Hanging in the balance

We're pushing into my least favorite territory in the entire moving process: picture hanging. I hate picture hanging. I don't know where to put things, so they all end up in the center of a wall, or, if there are more than one thing, splitting the wall evenly. Herein lies the problem: I'm a perfectionist. I have to measure five times to make a mark on the wall. Then once I've made that mark, I have to check it three more times because I don't trust my own mark. Was I not there one minute ago measuring and making that very mark? Then I put it up and obsess about the fact that it's not exactly perfect. Nothing is ever exactly perfect. It's too high. It's too low. Did I really mark it there? Really?

In our last house, having let months lapse with pictures lined up along our hall waiting to be hung, the morning of my grad school graduation party arrived. I couldn't bear to leave them on the floor, so empowered by my new and totally non-related degree (plus a sense of urgency and some Hawaii-bound carelessness), I took and hammer and pounded in a dozen nails in random places, hung everything, and called it a day. I can remember my dad--from whom I inherited most of my perfectionist tendencies--standing at the end of the hall with his mouth agape. But the pictures were hung! Immediately! And they weren't all in the center of the wall, or splitting it, or anything. In fact, there was nothing organized about them at all. And yes, that did bother me for the rest of our time there. So while I got the job done without belaboring the details, it bothered me all the same.

In my bible study, we've been talking a lot about generational sin. These are things that get past down from generation to generation--ancient ruins, as in Isaiah 61:4, and sour grapes, as in Ezekial 18:2. Think big things, like depression and addiction, and small things, like perfectionism and people-pleasing. I'm sure one or two must come to mind. They're things I take as given--I got my obsessive attention to detail from my dad, for instance, and my people-pleasing from my mom. Good traits, except they become who I am, preventing God from honestly showing me. They are really traits that I have taken from them, things that I am now carrying on my own, and they weigh me down. God cannot do with me what He wants--at least not as effectively--when I'm carrying burdens that weren't really mine to begin with. And to be fair, they probably weren't my parents' either. The kicker? if I continue to carry them, M and K will pick them up too. That's how generation sin works (Exodus 20:5).

It seems like it would be such a relief to just lay them down, except that, as mentioned earlier this week, it's a lot less about letting go and much more about prying them from my grabby little fingers. The haphazard picture hanging didn't solve anything, because I really didn't let go of that obsessive quest for perfection. This is, again, a job for someone bigger than me, and one that I know that I have to take on, as much as possible, one finger at a time, or risk passing these burdens along yet again. It boosts my spirits that the Bible promises that we can stop this cycle: "But suppose this son has a son who sees all the sins his father commits, and though he sees them, he does not do such things... He will not die for his father's sin; he will surely live" (Ezek. 18:14, 17). If I can see these sins, if I can manage to "get a new heart and a new spirit" (Ezek. 18:31), I can pass along this heart to the next generation--to a thousand generations (Exodus 20:6). It's worth prying, hard as it might be.

Or in today's case, hammering without obsession but not without care, accepting and letting go, and perhaps using that need to hold on to grab the hand of God, who can hopefully lead me someone just a little more important. We'll see how that gets things hung.

And we emerge!

It's sad when the most relaxing part of your week was getting your teeth cleaned.

I can't believe that it's been a week since the move began, but we are finally feeling settled in the new house. This means that both cars are parked in the garage, most of the boxes have been unpacked, and the clutter has settled down into a level that might just be confused for my household's general chaos. Sure, we have loads more sorting out to do, but I'm feeling ready to let B go back to work and our lives drift back to (new) normal.

I'm lying.

It hasn't been the quietest of weeks, move or not, what with ear infections in both kids, a giant castle cake for a friend, B's birthday coming up, and a men's party at church for which I provided desserts. I hate chaos. I hate not knowing where things are. I hate that the house still smells of the previous owner's dogs. I hate spending money on more things, even if they are necessary, and I hate that the cake didn't turn out perfect, as I always think it should. Above all, I'm so, so tired of keeping up a cheerful and encouraging front, feeling like I must carry the discombobulated weary on my back. If I lay down, would anyone carry me?

As with all things, it will get better. Over time. Over a long, long time. We praise God that he brought us here, because we love the house. And while we're loving it, we'll get it all sorted out, with a bit more prayer. We have a saying in our house: patience is a virtue; it's just not mine. But maybe now that God's got us in the right place, He's gonna work on that next.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

When you* are in the middle of a crazy move, and tolerating unexpected additional amounts of stress and torment, you might think that this would be a great time to get a haircut, because it will immediately boost your spirits. DO NOT. Have chocolate or take a long walk. Do anything else, because if you go and get your haircut in the week of "If it can go wrong, it will", well, just take a guess at what will happen.

If you do, against all good sense, get yourself into the sort of crying/miserable shock, try not to focus on the fact that the hair you have been so patiently growing out is now up to your ears. And especially ignore that it's only some of that hair, leaving you with a mullet-y sort of poof. Instead focus on the positives, like hair will grow, and the key to your new house is sitting on the table, and you can finally pack up all those last bits because, come Monday, you'll be starting new. Starting new is good.

*I mean, "me," of course. Because who else would get into this situation? But it feels better to make it into some sort of helpful lesson for others. Makes it slightly less like a personal dump, anyway.

Packing the unpackables

With less than a week until we move, we spent much of the weekend packing up all the nooks and crannies of our home. We're excited to go--ready, in fact--especially since we don't technically own our house anymore (which lends it's own secret pleasures: "What's that funny smell in here?" "I don't know, it's not our house." etc., etc.). In turn, the rooms have taken on an echo, as though they are longing for their shelves to be refilled. Don't worry, precious house--it's coming soon enough.

What seems strange to me are the things you leave behind in a house, the things you absolutely cannot take with you even though they belong to you just as much as any book or chair. Like the stain on the garage entrance to the house. To the new owners, it will look like some Jackson Pollack splatter, but I know it's from my thirtieth birthday dinner with my friends, buttery Moroccan juice from a leftover promptly consumed--that was one good meal, night, memory. There's a raised spot on the kitchen floor where the cooler leaked. We didn't notice because my sister and her kids were here, and we were frantically trying to get all the little ones clean before bed while I dealt with the plumber. Seems my sister took off the faucet in the tub with the water running full blast. During that episode, I also learned that you can in fact get hot water from a neighbor using a cooler, and that you shouldn't leave a leaky cooler on your brand new laminate floor. It's probably less noticeable now because there's a fine haze of scratches from those silly ride-on fire trucks that the kids cannot give up, even though M's knees are tucked to his chest when he rides them.

There are, of course, the intangibles. Any house is full of them, but especially one that has housed small children. I went into labor in the inexplicably large second bedroom, sequestered with a cough. It was K's first stop after eight long days in the NICU, and where we introduced her to M, who regarded her with warranted suspicion. It was in these rooms that both kids learned to walk--K got led around gently while M got pushed back and forth in the still empty but carpeted sun room--and later that we played endless rounds of chase over the circuitous floor plan. Birthdays, holidays, play dates, and countless firsts all owe their backdrop to this house. But these memories come with us, packed in our minds. It's the tangibles that I leave behind that make me ever-so-wistful, the marks we've left on this landscape that are the signs of good use and great love, marks that will be regarded as nothing more than curiosities by the new owners, if at all.

I try to see them, then, as my gifts, a legacy of happy living to bless the people who will come to add to them, overwrite them, and ignore them with the best of intentions. They are the echo of our lives, a reflection of the interconnection between us all, and a way to gift them with a little bit of our life abundant. And I look forward to creating new marks galore on the home we eagerly anticipate. There's just the matter of finishing all that real packing first.

So where did we pack the wand?

It's a crazy thing, packing for a move. B and I, we're of two different minds on this subject. He'd prefer to begin right away, packing little bits each day in a slow steady process. As for me, I'd rather wait until the week of our move, then throw everything in boxes at once. Frantically! With great stress! This is a theme in my life.

So B handles the packing, mostly. Which is great. Just a little disconcerting. I open the cabinet to get my pancake making bowl and find its spot empty. Or I walk into our bedroom and wonder, why does it look so small? Then I realize it's because all the pictures are off the walls. Or I'm in the middle of making dinner and turn around to discover that there's a mysteriously empty place in the corner of the counter where I once had a plant. A very crazy thing, to find your life disapparating before your eyes.

But all this means that I've very good at the apparating, and therefore while B handles the packing, I handle the unpacking. Frantically! With great stress! And I almost guarantee that one week after we move in, I'll have all the boxes empty and life as it once was--pancake bowl, pictures, and plant included.

God in Action

(1) Drive through a neighborhood on a whim. Tell one of B's coworkers that we were in his neighborhood, at which point he mentions he'll be selling his house in a few months and that we should look at it after the holidays if we're serious.
(2) Get all excited about the way God put the most amazing opportunity in our hands: dream house in dream neighborhood, etc.
(3) Talk to said coworker after holidays, only to find that he's changed his mind. Wonder why God would dangle said opportunity only to take it away.
(4) Decide that, since we've gotten all excited, we might as well look into other options. For information's sake, of course.
(5) Pick an agent, only to discover that he won't be back in town for us to sign with and we'll have to wait until Monday. Wonder why he wouldn't tell you this information ahead of time.
(6) Spend the time, somewhat bummed, driving around just checking out options.
(7) Stumble upon an open house, fall in love, and discover that since we haven't signed with an agent yet, we'll get a better deal by selling our house through her.
(8) Frantically get our house ready to sell while going back and forth over the house we want.
(9) Buy said house. Three days on the market, sell your house to first-time Christian couple buyers who want to use it for their fellowships and day care and just think it's the most perfect house ever (which is was, really). Without even having to fix all those things we thought would keep us from selling!
(10) Realize, looking back, that all those pieces--all those mistakes and frustrations and missteps--were there to put us all in the right place at the right time.

I know that not everyone will see my week the way I see it. But having lived it, I cannot help but see God's hand in everything. I wish I weren't in awe, that I could say that I always trust that God will work everything out perfectly. Logically, I know He will. In practice, though, I'm must more likely to worry/puzzle/fix.

Still: one week. One crazy, unexpected week. And we're on the move, hopefully, in a month or two. I feel so blessed, so in awe, so very very lucky. I'm also tired. So very tired. I'm probably one of the few people in San Diego looking forward to a quiet week of rain.

Now, if we could just get them to *sleep*...

We've had a couple big changes in our house. A week and a half ago, we bought and set up a loft bed for M. The advantage being that it was a great deal on Craig's List, perfectly matched our existing furniture, and allowed us to use our existing double mattress. The disadvantage being that it's so darn tall. Well, that's a disadvantage to me, who is not so tall and happens to be afraid of heights. Yes, even changing the sheets on a loft bed. But M sees the loft bed as the greatest thing in the world, because it's big and high and his own personal space. It surprised me a little, his scampering up without hesitation, but it shouldn't. I sometimes forget that just because he's a lot like me, it doesn't mean that he's me. And even better--he's only fallen off once. Of course, he laid on the ground all still and frightening and I burst into tears, but we survived unscathed (physically, at least).

The second change came last Saturday, when K began sleeping in the big girl bed (which, funnily enough, looks just like the old big boy bed, but with a pink comforter). She absolutely LOVES it, and she's so cute all little and tucked in and giggly about being so grown up. She's never fallen out, but she has escaped a few times. Still, when we found they were playing in her crib the other day, we dismantled it for safety's sake and committed to the bed.

The thing is, I've had that crib up for four and a half years--the entire duration of what I consider our new life. We used to slide Duck and friends up and down its slanted sides. I used to use it for light exercise while M woke up from his nap, my sweet cat lounging nearby. There are teeth marks on the front rail from both kids. I've cleaned all sorts of unpleasantness from it, started and ended countless sleep cycles, lifted small bodies in and out in all levels of happy and sad, asleep and awake. That crib marked the beginning and end of nearly every day.

And now we finish prayers and give hugs and then the kids scurry off to their respective spots. I know it will become the new norm, just one of the many shifts we learn to accept in a life where the only constant seems to be change. But the first time it happened, B and I sat a little perplexed, as though we couldn't quite figure out what to do with ourselves.

Of course, we are still needed, always always. There are sheets to fix and water cups to fill and animals to rearrange. And most nights we have to rearrange K too, who despite being a big girl still manages to spin herself around the bed like a scooting baby and wind up with her feet on the pillow. I guess with every change there's a little catch-up time, no matter how ready (or not) you are.

P.S. I'm thrilled to find we solved the Bunk Bed Challenge in less than two months. What? That's not fast to you? Well, see, I get to deduct time lost to sleeplessness. Turns out I managed it in negative three days.

All that's left is Serenity

So remember that store we talked about, the one you went to and shopped at and eventually realized was just the wrong store for you? And remember how any reasonable person would eventually own up to their mistake and make their way to the right store?

Yes, so imagine if you will, that you left that store, finally, with great trepidation, anxiety, embarrassment, etc., only to have the manager declare that the whole store must subsequently close. That's right--Target didn't have what you needed, and because of that, Target will now be closed. For ever. Regardless of who else might be shopping at just the right store at just that moment.

Of course, we're still not talking about Target. But imagine if that happened? Imagine if your leaving meant that everyone else was ousted by force (in case it's hard for you to imagine, I'll just go ahead and tell you that it feels like crap). Then imagine if you were blamed for it? Even though it wasn't my fault, even though someone has taken over and the group will be just fine, I'm still the person who gets the comments (or hears them from behind my back) that I blindsided people, abandoned them, and basically ruined everything. Talk about amping up the ordeal to the Nth degree.

See, I'm a people-pleaser. I might as well wear a t-shirt it's so obvious. That's why I stayed where I was--didn't want to disappoint, didn't want to be alone, didn't want to reject what was obviously a coveted spot. But I finally get the courage to do what I needed to do--horror of horrors: just for me--and it turns into this firestorm. It's a people-pleaser's nightmare. The worst part? Because I'm not in the group anymore, I can't defend myself. I can't explain myself. And I can't go back and change anything so that it all happens differently, the way I somehow imagined it in my head. So I just sit here, people-pleaser style, and fret.

I understand that this was what I had to do, that God has wanted me to do this for some time. So I have to hope that this trial--this special kind of silent suffering I'm enduring--is a lesson both in character building and in the consequences to not listening in the first place. But it is heartbreaking. While everyone else lost an organizer, I was admittedly never part of any of their "inner circle" (a phrase I've heard way too much recently, especially considering that we're all supposed to be grown-ups). But I've lost a group I've been a part of for most of my children's lives. I stare at my empty calendar and miss my lost friends and hate knowing how they think of me, the one who caused it all (however inadvertently). It's a tremendous loss that has left me lonely and sad and shaken.

But that's a good thing, too. Right? Because sometimes you have to let go of everything to have free hands for something new. And what a way to break the people pleasing habit to be in a place where you can't effect what people think about you. But it seems like this week has been a bit heavy on the lessons, and heavy on the heart. I want to perk up and move on and enjoy the holiday weekend. But I feel a bit like a beaten down dog fighting the urge just to lie on the ground. And I'm pretty sure that's not the place God needs me to be either. But while I'm on a roll with a mistakes--a roll that has been going on for way too long, no that it's anyone's fault but my own--I might as well lie down for a while anyway.

I know, I know. I'm getting up. But it was very tempting...

Wisdom to know the difference

Let's suppose that I went to a store, needing something important. Suppose that I walked around looking for whatever it was, and the longer I looked, the more I realized that I wasn't in the right store. It might have had what I needed, but it was too expensive, or just out of my reach. Which meant it didn't have what I needed. But I'd gone all the way there, and after a while I'd spent so much time that it seemed like a waste to go somewhere else. Where else would I go, and how could I know the same thing wouldn't happen?

But I know I'm not supposed to be there. I know it. And I think maybe it's not a big deal. I think maybe I'll just keep walking around like I know what I'm doing. Except that if I'm there, I'm not where I should be. And if I'm not where I should be, then I'm not in a place where God can use me the way that He wants to. And unless I leave, I'm not ever going to get anywhere else.

It's hard to admit that you've made a mistake. It's hard to admit that you haven't been honest with yourself, and that you haven't been listening to God, either. And it's hard to walk away. I think about all the time I've invested, willing things to change. But as I tell my kids, you can't change anyone but yourself. Target will be Target, Wal-Mart will be Wal-Mart, etc., etc. But it's no wonder that my kids don't understand this concept, when I clearly don't always understand it myself.

We're not talking about Target, of course. But you knew that already. I've left my big moms group, the one that I've been part of since M was less than one. It had nothing to do with the group, which was filled with these amazing, awesome women. I didn't know it was possible for a group to have that many fantastic people all in one place. Which I think was why I stayed for so long. I wanted it to be the right group, because it was such a great group. But I never was part of it in the way that I wanted to be, and trying to make myself the right person wasn't letting myself be the person God wants me to be. I lost focus, and I came to believe that it was about me and not about the fit. For a person with low self-esteem, that's not a good thing. Even more than that, for a person who claims to be seeking God's will for their life, it was a serious case of selective listening.

Round peg, square hole. Right list, wrong store. I tell myself this to temper the sense of loss I feel. There is a round hole, and a right store, and a place God wants me to be. This time, I'm stopping to ask directions first.