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.

Happy 2010!

Here's to a fantastic new day, new year, and new decade! The past ten years have been huge for our family--happy moments and sad losses, three houses, four degrees, two children, two nephews, and more countries than I have fingers. Blessings big and small make me realize that there is no bad time, just times that are better than others, and things to be learned--always.

I looked back at my 2009 post, absolutely thrilled to find that I made good progress on all of them, especially the writing. My friend told me kindly, upon reading that post, that I was already a writer. Maybe so, but I managed to prove it to myself, my own worst critic. So this year, I'm going to finish that novel and write another one. I'm going to learn to control my temper, practice really believing in God, and teach M how to ride a bike without training wheels. I'm going to make boeuf bourguignon at least once (thanks, "Julie & Julia").

I'm also letting go of the last day on earth mentality, looking more to enjoy every day as it is in all its glory. Going back to the life abundant attitude, I suppose, where it's more about the sum of all the little things than the big moments you might never create/enjoy to satisfaction.

What about you? I'm not much of a resolution girl, as seen by the fact that I'd utterly forgotten what I'd posted last year, but I do think it's a great time to think about where you are and where you want to be. It's a long road, and there's no time like the present to take the first step.

Ups and those other things

I'm having a bit of a turbulent week. We're in the process of having our asbestos-laden retro popcorn ceilings scraped, textured, and repainted. If you haven't tried this before, go for it! It's fun! Just move all of your earthly possessions, wall-hangings, curtains, and whatnot into the very small spaces that weren't sprayed to looking like a woolly coat. Then continue to live in those small spaces while all work is completed. Oh, and if you're looking for the bathroom, it's the big red bucket in the garage.

You mean that doesn't sound like fun? Well, you're right, sort of. It's not fun. It's not easy. It's certainly not convenient. But we are lucky to have big enough small spaces to make it work, and wonderful grandparents who will host the kids for a week while it's done. And we're blessed to have enough money to put a little into our beloved home. I kept my eye on the prize: pristine hand-textured, non-cancer-causing ceilings. I can already tell, post-scraping, that it's going to look marvelous.

I can also tell that the ceiling scrapers didn't tape their plastic well enough. I know this because their water got underneath and now my pristine, beautiful, ever-so-well-loved-as-our-best-home-improvement-ever laminate floor (the one the inspired this favorite post) is bubbling everywhere. There is no fixing this, short of replacing the swollen boards, and there's a lot of them.

My heart hurts, as we say in our house. But even with this--the impending arguments with the flooring company, the turmoil as we will once again be uprooted from our house, the frustration at trading one problem for another--I try to appreciate the bright side. What? There's no bright side? Nonsense. God came that we have life abundantly, and that means relishing in the up times and also relishing in whatever comes between. Already I have called the project manager and very patiently explained what happened and asked what we do next. This is a huge thing for me: shy, shirking me. And I am proud that I stood up and did it. And if I can do that, then I can pick myself and my hurting heart up and march forward, onward and, hopefully, eventually upward. In the end, this too shall pass, as everything, good or bad, does. And when it does, I will hopefully be able to see the character-building that took place. It's so easy to see after the fact, as with the cake, that I'm proud of myself too for seeing it now. It's actually when I need it most.

And it's not all bad. I have a weekend with B, the kids are having fun with their grandparents, and we got to hear my favorite band play for 2.5 fantastic hours. Plus I learned something: you should always keep your razor in a case. Or, if not, at least remember that when your toothbrush won't come out of the overnight bag and you think maybe you should pull really hard, DON'T. It could be stuck on said un-cased razor, which is apt to take off a hefty strip from the top of your index finger when you pull. Yes, let's say it altogether: ouch.

Did I mention I need a pep talk today?

Did I mention that two weeks ago, I bought a Costco cake for a baby shower held the very morning that we were leaving for Las Vegas (or as M puts it, Lost Vegas, which is probably unlikely since it's the only bright, shiny water filled object in a very large desert)? I bought this cake because it seemed like way too much work to bake and decorate a whole cake when I had cleaning and packing and busyness to attend to. Plus I wasn't even going to the shower anyway.

Did I also mention that I left this cake in the back of the van while I took the first load of groceries into the house, even though I could clearly see K heading toward the back of the van? But of course she could wait thirty seconds for me to return and move said cake out of the way so that she could climb out.

Did I also mention that K is two? Very, very two?

Oh, you know where this is going. I'm not sure what body part dragged across the cake, but it was something that allowed her to run past me as I stood staring, google-eyed, at the smooshy mess that was once my ticket to a quiet, pre-vacation afternoon. I strode back over to my daughter, who was happily wheeling around on her tricycle, and tried to keep my voice in the semi-human tenor of supremely-pissed-but-still-sane as I explained, demonic like, that some things are very delicate and that she should not try to climb across them. She turned her bright little smile up to me, at which point I strangled her with my bare hands. Oh, no, just kidding (we obviously wouldn't be enduring the binky crisis of 2009 if that had happened... hmm). No, I stared at her for a few seconds, totally unbelieving that she didn't comprehend for a microsecond that she'd just destroyed something of value, when it occurred to me that she wouldn't have any way to know that the cake was that delicate. I mean, sure, probably should climb over stuff, but eh, it probably looked stable enough.

I took the cake and kids inside and we all stood there for a while. I cried a little, and K talked sweetly, and M reminded her that Mommy was not happy with her right now, which didn't phase her in the least. I called B, cried a little more, then went back to staring. Finally, I scraped the frosting from the top, took a break to feed everyone lunch, and after they went down for nap (back when we were actually sleeping--joy!), I spent that afternoon redecorating the cake I never meant to decorate in the first place. Then I spent that evening packing , and I got my rest on vacation, like a good vacation should provide.

The moral to this story--wait, is there a moral to this story? You do remember all that sleep we're not getting. Yes, the moral! The moral is that we endure so much, so many big and little triumphs and tragedies in life, and that in the end, whatever you think you can't handle or do or survive any longer usually ends up handle-able or do-able or survivable. Two weeks later, I hardly remember that afternoon, or the ire I felt, or the exhaustion-induced tears. I remember that I had a messed-up cake and that it got suitable fixed, and we still went on vacation and everything. And no one died, not even me. Sometimes we just have to give ourselves that due credit, and (wo)man up to the task at hand. Living life to the fullest isn't always pretty, and sometimes that's the best part. Perfection breeds happiness, but imperfection breeds character.

Holding His Hand

You'd think, after a lifetime in the church, that I would have figured things out by now. But I had an epiphany the other day. Maybe I'm just better able to focus now that both kids are tucked away in their own classes (I did have to ignore the frantic demand, "No go church! No go church!" which only makes me hope that K will forget this whole nursery thing by the time she's three. Otherwise I suppose I'll be wholly to blame for the ensuing lifetime of heathenism).

The pastor was talking about being a child of God, and a familiar stress rose within my heart. When I first became a Christian, I thought of it as something I chose. It is a choice. You decide that you will take up God's path, His plan for your life, and follow Him and do His will. As I saw it, you took His hand and became His child. But as much as my parents might have insisted that you can never, from that point on, lose this connection, I always harbored a deep-seeded fear that I could. Somehow, I could lose His hand, the way a child might get lost from a parent in a crowd. If I wasn't following His closely enough, or made a few too many wrong choices. And so I have lived under a mild but constant spiritual stress. What if I let go? What if what I did wasn't enough? How could someone like me, who did such a miserable job of being a Christian, ever really be good enough to be a child of God?

But then, sitting there doing a lot of spiritual hand-wringing--sure people could they see how weak I was, what an impostor I was--it occurred to me: I did not choose to be a child of God. I am already a child of God. I chose to take His hand, to walk with Him, to follow Him as best I can, but that has nothing to do with being His child. We are all God's children, whether or not we chose to acknowledge this or follow Him. I simply chose to walk with Him.

It would be as if M lost my hand in a busy place. He would be no less my son. And moreover, how I would search for him, if he were lost, how my heart would ache to have him back safely in my grasp. Talk about stress! But that's how it is, once God knows we're walking with Him. I might lose hold of Him, but I cannot lose Him, especially when He will be searching for me even more than I will be searching for Him.

I don't mean to be preaching. But this was such a revelation for me, something that, simple as it was, took such a stress of my shoulders. And I found that once that stress was gone, it somehow seemed easier to feel His strong hand in mine, knowing that being His child is something I am, not something I can lose. It's amazing how stress can change the simplest of things, and how losing that stress makes things all the more simple.

And now M is really up, looking for me and my hands, and there's no place I'd rather be than with him. That too makes me smile, thinking of God feeling just the same.

Happy Birthday to Me

Today, I turned thirty. Oh yes, I'm only thirty. I get that a lot. I made very good use of my twenties.

I've had a lot of questions about turning thirty, and a bit of teasing too. You know, how it feels, how I feel, etc. Apparently I should feel some way or another, and I do, but it's not quite what people anticipate.

Last week, Easter Sunday, I was singing in the special church choir. The congregation was standing with us, singing along. My eyes fell on an older woman of whom I have grown very fond. I noticed that she was wearing a hearing aid, something she'd never had before. I wondered how she might have felt, and I hoped it was lucky, lucky to have lived to be old enough to need help hearing. Then my eyes shifted forward to a friend of mine. We have known each other since we were both young married women with no kids. We now both have two apiece, very close to the same age. She also has an inoperable brain tumor. I thought then, compared to the older woman, how sad that must be, knowing that you will never be old enough to need a hearing aid, let alone see your kids grown and married and bearing families of their own.

But then, really, as I looked at all the people standing together, I recognized that we are all standing on this earth, and that we will all fall someday. I assume that my friend will fall before me, but it's possible it will be the other way around. We will all fall. It's the one inevitable fact of life. And while I may think that the woman with the hearing aid is lucky to have stood so long, I think that we are all lucky to be standing at all. Life is really such an amazingly complex balance, so fragile, so fraught with peril and risk, that every day we wake to find ourselves still standing, we should consider ourselves triumphant! So to hit a milestone like thirty, to still be standing, is a victory. Bring on forty! Bring on fifty! Bring on one hundred and ten!

But you know, in 80 years. Because today, I'm happy being thirty.

Life Abundant, continued

I've been pondering the whole Life abundant notion this weekend, when God got fed up and helped me out. Okay, I'm sure He meant it nicely. But surprise of all surprises, M agreed to go to his Sunday School class this morning. By himself. For the whole time. Provided he got all of Mommy's car keys and his choice for lunch. AND K went into the nursery. By herself. And only cried a little. Apparently there was much to do with the babies that required her immediate non-crying attention. So B and I could enjoy the sermon in peace.

And then, not that I really should have been surprised by this point, the sermon continued in the book of Ecclesiastes, in which Solomon throws out his two cents on life's meaning. And what do you think it was? (I'm envisioning bored yawns by this point) Enjoy the moment! For in the end, we all come to the same fate (death, in case you're in some form of denial), and we all suffer the same unfair trials and tribulations and random chance moments while getting there. So all we can have is our life as it stands in this moment, and, if we have faith in God and goodness, hope for a better tomorrow.

That's where our pastor ended. But I still felt a little unfulfilled. Because to me, it's about what hope can inspire you to do in that moment. Hope to see your grandchildren grow up? That's smashing. Now get off your duff and exercise. Hope to make amends with your estranged friend? That's brilliant. Now pick up the phone and give them a call. Hope to be a better person? That's grand. Now be that person, today. (I bet by now we're hoping that I watch a little less British television. But don't worry. I've run out of corny British adjectives anyway)

When I think of having life abundantly, I imagine life as an orange I hold in my hand. I peel it apart, take a really awesome juicer, and just juice the heck out of the thing until all that's left is a hollowed out little peel. Then I take that peel and chew it whole. Okay, I'd actually put it down my garbage disposal so that everything smells nice and orangey, but it's the same point. I make sure that I squeeze everything little bit of good out of it. Because I've only got one orange today, and I can't save it for tomorrow either. Besides, there's another orange tomorrow. Or maybe there's not. And if not, wouldn't you like to know that you made the best use of your last orange?

The exact verse: "Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might; for there is no activity or planning or knowledge or wisdom in [death] where you are going" (Ecc. 9:10).

So wherever you are and whatever you are doing, give it your all. Appreciate everything. Hope for things better. And make them happen, as best you can, today. This one shot, that's God's gift to you, and He gave it to you so that you would enjoy it as fully as possible. That's a little more what living a life abundant means to me.

Life Abundant

I've been absent, I know, and for no good reason. Well, okay, one. I've been thinking a lot about this blog and where it's going. Besides its aimless meander through my life. I know I have readers, but I wonder what they get, other than a little glimpse into a life that is not theirs.

As a writer, I often face a similar roadblock. What can I say that hasn't been said already? How can I be interesting at all when so many other interesting people have come before me?

Faced with this roadblock, I have a tendency to shut down. I don't have anything new to say, I tell myself. I'm not interesting, not compared to all the rest.

But I must be interesting, somewhat, since I have readers who comment on my insights, and since I have essays that draw interest.

So this leads me to the question of purpose. I think this is also known as developing a platform, but I prefer to think of it less as a jumping off point and more as a goal in the distance. Should people have interest in this goal--either in terms of joining me or else out of curiosity over how I manage it--then they become readers. Or rather, they become more engaged readers. Because I'm only going to have so many witty stories to share before they all start sounding the same.

I know this is my business, but it also goes to the whole blog itself. I started out, so long ago, perplexed by a title, finally giving up in the hopes that I'd someday stumble across something more definitive. Except I don't think you really stumble across things like that. It might take a little digging too.

So I'm breaking out my shovels and asking myself what matters in my life. What do I strive for? What do I want to focus on in my daily life? I've been praying a lot, too. For a long time I've felt God's gentle hand guiding me toward a writer's life, and I don't know why. It seems, to my logical self, the hardest road possible, one that I don't even deserve to be on. But He wouldn't ask me to go this far without thinking it was important.

The thing that I come back to is a Bible verse that has long stuck in my heart: "The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly." (John 10:10). It's part of Jesus' parable of the Good Shepard. I'm not theologian and have little to offer regarding the meat of this parable (this is my I'm-not-a-spiritual-guide warning), but the notion of life abundant strikes a particular chord in my soul. I think that it goes to everlasting life, but I think that it also reflects our life on Earth. Because we all do have a life on Earth, and I believe that while we are here, God wants us to live it abundantly.

Anyway, that's where I am now. Life abundant. And where I go from here? Excellent question. For another day.