things seems to take a turn for the better, as they often have in the past in this setting. There was still the bickering, but it came in smaller batches. Maine had worked it's magic yet again. The glimpses of sibling harmony gave us hope for the future. At one point, they all started singing Don William's "You're My Best Friend" in unison, and we thought we had been transported into another realm. Curt and I overly praised them for the sound of music, which we much preferred to the usual. I stopped short of sewing the cabin curtains into play frocks. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.48px;">And then we came back home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18.48px;">Reality was waiting for us at the doorstep (hello ant infestation!</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; line-height: 18.48px;">) and we all picked up right where we left off. And that's ok because I have come to accept this as a season, as part and parcel of having five strong-willed children in close age proximity and also because school starts up again in nineteen days and twelve hours (not that I'm counting).</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.48px;">I have no, none, zilch, nada Pinterest/Family Magazine/Parenting Forum-worthy list of suggestions in how to deal with this...and quite frankly, I'm too tired to care to find new and creative ways to help them work through their sibling stress. It's just the stuff of LIFE as an imperfect human living with other imperfect humans. I'm just going to hold onto and highlight the beautiful moments and memories as we keep moving forward, sometimes hitting the rumble strips, sometimes stopping to regroup and always remembering we've got a (really) good thing going overall. We're never going to reach a plateau of perfection, so we might as well lean into the grace and goodness of God that covers our multitude of sins. Each and every (long or lovely) day.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; line-height: 18.48px;">If you're interested, here are a few of my favorite pictures from our time in Maine. Thanks for taking time to stop by!</span><br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQQUIrevxjE7vAtUc8muQ2yLH436jnaU7VP6x8FxpWBIXUZIlzboOztNBsFeCVGgWCIbLkONiHSDjN-kRDAOkp85-qWrInQeTlW6byKSRBXsOH5mIhIJgGL9e7FaDw7s8knmfp_8p8UHKi/s1600/DSCN1462.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #7d6240; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQQUIrevxjE7vAtUc8muQ2yLH436jnaU7VP6x8FxpWBIXUZIlzboOztNBsFeCVGgWCIbLkONiHSDjN-kRDAOkp85-qWrInQeTlW6byKSRBXsOH5mIhIJgGL9e7FaDw7s8knmfp_8p8UHKi/s400/DSCN1462.JPG" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.56px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Creeks always bring out the best in our crew. Team work...it CAN happen!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaK-F76d9wBmQmu4y39EU245-L8d65gdupCNv5DuPxI1vePsGXsPahwGofG8oy2enzObMYbqjvjkBrUSwAH2CRP7bCQDKnBJScf7OolWZbiFkRJgkaKBCO-PouBG4ftIW-LIKTewVRKGxc/s1600/DSCN1420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #7d6240; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaK-F76d9wBmQmu4y39EU245-L8d65gdupCNv5DuPxI1vePsGXsPahwGofG8oy2enzObMYbqjvjkBrUSwAH2CRP7bCQDKnBJScf7OolWZbiFkRJgkaKBCO-PouBG4ftIW-LIKTewVRKGxc/s400/DSCN1420.JPG" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.56px;">Me and my girls at Moosehead Lake</td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZbJBwxZk4DADjQ5U_ysRnSDi6v6TLe4wG0QbUyzOc8BwET8WA4CLv7CkiRLajNwSsd-D0bSnsNLU1nCjL2IXxJHqHg0LGTTmZtqKfKIDEpEwaKktSPVpdzYFLpJOqEsuKmLu2d7jfPPP4/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252820%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #7d6240; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZbJBwxZk4DADjQ5U_ysRnSDi6v6TLe4wG0QbUyzOc8BwET8WA4CLv7CkiRLajNwSsd-D0bSnsNLU1nCjL2IXxJHqHg0LGTTmZtqKfKIDEpEwaKktSPVpdzYFLpJOqEsuKmLu2d7jfPPP4/s400/FullSizeRender+%252820%2529.jpg" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.56px;">A little blueberry something to cheer on the mama.</td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixAREouqACfvjxP-RcJ4_pi3Y647RIjfyXDD8j6HKHBVZDEhOpneyrNo3Jv5uBZ4xYvVz95d-9tfXNJB1btHfRelmZugpEs5AJqEvq2U3aEs_F-GL6yZQdk_WR7qXETeGxIaK6_6qw9o9h/s1600/IMG_6923.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #7d6240; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixAREouqACfvjxP-RcJ4_pi3Y647RIjfyXDD8j6HKHBVZDEhOpneyrNo3Jv5uBZ4xYvVz95d-9tfXNJB1btHfRelmZugpEs5AJqEvq2U3aEs_F-GL6yZQdk_WR7qXETeGxIaK6_6qw9o9h/s400/IMG_6923.JPG" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.56px;">My favorite form of escape. </td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFdYV3LUO3u7iLdCrhRjZRiqoJn1TxY-NeUc0gsJ9QpI1gX7XjJ7rbTrEqbc-45yIlGTK8CVuaoeU8iqxVJNc5rQI3W0HKFbWNR1Y3hN55_HmCT40pzFD9sqLGDTGQDjBVi4bcgBIDsx8/s1600/IMG_6969.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #7d6240; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFdYV3LUO3u7iLdCrhRjZRiqoJn1TxY-NeUc0gsJ9QpI1gX7XjJ7rbTrEqbc-45yIlGTK8CVuaoeU8iqxVJNc5rQI3W0HKFbWNR1Y3hN55_HmCT40pzFD9sqLGDTGQDjBVi4bcgBIDsx8/s400/IMG_6969.JPG" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.56px;">The awkward, half-hearted "hug"</td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVOnHIAHlF3njKEtqEj9AuegJq3p1_Su1AAQDVbM_4ixpRjMyQlkMsdmxGGUmroys-HKhA56uqgeyp_baySP3XgcHhdx6BZVc15VPeWrifCug3bHFzyXnUK1JNkp7QbeaF-bpxAA78saZ4/s1600/IMG_7094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #7d6240; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVOnHIAHlF3njKEtqEj9AuegJq3p1_Su1AAQDVbM_4ixpRjMyQlkMsdmxGGUmroys-HKhA56uqgeyp_baySP3XgcHhdx6BZVc15VPeWrifCug3bHFzyXnUK1JNkp7QbeaF-bpxAA78saZ4/s400/IMG_7094.JPG" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.56px;">Lobstah lovers.</td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ7QDjtvSSVVpB9-VYo7_pct0hGd-LSvPE1S4o3dYtCMi1ItDCNgO2v2tRVRlfFk6stljhoqgZEIOHaCAUMwYbfzFuk__zZUZEHqfwx2A7p_1FqwdS84CxFcSZF1guqd0a-8s8MJb0R-2t/s1600/IMG_7458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #7d6240; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ7QDjtvSSVVpB9-VYo7_pct0hGd-LSvPE1S4o3dYtCMi1ItDCNgO2v2tRVRlfFk6stljhoqgZEIOHaCAUMwYbfzFuk__zZUZEHqfwx2A7p_1FqwdS84CxFcSZF1guqd0a-8s8MJb0R-2t/s400/IMG_7458.JPG" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.56px;">My dream family vehicle. Have already looked on Ebay. No luck.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEtZUSpAsvIkitaMhV5PLEgcU9pBGFnl3Rixo3UDnFb7GzBGUa9KpWToVlQThAssnVbo8XBh9By0hLFgerpsdpsPFH8WJiZVaHNLo-rC0rbGL5AaFwy6OkBXoBMokJyyB4EgdJj6D1N9I8/s1600/IMG_7149.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #7d6240; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEtZUSpAsvIkitaMhV5PLEgcU9pBGFnl3Rixo3UDnFb7GzBGUa9KpWToVlQThAssnVbo8XBh9By0hLFgerpsdpsPFH8WJiZVaHNLo-rC0rbGL5AaFwy6OkBXoBMokJyyB4EgdJj6D1N9I8/s400/IMG_7149.JPG" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.56px;">"Sleeping Queens"...a new family favorite. Best 8.99 spent on Amazon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRb9LhMLm9IBdJGhy5-qgQwjwsUsAzYoRcp8ey1FI9bpNL46Kp1AeLJDK-7_hXWsp6qHg_pRVIYg1LP01fLuj3T4iJzFT1RQhVJoKyGMJxEjLt-Jrtd2DiYhdW8Z1_pYKPIyQbS0R1EOIs/s1600/IMG_7449.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #7d6240; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRb9LhMLm9IBdJGhy5-qgQwjwsUsAzYoRcp8ey1FI9bpNL46Kp1AeLJDK-7_hXWsp6qHg_pRVIYg1LP01fLuj3T4iJzFT1RQhVJoKyGMJxEjLt-Jrtd2DiYhdW8Z1_pYKPIyQbS0R1EOIs/s400/IMG_7449.JPG" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.56px;">Eastport. My favorite little coastal town in Maine. Teddy and Eleanor used to frequent the town, and I<br />
am trying to convince my husband I could withstand the winters here. </td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiovTx5kIebjmYcbX-kUL-acuf6y3nzQTEQIVN1bKCmlVETj4lwLpjgjYjgdFKlZKsZ_uhsK0b-xsD-RVjrhof5qD1MeL4KqXlHMKrmZy7WuoER0Nl306AzNUy9xLdvIutt6JriFYbSAKAu/s1600/IMG_7502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #7d6240; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiovTx5kIebjmYcbX-kUL-acuf6y3nzQTEQIVN1bKCmlVETj4lwLpjgjYjgdFKlZKsZ_uhsK0b-xsD-RVjrhof5qD1MeL4KqXlHMKrmZy7WuoER0Nl306AzNUy9xLdvIutt6JriFYbSAKAu/s400/IMG_7502.JPG" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.56px;">Always fishing. Always setting new records.</td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV7WUvobJs1Nwpr2f9IBS6jEL2-YCOYrVSDxt4n98rQ_21Bt7lZxQL5cLKjpoeDhyphenhyphenCOcBAinV-SiFf87U_6rPbpuMHK1P0zUO1lA7XEp4oeGtzSCLM3qKB9lyLzllPxY0wGJ5A8vc7m2gH/s1600/DSCN1564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #7d6240; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV7WUvobJs1Nwpr2f9IBS6jEL2-YCOYrVSDxt4n98rQ_21Bt7lZxQL5cLKjpoeDhyphenhyphenCOcBAinV-SiFf87U_6rPbpuMHK1P0zUO1lA7XEp4oeGtzSCLM3qKB9lyLzllPxY0wGJ5A8vc7m2gH/s400/DSCN1564.JPG" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.56px;">My good man. Overseer. Leader. Van Puller-Over.</td></tr>
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkDKqkDP20PWBKQsxDjDTjOQrIS9X6U1aXJ3BHPemW1uAe-WzftaJQGhePvbGGgPib7BrnFVYp60aA-2Migk2IfXac1BFwcGaOAuy6Mq5srWCkY7LgjaMlay7X9QBTNxvvvH3gdrDHQXX/s1600/DSCN1617.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #7d6240; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkDKqkDP20PWBKQsxDjDTjOQrIS9X6U1aXJ3BHPemW1uAe-WzftaJQGhePvbGGgPib7BrnFVYp60aA-2Migk2IfXac1BFwcGaOAuy6Mq5srWCkY7LgjaMlay7X9QBTNxvvvH3gdrDHQXX/s400/DSCN1617.JPG" style="background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.56px;">Diva Hikers. "We can't go on". </td></tr>
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Love,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px; line-height: 18.48px; text-align: center;">
The Millers</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-85654586409366951532016-06-02T18:40:00.002-04:002016-06-02T19:59:38.914-04:00Serenity How.<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Setting the Scene.</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>(How Things Appear)</i></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
I submit to you the two pictures I posted on Instagram today,<br />
this the first half day of Summer Break 2016:</div>
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<br />
As it appears, and as it is, we are two long-time friends in our late thirties, christening the good 'ole summertime with icy Starbucks coffee drinks, bright smiles and a neck-up selfie taken from on high (on purpose and thanks to my extraordinarily long appendages). The second picture involves our two cuties who share the same first name and who played so sweetly together.<br />
<br />
All in all, these pictures, while genuinely happy, show nothing of what <i>really</i> went down the first four hours of Summer Break 2016.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Behind The Scenes. </span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>(what really went down)</i></span></div>
<br />
Janelle and I share a long history and I love her so much. Since we've had children, I've always had a convincing suspicion she's done a much better job at producing well-mannered, quiet and peace loving children, even though are families aren't around each other enough to either confirm or deny it. We now reside in the same school district, and although our children are in different elementary schools within that district, our children all had half-day last days. Being quite comfortable in our friendship, I had suggested celebrating the last day of school at their perfectly adorable backyard pool. She graciously welcomed the idea and we exchanged texts declaring our anticipation for this time together. I wrote her "my children will be over the moon about this!".<br />
<br />
After savoring every blessed second of school-time peace today, the children burst through my reverie at approximately 1:30pm EST and I welcomed them with open arms, exclaiming the great news that we would be celebrating the completion of another school year at the pool of our dear friends. Cheers erupted and everyone eagerly ditched their backpacks in exchange for their swim gear. They were, indeed, over the moon.<br />
<br />
Barely ten minutes into the drive, I realized it was a full moon they were jumping over after suggesting a stop at Target for a few new beach towels and flip flops, since I could only find a few thread-bare towels and an odd number of sandals.<br />
<br />
<i>"MOM! Come on! That's no way to start summer break by dragging us into a store!"</i><br />
<br />
<i>"Yea! He's right! Go when it's just you!"</i><br />
<br />
Oh. I see. {Grips steering wheel tightly}<br />
<br />
PARDON ME for infringing on this school ending-celebration I thought up and am driving you too! How very RUDE of me.<br />
<br />
I should have known this would be the last time they agreed on anything. These complaints ushered in a downhill slope of intense fighting between all peoples located in the middle and back sections of the 2007 Toyota Sienna. At one point, I dramatically pulled my phone from it's purse and loudly called upon Siri for assistance:<br />
<br />
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<br />
The request provided a lull in the arguing and I took the opportunity to launch into the now-yearly "I Want To Have A Great Summer As A Family But It's Up To You" speech (from which no one has ever had a come-to-Jesus moment).<br />
<br />
As our sexy van turned onto the road of our destination, I told them this (because I somehow believed this to be true):<br />
<br />
"These children whom we are visiting are VERY NICE, PEACE-LOVING PEOPLE. They are not used to fighting and if they see five hooligans spilling out into their pool who are fighting and full of unkindness, they will be VERY SCARED. SO BE NICE AND BE CALM!!! OR WE WILL NOT BE INVITED BACK AND WILL BE NAPPING THE REST OF THE SUMMER AFTERNOONS!!!!!"<br />
<br />
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****</div>
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I walked up to my beautiful friend whose voice is as welcoming as her hug. I tried to appear more up-beat about the the new summer freedom (read: lack of peace & quiet) than I felt and without skipping a beat she clipped, "Come on in...don't mind the child in the gazebo. One hour in, and we're already on our first time-out."</div>
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Immediately, I loved her even more and felt my body relax (including the belly under my tankini I was trying to suck in).<br />
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Within minutes, our children were splishing and a'splashing. It felt like the good old summertime we wanted for our children whom we love. We snapped the above shot of ourselves, with me invisibly blocking out the sound of my son repeatedly whining about having to share a large inner-tube with his twin brother (life is SO HARD, Johnny, I KNOW!). We commented on our daughters playing so sweetly together, one older Annie pretending with the younger Annie.<br />
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And then, the sound of a child panicked, choking on pool water ceasing all frivolity...and when he could finally talk, accusing his little brother of trying to "drown" him. It was one of THEM. Not us. I was shocked (and I won't lie: relieved). My children stood around the pool with dripping crotches and confused expressions on their faces as they surveyed the scene. They had just been told these were a peace-loving, harmony-abiding people group they were visiting, but all evidence was currently to the contrary. The turf we were on felt very familiar. Like...<i>ours</i>.<br />
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It appeared we were all indigenous creatures from the same land, all belonging to an imperfect sect called HUMAN BEINGS.<br />
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And guess what? WE WERE! WE ARE! WE SHARE THE STRUGGLE!<br />
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We had moments of fun and moments of frustration. Life is a messy imbalance of "and's" and we're wise to allow both sides to co-exist. We have all of eternity to experience perfect. Here on Earth, it's a whole lot of balancing two uneven sides.<br />
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Janelle and I, even with our different family dynamics, were able to share the knowing of what it's like to be an imperfect human raising and loving and learning to discipline (smaller) imperfect humans. Against the beauty of a carefree summer day, we felt the heaviness of our human condition. And under a pool-side umbrella, we came up with no answers and plenty of empathy. We sliced up a big watermelon and went on with the afternoon because what else could we do? We're only human and sometimes consequences must wait while we figure out the next step.<br />
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***</div>
Whether you're a person weighing in on a gorilla controversy or one looking over your neighbor's fence and hoping she's not judging you as she peers over on your side, or driving to the pool belong to a family you perceive as much more peace-loving than your own warring tribe, KNOW THIS:<br />
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We are all human. We all have our battles.</div>
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Our perceptions are just that: perceptions, assumptions...not reality.</div>
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The truth remains:</div>
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WE ALL STRUGGLE, </div>
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<i>whether we're good at covering it up or assuming incorrectly (my default!).</i></div>
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This is why when we are looking for serenity-in summer, or any other season, the only way we'll begin to find it, is when we acknowledge and embrace the truth we are not alone in the struggle to live and love well.</div>
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This is how serenity starts.</div>
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We're all in this together. </div>
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Summer-on, my friend.</div>
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<img align="left" src="http://i386.photobucket.com/albums/oo310/shabbycreations2/JeanePostSig.png" style="border: 0;" />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-85378903453635324532016-05-23T13:31:00.002-04:002016-05-23T15:07:57.945-04:00The Middle Season.<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Once upon a time there was a young woman who believed in her heart she would do great things. Or maybe, just one really good thing. She had the understanding that while she was not a possessor of multiple talents, there was tucked deep inside of her a tiny bundle of mysterious knowing that God had something in mind especially for her to do. The seed of her personal mission from God was implanted, creating a buoyancy of expectation as it does when one is young, feeling their whole life is before them, with plenty of time to figure it out, to stretch and grow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Just as she rounded the curve of her late-twenties, emerging through a season of disruptive cultivation in which all she knew to be firm and factual was uprooted (and in some cases, weeded out), she found herself knee-deep in the early years of motherhood, with precious little time and brain clarity to reflect on the shift in her life. She blamed it on sleep deprivation. It was bare bones, spiritually speaking, during those years...and it was enough. In the pursuit of survival, she almost completely forgot about that "tiny bundle of mysterious knowing" inside of her. There wasn't even time to speculate if it had grown or what it would become. And that was ok.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The now not-so-young woman passed through the early motherhood season (which felt eternal during) into the middle one. The middle one involved many factors, both internal and external:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*children are in school, creating glorious SPACE and QUIET, with more time to nourish herself spiritually. You once again become aware of that little knowing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*children come home from school, like cattle through a shoot. School papers, noise, homework, activities, dinner, counseling, etc. (the spiritual nourishment takes a hit).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*More time, yes...but also, more boundaries with time. Keeping up with what you could not for years, namely, laundry .</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">*The real thinking part of parenting is introduced. After years of primarily physically demanding work, your brain is called to action and it's a bit alarming. You're still tired from Phase 1, but you realize Phase 2 involves both. You wonder if you'll completely lose yourself - and the newly rediscovered yearning for more--in the role of mother.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The Middle Season is a weird little place with awareness behind and uncertainty in front. You can find yourself in it at any point in life. It's a season most every human has found him or herself in and it requires faith to forge through.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This woman now finds herself with a bit of time to remember that little seed she used to coddle and wonder over and feel purpose from. She feels that surely it has grown enough to be clearly visible, if not to others, at least to herself. And it is, but still, it's not clear what exactly what it is. It's easy to look around and see what everyone else is doing with their own. Some people have several growing wildly...all at the same time, and quite successfully! How do they know so instinctively what they are to do? Where do they get their energy or find the time to do it? Is this mysterious offering inside of me even something the world really needs? It appears there is plenty of everything going on already. And even though she still has the knowing it is THERE, she also hears a whisper that says "Almost! Just wait a little longer. It's not quite time...". </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">***</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The Middle Season is where I have been living. God has been growing ME up in the midst of it and with it that seed of personal mission must be stretching out too. One of my favorite offshoots of growth is coming to grips with what I am and what I am not. </span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This has been important to understand, accept and embrace. I've been able to let go of the expectations dragging me down and embrace the few things I do well. Even with all of that, I still feel as though God still has something else in mind for me. It's hard to put in words, but if you have that same inkling, I know you'll be able to fill in the blanks.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As I wrote in my last post, we live in a world that is obsessed with showcasing. This is especially true when it comes to our gifting. This is not all bad and in fact, I think there is much good that comes from it. It simply makes it fertile ground for comparison or for giving up on nurturing a gift when you are one of the hearts who knows there is something God has planted inside of you and yet your understanding of it, the practicality of it and/or the timing for it haven't quite lined up...YET.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg01GjuyxJjHeC2CjRUxjMoprBMvgPFEBNa2z4uCDODh87w6ZUdR6HJpqUCEsKKXjWFREdiGIsMW1pnyiYZOxelLJL0GJdcoXrtBk7PAyWpTlzgIVY4fBd39L54oAk4hFsMCeOzaysWeXXH/s1600/IMG_5155.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg01GjuyxJjHeC2CjRUxjMoprBMvgPFEBNa2z4uCDODh87w6ZUdR6HJpqUCEsKKXjWFREdiGIsMW1pnyiYZOxelLJL0GJdcoXrtBk7PAyWpTlzgIVY4fBd39L54oAk4hFsMCeOzaysWeXXH/s400/IMG_5155.JPG" width="225" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Last week, I took a long walk along the shore. I decided to walk as long as it took to clear my mind, which ended up being over two miles (it's become a junk drawer of thoughts). With my eyes fixed on the horizon, I kept the last remaining errant thoughts from entering and I told God if there was anything I needed to hear, I was listening. No obligation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">No audible voice was heard, these four thoughts came consistently lapping into my quieted mind:</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">1. Keep your eye on your Maker. </span></b><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Keep your vision, eye contact, concentration on the One who made you. Make time to reacquaint yourself with the God who is stirring something in you. Draw near to Him and He will draw near to you. He knows the plans He has for you. You're gift might look similar to someone else, someone who seems to be right where you think you should, but that's only a surface glance. God see's below and beyond and far and above that which we can. What you have is needed to reach specific places at a specific time, and your Maker has a viewpoint deep and wide enough to release it for maximum impact, and rarely is it measurable this side of heaven. Keep your eyes on your Maker, not the measuring.</span></i><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">2. Do not frantically search for the Message/Mission/Whatever You Want to Call that Unspoken Knowing.</span></b><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It is already inside of you, waiting for the time when God calls you to use it. It's been quietly growing and deeping as you experience life, faith, heartache and happiness. This is what is watering it. Keep the eyes of your heart on your Maker, and in the right timeit will be uncovered, shown, made clear to you...and even though you will likely doubt or feel adequate to the task, you will know it's time to take that step.</span></i><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">3. Do not fret over or try to figure out the means by which it will come.</span></b><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">My imagination has always been a good friend and a dream-dampening enemy. It's a perpetual assumption that the release of my "gift" will be triggered by a horrible tragedy. "She came through a fatal accident that took the life of her entire family, leaving her with nothing but stubs as as arms...and now she shares her story, after teaching herself how to type with her unusually long toes..the only part of her body left unscathed.". Every time I've thought of the means by which God will chose to use me, my inner control freak emerges and tries to prepare myself for the misery. We all have different struggles. Perhaps others struggle with matters of practicality or insecurity. For me, it's my over-active imagination...and one-dimensional, warped sense of how God works. We've all got our party poopers.</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>4. Do not try to control the wattage of the light given to you.</b></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">We all have a light within, ignited by faith and hope in God and the good things He has prepared us to do. It is our job to keep it lit (and even that we need help with at times), but it is NOT our job to control it's reach. I know I often try to minimize the small ways I think God uses me, because i perceive it to be a matter of humility, when it's actually suggesting my understanding is greater than God's. Focusing on ways to increase my wattage is no better. I can relax my grip. The wattage of my light is God's business. Not mine.</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I walked back another two miles to my place on the beach, thanking God for choosing to air-drop that message into my heart and head. I share it only in hopes it will encourage someone else like me, who is living and loving and still waiting in the middle season.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i><span class="versenum" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bold; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Ephesians 3:20</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>(and this, courtesy of Jen Hatmaker):</i></span></span>
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<img align="left" src="http://i386.photobucket.com/albums/oo310/shabbycreations2/JeanePostSig.png" style="border: 0;" />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-80269999380757218072016-05-20T11:26:00.001-04:002016-05-21T17:15:04.660-04:00Behind the Scenes.<br />
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First of all...<br />
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<b><i>Hello! </i></b><br />
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It's a pleasant surprise to have the mental space and time to darken the door of my little proverbial Coffee Cottage/neglected online journal. My husband sent me away to the beach for a bit to <strike>turn back into a nice person</strike> "regroup". Yes, it was ridiculously kind of him. I agree, you could use a break like this too. Also, I know I don't deserve this. All good and perfect gifts come from Above...and occasionally from a man who gets a straight-out tip from his wife's friends that she needs to "step away" for a time before she certifiably turns into Cruella DeVille for good. Or Henry Winkler. (Read on. I'll explain.)<br />
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So I drove myself down to the beach this week. By myself. No little bodies in any of the other seven seats. Just me and silence. It was so beautiful. The first morning I woke up and walked my leisure wear-clad self to the edge of the ocean. Being the deep thinker I am, my mind naturally waded towards my Instagram perusing the night before. Because I had not indulged in much Instagram perusing prior to my recent Facebook sabbatical, the sheer number of "lifestyle" bloggers/whateveryoucallthem was lost on me. But now I found myself aware of the many faux-celebrities who take oodles of pictures of themselves, oft in perfectly arranged "messy buns", wearing their glittering, socially-aware Toms on their inwardedly pointed feet over which a personalized Starbucks hovers in the hand attached to a wrist with a chunky designer watch lodged around with hashtages #messyhairdontcare #coffeeandjesus #reallife or whatever other message their picture is actually not suggesting.<br />
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And so there I stood. Thinking about this weird age in which I live with the waves crashing at my hairy-knuckled toes. For whatever reason, my ego had come along and challenged my aging self to take a reflective, sexy, wind-tousled, beach-side selfie. I can do this! There was no intent to actually post it anywhere, it was simply more to see if "the old girl's got in her". If one came out especially fetching, I thought I would send it to my honey manning the homefront, a little reminder of his hot lover by the sea.<br />
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I took not one, but <strike>thirty</strike> ten such selfies. Squinting as I stood over my phone to shade it enough to clearly identify the sexiest, most naturally wind-swept shot, I felt my self-esteem take a sharp downward turn. <br />
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This was the very best of the lot:<br />
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#genderneutral and #eyebrowsgoneamok and #mychinispregnantwithitsfirstbaby</div>
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Not one to give up easily, I decided it was safer to go south. It was time to try the "where I'm standing" and "what I'm drinking" thing. Feet shot seem very "on fleek" right now (I had to google this ridiculous phrase when I first heard it) and the tattoo I was gifted in honor of my precious brother in law last year completely boosted my chance of NAILING THIS. The little inked bee on my foot gives instant street cred, it tells people that I might be an aging Christian woman with children and unruly facial hair, but dang it, I am so, like, UN-OLD FASHIONED and actually REBELLIOUS. It was a shame I didn't have on an ethically-made leather anklet, but we can't have it all.</div>
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I eagerly waited for the right moment to send this message to a waiting world and when it came, I pounced on the little white button on my iphone camera.</div>
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Obviously, the surf did not the memo. </div>
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<i>Very</i> uncooperative. Rude.</div>
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It kept coming too quickly for my delayed reflexes. We just weren't meshing and I felt it was time to give it a rest. I stood for a few more moments, breathing in the salty air I had been dreaming about through the last few stale months of my life. </div>
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Back on the porch, I picked up a book a began to read. There was a gentle sea-breeze blowing through my hair and in the middle of the fourth chapter, I closed the book. "ONE more", I thought to myself, "Surely I can't really look <i>that</i> bad in my natural state". I took this shot straight on, hoping for a more <i>come hither</i> look, tousled beach curls and all. THIS would be one for the hubs.</div>
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Apparently, my natural state is consistent. </div>
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I stared at my porch-side selfie.<br />
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I just couldn't believe it.<br />
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I had always been so sure of my parentage.<br />
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And now, there's just no denying it. I am Henry Winkler's (aka "the Fonz") long lost little sister. Tell me you can't see it. Our eyebrows are practically quadruplets.<br />
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On the bright side, I might have a future in "The Fonz" Impersonations. You never know, I might have my own show yet. #bronsonhereicome<br />
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Anyhoo. Moving along....<br />
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This little foray into staged "natural" photographs of me and my surroundings reminded me how silly we humans are and how short-sided our vision is in a world of snapshots. We can only see in part...both on Instagram (or the like) and in the grand view of life. I don't know about you, but my little brain is lightening-quick at filling in the blanks,<i> not only</i> by making assumptions about a persons entire home, entire body, entire existence based on one tiny square snapshot of a corner in her kitchen or her manicured toes.....but also filling in the blanks of my own life, assuming how God is going to work or the means by which He'll move or bring about change.<br />
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The morning after my silly selfies, I once again stood at water's edge, staring at the blue-on-darker-blue horizon. I did not stare at my feet, nor did I have my phone to stare at my reflection. My vision stayed straight ahead and I heard a whisper encouraging me to keep my eyes there. Even - and especially- when I am no longer here. I was reminded to be careful of what I am focused on and to remember there is so very, very little I can correctly assume about life....both someone else's and even more, my own. In a world infatuated with showcasing, it's easy to forget the most impressive lifestyle changes are the ones that happen underneath the skin and behind the scenes of the human heart, none of which can be captured by the press of a button.<br />
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<dd style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>"God moves in a mysterious way</i></dd><dd style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>His wonders to perform;</i></dd><dd style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>He plants His footsteps in the sea</i></dd><dd style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.4px; margin-bottom: 0.1em; margin-left: 1.6em; margin-right: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>And rides upon the storm."</i></dd><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-10625223634952982382016-03-31T10:39:00.002-04:002016-04-07T15:06:28.901-04:00Free from Perfection.If you <span style="color: #674ea7;">r</span><a href="http://thecoffeecottage.blogspot.com/2016/03/giving-up.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #674ea7;">e</span>ad the post before this one</a>, you are aware we went to our first "parenting support group", a class of conversation and learning based off the Love and Logic book. I have nothing to report back as it was more introductory than educational. For an ice breaker, our facilitator had us pull off a few squares of toilet paper and use each one to share a truth about ourselves. I pulled only two and my descriptors were:<br />
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1. I used to be a really fun person.<br />
2. I like to be in control<br />
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Indeed, God has a sense of humor! The woman who is driven by a sense of control is sitting in a parenting class because she's finally admitted she doesn't have it. (Also, that fun person? She is still tucked in there, not too far from the surface. I just wish she'd come out more often around the dinner and bedtime hours. And the weekends. And summertime).<br />
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So... while there was not much to take and share with you from the introductory course, I have been chewing on the incredibly thick-with-wisdom text message sent recently from one of my dearest, lifelong friends, <a href="http://www.annie-joyofthejourney.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Annie</a> (of whom I named my daughter after). I like her because she's hysterical, says it like it is and stays reverently dedicated to the Truth. {Her blog is amazing. Find it <a href="http://www.annie-joyofthejourney.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">here</a>}. Before I pass her good words along, let me share this definition of the "gospel" as a backdrop:<br />
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><b>The ‘gospel’ is the good news that through Christ the power of God’s kingdom has entered history to renew the whole world. When we believe and rely on Jesus’ work and record (rather than ours) for our relationship to God, that kingdom power comes upon us and begins to work through us.”</b></i></span><i style="color: #38761d; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 22.4px;"><b>– Tim Keller</b></i></div>
Thank you, Timmy K. Now, here are some more Truth-packed words from Annie P. Take your time, sip some tea as you let it seep in:<br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i> If the gospel welcomes me out of hiding, I can face areas that I am struggling in with hope! My identity isn't wrapped up in how well I am doing as a mother and how well my kids are responding to me. </i></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i> Conversely, it isn't my identity that I am struggling with little (and the not so little) human relationships. </i></b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #674ea7; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i> That conversation off the table, now I can ask for advice, help, encouragement and tips from others without feeling like I am less of a person. I can lean on Christ for my identity and lean on the body of Christ, (and maybe a professional!) opening myself up to their aide, help and prayers without feeling like I failed at something I was supposed to do perfectly! It's freedom all the way around. </i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i><span style="color: #674ea7;"> Our parenting, (just like our marriages) are what God uses, (because we are a mess and they are a mess) to aide us and perfect us in our sanctification (conformed to the image of His Son stuff). Doing this and practically every other Human relationship is tough stuff because it's broken. </span>Christ's work of redemption gives me the grace I need to learn, grow, succeed and fail without it being attached to who I am as a person. <span style="color: #674ea7;">What a grace!!
I am so thankful for sisters who are moms who are learning the gospel with me and that we can remind each other every day of its deep riches. </span></i></b></span><br />
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Amen and amen. It is of utmost importance to not confuse our identity with our successes or failures in any of our pursuits...relational or otherwise. It's "freedom all the way around" to release the pursuit of perfection, and leave that to the only One who is.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-DYmOJwFgT9pJiYhY7T5QlJHuer-P0P08hUHNliSBwexJDl6b38BQw6m2AUQKhvnzLordHp-JLkiLQSezh_sXJN0RlnYLN_lwUjThNQ0Sq8nAxbud1rXCgQMkAVY5HdbHvpi_xuxJ3Cx/s1600/IMG_1318+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-DYmOJwFgT9pJiYhY7T5QlJHuer-P0P08hUHNliSBwexJDl6b38BQw6m2AUQKhvnzLordHp-JLkiLQSezh_sXJN0RlnYLN_lwUjThNQ0Sq8nAxbud1rXCgQMkAVY5HdbHvpi_xuxJ3Cx/s400/IMG_1318+%25281%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo credit: Marilou Shaffer</td></tr>
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<img align="left" src="http://i386.photobucket.com/albums/oo310/shabbycreations2/JeanePostSig.png" style="border: 0;" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-8402309882824461832016-03-29T12:38:00.002-04:002016-03-29T13:20:15.887-04:00Giving Up.The sound of silence. It can be a beautiful thing and this morning, because I had the gift of sending five, healthy and alive children off to a school with caring, committed teachers who will instruct them how to add, subtract, multiply and read, I am positively relishing in it. I am working at adding all the teachers into our will. They are beautiful people who have dedicated their lives to enriching young lives...and in the case of my children, perhaps sparing them as I cannot imagine (in our scenario), how we would all come out alive if I were their sole educator. Best case scenario, one of us would be rendered in the fetal position in the corner of the house sucking her thumb, and that person would likely be me. Thus, the will is slated to include a bevy of teachers.<br />
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I love my children. Deeply. Of course I do. They somehow continue to love me even though I've failed to locate the handbook on how to raise them. Before having children, it did not occur to me such a book would be needed. I thought I had a home team advantage, being as though my childhood home was a happy, peace-filled (my mother always had Dino and CDs with nature sounds playing in the background) and ordered one. Having children didn't terrify me. I wasn't nervous I would break the baby or worry that if I didn't play enough with my small children they would grow up hating me. I thought if I did it just like my mom did with me, I would have a good shot at making it as a mom.<br />
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However, God gave me my own family. I don't know why, but He did.<br />
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The home I now run looks very different then that of my mother's. She had her own challenges, but as a child, I mostly remembered the good (may it be so with alllll of my children as well, dear Jesus, amen.) and it was my intent to select all the healthy ways I had been raised to copy and paste into my own parenthood experience. It appeared initially that I could get away with this simple transfer approach. And then they started to grow up.<br />
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All things considered, we've got five interesting, healthy and happy children. What a GIFT. And yet, these gifts are five flawed human begins who clash frequently and also come together as a posse against their authority when they find a shared cause. Each has their own set of virtues and their own bag of vices, always looking to use either to get their parent's attention. Since I am the parent who is most often physically present, I get to be the one who is pulled at the most. They do not intend to wear me down, they are simply little humans developing their wills and testing the limits. They're smart...they know I'm more apt to cave then not. It feels I am constantly running behind a fast moving train, desperately trying to keep control of all the cargo (some of which can be explosive at times), trying to mask my ineptness at keeping up and doing a miserable job of it. I've huffing and puffing my way through their childhood, rarely enjoying, mostly exhausted as I check off another day. This hasn't felt right.<br />
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And so...<br />
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I am giving up.<br />
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I giving up trying to parent the ONLY way I know how. I have put down the clip board and acknowledged that while many the underlying principles I grew up and have parented on are still absolutely foundational to our family structure, the way I have been operating is not an adequate fit for the task in front of me. My "task" looks different from my mom's and yours looks different than mine. I cannot go on playing it by ear...or they will end up whittled down so far they won't be able to hear the sound of their laughter, their ideas and all the amazing things their energies can produce.<br />
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When I felt one of our children was dealing with anxiety in a way in which I was unable to find ways to effectively help them with, we employed a highly recommended play therapist to assist. From those sessions, it was suggested we do one family play therapy session, to better understand our "dynamic". I never envisioned doing this because I assumed I could handle it {insert long, drawn out, slightly jaded laughter}. While it felt a bit intrusive, I was at the place where all the help was welcomed. It was every mom's nightmare (sans Michelle Duggar): Being taken into a small room with 8 gazillion miniature characters of every conceivable notion, being instructed to work together as a family to first construct a house made of blocks and then to furnish it and then to add a few characters from the 500 shelves around us. ALL WHILE BEING VIDEO-TAPED. Lord have mercy. I still shudder at the memory.<br />
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As one member (me) built the house, the rest threw in some furniture and ALL of them nearly wiped the shelves clean of all 8 gazillion characters as their father (fantasizing about a glass of Jack Daniels) supervised the chaotic, recorded scene. It was so noisy. So full of stuff. The children loved it. It was so much fun (for them). What was even more delightful, was when the therapist (still recording) asked me how I felt our family play time. Knowing she is trained to tell a lie, I hesitated for just a second then gently answered, "Well, it <i>was</i> interesting keeping everyone focused...I can't say I enjoyed per se, but it's always good to see everyone work together as a team---"<br />
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"MOM. Why are you talking like that? You're just talking nicely because you know she's recording you! You should use<i> </i>your <i>normal</i> voice.", loudly interjected my pubescent son, right into the camera.<br />
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I cannot write what I was fantasizing about as i heard him saying these words as the red light of the camcorder blinked in my face. It's possible I would be arrested. I was just thankful my daughter didn't suggest the wicked witch she had perched on top of a firey volcano was her mother. Of course, professionals read into these things on their own. Whatever.<br />
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Thus, the therapist had PUL-EN-TY to note as she observed our filmed family<strike> chaos </strike>play time.<br />
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Curt and I met with her last week to discuss our "dynamic". She was kind. Very kind. She told us, given the birth order and concentrated ages of our children, we are normal. Normal! I grabbed the arm of my husband. WE ARE NORMAL!!!! Glory be. Whodda thunk it? <i>However</i>, we---particularly the mother--seems a bit, um, TENSE. Possibly unhinged, although that wasn't the exact verbage she used. She kindly suggested I might consider adding a few tools to my proverbial belt to help ease the friction, which will also ease the tension I've been transferring to my dear children. Children are receptors of our emotions. This was not news to me, but when you're so busy just trying to keep up, you forget the importance of what you are projecting. <br />
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Yes, I told her. Yes. Give me tools. Give me all the tools.<br />
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Thus, tonight begins a two month, once-a-week parenting class with other parents. This is not so much for my husband (he truly is the better parent) as it is for the one of us who is at home with the children the most (yours truly) and for "us" as a team. For as much as I thought we approached parenting similarly, as we reach various ages and stages the differences show up and can create tension there too. My parents, the ones who raised me so well, are supporting us by watching our children on these evenings as we go and get more tools. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it.<br />
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The practice we've been going to uses the <a href="https://www.loveandlogic.com/" target="_blank">Love and Logic</a> approach. I am not hinging all my hopes on it, or any "method" (although this seems to employ a good bit of old fashioned common sense). Taking this course will not a superior parent make, nor will it eliminate the inconveniences of being human. It will likely not take away my "normal voice" and my children will still have to deal with an occasional appearance by a tense Cruella. Such is life. Still, I can't wait to learn. Even Mrs. DeVille can learn new tricks.<br />
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It is such a privilege to be a mother. It is a gift to be a sister, a wife, a friend...any of the relationships we hold dear. None is more noble then the other, all are worth our best try. What a gift it is to find new ways, new tools, new boundaries, new whatever it is we need to navigate through these beautiful, complicated relationships in our pursuit to be wholehearted, just as God intends us to be. And sometimes it starts in "giving up" to get where we need to go.<br />
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<img align="left" src="http://i386.photobucket.com/albums/oo310/shabbycreations2/JeanePostSig.png" style="border: 0;" />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-12190852933151616652016-03-22T12:58:00.000-04:002016-03-22T17:23:32.892-04:00Take Care.<br />
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I recently recovered a picture from my not-so-distant past and posted it (click on picture to enlarge):
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A friend of mine responded with this:<br />
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<span style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.08px;"><b>"So a dear friend of mine just found out she is having twins & she is freaking out!! If there is any words of encouragement or tips that helped you get though it....please pass it along! She already has one child (age 3)."</b></span><br />
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The truth is, the scene pictured above is now shrouded in fog. To answer the above question requires spending time sorting through my haphazardly arranged memory bank, where recollections lay scattered in no particular order. Goodness knows, I have no baby books to refer to. Even though five or six years isn't a "long time ago", the season of multiple babytoddlers was so intense that I ran out of it running after the five miniature main characters and haven't really had the chance to stop since.<br />
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As I layed in bed last night, unable to sleep for whatever reason (hello, cup of pick-me-up cup 'o coffee at 3pm!), I took some time to mill around and reconstruct my memories of that era. Seeing as though I recently enrolled myself for a parenting class, I do not see myself anything but a novice. Yet looking back, there are a two words which came to mind:<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">TAKE CARE</span></b><br />
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Take care of<i> what</i>, you ask?<br />
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* Take care to <b>SET BOUNDARIES:</b> I borrowed Nancy Reagan's drug-fighting slogan "JUST SAY NO" as my mantra for that season in my fight against insanity. I evaluated every opportunity to get out of the house against the sheer amount of energy/patience/stress it would require to get there, manage the children there and then pack them up to head back home. For me, there were only a few situations in which I was willing to pay out what only I knew would be demanded from me...and with each passing month, saying "no thank you" became my ticket to continued sanity. This included birthday parties (both hosting and hosted) and <a href="http://thecoffeecottage.blogspot.com/2010/08/reluctant-confession.html" target="_blank">play dates</a>, trips to the library and excursions to amusement parks or museums. In the book of Ecclesiastes, in the third chapter, it reads: "There is a time to keep your small children at home on a simple schedule and there is a time to explore more when they are older and less inclined to make you want a stiff drink when they are acting as though they belong in the wild animal display in the local Discovery Museum."...at least, I'm pretty sure I read that once.<br />
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I began to understand learn it should not be my concern what others thought of my decisions (I still struggle with this!). No matter how much they appeared to be able to handle, they weren't the ones running the particular household I was. This is not the season of life to participate in the "Who Can Post The Most Cool Things You Do With Your Children" contest! If you can do them unscathed, great! If you can't, great! Just be sure your boundaries aren't bigger than your ability to function as happy, sane person. We're all at different places with different family dynamics, all of which determine our boundaries. Your children would rather have a regular routine overseen by a peaceful mama than a sophisticated schedule conducted by an uptight one. {Disclaimer: On the other side of this, make sure boundaries are in place so you CAN go out with just your husband, or just your closest girlfriends. Fill up the very small margins you have with quality, life-giving people who fill YOU in places with the least distraction}.<br />
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* Take care to<b> BE PATIENT IN FRIENDSHIPS.</b> The season of early motherhood is not at all conducive to putting yourself in the running for "Friend of the Year". Take yourself out and while you're at it, make sure your good friends know they are off the hook too. You will cancel more than not, you will forget anniversaries and birthdays, you'll go for stretches where you don't even have the energy to answer the funny link she sent to you because you're just trying to do the next thing which is, namely, SURVIVING. There will be times you texted her and didn't hear back and find yourself obsessing over what you might have said wrong, when in reality, she's not responding because she's frantically swimming the waters of sanity herself. There are other seasons straight ahead where you will be more available to be the supportive, attentive friend you long to be and she deserves. She will be to you too. But for now, be sure there will be plenty of occasions for both of you when you need each other to err on the side of grace over offence.<br />
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* Take care to <b>REMEMBER THE IMPORTANCE OF "AND". </b>This is a season in which you will feel deep gratitude for a sweet smile in one moment and be repulsed by the grossness that is the stench seeping from your child's sagging diaper in the next. One day you will be desperately wanting a one-way ticket to Tahiti where you fantasize curling up in a ball in the corner of a thatched hut on stilts over the ocean and the next day you'll catch a sight of your tiny people actually playing together in a loving way and you will spill salty tears over the beautiful life you've been given. You will occasionally hear of tragedies and for all that day, you won't even <i>think</i> of complaining and you vow you've changed. As it tends to do, the next day comes and your dryer breaks, two children come down with the stomach bug, you get your period and your husband comes home late. You feel guilt for thinking "this is SO hard" when for someone else, it's so much harder. We humans are imperfect, and therefore it is impossible for us to go through stretches of perfection of any great length. Life is beautiful and brutal. Joyful and heartbreaking. Marvelous and maddening. Sweet and sour. Rewarding and unfulfilled. Be aware that every day will have multiple moments where extremes are pitted against each other, and some days, it's just all hard. This is life on the side of Earth. Heaven is a different, and coming, story. Glory, hallelujah.<br />
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The most important thing to remember in whatever stage: there is no official guidebook to "Parenting". We are all novices and we are all in need of wisdom, grace, patience and every good and perfect gift that comes from above. Every day we get some things right and some things wrong. I know in the season I am in still walking on shaky legs, I lean heavy into God for all those humanly unattainable virtues and am pleasantly surprised when I catch myself reflecting Him. I also appreciate it when He brings along someone who has walked the road I am on and offers a little understanding and affirmation to keep moving forward, one imperfect step at a time.<br />
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Take Care, my friend!<br />
J.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-67639595544278562822016-02-22T10:14:00.002-05:002016-02-22T10:21:12.923-05:00For When There Are Hard Times in the Mother Hood<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The morning you locked yourself in the powder bathroom because you could not trust your self-control to trump your anger at the raging child you love but really, <i>really</i> can't stand right now. You feel guilt as you feel vindication at the thought of dropping their angry self off at the side of the road and driving away....</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The moment when you said "shut up" under your breath after their rage passed and they heard you and cried. You couldn't believe what a dark person you are to have let this slip and then seep into their heart. What a heel of a mom.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The time you fantasized about asking to borrow the rose colored glasses of the older lady at Target who told you to "enjoy these days" after your hour long struggle to keep your little beggars from springing out of the red cart so that you could throw them on the ground, crush them with your sneakered foot and hand them back to the nice woman while saying, "I think you forgot what life really looks like right now". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The hour after your good man came home from a trip with you expecting him to patiently take over the deafening circus and he lost his cool in the chaos and he isn't able to make the transition seamlessly. OR he comes home and all the rascallions suddenly turn into little obedient darlings and their father turn's into Mister Rodgers, beloved and adored. What the heck? Either way, you're peeved and he can't win.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Or maybe it's one of the many times you find yourself around other families, whose children listen the first time, don't throw food across the table and generally act like the civilized offspring of successful parents who have parented well. You try to interact and pretend your children do not need to be reigned in, but every five minutes you dart out of the conversational circle because it IS your monkey and it IS your circus, darn it! And you realize that maybe a total revamp of the training program you've been using is in dire need. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Every scenario is different, because none of us or our landscapes look exactly the same. Yet there are seasons in the Mother Hood when, if we choose to be honest, the inside of our tent looks eerily the same. I am here today without a shred of parenting advice because when you're knee deep in monkey crap, you really just don't want that before feeling understood. Here are three simple tools for survival I've found for when hard times set in:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>1. You, specifically, were given this child/children on purpose.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">You weren't a random choice. God doesn't have His fingers crossed, hoping he made a decent pairing. You've GOT THIS because He made you strong enough to handle the hard. Do not force yourself to be someone else. Ask God to break your vices and help hone the virtues. It likely will be a messy and unflattering process, but anything worthwhile usually is. And let your children know that you know you aren't perfect. Ask for forgiveness when needed and claim your loving, imperfect, God-inspired authority the rest of the time. The childhood your children are living are the only ones they know. I know I often project my insecurities about my inability to spend one-on-one time on them (each mother has her own worries), but they only know what they know, and they know they are loved by an imperfect mother. Trust God in all of this. He's got your back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>2. Be honest.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Several weeks ago, sitting in the waiting room of the play therapist I am taking one of my children to, I met the mama of another child who was there. We introduced ourselves and in no time, we couldn't talk fast enough, comparing notes of what we were dealing with. I realized more than anyone, I needed the therapy ...and her ability to absolutely relate with me was exactly what I needed. Neither of us gave advice or pretended to have nice, neat answers. But I am quite sure we both walked out of there feeling understood, with our frustrations eased by being validated. I haven't seen or talked with her since, but it was the shot of encouragement I needed right at that moment and thanked God for it. I also thank him for the close friends I can text/call in the moments when I feel I'm at the Crazy Train station, ready to be picked up and carried away forever. They let me say bad things and know 75% of it I do not mean. They don't try and give advice. They are simply there. And when you have that safety net, you cling to it and you return the favor as much as you possibly can. If you do not have this, make it your fervent prayer that God brings it to you. Friends and strangers who listen and understand are God's tangible hugs...but in order to receive them, one must be willing to be honest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>3. Breathe.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I know. This is pretty basic, but when I am stressed, I forget to breathe in deeply. Half the time, my shoulders are tensed up, hovering around my ears and at the sound of hidden candy wrappers being fondled in the pantry or the refrigerator door being opened for the twentieth time after I've given out plenty of snacks. Remembering (which I rarely do) to stop and take a few deep breaths helps me take pause. I know it's not always possible when you have really small children to lock yourself in your room or bathroom, but if you can (cribs! pack and plays! let them cry!), give yourself a time-out and just breath. Maybe sniff some lavendar or peppermint...or roll around in a vat of it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Just don't forget to come for some air. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Somehow how, it helps.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As you can see, this is not a blog of ground-breaking answers, mainly because the author is still in the trenches herself. Besides, empathy is far weightier currency than answers when it comes to getting through hard times in the hood. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">One more thing. Feel free to borrow and repeat my mantra as often as you need to:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">With love,</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-76791416987094725252016-02-07T16:12:00.002-05:002016-02-07T16:21:48.276-05:00Missing Out.Hunched up in my cotton Holly Hobbie jammies, I would sit by my bedroom door listening to the hum of conversation with the occasional swells of uproarious laughter coming from the dining room where my parents and their friends were playing Rook. As I tucked myself back into bed, I wished myself to be an adult with all it's privileges of staying up late and having fun while doing it. I was missing out on all the fun.<br />
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This last week, as I had the Today Show playing as white noise during the morning, the same sensation from every year around this time snuck up on me yet again. "Here's the perfect dip/dessert/dip/drink/dip to bring to your big Super Bowl Party!!". Except there is no Super Bowl party I have either planned nor invites crowding my inbox. I had to Google who is playing, could care less about overpaid people passing a tiny brown ball and haven't seen a half time show I like since the one with Whitney Houston....and yet, somehow every single year I feel like ours is the only family missing out on a big national holiday in which lively dip-and-wing parties are held in every home with the exception of ours. In my imagination, everyone else is having a merry old time whilst eating allllll the dips while we're nibbling alone on plain chips.<br />
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***<br />
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I flipped through the pictures on Instagram, and what seemed like women from every social circle I've ever brushed arms with was in attendance of a nation-wide conference, one that is God-inspired with prolific speakers sharing via satellite and local women making a difference sharing in each location. It looked cozy, inviting and life-changing. I had every opportunity to go, but to be perfectly honest, conferences are just not something I have ever itched to go to. I don't know why, they just aren't. But still, when I see all these wonderful women speaking and then see scores of women I know coming together in one place, I am tempted to feel I have missed out on an irreplaceable, powerful moment which has left me in the dust of a movement.<br />
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My inbox held and invitation to another conference, this one for those interested in communications, particularly speaking and writing. It will be held in the summer and for seven hundred dollars, I could be promised a meeting with a publisher and sign up for valuable classes. Even with my natural resistance towards such things, I filled out the entire application up until payment. And then I clicked to close my browser. I wondered if I was to let this go, if I would be missing out on a pivotal moment in my development. Maybe. And maybe not.<br />
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Here's the thing about missing out : Whenever I concentrate on what I think I MIGHT BE missing out on, I actually DO miss out on what is right in front of me. For example, tonight I invited the children to create their own Super Bowl party here at home. They are thrilled. There is a handwritten banner hanging on our wall, by way painters tape, with "Go Broncko's" spelled out in marker (bless us our little sports illiterate hearts). Annie and I are about to make a speed run to the dollar store for balloons and my husband and sons are about to put their "secret recipe wings" in the oven. And I will be able to watch the commercials in my pajama's without having to make conversation with anyone. It's going to be GREAT! We are even making dip, because we have a tub of sour cream and onion soup mix and aren't afraid to combine the two. It's going to be CRAY-CRAY here!<br />
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Also, whenever I feel that I MUST be at something in order to get marching orders/inspiration/direction from God, I majorly narrow my view of Him. Certainly he uses events and speakers and books and expert advise to prompt changes and activity in our lives. I would be wise to consider opportunities when they come (even if reluctant to jump in). Yet He is certainly not limited to the ways which seem prevalent and pre-ordained in today's culture. When I draw near, stay close, lean in to listen to what our Father has to say, day in and day out, I can rest in knowing I will not miss a thing.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-42987236476902158912016-01-26T21:12:00.001-05:002016-01-26T21:41:42.829-05:00A Mother Of A SnowstormOnce upon a time, there was a wistful and oh-so-wise woman in her twenties, who magically knew, just KNEW, how she would do everything rightly and wonderfully when she herself was someday herself a mother. Consistent discipline, children who were taught to shake the hand of and make eye contact with all intersecting adults, always using grace-never-guilt-based parenting, bribing be lazy and off-limits and any television viewing over thirty minutes per day per child would be a serious sign of neglectful parenting. Oh sure, she reasoned, there would naturally be an occasional hiccup, but in general, she had high hopes for playing the role of "mother" with grace and dignity. Children are little, tiny, moldable people...how hard could it be? All these things, however, paled in comparison to what this aspiring future-mother envisioned during the cold winter months while tucked in her drafty Human Resources cubical:<br />
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The Mother of a Snowstorm</div>
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In her fantasies, the young professional woman effortlessly pictured a future morning, when in her satin nightgown and sparkly slippers, would tip-toe with anticipation into the darkened rooms with little tiny heads slumbering deeply upon Pottery-barn encased pillows whilst the wind and snow blew against their windows. "I can't wait to tell them! But perhaps I should let them sleep", she would think to herself, holding the surprise of another day at home with her little lovies close to her heart. She would wait, but she could not sit still. Instead, she prepared home made cinnamon rolls, hopeful the cozy smell of yeast and sugar and cinnamon would rouse them from their sweet dreams. Close to nine o'clock, after she had meditated, read, made love, showered and applied her makeup, little footsteps came gingerly down the steps...</div>
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"Mama? Mama? Is now a good time for us to wake up?"</div>
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"Yes, little lovies. Mama's here. Full of the Holy Spirit and good cheer. I couldn't wait to see you!"</div>
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She couldn't wait to tell them that indeed, she had not awoken them with the usual "Good Morning, Star Shine, The Earth Says Hello" song because the kindly radio man had announced no school again today.</div>
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Quiet cheers erupted and they sank into their plush kitchen chairs, the sound of forks gently sliding across plates full of homemade icing and tender pastry. Their little necks strained to look out the window, eyeing up the bitterly cold landscape. </div>
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"We don't want to go outside mama. We just want to stay in and read and play in our rooms quietly, please".</div>
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"{Gentle laughter}, Oh, you sweet darlings. Of course. Stay warm. But mama has some fun things planned for today! Have you ever heard of homemade Play Doh? Oh yes, we're going to make it! And then after our two-hour naptime, I'm going to show you how to make paper snowflakes, with thousands of little cut-outs. It's going to be SO. MUCH. FUN!"</div>
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{Squeals of laughter at the promise of a day brimming full of mirth and merriment}.</div>
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Ma Ingalls would be hard pressed to be a better Mother of a Snowstorm. The crown was hers. Alllll hers.</div>
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***FIFTEEN YEARS LATER***</div>
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6:00AM, EST : Child approaches the mother's side of the bed. </div>
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"Mom? Mom. Mom.......Mom!"</div>
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<i>"What?"</i></div>
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"Can I go downstairs and play Minecraft?"</div>
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<i>"No. Go back to sleep."</i></div>
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"But why? I'll be really quiet."</div>
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<i>"Because I said no. Goodnight".</i></div>
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"But mom, can I just watch one episode of Some Assembly Required on Netflix?"</div>
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<i>"No, go back to bed and sleep in like normal children do on day's off</i>".</div>
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"Just one?"</div>
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"<i>Fine. But keep the volume below 20</i>".</div>
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A few minutes later mother slides out of bed, realizes her nightshirt from Target is on backwards, reaches for her trusty, fluffy robe of ten years and shuffles downstairs to start the coffee. Husband stays sleeping. She whispers "sweet dreams", dripping a little love...and a lot more sarcasm. </div>
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Coffee brewed, she sits down to read her spiritual books to set her day off a peaceful manner, asking the child in the next room to turn down the television. Naturally, said offspring cannot find the remote, and Netflix renders the volume button on the television useless. She pushes through, reading Psalms while hearing juvenile jokes about passing gas. Within minutes, she hears what sounds like a herd of American Buffalo stampeding upstairs and then down the stairs, but what turns out to be her sure-footed daughter and one son. They come down asking for donuts. She gives a half-hearted smile and moves them along, saying it's way too early to be thinking about breakfast, go sit down and watch Television until I'm ready to address you. </div>
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By seven o'clock, all five children are in full awake-mode, claiming starvation and wanting to get the gear that has taken over the back laundry room, on the floor, hanging from doors, cupboards and an other crevice that will hold their previously sopping structures.</div>
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She instructs them to help themselves to a donut. She also firmly announces that NO ONE is going outside until 9AM. And when they DO go outside, they will not be coming in and out, in and out, willy nilly, as they had been the previous three days. Nay, they will be OUT FOR A GOOD FULL HOUR. "If you have to pee, color the snow", she lovingly informs them.</div>
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Scrubbing last night's crusty casserole plate and collecting two zillion Lite-Bright bulbs spilled on the floor, she hears the fighting begin. The victim was the one who "never gets to pick the show HE likes". She feels her blood pressure start to rise as she waits for the first offended one to come bursting into the kitchen, explaining his case right before the next one comes into to offer his/her side of the story. It is 7:30am. Nanny Tele Vision had already given up the gig. She sinks against the counter in despair, having a near-hot flash in her fuzzy robe as she numbly considers that she is facing another long day, a period of time in which the honeymoon aura after a blizzard has surely died, along with the desire to make more hot chocolate, stuff 8000 articles of wool and synthetic, puffy fabrics through into the dryer or referee 200 more arguments in a calm and adult manner.</div>
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She thinks back to the visions of her youth, and wonders what happened. Why isn't she yearning to read, or craft, or teach Origami to her children? Where is the soft voice and gentle manner? Where have all the quiet, mild-mannered children gone? What about that sleeping in part?</div>
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Admittedly, she was WINNING on Day One. Had a snowstorm offered only ONE DAY OFF from school, she would have nailed it. They had hot chocolate THREE TIMES (WITH marshmallows!), they had sledded, helped daddy plow, all their snowy labors and frolicking documented by their dutiful mother. Sure, she sighed a little when they came in after a few minutes, claiming frost bite but she grinned and bore it well as she heaved the heavy garments into the dryer for the first of 2,000 cycles. She had taught them all how to play the card game of her youth, and even patiently instructed the youngest how to shuffle. "They'll never forget this storm!" her husband had said...and she agreed. She sent pictures to their teachers and thanked God it was a weekend storm. How providential.</div>
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Then time moved like molasses and there she was on Day Three, which also happened to be Monday, a day typically reserved for education of children. The Holy Ghost she had invited into her day at 6:10AM was nary to be found by 7. She kept wondering how her homeschool mama friend's did this year-round and calculated just how much they could judge her by her lamenting (read: free therapy) Facebook posts--or at least how SHE would if she were one. She WANTED to be the mama of her former fantasies, DESIRED to be even-keeled and engaging even when the spirit of the household was "lively" (ahem)...but dagnabit, she was SPENT. DONE. No crafts, no games, only go-to-your-room and duke-it-out and here's-my-phone was left in her. </div>
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When it came down to it, she did everything all over again on Day Three. Even the hot chocolate. She wasn't a rock star, she wasn't June Cleaver and she didn't look or smell pretty...but she was THERE. And being THERE is a whole lot more than many mama's get to be, and being THERE more than many children get to experience. A loving (albeit a bit harried) backdrop in the memories of her children, praying that as adults, they would look back on the snow storms of their childhood and only remember all the DAY ONES.</div>
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You were a Mother of A Snowstorm, not Mother Of The Year. Stop trying to confuse the two and move on. Spring is coming.</div>
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In Jesus' Name, </div>
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Amen.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7205044459178909295.post-23142245369697289172016-01-13T15:25:00.004-05:002016-01-13T19:37:27.794-05:00Just Move."It hurts so good".<br />
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This is how I feel about growing up, an activity I've been engaged in off and on for the past thirty-eight years. Nearly four decades of learning to move forward, albeit awkwardly, from one plateau to the next, all along assuming that there is a destination in which to arrive. It hasn't been until recently, I've realized there will not be a mountain-top celebration after which I live a mostly flawless existence, all-wise and without temptation, not on this side of Heaven. Several weeks ago, our <a href="http://www.bethanygf.org/#/media/podcast" target="_blank">pastor Adam Nagle said something</a> that has stuck with me ever since. It was this:<br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;"><i>"Growth is more about trajectory than it is destination"</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
A thousand times and for a thousand different reasons, I've set my sights on the destination instead of celebrating the small victories which inch me closer to it. When I do this, and when I inevitably either falter or the plan fizzles out, I slump down in the seat of perceived failure. The fact is, we will never achieve a plateau of perfection in our Earth-bound efforts. It simply isn't possible. This is why the destination isn't nearly as important as the direction we are taking.<br />
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Take for instance, exercise.<br />
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I have never been an athletic sort. All the way through school, I would dabble in a sport once every so often because it seemed the thing cool kids did, but when I did I would always lament over having to stay for practice after school when I could have been at home curled up eating a generous slab of Entenmann's Cheese Danish while watching The Facts of Life. Even though my father affectionately called me a "human garbage disposal" after watching me lick off the leftovers from my sister's plates after dinner, my metabolism covered my arse then and continued to until roughly two years ago when it decided to unfriend me. It no longer seems interested in helping me digest fatty foods in a timely manner as it used to or keep a lid on my muffin top. On top of that, I haven't been chasing after babies and toddlers any more as I did just a few years ago. And on top of THAT, I'm nearing forty and have felt generally lethargic, stuck and a little bit depressed (which is not typical for me).<br />
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When I first started feeling this way last year, I did what I always do: I picked myself up, gave me a good talking to and set out to conquer my physical stagnation by way of popular means. I marched into the local Y wearing my annual purchase of athletic gear in attempts to fool my body into thinking it liked fast, perpetual movement and I signed up for a myriad of classes with titles like "Body Pump" and "Cycle In The Dark 'Til You Die or Your Thighs Fall Off" (Ok, so I made up that last one, but that's what it felt like). For several weeks I woke up before dawn to subject my body to lifting weights and took the twins to childcare while going nowhere for miles on a bike that wanted to kill me. I can tell you (and I don't use this word lightly): I HATED IT.<br />
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And so I quit. Done. Nothing. I reverted back to doing nothing, while sipping coffee in the morning and wine at night (with a cup of water in between). It took two hands to get a handle on my belly flab and I died a little every time my one six year old twin would try to plant a noisy zerbert in it's folds. Gross. I had not reached a do-able destination, therefore, I stopped moving all together and wallowed around in the flubber. Another failure.<br />
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At the end of last year and the beginning of this, I was internally not doing well. Certain it was hormonal, I researched all kinds of things. I felt I was running behind the pack in all aspects of my life, looking around at women with more children than I, more obstacles in their way who were running CIRCLES around me and wondering how the heck to get out the slump I was in. It felt as though all I could do was stare as the world whisked around me.<br />
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It was during a low, low day...when my family was tip-toeing around me because as hard as I was trying, I just couldn't stop my spot-on Cruella DeVille impersonation...that I finally thought to consult the One who made me over the state of my physical and emotional affairs. Imagine that! Checking in with the Originator of the concept of ME! Not a popular movement, not a well-known fitness/wellness guru or an article with a zillion likes on Facebook. The God who designed my DNA told me, indirectly but very clearly, two things:<br />
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1. Stop your nightly glass(es) of wine<br />
2. Just start moving. Don't try and be a rock-star in the gym. Find a way that works for you, and start moving.<br />
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And so I did. This time, however, I did not start with a bang. I didn't set out to be superstar. I took time to consider my wiring, the ways in which I am predisposed to forming a habit. When it comes to physical exercise, I've come to understand I must approach it in baby steps and outside of a group atmosphere. While I think the concept is great, and love seeing it work for others, I simply don't like sweating profusely and concealing heavy breathing from people immediately to my left and right. Additionally, my body begged me not to wake up early and push it into an activity that required any quicker motion than my arm moving a coffee to and from my mouth. There was and is not a destination set of losing a certain number pounds. I was careful to clarify to myself why I was doing this: to feel healthy, to feel ALIVE again.<br />
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I am now on week three of at least three times a week making beeline to the treadmill at the gym, earbuds affixed for either listening to Tim Keller (he's so articulate!) or to watch my good friends, Chip and Joanna (I want to relocate to Waco) on the complimentary TV. I do not focus on the 70 year old sprinting beside me and I try not to judge pay attention to the 20 year old in skin-tight workout wear with an iphone10 stuck in her bra (seriously? you look ridiculous. and way too sexy). I do not obsess over the paltry amount of calories I am burning or the amount of miles I am walking. I am simply MOVING, which was what I was told to do if I wanted out of the muck. As it turns out, <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2016/01/13/health/endorphins-exercise-cause-happiness/" target="_blank">my endorphins had been in hibernation</a> for a long time and in desperate need of a walk around a block.<br />
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This unimpressive but consistent pattern - even with a few hurdles in scheduling- has made a HUGE difference in how I am feeling. Everything is coming back into focus again. My thinking has a new level of clarity. My awareness is sharper. My sleep is sounder. And even though I still pine for my nightly glass of Cab (*tears* I miss you too Reisling!), the overall affects of following two simple directives is distinctive enough to keep me moving forward with my now nightly cups of <a href="http://www.iherb.com/Harney-Sons-Hot-Cinnamon-Sunset-20-Tea-Sachets-1-4-oz-40-g/42721?CAWELAID=120224250000010072&gclid=CJjfg4LGp8oCFZIWHwodHwAESw" target="_blank">Harney and Son's Fine Teas</a> (I will learn to love tea, I will learn to love tea). It turns out, on both accounts in my life, God knew what He was talking about. Fancy that.<br />
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***</div>
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I write about exercise yet the concept of growth and success being about the trajectory more than the destination applies to every other area of my life. My marriage, motherhood, friendships, how I approach my dreams and handle my disappointments. We are living in an age where instant mastery is preferred and perfection is implied. Neither are realistic when it comes to fallible human beings who require SPACE and GRACE to grow up and into who God intended and nothing can rush what takes time to carefully cultivate.<br />
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We can, and absolutely are wise to first consult the Maker of us on how to move forward. We can be sure, in one way or another, he will answer. Likely, the answer will involve some form of moving, taking steps forward be they literal or physical, large or little. His end goal is not to have us be perfect and neither should it be ours. His goal is to grow us closer to the place where we are freed from what is holding us back so we can move with freedom to use the gifts He has given us. We will take forward steps and we will take plenty of steps backwards towards the destination that we do not yet have the eyes to see.<br />
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The important thing is to grasp onto Grace and move forward. One imperfect step at a time.<br />
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(If you haven't already, watch what Steve Harvey has to say about that <a href="https://www.facebook.com/SteveHarvey/videos/1653661894894669/?pnref=story" target="_blank">HERE</a>. He says "jump", but it's the same meaning as "move". It is absolutely worth your time).<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5