I had been writing on my blog weekly and it felt great. But last week I got too busy with baking millions of Xmas cookies, and this week I have all the kids home and stressing me out, so I haven't written in two weeks. I don't want to not write-- it's important to me that I stick to what I started. But- ugh.
Part of me is feeling like a big baby, like, "no one is reading, no one notices, so it doesn't matter." But then I think, "well so what-- you're supposed to write because you have something to say; not because other people have something to hear." But then I do want it to be heard-- I mean, I guess if I'm honest, that's why I began a blog and not a diary. Anyway.
But I want to get back to it, to somehow make the time because it sure as hell isn't just landing in my lap. I feel like I need a swift kick in the ass or just some nice lovey encouragement. If you have either to offer, I'd really appreciate it.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Carpe Diem
It's been a rough week. I had one hellish day where I felt so trapped in my house and by my ever-fighting kids that I literally felt like I could not breathe. How I ever parented without the use of wine and a hot tub, I have no idea. I don't know what it was, but other people must've been feeling it too because several of my friends' Facebook statuses said things like, "Can't wait for this week to be over" or "Wants to fast-forward through this week."
It may have been that the Gators lost the SEC championship game. Ugh, that hurts to even write. There was heartache in the Gator Nation this week for sure, and I swear to gawd if anyone posts anything negative about my Timmy on here, your comment will be summarily deleted and your name added to my list of persona non grata. We're not kidding when we sing, "in all kinds of weather, we all stick together."
It also really hit me this week how young we are to already be losing our parents. I have three friends who are barely thirty, and one has lost both parents, another her dad, and just this week another lost her mom. I don't imagine there's ever an age at which it's easy to lose your parents, but thirty? My God, it's just not fair. Those parents who have passed will never see my friends' dreams achieved or their children born.
And yet we want to fast forward through our week. We want to skip our own lives. It scares me to think what I could miss if I keep closing my eyes to the present, as burdensome or painful as it might be, and jumping forward in my mind to the future. How many jumps do you get to take till there's no more future to jump into?
As I was in the middle of writing this I got a call from my doctor. I had had two skin tags removed a couple weeks ago. The one under my arm came back normal. The one on my back did not. She talked incoherently for about five or ten minutes about "dermal neurofibromas" and referrals for internal medicine. She mentioned that it wasn't cancer. What she didn't mention was that there is no cure.
I only had one, and it takes five for the doctors to be concerned, so I'm going to say a little prayer, breathe, and try to move on with my day because neurofibroma or not, there are babies to change and dishes to put away. I will wait for the call to set up my internal medicine appointment, and I will try against my nature to not freak out.
And in the meantime, I will live right here, in the present. I'm not going to mind-jump into the future because this is my life, right here, right now, even if it's scary as hell. Tim Tebow wore "John 16:33" on his eyeblack during this week's championship game. Jesus has just been telling his friends about what the future will hold when he goes to die, and he finishes by saying, "I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."
And that does give me some peace. Jesus doesn't promise me that life will be comfortable and easy, but he promises that it will be victorious. He promises that I will get through the stifling days in the house and the frightening days in the doctor's office because he will be right there with me. And I don't want to skip through that, not for one second.
It may have been that the Gators lost the SEC championship game. Ugh, that hurts to even write. There was heartache in the Gator Nation this week for sure, and I swear to gawd if anyone posts anything negative about my Timmy on here, your comment will be summarily deleted and your name added to my list of persona non grata. We're not kidding when we sing, "in all kinds of weather, we all stick together."
It also really hit me this week how young we are to already be losing our parents. I have three friends who are barely thirty, and one has lost both parents, another her dad, and just this week another lost her mom. I don't imagine there's ever an age at which it's easy to lose your parents, but thirty? My God, it's just not fair. Those parents who have passed will never see my friends' dreams achieved or their children born.
And yet we want to fast forward through our week. We want to skip our own lives. It scares me to think what I could miss if I keep closing my eyes to the present, as burdensome or painful as it might be, and jumping forward in my mind to the future. How many jumps do you get to take till there's no more future to jump into?
As I was in the middle of writing this I got a call from my doctor. I had had two skin tags removed a couple weeks ago. The one under my arm came back normal. The one on my back did not. She talked incoherently for about five or ten minutes about "dermal neurofibromas" and referrals for internal medicine. She mentioned that it wasn't cancer. What she didn't mention was that there is no cure.
I only had one, and it takes five for the doctors to be concerned, so I'm going to say a little prayer, breathe, and try to move on with my day because neurofibroma or not, there are babies to change and dishes to put away. I will wait for the call to set up my internal medicine appointment, and I will try against my nature to not freak out.
And in the meantime, I will live right here, in the present. I'm not going to mind-jump into the future because this is my life, right here, right now, even if it's scary as hell. Tim Tebow wore "John 16:33" on his eyeblack during this week's championship game. Jesus has just been telling his friends about what the future will hold when he goes to die, and he finishes by saying, "I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."
And that does give me some peace. Jesus doesn't promise me that life will be comfortable and easy, but he promises that it will be victorious. He promises that I will get through the stifling days in the house and the frightening days in the doctor's office because he will be right there with me. And I don't want to skip through that, not for one second.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Pigeonhole
My parents hosted a fantastic party to celebrate my thirtieth birthday this past weekend. It was filled with extended family and friends of the family, including a lovely older lady whom I hadn't met before. Rosalie is a retired nun, so it probably reflects more on her than it does on me that she gave me a sweet little wooden angel statue, even though she generously suggested it was because I was an angel to my family. (I'm fairly sure they'd disagree, but we'll get to that later.) I also got a beautiful photo arrangement my cousin hand made that spells out, "faith," and something in it immediately sprung up tears in me when I saw it. I was a little surprised by my reaction because it was so sudden, and a little self-conscious because it was so deep, and it was right there for all the party guests to see.
Later, when we had returned home and were unloading our things, my husband, Bryan, glanced at my gifts and said, "You sure got pigeonholed, didn't you?" I'm not sure if two gifts out of five count as a pigeonhole, but his words stuck. I've been pigeonholed before.
A great-aunt at the party pulled me aside and whispered with a congratulatory tone that it was so wonderful to see me as I am now, this "giving mother of five," that it was in such contrast to the little girl I'd once been who used to throw tantrums. And it's true, I was a champion tantrum thrower. In fact, I was evidently such a brat that another great-aunt felt it bore announcing to my mother after I'd just sung at my grandfather's funeral, "Tamara has redeemed herself." I mean, I must've really been god-awful-- losing your beloved Grandpa and then singing your ten-year-old heart out to honor him is some serious freaking penance.
I realize that I may still be the slightest bit defensive about that. But I think part of it is that I see that little girl with new eyes now. My mother told me that her angered thought had been, "Tamara had nothing to redeem (you bitch)!" I see that there was plenty to be redeemed, and I see that I wasn't the one who was doing the redeeming. But what I also see is that that little girl was no worse than anyone else-- I was just living it out in the open for everyone to see.
If nothing else, I'm pretty transparent. I don't know why, I can't really help it. I don't keep my heart tucked away to myself-- it's right there on my sleeve, where all the bloody mess can ooze the whole way down to the cuff. So yes, you see a lot of the ugliness when you look at me, if you're paying any attention at all, and I guess that makes it easy to pigeonhole me as a brat or any number of other names. But what I loved about those gifts-- the angel and the photos-- was that they pointed to something else running out of my heart. If people look at me and see any goodness, any faith, any beauty, it's not because I've done a bang-up job of redeeming myself. Lord knows I'm still a mess. It's because little by little, God has been working in that exposed, messy little heart of mine, replacing the tainted blood with pure stock.
I've been pigeonholed as a brat and I've been pigeonholed as a Christian, and both are true of me. I still throw the grownup (and not so grownup) versions of temper tantrums-- it may just be that I've gotten better about concealing them. But when people think of me as being Christian or religious or whatever it is they think that causes them to gift me with angels and faith collages, I hope-- and I believe-- it's because God has been actually, noticeably working in me and changing me, giving me a life-saving blood transfusion.
And I think that's it-- I think that's what made me react so primordially to that photo arrangement. My heart recognized God and His work, and it pulsed with healed blood.
Later, when we had returned home and were unloading our things, my husband, Bryan, glanced at my gifts and said, "You sure got pigeonholed, didn't you?" I'm not sure if two gifts out of five count as a pigeonhole, but his words stuck. I've been pigeonholed before.
A great-aunt at the party pulled me aside and whispered with a congratulatory tone that it was so wonderful to see me as I am now, this "giving mother of five," that it was in such contrast to the little girl I'd once been who used to throw tantrums. And it's true, I was a champion tantrum thrower. In fact, I was evidently such a brat that another great-aunt felt it bore announcing to my mother after I'd just sung at my grandfather's funeral, "Tamara has redeemed herself." I mean, I must've really been god-awful-- losing your beloved Grandpa and then singing your ten-year-old heart out to honor him is some serious freaking penance.
I realize that I may still be the slightest bit defensive about that. But I think part of it is that I see that little girl with new eyes now. My mother told me that her angered thought had been, "Tamara had nothing to redeem (you bitch)!" I see that there was plenty to be redeemed, and I see that I wasn't the one who was doing the redeeming. But what I also see is that that little girl was no worse than anyone else-- I was just living it out in the open for everyone to see.
If nothing else, I'm pretty transparent. I don't know why, I can't really help it. I don't keep my heart tucked away to myself-- it's right there on my sleeve, where all the bloody mess can ooze the whole way down to the cuff. So yes, you see a lot of the ugliness when you look at me, if you're paying any attention at all, and I guess that makes it easy to pigeonhole me as a brat or any number of other names. But what I loved about those gifts-- the angel and the photos-- was that they pointed to something else running out of my heart. If people look at me and see any goodness, any faith, any beauty, it's not because I've done a bang-up job of redeeming myself. Lord knows I'm still a mess. It's because little by little, God has been working in that exposed, messy little heart of mine, replacing the tainted blood with pure stock.
I've been pigeonholed as a brat and I've been pigeonholed as a Christian, and both are true of me. I still throw the grownup (and not so grownup) versions of temper tantrums-- it may just be that I've gotten better about concealing them. But when people think of me as being Christian or religious or whatever it is they think that causes them to gift me with angels and faith collages, I hope-- and I believe-- it's because God has been actually, noticeably working in me and changing me, giving me a life-saving blood transfusion.
And I think that's it-- I think that's what made me react so primordially to that photo arrangement. My heart recognized God and His work, and it pulsed with healed blood.
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