In Amarillo, the spring and summer rains came hard and fast. They didn’t last long, but when they were there, the flat terrain of the streets created the perfect water playground. The gutters would fill up so quickly that the drains couldn’t empty the streets fast enough. The water would lap over the side and rise even with the yard or sidewalk. I loved it when it rained. My brother and I would run out into the midst of the storm as fast as our young legs could take us. We didn’t put on shoes or worry about our clothes. There wasn’t time for any of that. We didn’t want to waste a moment. We were driven to splash, jump, dance, spin, twirl and just flat out enjoy the rain as it poured down on us. We delighted in it. When it was over (or getting dark), my mom would greet us at the door with a towel for each of us in her hand. We would wrap ourselves in the towels but leave a trail of muddy water all the way to the laundry room where we’d leave my mom a pile of rain-soaked clothes. She never complained or scolded us. In fact, I think she may have enjoyed it as much as we did…
And then I grew up I guess…and rain became either a grand annoyance or a useful necessity instead of a wondrous delight. I don’t remember the age I first looked out on the cooling summer rains with disinterest or the first time I reached for an umbrella. I don’t remember the first puddle I stepped in that raised within me the feeling of UHHHH instead of excitement. BUT it happened and with it I lost something…but not today!
Today there was that weird combination that only happens with summer rains. The sun shone brilliantly but rains fell in large cooling drops. My 2 year old wanted to go outside. I said, “No, it’s raining.” He looked at me, shook his head and said, “Not dark.”
And all of a sudden I remembered the puddles of my youth and we both went running into the backyard. We didn’t put on shoes or worry about clothes. There wasn’t time for any of that. We didn’t want to waste a moment. We danced and jumped and spun around. All of a sudden, I was 6 again and rain was a mysteriously wonderful delight. When it ended, we were soaking wet and grassy but I didn’t mind…
And I enjoyed it as much as he did…I got something back that I had lost. Now, I don’t plan to give up my umbrellas or play in every storm but in the process of becoming not me, I’m beginning to learn that wonderment stirs my affections for God and I become renewed when I free myself enough to dance in the rain.
I should do it more often…what about you? When was the last time you played in the rain?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
daddy's little girl
Most girls are called princess, sweetheart, darling or some other femininely affectionate name. He always called me Pumpkin. I know, it doesn’t really seem like a very fitting name for a petite little blond hair, blue-eyed girl who was born on Easter, but that’s what I was. I was his Pumpkin.
From what seems like the very beginning, I was Daddy’s little girl. Don’t get me wrong: If I was hurt, sick, sad, or in need…I wanted my mommy. She was the caretaker, comforter, and person who made the world just right…but I was still Daddy’s little girl.
Maybe every girl who has a decent father feels this way, but I can remember from a very young age feeling as if I was his prize, his joy, the object of his affection and the capturer of his attention. He was the one that carried me on his shoulders. He was the one that let me model all of my new outfits. He was the one that I believed when he told me I was beautiful, smart, funny, and talented….somehow, it seemed that he got me in a way no one else did… and that connected us.
If you know me now, you know that I am sarcastic, cynical, comically animated, LOUD, and quite demanding. I wasn’t much different as a child. I was the “entertainer”. I said/did things as a small child that most fathers would probably cringe at. My Daddy took it all in stride, usually laughing at how witty I was for my age. Here are a few early examples I either remember or have been retold to me…
• When I was 2 or 3, our dog died in the backyard. So that my brother and I didn’t really have to see or deal with it, my Dad very lovingly put the dog in a black trash bag, called someone to pick it up, and put it out front. This was traumatic for all of us. I, however, would go around telling everyone that my Daddy had put my dog in a trash bag and thrown it away. People were appalled…His response – he gave me the nickname “Jabberjaws” because my jaws were always jabbering about something.
• We got a new dog. My Mom and I picked it up and were going to “surprise” my dad and brother with it when they got home from work and school. Of course, my parents had already talked about it and Dad had agreed to it but I didn’t know that. He comes home and I run to greet him with this tiny puppy in my arms. In an attempt to “kid” with me, he acted like he didn’t want the dog and that we needed to get in the car to take the dog back. As the story is told, I gently set the puppy at my feet, looked up at him with my loving blue eyes and said, “I’ll get your gun and shoot you.” His response – laughter and jokes about the hierarchy of importance in my life. We had that dog for 14 years.
• He was watching TV but I wanted him to watch my cartwheel or listen to me or something. With all the sass a 4 year old can muster, I walked over, turned the TV off, put my hand on my hip, looked him square in the eye and said, “I said LISTEN.”…and he did
The stories go on and on…during my teen years, some of them weren’t so funny, but my dad’s response never varied too much.
He has always provided for my needs (and taught me the difference between a need and a want). He has always delighted in my accomplishments (and helped pick me up when I failed). He has always encouraged me to do more or go further (even when I expected little of myself). He has always helped teach me how to do the things he wants me to do (and then worked beside me as I try). He has always disciplined me with love (and not held an account of my bad behavior). He has always found the good in me (even when there wasn’t much good to be found). He has always embraced my personality (even though it can be obnoxious and critical at times). He has always found the humor in my antics (even though they can be annoying and inconvenient). He has always made me feel valued and valuable (even when I didn’t value myself). He has always been there (even when I pushed him away).
Although my Daddy is far from perfect, there are things that I have learned about my heavenly Father because of my earthly father. I don’t think he set out to “teach” me these things…but he did…and I have learned that all the things I love and appreciate about my Daddy are mere shadows of the abundant love of MY FATHER.
I will always be Daddy’s girl…but in the process of becoming not me, I am learning to embrace my role as my heavenly DADDY’s girl just as much…
From what seems like the very beginning, I was Daddy’s little girl. Don’t get me wrong: If I was hurt, sick, sad, or in need…I wanted my mommy. She was the caretaker, comforter, and person who made the world just right…but I was still Daddy’s little girl.
Maybe every girl who has a decent father feels this way, but I can remember from a very young age feeling as if I was his prize, his joy, the object of his affection and the capturer of his attention. He was the one that carried me on his shoulders. He was the one that let me model all of my new outfits. He was the one that I believed when he told me I was beautiful, smart, funny, and talented….somehow, it seemed that he got me in a way no one else did… and that connected us.
If you know me now, you know that I am sarcastic, cynical, comically animated, LOUD, and quite demanding. I wasn’t much different as a child. I was the “entertainer”. I said/did things as a small child that most fathers would probably cringe at. My Daddy took it all in stride, usually laughing at how witty I was for my age. Here are a few early examples I either remember or have been retold to me…
• When I was 2 or 3, our dog died in the backyard. So that my brother and I didn’t really have to see or deal with it, my Dad very lovingly put the dog in a black trash bag, called someone to pick it up, and put it out front. This was traumatic for all of us. I, however, would go around telling everyone that my Daddy had put my dog in a trash bag and thrown it away. People were appalled…His response – he gave me the nickname “Jabberjaws” because my jaws were always jabbering about something.
• We got a new dog. My Mom and I picked it up and were going to “surprise” my dad and brother with it when they got home from work and school. Of course, my parents had already talked about it and Dad had agreed to it but I didn’t know that. He comes home and I run to greet him with this tiny puppy in my arms. In an attempt to “kid” with me, he acted like he didn’t want the dog and that we needed to get in the car to take the dog back. As the story is told, I gently set the puppy at my feet, looked up at him with my loving blue eyes and said, “I’ll get your gun and shoot you.” His response – laughter and jokes about the hierarchy of importance in my life. We had that dog for 14 years.
• He was watching TV but I wanted him to watch my cartwheel or listen to me or something. With all the sass a 4 year old can muster, I walked over, turned the TV off, put my hand on my hip, looked him square in the eye and said, “I said LISTEN.”…and he did
The stories go on and on…during my teen years, some of them weren’t so funny, but my dad’s response never varied too much.
He has always provided for my needs (and taught me the difference between a need and a want). He has always delighted in my accomplishments (and helped pick me up when I failed). He has always encouraged me to do more or go further (even when I expected little of myself). He has always helped teach me how to do the things he wants me to do (and then worked beside me as I try). He has always disciplined me with love (and not held an account of my bad behavior). He has always found the good in me (even when there wasn’t much good to be found). He has always embraced my personality (even though it can be obnoxious and critical at times). He has always found the humor in my antics (even though they can be annoying and inconvenient). He has always made me feel valued and valuable (even when I didn’t value myself). He has always been there (even when I pushed him away).
Although my Daddy is far from perfect, there are things that I have learned about my heavenly Father because of my earthly father. I don’t think he set out to “teach” me these things…but he did…and I have learned that all the things I love and appreciate about my Daddy are mere shadows of the abundant love of MY FATHER.
I will always be Daddy’s girl…but in the process of becoming not me, I am learning to embrace my role as my heavenly DADDY’s girl just as much…
Monday, May 10, 2010
I still hate Mother's Day
This will be a little break in my chronological ponderings just because it’s fresh in my mind. I would have written and posted this yesterday (on Mother’s Day), but I felt it would be sacrilegious and irreverent so I delayed my rantings and ponderings until today. My hope is that this will make everyone more mindful of how they celebrate…if they chose to continue to celebrate…
As a young child, I loved Mother’s Day. It was a day I spent hours preparing for by making ridiculous cards, helping Dad pick out an outfit to buy for my mom, and helping cook food that was probably barely edible. I would gather bouquets of flowers out of my mom’s garden and present them to her in either a Dixie cup or wrapped in a paper towel. She always joyously received whatever various gifts my brother and I gathered for her, even though the gift may have absolutely ruined her garden, kitchen table, or living room carpet. We would spend every Mother’s Day at our church, which my maternal grandmother also attended and then have lunch at my grandmother’s house with what seemed to be all my family. It was always a great day until…
We moved 8 hours away from my family when I was 8 years old. That was the first year I saw my mom be robbed of her joy on Mother’s Day and somehow that robbed the joy for us as well. No one except us knew it or felt it. She appeared strong, happy, and satisfied but it didn’t seem to matter how much we gave her, did for her or loved on her, joy could not be found for her on that day because she could not celebrate with her mother on that day. She still gave us heartfelt thanks. She still embraced us with loving arms. She was still the most amazing and gracious mother on that day, but she was missing her mother and we were too. It was only a foreshadowing of the pain that would come when I was 13 and my grandmother (whom I will do a post about later) went on to be with the Lord. If I thought Mother’s Day was difficult when we moved, it became heartbreaking after my grandmother died. The first Mother’s Day after my grandmother died was filled with the most obvious attempt to cheer her. My brother and I (both teenagers) had forgotten to order her a corsage so we bought some flowers at the grocery store and stayed up pretty much all night trying to make one. I know without a doubt that it was hideous. I’m sure we broke all the flower color etiquette for Mother’s Day corsages. But it brought us together and lightened her heavy heart at least for a little while. Although pleasant and “happy”, there was always pain in my mom’s eyes and voice…and that would last for years to come. She still chokes up about my grandmother on Mother’s Day…so it’s bittersweet for her and those that love her.
For me, though, Mother’s Day became a personal struggle. For nearly 10 years of married life, I watched as everyone around me had children of their own, all the while doubting that the privilege would ever be mine…and Mother’s Day was the world’s cruel and inescapable reminder. Although there were many days of heartbreak during those 10 years over not having a child, Mother’s Day was by far the hardest to stomach. On that day, my arms felt emptier, my mind questioned further, and my heart sank deeper. It was the one day of the year I didn’t want to see anyone, but as the good minister’s wife, I would put on my game face and sit while all the other women stood to be honored. As the good sister-in-law, I would give warmest wishes with a smile on my face and deep angst in my heart…
And then came my beloved little boy, Matthew. That should have cured all of my issues with Mother’s Day. After all, my day had finally come. While there was joy on that first Mother’s Day (and every one since) for me, there remained an overwhelming amount of sorrow. I now had this precious child, but I knew the deep pain felt by those who couldn’t really celebrate this day for one reason or another.
For some, Mother’s Day is a stark reminder of what they long for but do not have. For others, Mother’s Day is the realization that their mother is not a mother that deserves to be celebrated. And for still others, Mother’s Day is the piercing celebration of a person they have lost, most tragically for children and teens. Just imagine at church the junior in high school who has recently lost her mother listening to lesson on honoring your mother or the 5th grader watching in silent agony as her class makes a Mother's Day present. Why would we do this to those precious, hurting children? Why would we do this to anyone?
During my walk through life, I have come alongside people from all three categories and although there is now joy for me, I weep for them. For all of these, Mother’s Day is unsalvageable. While the rest of the world celebrates, they smile but wither from within.
Early on, my distaste for all things Mother’s Day was a cynical coping mechanism to deal with my own unfulfilled longing but that is no longer the case. In the process of becoming not me, my selfish bitterness has been turned into a genuine brokenness for others.
Mother’s Day has finally ceased to be about me in the process of becoming not me…
As a young child, I loved Mother’s Day. It was a day I spent hours preparing for by making ridiculous cards, helping Dad pick out an outfit to buy for my mom, and helping cook food that was probably barely edible. I would gather bouquets of flowers out of my mom’s garden and present them to her in either a Dixie cup or wrapped in a paper towel. She always joyously received whatever various gifts my brother and I gathered for her, even though the gift may have absolutely ruined her garden, kitchen table, or living room carpet. We would spend every Mother’s Day at our church, which my maternal grandmother also attended and then have lunch at my grandmother’s house with what seemed to be all my family. It was always a great day until…
We moved 8 hours away from my family when I was 8 years old. That was the first year I saw my mom be robbed of her joy on Mother’s Day and somehow that robbed the joy for us as well. No one except us knew it or felt it. She appeared strong, happy, and satisfied but it didn’t seem to matter how much we gave her, did for her or loved on her, joy could not be found for her on that day because she could not celebrate with her mother on that day. She still gave us heartfelt thanks. She still embraced us with loving arms. She was still the most amazing and gracious mother on that day, but she was missing her mother and we were too. It was only a foreshadowing of the pain that would come when I was 13 and my grandmother (whom I will do a post about later) went on to be with the Lord. If I thought Mother’s Day was difficult when we moved, it became heartbreaking after my grandmother died. The first Mother’s Day after my grandmother died was filled with the most obvious attempt to cheer her. My brother and I (both teenagers) had forgotten to order her a corsage so we bought some flowers at the grocery store and stayed up pretty much all night trying to make one. I know without a doubt that it was hideous. I’m sure we broke all the flower color etiquette for Mother’s Day corsages. But it brought us together and lightened her heavy heart at least for a little while. Although pleasant and “happy”, there was always pain in my mom’s eyes and voice…and that would last for years to come. She still chokes up about my grandmother on Mother’s Day…so it’s bittersweet for her and those that love her.
For me, though, Mother’s Day became a personal struggle. For nearly 10 years of married life, I watched as everyone around me had children of their own, all the while doubting that the privilege would ever be mine…and Mother’s Day was the world’s cruel and inescapable reminder. Although there were many days of heartbreak during those 10 years over not having a child, Mother’s Day was by far the hardest to stomach. On that day, my arms felt emptier, my mind questioned further, and my heart sank deeper. It was the one day of the year I didn’t want to see anyone, but as the good minister’s wife, I would put on my game face and sit while all the other women stood to be honored. As the good sister-in-law, I would give warmest wishes with a smile on my face and deep angst in my heart…
And then came my beloved little boy, Matthew. That should have cured all of my issues with Mother’s Day. After all, my day had finally come. While there was joy on that first Mother’s Day (and every one since) for me, there remained an overwhelming amount of sorrow. I now had this precious child, but I knew the deep pain felt by those who couldn’t really celebrate this day for one reason or another.
For some, Mother’s Day is a stark reminder of what they long for but do not have. For others, Mother’s Day is the realization that their mother is not a mother that deserves to be celebrated. And for still others, Mother’s Day is the piercing celebration of a person they have lost, most tragically for children and teens. Just imagine at church the junior in high school who has recently lost her mother listening to lesson on honoring your mother or the 5th grader watching in silent agony as her class makes a Mother's Day present. Why would we do this to those precious, hurting children? Why would we do this to anyone?
During my walk through life, I have come alongside people from all three categories and although there is now joy for me, I weep for them. For all of these, Mother’s Day is unsalvageable. While the rest of the world celebrates, they smile but wither from within.
Early on, my distaste for all things Mother’s Day was a cynical coping mechanism to deal with my own unfulfilled longing but that is no longer the case. In the process of becoming not me, my selfish bitterness has been turned into a genuine brokenness for others.
Mother’s Day has finally ceased to be about me in the process of becoming not me…
Thursday, May 6, 2010
the arrival
It should be noted from the beginning that I do not consider myself to be a great writer, philosopher, theologian or storyteller. If you are here looking for any of that, you should probably find another blog. I am simply a person whose thoughts are relentlessly wondering, an insomniac that composes ceaselessly in her head at night as she lays in bed, a constant thinker…or overthinker.
I set out to post once a week. It hasn’t been a week yet, but my mind has been in overdrive, absolutely flooded with ideas, thoughts, ponderings…so I am compelled to write in a way that almost seems like I HAVE to in order to silence the composition in my head.
I didn’t know quite where to begin making sense of this life that’s been given to me, but an honest friend of mine encouraged me to begin at the start and work my way from there…so here we go.
the arrival
It doesn’t get any more “beginning” than birth. (I guess it does, but no one wants to think about that!) Over the years, I have pieced together in my mind the stories different people have shared with me throughout the entirety of my life thus far regarding my birth. In a word, I would describe my grand arrival into this world as contradictory, a birth idiom of sorts. Not that people have conflicting stories of my actual birth but that certain things in my birth seemed to be in direct contradiction to other things.
I’ll start simply…I was two weeks late. On my birthday, my mom went to the hospital in the mid-morning because of her contractions. The doctors assured her that I would not come on that day and sent her home. Of course, I arrived late that evening, beating the clock just to prove them wrong. Did even my birth foreshadow some realities of the way I would live out my life? I am typically running late, not usually two weeks late, but late nonetheless. BUT if someone verbalizes a “challenge” to beat, I am sure to rise to the occasion. In general, if you want me to do something then you should tell me that you doubt I can actually do it. I can almost guarantee it will get done.
I was born with red hair that quickly all fell out to be replaced with tufts of hair so blonde that it was practically invisible. I’m not one to classify personalities or attitudes by hair color, especially not in this day and age where most people can’t accurately describe their natural hair color. BUT if I had to box my personality or attitude into a hair color, I would say I am a redhead at heart. I am fiery, passionate, stubborn, opinionated, strong-willed, temperamental, and intellectually driven. Aren’t blondes supposed to be lighthearted, ditzy, fickle, and flighty? Born a redhead but naturally a blonde…Is there really a redhead hidden deeply beneath my goldilocks mane?
Upon my grand entrance, I was…silent. Our family joke is that my birth was probably the last time I was actually silent. The doctor gave me the not so gentle nudge and my response was the loudest cry those in the room claim they have ever heard. Loud would be something used to describe me from that day forward. My voice carries out of my small 5 ft 2 in frame in a magnitude even I can’t comprehend but can certainly appreciate. I was once described as “little person…HUGE voice.” I embrace it.
I was born almost exactly a year to the day that my mom miscarried her second child. It’s a feeling I can’t imagine. I think only people who have experienced the birth of one child so closely after the loss of another can actually grasp what I’m about to say. I know without question that my mom was overjoyed at my arrival. I don’t for a moment doubt her love, BUT I have often wondered if there weren’t mixed emotions on that day. Was the relief of hearing my piercing birth cry accompanied with angst over the child she never heard? Was the fulfillment she experienced from holding me in her arms accompanied with the emptiness of a child never held? When she named me, did she long to say the lost child’s name as well? Did the rawness of her joy make the pain of her loss all the more real? I’ve never really discussed anything with her about the lost child other than the straight facts. In her mind, I think she would fear that I would feel somehow less. But this could not be less true. Even if she were split emotionally on that day, it would not diminish the genuineness of her joy and love for me that was lived out every day since then.
I was born on Easter. It’s a fact that I loved as a child and love even more as I grow up. As a child, I liked to use in “two truths and a lie” type games. Even people who knew me and knew me well would pick it as a lie. After all, how often is Easter in March? Not often. So, why is this contradictory? Easter for most people I know is an excuse to get a new outfit, eat some chocolate bunnies, take a picture with the creepy mall Easter bunny, and dye and hunt some eggs. I would guess probably most families, even on March 26, 1978, celebrated Easter in that way. Most of my Easters would be spent in such fashion, but not that one. For my family, that Easter was about change and new life…the same would happen on another Easter (story coming later). The only son became the big brother. The parents of one were introduced to the world of having a girl and life would be different.
Never one to overanalyze…I realize that God even had a purpose in having my arrival occur on Easter. He knew that to constantly humble me; I would need to be reminded that even the day of my birth wasn’t about me but was instead about Jesus…and that every day in between birthdays is really about Him too. He knew that as I walked through the difficulties of this life, I would need to be reminded of the reality that the day of my birth was really a day celebrating His victory over death…and that when death or loss or pain or angst or uncertainty loomed over me, I could cling to the truth that He is victorious over it all.
It was my start in the process of becoming not me…
I set out to post once a week. It hasn’t been a week yet, but my mind has been in overdrive, absolutely flooded with ideas, thoughts, ponderings…so I am compelled to write in a way that almost seems like I HAVE to in order to silence the composition in my head.
I didn’t know quite where to begin making sense of this life that’s been given to me, but an honest friend of mine encouraged me to begin at the start and work my way from there…so here we go.
the arrival
It doesn’t get any more “beginning” than birth. (I guess it does, but no one wants to think about that!) Over the years, I have pieced together in my mind the stories different people have shared with me throughout the entirety of my life thus far regarding my birth. In a word, I would describe my grand arrival into this world as contradictory, a birth idiom of sorts. Not that people have conflicting stories of my actual birth but that certain things in my birth seemed to be in direct contradiction to other things.
I’ll start simply…I was two weeks late. On my birthday, my mom went to the hospital in the mid-morning because of her contractions. The doctors assured her that I would not come on that day and sent her home. Of course, I arrived late that evening, beating the clock just to prove them wrong. Did even my birth foreshadow some realities of the way I would live out my life? I am typically running late, not usually two weeks late, but late nonetheless. BUT if someone verbalizes a “challenge” to beat, I am sure to rise to the occasion. In general, if you want me to do something then you should tell me that you doubt I can actually do it. I can almost guarantee it will get done.
I was born with red hair that quickly all fell out to be replaced with tufts of hair so blonde that it was practically invisible. I’m not one to classify personalities or attitudes by hair color, especially not in this day and age where most people can’t accurately describe their natural hair color. BUT if I had to box my personality or attitude into a hair color, I would say I am a redhead at heart. I am fiery, passionate, stubborn, opinionated, strong-willed, temperamental, and intellectually driven. Aren’t blondes supposed to be lighthearted, ditzy, fickle, and flighty? Born a redhead but naturally a blonde…Is there really a redhead hidden deeply beneath my goldilocks mane?
Upon my grand entrance, I was…silent. Our family joke is that my birth was probably the last time I was actually silent. The doctor gave me the not so gentle nudge and my response was the loudest cry those in the room claim they have ever heard. Loud would be something used to describe me from that day forward. My voice carries out of my small 5 ft 2 in frame in a magnitude even I can’t comprehend but can certainly appreciate. I was once described as “little person…HUGE voice.” I embrace it.
I was born almost exactly a year to the day that my mom miscarried her second child. It’s a feeling I can’t imagine. I think only people who have experienced the birth of one child so closely after the loss of another can actually grasp what I’m about to say. I know without question that my mom was overjoyed at my arrival. I don’t for a moment doubt her love, BUT I have often wondered if there weren’t mixed emotions on that day. Was the relief of hearing my piercing birth cry accompanied with angst over the child she never heard? Was the fulfillment she experienced from holding me in her arms accompanied with the emptiness of a child never held? When she named me, did she long to say the lost child’s name as well? Did the rawness of her joy make the pain of her loss all the more real? I’ve never really discussed anything with her about the lost child other than the straight facts. In her mind, I think she would fear that I would feel somehow less. But this could not be less true. Even if she were split emotionally on that day, it would not diminish the genuineness of her joy and love for me that was lived out every day since then.
I was born on Easter. It’s a fact that I loved as a child and love even more as I grow up. As a child, I liked to use in “two truths and a lie” type games. Even people who knew me and knew me well would pick it as a lie. After all, how often is Easter in March? Not often. So, why is this contradictory? Easter for most people I know is an excuse to get a new outfit, eat some chocolate bunnies, take a picture with the creepy mall Easter bunny, and dye and hunt some eggs. I would guess probably most families, even on March 26, 1978, celebrated Easter in that way. Most of my Easters would be spent in such fashion, but not that one. For my family, that Easter was about change and new life…the same would happen on another Easter (story coming later). The only son became the big brother. The parents of one were introduced to the world of having a girl and life would be different.
Never one to overanalyze…I realize that God even had a purpose in having my arrival occur on Easter. He knew that to constantly humble me; I would need to be reminded that even the day of my birth wasn’t about me but was instead about Jesus…and that every day in between birthdays is really about Him too. He knew that as I walked through the difficulties of this life, I would need to be reminded of the reality that the day of my birth was really a day celebrating His victory over death…and that when death or loss or pain or angst or uncertainty loomed over me, I could cling to the truth that He is victorious over it all.
It was my start in the process of becoming not me…
Sunday, May 2, 2010
here i am
Like ALL of my friends, I tried to start a blog when my son joined our little family so everyone could stay updated to all the glory of our life together...I made one post and never returned to the site. I don't know why, but I wasn't passionate about it. I would much rather cuddle my wonderful miracle than write about him...
So, here I am two years later with a "different" type of blog. Although my family will most certainly be a highlight of my blog because they are such an integral part of my life, they won't be the focus...at least not for awhile.
After cleaning out, I have come to the disappointing realization that I have a tendency to write thoughts, revelations, questions, poems, rantings, and so forth on scraps of paper and in random journals. For some reason, I feel compelled to string them all together in one place now to help me make sense of my story...to see where I've been and where I'm going.
This blog will be my story of how God has and continues to weave my life, heart, and circumstances together to make me something different altogether. It may be filled with life stories, apologies, confessions, convictions, poems, soapbox rantings, songs, and even ponderings from scripture...I'm not really sure right now, but I long to make sense of it all, to see it tie together, to be authentic, to be challenged, and to be changed.
After all, anyone can be who they were but I'm in the process of becoming not me...
So, here I am two years later with a "different" type of blog. Although my family will most certainly be a highlight of my blog because they are such an integral part of my life, they won't be the focus...at least not for awhile.
After cleaning out, I have come to the disappointing realization that I have a tendency to write thoughts, revelations, questions, poems, rantings, and so forth on scraps of paper and in random journals. For some reason, I feel compelled to string them all together in one place now to help me make sense of my story...to see where I've been and where I'm going.
This blog will be my story of how God has and continues to weave my life, heart, and circumstances together to make me something different altogether. It may be filled with life stories, apologies, confessions, convictions, poems, soapbox rantings, songs, and even ponderings from scripture...I'm not really sure right now, but I long to make sense of it all, to see it tie together, to be authentic, to be challenged, and to be changed.
After all, anyone can be who they were but I'm in the process of becoming not me...
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