Alright, just between you and me: are you stressed already? Tis the season--the most wonderful time of the year, and all--and we are squeezing out every last drop of holiday goodness we can. This includes crafts and stories and baking, in addition to all the parties and gift giving and decorating we can manage. But I'm feeling, with Christmas less than two weeks away, that I'm struggling to survive instead of enjoy.
I guess I thought that was just how the holidays had come to be, until yesterday in church when our Pastor announced that this year, our church will be participating in the Advent Conspiracy. My ears perked up: are we doing covert operations now? Shall I stock up on black glasses and wigs as to hide Advent candles in the homes of my unconverted friends? How very exciting!
Actually, Advent Conspiracy is a movement to change the way we think about Christmas. The main principle: Spend Less, Give More. Instead of buying that gift card, sweater, trinket--instead of asking for that random item you've lived this long without--send a homemade gift, or a card telling that person how much they mean. Then take that money and do something really useful with it, like buy food for starving children or wells for clean water.
It doesn't have to be all or nothing. Of course we're appreciate of the gifts we've received and the thoughtfulness behind them. We too are guilty of overspending and overscheduling, especially when it comes to the kids. But for a minute: think. There's still time to make this Christmas different, to spend it the way Christ first spent it: simply, joyfully, with the people He loved.
Want to know more? I did. Advent Conspiracy's got some great videos here. "Enter the Story" is my favorite. Still feel like you have to have a gift? Try Living Water International. You can turn your donation into a gift card, and the recipient can choose which project they want to support. Snazzy! The best part, in my opinion? That they sell in $5 increments. I love that $5 still means a lot to someone. This year, I'm going to try to make it me.
Showing posts with label Raves. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Raves. Show all posts
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Hash-Tastic
I'm going to rave for a minute. If you're a vegetarian or you (so unfortunately) don't live near a Trader Joe's, you might want to just ignore this post entirely.
For lunch today I had Trader Joe's new Roast Beef Hash. It's fully cooked in this silver pouch and self stable for like ever (just a guesstimate) which kind of grosses me out. But I LOVE roast beef hash. I grew up eating the kind that comes in cans (so really I should be over this whole shelf-stable oddness). Then I got older and started looking at things like labels and realized that almost every brand contains MSG. That's not something I put on my usual grocery list.
Then I was reading Trader Joe's Fearless Flyer and saw the hash. I bought some and forgot about it until today, when the beef lover in me realized that I needed it. Now. I cracked an egg and some egg whites into it, stirred it all up in a cast iron skillet, and lunched on the most delicious hash I've had in a long time. No MSG, no funny preservatives--just cutely cubed potatoes and real meaty pieces of roast beef.
I love food. There are lots of things that I immensely enjoy. But very few are things that I feel compelled to shout from the rooftops. This was one of them. Now if I can just manage to spend the rest of the afternoon in this house knowing that the second half is waiting in the fridge.
For lunch today I had Trader Joe's new Roast Beef Hash. It's fully cooked in this silver pouch and self stable for like ever (just a guesstimate) which kind of grosses me out. But I LOVE roast beef hash. I grew up eating the kind that comes in cans (so really I should be over this whole shelf-stable oddness). Then I got older and started looking at things like labels and realized that almost every brand contains MSG. That's not something I put on my usual grocery list.
Then I was reading Trader Joe's Fearless Flyer and saw the hash. I bought some and forgot about it until today, when the beef lover in me realized that I needed it. Now. I cracked an egg and some egg whites into it, stirred it all up in a cast iron skillet, and lunched on the most delicious hash I've had in a long time. No MSG, no funny preservatives--just cutely cubed potatoes and real meaty pieces of roast beef.
I love food. There are lots of things that I immensely enjoy. But very few are things that I feel compelled to shout from the rooftops. This was one of them. Now if I can just manage to spend the rest of the afternoon in this house knowing that the second half is waiting in the fridge.
Monday, July 13, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Humble pie a la tiramisu
Do you ever find a product that you thought you could live without, but no longer can? Mine is creamer. Used to always think I was beyond creamer. Who needs creamer? I'd say haughtily. It's all hydrogenated oils and nasty artificial flavorings. Milk and sugar for me, all natural as the day is long.
Until gingerbread creamer came along. And then chocolate peppermint. And now? Tiramisu.
So I'm eating my words, washed down with a nice hot cup of coffee, weak, with a healthy dose of fake tiramisu loveliness, carefully protecting my indulgence from my coffee loving kids (you think I'm joking? See M's trip to the dentist, but it really needs little K begging "Fa-fee! Fa-fee!" for the full effect. But I swear, decaf and now organic per my sister's kind guidance). I feel like I'm hiding a drug habit.
Until gingerbread creamer came along. And then chocolate peppermint. And now? Tiramisu.
So I'm eating my words, washed down with a nice hot cup of coffee, weak, with a healthy dose of fake tiramisu loveliness, carefully protecting my indulgence from my coffee loving kids (you think I'm joking? See M's trip to the dentist, but it really needs little K begging "Fa-fee! Fa-fee!" for the full effect. But I swear, decaf and now organic per my sister's kind guidance). I feel like I'm hiding a drug habit.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
She likes me, she really likes me
Many thanks to my friend Kristi--the one who always reminds me of Keira Knightly, only better--for the Kreativ Blogger award. I'm just thrilled that someone actually remembers my blog's name, especially considering how, well, miscellaneous it is. So the award is thoughtfully accepted and generously passed forth, as is the link to Kristi. She's a fabulous mother and charming friend, in addition to that pretty face.
The rules are:
- List six things that make you happy
- Pass the award on to 6 more kreativ bloggers
- Link back to the person who gave you the award
- Link to the people you are passing it on to and leave them a comment to let them know.
6 Things That Make Me Happy
- Summer rain
- Dark chocolate peppermint ice cream from Cold Stone
- Waking up after seven o'clock to find that everyone is still asleep
- The sound of the garage door opening, the signal that B has arrived home from work
- Running around with the kids in the backyard or park
- Writing a story that comes out just the way it sounded in my head
May I have the envelope please...
And YOU--that is, those phantom readers that I imagine read my blog from time to time. A girl can dream, right?
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Christmas cookies
Christmas cookies are fabulous. I love nearly every kind of Christmas cookie: gingerbread, thumbprints, sugar cookies, rice krispy treats--What? Rice krispy treats aren't Christmas cookies? Sure they are. I sprinkle them with red and green sugar. That makes them Christmasy. See?
Okay, so I'm admitting that I use this time of year to make all the cookies that I don't make the rest of the year because I will eat them. All of them. With delight. But it's Christmas, and we're all supposed to bake cookies. That's why they have all those recipes in magazines, and all those great ads in the Sunday paper. Then we eat them. All of them. With delight.
It's weird at first. I'm thinking, it's lunch time and I'm having a cookie. I don't usually have cookies at lunch. Hardly ever, really. Certainly not three days in a row. But after a while, I realize that the world didn't end, no calorie police came calling, and my pants are still buttoning (barely). It's one month a year; I'm going to town.
Of course, this post will seem appropriately hilarious when we get to the "how did I gain this much weight in one month" post sometime after the new year. Feel free to tell me so when the time comes. Right now, I'm having another piece of fudge...
Okay, so I'm admitting that I use this time of year to make all the cookies that I don't make the rest of the year because I will eat them. All of them. With delight. But it's Christmas, and we're all supposed to bake cookies. That's why they have all those recipes in magazines, and all those great ads in the Sunday paper. Then we eat them. All of them. With delight.
It's weird at first. I'm thinking, it's lunch time and I'm having a cookie. I don't usually have cookies at lunch. Hardly ever, really. Certainly not three days in a row. But after a while, I realize that the world didn't end, no calorie police came calling, and my pants are still buttoning (barely). It's one month a year; I'm going to town.
Of course, this post will seem appropriately hilarious when we get to the "how did I gain this much weight in one month" post sometime after the new year. Feel free to tell me so when the time comes. Right now, I'm having another piece of fudge...
Monday, September 10, 2007
Tools of the Trade
Earplugs, stove, scale, spatula, shovel, crowbar, mallet, hatchet, bjorn, sling, diaper bag, swing, socket set, stepladder, saw, hacksaw, metal file, broom, dustpan, screwdriver, allen wrench, stroller, microwave, toaster oven, dishwasher, washing machine, dryer
That was my day, in order. Which leads me to the eleventh thing I love about my job: dull moments are hard to come by.
That was my day, in order. Which leads me to the eleventh thing I love about my job: dull moments are hard to come by.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Making Amends
How's this for neurotic? Last night when I was up nursing K (second feeding of three, so cut me a little slack on my grammar/spelling/coherency--is that even a word?), I started going back over my "letting go" posts in my head. Was it really letting me go? Because that sounds like I'm inviting the postpartum spare tire around my midsection to take up permanent residence. But letting it go? Didn't I decide that was a too-vague cop-out? Or perhaps it's letting it go in spite of me. Then it dawns on me. I'm having a debate about the semantics of whatever should go between the words letting and go. I'm obviously missing the point.
Which brings me to notice that I seem to have been on a negative bent the past few days. Lest I leave you thinking that I'm a cup-half-empty kind of girl, and before I drive the few people that actually read this blog off to greener pastures, here's a list of ten things I love about my life:
Which brings me to notice that I seem to have been on a negative bent the past few days. Lest I leave you thinking that I'm a cup-half-empty kind of girl, and before I drive the few people that actually read this blog off to greener pastures, here's a list of ten things I love about my life:
- I can kiss a baby's head any time I want to (and I do, often)
- Singing in the car, off-key and loudly, is considered good entertainment
- I never have to wear real shoes (hence my flip-flop tan)
- Good culinary technique involves combining Goldfish and Bunny-O's
- It's okay if I avoid things like laundry and dishes because I was too busy "playing"
- I never have to feel bad for spilling things in the (already dirty) car
- People are impressed when my clothes are clean and well-matched because they generally expect neither
- Sitting down at the end of the day feels so good
- Tickling is highly encouraged
- When two little people need anything at all, they think I'm the answer. How misled, but cool anyway.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Why people should come with care labels
I recently switched to mineral makeup, which is supposed to be for super-sensitive skin. Very natural, very healthy, etc. A few days later, I noticed that my few cheek scars (too much picking, but that's a whole other post in itself) were very pronounced. WTH? Then I actually looked very closely in the mirror, something that usually doesn't happen in the 30 seconds I have to get ready in the morning. I could see my scars because my skin was unusually clear. So it turns out that I must have had said super-sensitive skin all along, skin that was crying out for natural make-up via the tiny pimples all over my chin and nose. See, but I didn't know this. My skin doesn't get red, wasn't flaky, didn't seem particularly anything. It was skin. It seemed normal to me. How would I know any different?
So I would like to propose that people be born with little care labels tattooed on their backside (printed in reverse, perhaps, so that we could read them in the mirror) because I'm left wondering what else I don't know about my body. Is my skin yellow-toned or red-toned? I burn, but I also look better in warm colors. What about my hair? It seems thick but sometimes flat on top. Am I really a pear-shape, or curvy? Am I the only person in the world who wonders why all these designations seem so confusing? Well, at least my skin looks good. Now, if I could just figure out whether it's oily or normal or dry or combination...
So I would like to propose that people be born with little care labels tattooed on their backside (printed in reverse, perhaps, so that we could read them in the mirror) because I'm left wondering what else I don't know about my body. Is my skin yellow-toned or red-toned? I burn, but I also look better in warm colors. What about my hair? It seems thick but sometimes flat on top. Am I really a pear-shape, or curvy? Am I the only person in the world who wonders why all these designations seem so confusing? Well, at least my skin looks good. Now, if I could just figure out whether it's oily or normal or dry or combination...
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