tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58949322515717805892024-03-14T01:17:31.778-05:00still. pictures.Closing the shutter on life's small moments. Like catching fireflies, they're too fascinating to release without a little inspection.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.comBlogger436125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-28653740681809386792015-12-31T20:48:00.003-06:002015-12-31T20:48:54.804-06:00The resolution that could help us all in 2016<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The disclaimer</b></span><br />
You know when you haven't exercised in a while and you start back and<br />
your heart rate's up just walking into the gym and<br />
your body hurts after two minutes and<br />
parts of you are jiggling in ways you've never felt before<br />
and it's all so...discouraging?<br />
<br />
That's my writing experience right now. I'm sucking some serious wind. But there's no time like the end of a year (or the beginning of one) to get me going, so if you can bear with some language flab, read on.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The article that started it all</span></b><br />
<a href="http://childrensmd.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/sleep-deprived1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://childrensmd.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/sleep-deprived1.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a>Last week I read a fabulous NYTimes article by Tony Schwartz called <a href="http://mobile.nytimes.com/2015/11/29/opinion/sunday/addicted-to-distraction.html?_r=5&referer=">"Addicted to Distraction."</a> It started as many other "this-generation-is-deteriorating-my-brain" articles have, but it took a distinctive twist. It was personal, not hypothetical. Honest, not idealistic. And it came just as I was thinking about my resolutions for the coming year. Like the author, my initial thought when thinking about all that was overgrown in my life was add more (or less) of everything in every area: I was going to sleep more, eat less ice cream, exercise more, check my email less, put my phone down more, complain less. You get the idea. <br />
<br />
It was lofty. Idealistic. <i>And completely impossible. </i><br />
<br />
But, of course, my world was full of possibilities because it was a new year! a new start! a new me! Whatever. That unfounded optimism sort of baffles me now.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The ah-ha moment</span></b><br />
Anyway, as I was reading, I started to get excited because the author shared my hopes to accomplish the impossible. And then he shared his story of complete failure, the many ways he's still tethered to the pet loves of his life: "The problem is that we humans have a very limited reservoir of will and discipline." <i>Oh no!</i> I thought. <i>That could be me. That </i>will<i> be me in three weeks or less. Now what? </i>Schwartz saved the day in the next sentence: <b>"We're far more likely to succeed by trying to change one behavior at a time, ideally at the same time each day, so that it becomes a habit, requiring less and less energy to sustain."</b> Palm to forehead. Of course. One behavior.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">The one resolution that could help us all</span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<br />
So, here's mine: <b>In 2016, I'm going to try to sleep more. </b>That may earn only a slow clap and cocked eyebrow from some of you, but I'm all kinds of serious.<br />
<br />
I've said it for years, but haven't lived by it well: <i>If I were a counselor, the first question I'd ask every client on their first intake form would be, "How much sleep do you get on average per day?"</i> Lack of sleep, I'm convinced, has its sly hands in most of our problems. Of course, it's not the only hand in our problems, but it's a big one, and for some reason, I don't care if I ignore it. "I know I'll regret it tomorrow, but I need some alone time/want to watch this show/need to (fill in the blank with any given thing on a to-do list)/accidentally scanned Facebook for 30 minutes instead of the intended five." Whatever it is, I'm up later than I wanted to be most nights.<br />
<br />
Obviously, there are times when losing sleep is completely worthwhile and right, and times when I can't help losing sleep (ahem, having infants/children and anyone struggling with anxiety or insomnia). But on the whole, sleep deprivation is something I can prevent because at this point in my life, I can pretty much choose when I go to bed and when I get up. And it really does leak into every area of my life: I drink more coffee, have more reflux, snap at those I love, don't eat as well, am less happy, less focused, less thoughtful of others, and less motivated. It's more of what's toxic and less of what's life-giving and I want to reverse that.<br />
<br />
So I'm going to work at going to bed at the same reasonable time every night (as often as possible) and waking up at the same time every morning. It's my one thing. It's not going to fix every overgrown thing in my life, but it should prune a lot of areas, and, most importantly, it's doable.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">What's your one thing?</span></b> <br />
<br />
<div>
<a href="http://childrensmd.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/sleep-deprived1.jpg" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo credit</span></a></div>
CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-18514769144760426992015-11-02T21:17:00.003-06:002015-11-02T21:17:51.843-06:00Let's play catch upIt's been a while. Like a month. And a month before that. But here are a few nuggets for ya from the past few months:<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://d28hgpri8am2if.cloudfront.net/book_images/onix/cvr9781476746586/all-the-light-we-cannot-see-9781476746586_hr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://d28hgpri8am2if.cloudfront.net/book_images/onix/cvr9781476746586/all-the-light-we-cannot-see-9781476746586_hr.jpg" height="200" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://d28hgpri8am2if.cloudfront.net/book_images/onix/cvr9781476746586/all-the-light-we-cannot-see-9781476746586_hr.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>What to read:</b> Anthony Doerr's <i>All The Light We Cannot See</i>. One of the loveliest novels I've read.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://eatwellembracelife.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/new-edamame-red.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://eatwellembracelife.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/new-edamame-red.png" height="165" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://eatwellembracelife.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/new-edamame-red.png">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>What to eat: </b>Edamame hummus. Sounds weird? It's not. It's whipped. It's light. It's garlicky and delicious. And it's at Publix in the hummus section across from the deli. You're welcome.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>What to wear:</b> A lesson learned: get yo'self a pair of black pants/jeans that fit you just right. Don't pay attention to the price tag. Just get 'em. And then wear the heck out of them. Dress 'em up. Dress 'em down. Wear them with boots or heels or flip flops. They go with everything and will become your go-to pants. <br />
<br /><b>What to do:</b> Take a break. For me, that's meant <a href="http://carawjohnson.blogspot.com/2015/02/the-best-gift-anyone-has-ever-given-me.html">my biannual one-night hotel getaway</a> (post to come!). I don't know what that means for you, but get away. For an hour, a day, a weekend. Dare to be alone and quiet and spend time in ways you don't normally get to. It won't fix all your problems but you'll come back a better version of yourself.<br /><b><br /></b><br />
<b>What I'm learning: </b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry.</li>
<li>Parenting isn't for the weak.</li>
<li>The chocolate chip cookies at Chick-Fil-A really are the best. Warm, gooey, chocolatey goodness.</li>
<li>God doesn't make sense a lot of the time.</li>
<li>God is for me.</li>
<li>There is such a thing as too much coffee.</li>
<li>Shopping stresses me out. Like I almost hyperventilate after a while unless I know exactly what I'm looking for, find it, and walk out. The hubs loves this about me.</li>
<li>Sometimes going to bed at 8:30 p.m. is the most glorious decision you can make. </li>
<li>There weren't nearly enough Butterfingers in my kids' Halloween candy this year.</li>
<li>My kids are hilarious.</li>
<li>November 2 is too early to play Christmas music (Hear that, Gap??)</li>
<li>Amazon does, in fact, sell everything. Just look at my credit card statement. Gas, groceries, and Amazon.</li>
</ul>
<div>
So, there you go. Two months squished into a computer screen. More to come, I hope. Just not sure when. </div>
CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-11969970083345511272015-10-05T13:11:00.003-05:002015-10-05T13:11:53.812-05:00between His shoulders<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.preceptaustin.org/shepherd%20w%20lamb%20on%20shoulders.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.preceptaustin.org/shepherd%20w%20lamb%20on%20shoulders.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.preceptaustin.org/shepherd%20w%20lamb%20on%20shoulders.gif">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Someone gave me this verse last week, and I've read it every day since, trying to let the words settle like wrinkles:<br />
<br />
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<b>"Let the beloved of the Lord rest secure in him, </b></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<b>for he shields him all day long, </b></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<b>and the one the Lord </b><b>loves </b></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<b>rests between His shoulders" (Deuteronomy 33:12). </b></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
It's part of Moses' final blessing (God's favor and protection) to Israel, and it's for me too. I have mixed feelings about being the lamb between his shoulders. Part of me hates being that helpless, that small, that needy and dependent--so dependent that I have to be carried. I'd rather think of myself as able and competent; I don't want to have to need anyone that much. I'd rather buck and wander, thank you very much.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But that part about rest rings inside like church bells. Yes and amen. If anything tries to attack me, it has to go through Him first. And being held to Jesus by all fours, not as a way to wield power but as a way to lead gently, a way to take my burden--myself--on him? Oh thank you Jesus!<br />
<br />
So, yes. I'm secure because<br />
He has me.<br />
He shields me.<br />
He loves me.<br />
<br />
I can buck or rest there, between His shoulders,<br />
but what good would bucking do?<br />
He has me.<br />
And He isn't letting go.<br />
And I'm grateful for a Savior who says:<br />
<i>Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden</i><br />
<i>and I will give you rest</i> (Matthew 11:28).<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-24291047826119499882015-09-18T13:51:00.001-05:002015-09-23T13:26:35.043-05:00Hi there.I can't say that "I'm back," but I'm here, now. Clicking keys and marking white space for the first time in over a month. The break has been good--necessary. The six weeks of sleep deprivation from the toddler with nightmares took me back to the days of having an infant; I probably shouldn't even have been driving, so writing was out of the question. But we're on the other side of the nightmares for now, and I've had a few experiences in the past month that have put a kid with nightmares into perspective, so I'm here, now.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Let's go with bullets today, just for fun. And because that's all I can do with these atrophied writing muscles. </div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Have you been watching the GOP debates? Donkey or elephant, they're simply fascinating.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://public.media.smithsonianmag.com/legacy_blog/donkey-and-elephant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://public.media.smithsonianmag.com/legacy_blog/donkey-and-elephant.jpg" height="151" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://public.media.smithsonianmag.com/legacy_blog/donkey-and-elephant.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</li>
<li>Do you know about the <a href="http://www.worldmag.com/2015/09/unwanted">forced sterilization of over 60,000 men, women, and children</a> from the 1930s to the 1970s? I couldn't believe the article I read in <i>World Magazine</i> this past issue. I kept telling my husband, "Did you know about this? How could this be okay for so long? or ever? Who gets to decide these things?" I'm still boiling from the injustice. Click the link above for the full article. </li>
<li>On a more light-hearted note, the offspring are hilarious, per usual. The little one, Noodle, (who's about to be TWO!), has quite the vocabulary. The other day, she stopped running and said, "Need water break, Mommy." And when I told her Daddy was at work, she said, "Aw may-un (man). I miss Daddy." Love that girl to pieces. The big (tall!) one, Moo, loves asking deep questions right as I'm walking out of his room at night: "Mom, who is God's enemy?" and "Mom, I hug you so you can have Jesus in you. I know all about Jesus, all the parts about Him. But who <i>made</i> Jesus?" Lord, give me wisdom! What an incredible kid.</li>
</ul>
<div>
</div>
<ul><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.allure.com/images/beauty-products/skin/2014/softsoap-liquid-hand-soap-wild-basil-lime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.allure.com/images/beauty-products/skin/2014/softsoap-liquid-hand-soap-wild-basil-lime.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.allure.com/images/beauty-products/skin/2014/softsoap-liquid-hand-soap-wild-basil-lime.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<li>And on a completely shallow note, do you know about Softsoap's Wild Basil & Lime hand soap? If you can't find me, I'll be in the kitchen washing my hands so I can smell them. </li>
</ul>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-43802648515118900192015-08-11T13:34:00.002-05:002015-08-11T13:34:30.437-05:00Whenever the fog passes<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-c5Tf53M-sJ8/Vco_70q2bII/AAAAAAAAB8g/k7t3WX3_raw/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-c5Tf53M-sJ8/Vco_70q2bII/AAAAAAAAB8g/k7t3WX3_raw/s1600/FullSizeRender.jpg" /></a>It's been a kidney stone, car-dying, car-buying, kid with nightmares, kid teething, stomach bug, sleep-deprived 10 days. As if all of nature was mocking me, I dropped into bed at 8:20 last night but couldn't fall asleep for several more hours because of the strobes of lightning and the thunder that gave my bed the feeling of motion. So. Maybe I should give myself a break about all the writer's block. Maybe this just isn't the month to be hard on myself about buckling down to write. Because some weeks, you need sleep more than you need just about anything else.<br />
<br />
That being said, I claimed the little corner<br />
desk in our living room, declared it mine. Cleared the mail and alligator artwork and coasters, left a clean space with a simple lamp, and a wire basket for current books and writing projects. And now there's space--not quite a room of one's own, but a place to think and write. The physical space helps validate me as a writer, gives the title clout and worth and reality. So even though my brain is a junk drawer on NyQuil, my space is clean and waiting for me whenever this fog passes.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-12891906065408759532015-07-27T13:02:00.002-05:002015-07-27T13:02:44.627-05:00Today I'm THAT writer.I'm swimming in wet cement. Inching along, kind of wanting to get out, but really feeling so discouraged that I want to give up more than I want to get out. One day I'm all "I'm a writer! Let's do this. I'm inspired and good at what I do and don't have time in a day to write all that's in my head," and another day it's just, well...<i>nothing</i>. Blank stares from the muse, complete dread of figuring out what to write, silence from God. I'd rather stab my finger with a pencil than sit down and try to write.<br />
<br />
It's one of THOSE days. Months, really.<br />
A funk.<br />
Writer's block.<br />
Whatever.<br />
<br />
And I hate it when writers write about writer's block because it's so cliche and always wreaks of woe-is-me, but here I am anyway, joining the masses, complaining about how hard it is to write.<br />
<br />
But I just need to write. To do the excruciating work of slaying myself open and letting others see the yuck and beauty and wonder that's there. Couldn't I have been called to a less gut-wrenching thing?<br />
<br />
And so I'm writing.<br />
Even if it's bad.<br />
Even if the only adjective I can come up with is "bad."<br />
Even if my heels are bucking and I'm punching the air.<br />
At least the bucking means I'm alive, that I care.<br />
At least that's what I'm telling myself.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-66047610056561676052015-07-09T20:34:00.000-05:002015-07-16T13:02:18.499-05:00Three Things Thursday: writing edition<b><span style="font-size: large;">Thing One: I'm reading</span></b><br />
I'm in that writing space where I'm accumulating words and cadence, ideas and craft. The words--my own words--aren't there yet, so I'm letting others' words inspire me instead. It's a necessary part of being a writer. On my bedside table now (in no particular order and none of them nearly finished):<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><i>Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet</i> by Jamie Ford (fiction)</li>
<li><i>Bird by Bird</i> by Anne Lamott (a book on life and writing)</li>
<li><i>Women of the Word</i> by Jen Wilken (Christian nonfiction)</li>
<li><i>The Heart is A Lonely Hunter</i> by Carson McCullers (fiction)</li>
<li>My grandfather's WWII letters to my grandmother. I'm slowly transcribing hundreds of his letters so they can be preserved. So far, I'm on page 124 of a Word document and have another 9 months of the war to go. More on that another time!</li>
</ul>
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Thing Two: I'm writing</span></b><br />
It may not look like it by how often I blog, but I'm writing all the time...in my head, on scraps of paper, making lists on my phone, writing pieces so private or rough that you may never read them here. It's good. And it's hard. And most days I'm intimidated and don't even know where to start. But I'm writing.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Thing Three: I'm dreaming</span></b><br />
I'm wondering what God is and is going to do with this writing of mine. Publication or writing a book isn't even something I want to do right now or maybe ever, but I want to get better at it, use it to help people, and not be afraid to walk through open doors as they come.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-69237990233940133402015-07-01T20:57:00.004-05:002015-07-08T20:20:50.801-05:00One more reason to write (even if you're not a writer)<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>*For those who read my last post on how Phil and I met, please <a href="http://carawjohnson.blogspot.com/2015/06/our-story.html">click here</a> to revisit it. I've added a visual of his hair that you won't want to miss as well as a hilarious Moo quote!</b></i></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.jamespreller.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/mood-writing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.jamespreller.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/mood-writing.jpg" height="320" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.jamespreller.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/04/mood-writing.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Even though I have the worst memory in the history of the universe, I still think "I'll remember this moment. It's so meaningful/funny/sad/important that I don't really need to write it all down." BUT I DO, Y'ALL. Case in point:<br />
<br />
This past weekend, I went to my parents' house. They're doing some mid-life-crisis deep cleaning and have made it all the way to the deep freezer and the attic. You know they're serious if they tackle the scary places. While most of my childhood keepsakes are sitting snug in a basement Rubbermaid at my house, they had a new stack of things for me to look through--a few buckets of clothes I wore as a child and large manilla envelopes from kindergarten to 7th grade with my school work best in them.<br />
<br />
You think you know your past selves, those people at various stages of your life who were you but who aren't you now. And then you look back at what you wrote and said at age seven and you think <i>THAT was me? Really? I wasn't like that, was I?</i> Man, I'm glad my teachers made me write a lot in elementary school. (Hear that, teachers? Keep making kids write...a lot.) I learned a few things about myself from thumbing through those old stories and "All About Me" pages and composition notebooks:<br />
<ul>
<li><b>I liked to watch TV</b>. Over and over again, I talked about how I looked forward to when I could "just relax and watch TV." Funny, though, because I almost never watch any now and don't remember watching much as a child. </li>
<li><b>I had a reason for wanting to relax. </b>I worked really really hard. I practiced piano every day for 30 minutes BEFORE school. I made all A's. I played sports and babysat my brothers and did family chores. It wasn't slave driving or overly strict parenting; I just had a really strong work ethic and high expectations from home. </li>
<li><b>I loved alone time. </b><a href="http://carawjohnson.blogspot.com/2015/04/an-introvert-moms-guide-to-staying-alive.html">No surprise here</a>, but I repeatedly wrote about how my room was my favorite place in the house because it was quiet. I can't blame me. </li>
<li><b>I also loved to sleep, apparently.</b> Which is funny because I remember always struggling to fall asleep and still have one or two nights of crappy sleep each week. </li>
<li><b>My brothers "aggravated" me regularly.</b> Again, no real surprise there. Only girl with three younger brothers? Yeah, let's just say I was familiar with face farts. </li>
<li><b>I was really spiritual. </b>I wrote all the time about God and my faith and scripture and I really meant every word. I still do. </li>
<li><b>I liked math and I hated English. </b>At least in first grade. I liked math because "I liked to learn new things," and I hated English "because I have to write a lot and my hand gets all sweaty." Fair. </li>
<li><b>I was creative and artsy.</b> I'd draw in my journal and cut out magazine pictures and make up blurbs the people were saying. I'd make twenty different thumbprint stick people, all looking better than I could possibly create now. I wrote down quotes I liked and crafted outlandish stories. I took risks and didn't care because there weren't any stakes. Of course, I also had a crazy amount of free time as a child, so my imagination wasn't suffocated by real life bills/laundry/decisions. Even so, I wish I had a little more of that risky/artsy side now. Because, let's face it: I'm pretty much the opposite of risky/artsy.</li>
<li><b>I was really close with my family. </b>I wrote often of my parents and brothers and trips we would take and things we would do together, even if it was just family dinner. Some things never change.</li>
<li><b>I liked school. </b>And then one day I grew up and became a teacher. :)</li>
</ul>
<div>
I loved every minute of getting reacquainted with myself, triggering memories and people that I thought were lost. Hopefully some of them will show up here in the coming months. Until then, please keep writing. Even if you're not a writer, just <b>write it all down</b>. Because you won't remember, and one day you'll slow down enough to read a few things you jotted down on a tired day in July and you'll think, <i>Really? That was me? That's what I thought and experienced? I had no idea.</i></div>
CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-11056269576157236022015-06-24T20:46:00.001-05:002015-07-01T20:47:26.485-05:00Our storySamford University just hosted a contest for "Samford sweethearts" to write in the story of how they met, offering a prize of two nights at a nice resort in town to the randomly drawn winner. A <strike>little</strike> lot cheesy? Sure. But two nights away sounded pretty great, so why not? We didn't win, but below is our story--a little ditty I wrote only one draft of in a Starbucks during a rare (and appreciated) hour alone. Enjoy (and thanks in advance for the first-draft grace). Oh, and make sure you read to the end; I'll reward your hard work with an unforgettable picture!<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the end of my senior
year, I wasn’t looking for love. I was looking for a diploma. That magic piece
of paper with important names illegibly scribbled on lines, which meant I could
get a job. My Samford experience was full in the best possible way--being an
RA, traveling, working, volunteering, singing, writing, working out in “the
cage,” and taking all kinds of classes that stirred and challenged me. But as
Spring semester of my senior year rolled around, I was caught up in the dual desires
of investing in places and people that had become home and looking to the next
step of finding a job and moving and living on my own. After years of casual
and awkward dating, I’d come to accept what the Samford girl-guy ratio meant
for me: the love of my life was not at Samford. And I was okay with that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Good things happen around
Christmas, though. Romantic things. Magical things. Things you don’t expect. At
least that’s what the movies taught me. My thing wasn’t exactly magical. It was
a thrift store maybe-date with a guy I’d been acquaintances with since freshman
year, but it was the beginning of something magical. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When we were freshman,
Phil Johnson had dark, curly locks to his shoulders, parted down the
middle--hair that flew in the wind behind him as he rode his razor scooter to
class honking the clown horn he’d attached to the handlebars. Not exactly
babe-magnet material. The hair and the scooter made him memorable, though, and
the tiny post-911 American flag on the back waved at me unabashed, as if it
knew it belonged there and I was the crazy one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The hair and the scooter
didn’t do it for me, though. We were “hi” friends, people who would wave across
the quad and say hello and be fine to leave our conversation at one word. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was nice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was nice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were not for each
other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">End of story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />
But then he cut his hair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He went to London for a
semester and came back with those black curls cropped short and it was then
that he landed on my radar. But he still rode a razor scooter outfitted with a
horn and flag, so I kept him on my radar <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">with
caution</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A year later, we found
ourselves in one of the most unlikely places on campus for a pre-med student
and an English/Language Arts major: a theatre classroom in the belly of
Harrison Theater. I was in a required play directing class and he got roped
into auditioning at the last minute for one of the annual Ten-Minute Plays.
While I didn’t cast him in my play (he wasn’t exactly an actor), I was
intrigued by why, at 7:30 p.m. on a Thursday night in November, he was in that
theatre classroom at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Over the next month, we
both clocked more hours in that building than we ever had in all our years at
Samford combined. He was rehearsing for the play he was cast in and I was
rehearsing with my cast members for another play. We finally had a point of
connection that could move us beyond the one-word conversation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Christmas break approached
and my best friend roommates encouraged me to invite him to a Christmas party
we were hosting after exams. I wasn’t sure. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do
we know each other well enough for that? Would it be awkward? Would he know
enough other people? Am I reading into things? </i>I did it anyway. And he
agreed. And somehow from that Christmas party, we planned to hang out later in
the week since we’d both still be in town a couple of days after everyone else
had gone home. Because of a shared a love of thrift stores (an unwritten
requirement of any college student), we planned to go thrifting with a couple
of his roommates. Thrift store, roommates, off-hand, last minute
plans—definitely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> a date. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But then his roommates
backed out at the last minute and it was just the two of us riding in his Crown
Vic (affectionately named “Boss Hog”) and it suddenly felt very datey. Except
we were still going to a thrift store. And we never had a lull in the
conversation. And it felt comfortable and easy and light and innocent. And when
it was all over, I wasn’t sure if I’d just gone on a date or spent time with an
old friend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We spent January sending
emails and postcards from across the pond (he was in London again for
Jan-term), and February finding excuses to hang out every day—smoothies and
walks around the quad on a rainy day, studying together in the library, Monday
movie night with his roommates, RUF, picture swapping from our various travels
over the holidays, game nights and three weeks worth of similar shenanigans. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the end of February, I
ended each day thinking, “I loved spending time with him today and hope I get
to see him again tomorrow,” but I wasn’t entirely sure what we were. Friends?
Dating? God-forbid, something in-between? So when a friend offered to set me up
on a blind date, I agreed. I liked Phil, but I wasn’t tied to him and he was
being relationally vague, so why not? On Monday night, Phil called me and said,
“I’d like to take you out on a real date and wondered if you were free on
Thursday.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Of course</i> he wanted me to
go out with him on Thursday, the day I’d already agreed to go on the blind
date. I did some silent screaming and face-making on the other end of that
phone call and then calmly told Phil that I had other plans that night but would
love a rain check, so we rescheduled for Saturday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thankfully, the blind date
was a disaster after about 15 minutes in, so when Phil took me to Chez Lulu on
Saturday and said the words I’ll never forget: “I’ve enjoyed spending so much
time with you lately and I’d like to take steps toward doing that on a more
regular basis,” I was in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves/>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:DoNotPromoteQF/>
<w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther>
<w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian>
<w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/>
<w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/>
<w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/>
<w:OverrideTableStyleHps/>
<w:UseFELayout/>
</w:Compatibility>
<m:mathPr>
<m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/>
<m:brkBin m:val="before"/>
<m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/>
<m:smallFrac m:val="off"/>
<m:dispDef/>
<m:lMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:rMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/>
<m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/>
<m:intLim m:val="subSup"/>
<m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/>
</m:mathPr></w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
DefSemiHidden="true" DefQFormat="false" DefPriority="99"
LatentStyleCount="276">
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Normal"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="heading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" QFormat="true" Name="caption"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="59" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was the beginning of 13
months of dating and nine months of engagement and nine and a half years (and
going!) of marriage. And now, two kids and a lot of sleep deprivation and
laughter later, I’d like to thank Samford, the barber in London who cut Phil’s
hair, the theatre department, Laura Brost who talked Phil into auditioning,
thrift stores everywhere, my persistent roommates, the lame blind date guy
whose name I can’t remember, and, of course, God for orchestrating the details
of me marrying the man I never dreamed of, who became the man of my dreams. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z0gwO1WsUAk/VZSXeG53KrI/AAAAAAAAB7w/x11MdvjUqs0/s1600/IMG_5477.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z0gwO1WsUAk/VZSXeG53KrI/AAAAAAAAB7w/x11MdvjUqs0/s320/IMG_5477.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The man I never dreamed of.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IU_tYqA9eA0/VZSXeNBOudI/AAAAAAAAB70/LDWhf6o3F8E/s1600/IMG_5273.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IU_tYqA9eA0/VZSXeNBOudI/AAAAAAAAB70/LDWhf6o3F8E/s320/IMG_5273.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The man of my dreams.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
P.S. When he saw the long-haired Phil picture, my 3.5 year old said, "Was Daddy a mean guy?" "No, buddy. He was nice. He just thought it was cool not to smile in pictures."</div>
CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-41037073969535043432015-06-15T14:20:00.001-05:002015-06-15T14:20:10.642-05:00UpdateI'm pretty sure someone just dumped me in a blender and hit the "super grind" button because I'm spinning. Four mornings of VBS + one week at the beach with two kids under four + planning women's Bible studies for the fall and beyond = wiped. I apologize now for whatever crappy writing ensues. It'll get better with sleep and a little alone time, I promise!<br />
<br />
<b><u>VBS</u></b><br />
Despite some stressful moments (my room wasn't set up at all when I went in on Sunday to drop off a few materials, and I had 50 2-3-year-olds in one class on the first day), VBS, once again, was worth the work.<br />
<br />
I can't tell you how many adults stopped me to thank me for my lessons, how many parents sent me texts and emails with quotes from their kids that told me they really got the big story of Jesus, and how many kids were with me, learning scripture, eager to see God redeem sin, excited about Heaven. This isn't horn-tooting; it's God showing up through a willing but introverted, sometimes-bad attitude, stressed out, non-preschool teacher.<br />
<br />
And I can tell you another thing: teaching the Bible to any age matters and should be taken seriously. I know I'm an overachiever, but preparing to teach these kids was no different from times I've prepared to teach peers. Either way, I'm entrusted with handling God's Word rightly. So yeah, they're "just" 2-5 year olds, and they're at the bottom of the totem pole as far as expected "impact," but the way I see it, this could be the first time many of them ever hear about the big picture of Creation, Fall, Redemption, and Restoration--and setting that foundation well could have an extraordinary impact. So, no matter the age, if you're teaching God's word, pray for those learning and for wisdom for yourself--a lot, prepare for hours and hours and hours to find the best, most clear way to communicate gospel truths, and study the Word to make sure you're being accurate. And even if I'd never received an email or phone call from a parent, God taught me so much about Him as I studied and prepared to teach these little ones that it would have been worth it either way.<br />
<br />
<b><u>ANNUAL FAMILY BEACH TRIP</u></b><br />
Our time away was fabulous! We have the privilege of loving our extended family, and enjoyed beautiful weather, good food, and lots of laughter. The only drawback is that no one ever sleeps quite enough on those trips since you're in the room with your kids and stay up later than usual to play whiffle ball with the cousins. Our Internet was (blissfully) spotty, and while I didn't even make it through a whole magazine while there, it felt like a true break from normal life and a time of connection with people I don't see enough. I even paddle boarded for the first time--what a workout! Loved it. Funny aside: Moo called the ocean "spicy water" because I told him it was salty. :) All those nights of helping me cook dinner (sort of) paid off!<br />
<br />
I came back to some intense realities: a friend had a late miscarriage; the 2.5-year-old son of an acquaintance is dying after heart surgery; no one could attend a meeting I'd worked hard to prepare and plan, and even more lightly: I found a half cup of coffee in the microwave that'd been left there for a week, and three pictures and a plastic cup in my washing machine put there by a certain little 2-foot someone before we left. Definitely back to reality, but it's good, and having some time away gives me more perspective and energy than I would have had otherwise.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-27939032605175141162015-05-29T13:33:00.004-05:002015-05-29T13:34:05.677-05:00Book Review: Peace Like A River<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51cSlN8xfEL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51cSlN8xfEL.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51cSlN8xfEL.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Have you ever read a book and the only way you can think to describe it is in terms of food? You <br />
digest every word and hold the characters long in your mouth to sense their flavorings. The sentences drip with the juice of the craft and you want to savor every bit of voice to the last page. And when you close the book and get up, you're still hungry for more and just a little sad that you only have one stomach.<br />
<br />
That was Leif Enger's <i>Peace Like A River</i> for me. Delicious and savory and complicated in all the right ways. It didn't hurt that I read it ocean-side in Puerto Rico, but even if I'd have been working a toll booth at the 11th hour, this book would have heightened my senses and stirred the muse awake. It inspired me to write, and cracked open my brain just enough to suspend disbelief.<br />
<br />
It's a Western--not the cowboy, shoot-'em-up kind, but the making-it-in-a-small-midwest-town kind. And it whips family and independence and faith and crisis and the supernatural into peaks of triumph and valleys of sorrow without leaving you overly hopeful or overly hopeless--quite a feat for the postmodern novelist. The protagonist is a 12-year-old boy named Reuben Land, whose name alone serves as an appetizer. And the voice of the book about left me speechless with its unexpected descriptions, conversational tone, and unassuming depth. Here's an example from page three (page THREE!):<br />
<br />
<i>Let me say something about that word: miracle. For too long it's been used to characterize things or events that, though pleasant, are entirely normal. Peeping chicks at Easter time, spring generally, a clear sunrise after an overcast week--a miracle, people say, as if they've been educated from greeting cards. I'm sorry, but nope. Such things are worth our notice every day of the week, but to call them miracles evaporates the strength of the word.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Real miracles bother people, like strange sudden pains unknown in medical literature. It's true: They rebut every rule all we good citizens take comfort in. Lazarus obeying orders and climbing up out of the grave--now there's a miracle, and you can bet it upset a lot of folks who were standing around at the time. When a person dies, the earth is generally unwilling to cough him back up. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>...No miracle happens without a witness. Someone to declare, Here's what I saw. Here's how it went. Make of it what you will.</i><br />
<br />
Just lovely. And that's just the beginning! It's the most perfect novel I've read in a while, and one that I want to own so I can underline the heck out of those delicious sentences.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-38637108053399960832015-05-28T13:44:00.002-05:002015-06-15T13:47:52.858-05:00Three Things Thursday<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.bettafish.com/attachment.php?attachmentid=54371&d=1336403164" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.bettafish.com/attachment.php?attachmentid=54371&d=1336403164" height="272" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.bettafish.com/attachment.php?attachmentid=54371&d=1336403164">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Thing one: We have a fish (for real, y'all).</span></b><br />
Remember last week, how we were fish-sitting while a friend was out of town and how my kids loved that fish like it was a new baby? Well. That friend sent me a text this week that said: "I thought it'd be fun to get your kids a fish. What do you think? Is that okay?" And my mind went to their little high-pitched voices saying, "Hi, Dory!" and "Squeakers, do you like your new home?" And to their chubby smooth arms wrapping around the tank and their puckered lips pressed to the glass and I mean how could I POSSIBLY say no? So, we have a fish. For real this time. Its name is Squeakers or Dory, whichever you prefer, and I've kept it alive for three days. The day we got him, Moo said, "This is the best day of the year!!!" Heartstrings, y'all. Mine have been yanked.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Thing two: That time I felt old.</span></b><br />
Phil and I went to a wedding this weekend, and had the honor of being at the rehearsal dinner too. And for the first time, I found myself identifying more with the parents of the bride and groom than the bride and groom themselves. Woah. I looked around at all the 20-somethings giving their heartfelt-but-cliche speeches and then I heard the parents talk and all I could think about was what I would say when I had a lifetime of memories and joys and sorrows and had to boil them all down to five minutes or less. And I have to say, while I loved my wedding day, I love having that same man by side 9.5 years later even more.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Thing three: easy Summer Frittata</b> (from <i>Parents</i> <i>Magazine</i>)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.recipe.com/images/summer-frittata-ss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.recipe.com/images/summer-frittata-ss.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.recipe.com/images/summer-frittata-ss.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
This recipe is fast, cheap, easy, and yummy! It's also flexible, so I've made it without peppers, or with different cheeses (or more cheese!) and it's just as good!<br />
<br />
8 eggs<br />
1/4 tsp. salt<br />
2 tsp. olive oil<br />
10 oz. frozen chopped spinach, thawed and squeezed dry<br />
1 cup jarred roasted red peppers, drained and chopped<br />
3 Tbs. grated parmesan<br />
2 Tbs. goat cheese, crumbled<br />
<br />
Preheat oven to 375 F. In a medium bowl, whisk eggs with 1/2 tsp. salt. In a large oven-safe nonstick skillet, heat 2 tsp. oil over medium heat. Add eggs and cook until edges are set, about 4 minutes. Top with spinach, peppers, Parmesan cheese, and goat cheese. Bake until eggs are cooked through and the cheese has melted, about 10 minutes. Slice into 8 wedges and serve immediately.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-59215068295040827602015-05-21T21:54:00.001-05:002015-05-24T22:05:52.245-05:00Three Things Thursday<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Thing first: we have a fish.</b></span><br />
Well, sort of. We're fish-sitting for three weeks for a friend who's on a trip and my kids talk to that thing in high-pitched voices like it's the most adorable creature ever made. It came with a name, but Moo quickly changed it to "Squeakers," which makes complete sense for an animal that makes no sound. He also hugs the tank and says, "Do you like your new home? I think you miss your mama. It's okay. She's coming back in a little while. We'll take good care of you." Fish therapy. Noodle climbs up on a chair and says, "Hi, Dory!" like she's talking to a baby. So the fish has two names. Three, really, if you count the one the owner gave it. And apparently we're going to be pet-owners one day because I can only say no to their cuteness for so long. I'm weakening, but not breaking yet.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Thing next: VBS </b></span><br />
I said yes again. I wasn't going to, but then I read <a href="http://carawjohnson.blogspot.com/2014/06/three-things-thursday.html">this post</a> from last year where I told myself that I wouldn't want to do it and that I needed to do it anyway, so I said yes. I'm in the "remind-me-never-to-do-this-again" phase, but it'll all be worth it. I think. No, I <i>know</i>. It's been a lot of extra <strike>stress</strike> prep this year (hence, the blogging break), but I love teaching about Jesus, and know those four mornings really, really matter. Not because I'm such a great preschool storyteller, but because the story I get to tell is best there ever was or is or will be.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Thing last: Mother's Day gift</b></span><br />
For over a month I turned over what to give my mom and mother-in-law for Mother's Day. I'm not the world's best gift-giver, but I was determined this year to think ahead and give them something personal and thoughtful and not a gift card. The week before Mother's Day arrived and I had nothing. Well, that's not true. I had a lot of stupid ideas ranging from the cliche bouquet of flowers to the weird bluetooth tracking device that connects from your phone to your keys but nothing felt right or enough. Finally, I came across THE ANSWER. In her book <i>Bird by Bird</i>, Anne Lamott dedicates a whole chapter to writing a present. I read it and thought: that's it. For Mother's Day, I need to give these women the best of me; I need to give them a piece of writing that's just for them. Why hadn't I thought of that before? So, I crafted two beautiful (I think) pieces for two of my favorite ladies on the planet (another reason I've been absent here). It about killed me, but fueled me all at the same time, gave me such joy to give. Maybe they'll let me share what I wrote, but really the words were just for them, a gift no one else could give and no one else could receive in quite the same way.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-15503003648308434522015-05-03T20:58:00.000-05:002015-05-24T22:08:32.341-05:00Parachute man, drop me a line!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/63/0b/f4/630bf4d1dca532b4912f4fc07410807c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/63/0b/f4/630bf4d1dca532b4912f4fc07410807c.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/63/0b/f4/630bf4d1dca532b4912f4fc07410807c.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
You know those parachuting army men that you send flying into the sky on the Fourth of July? The pea green ones with the parachute that's a cross between a Walmart bag and the poncho your mom keeps in the side door of the van? The ones that are sometimes duds, but when they actually ignite and open and glide down, you run all over your dead end street searching for them in your neighbor's steeple-tall pine trees, narrowing your eyes in the twilight? And when you do see them hanging there, looking a little sad and droopy after such a heroic fall, you grab sticks and climb onto your dad's shoulders and yell things at your brothers like, "That's mine! I can TELL!" so they don't knock it out of the tree before you do. You think about what it would take to scale the trunk of a pine tree, flexing your decade-old muscles a bit to see if you're up to it, measuring just how much sap would be worth the victory of nabbing the parachute man first.<br />
<br />
And when he's in your hands at last, there's a little letdown because he suddenly seems so small and his parachute (if it's in one piece) just sort of drags behind him like a pet rock. Why do we only think about parachuters with their chutes open?<br />
<br />
But then your dad gives you that look, the one you know can only mean a good thing's about to happen. And he takes your men and runs inside to the second story and opens the window and you look up--chicks with beaks open--and there are your men swaying down to you, their chutes open. And the world is as it should be--hopeful and expectant and exciting. For the next three seconds, at least.<br />
<br />
I still need parachuting men in my life. Not the actual hot-model ones (although that wouldn't be too bad either). I need the figurative parachuters, those people who've been above the trees long enough to have the lay of the land. I'm down here on the ground trying to explain to my son why it's not okay to pee on my shoe and finding creative ways to work vegetables into meals and having dance parties to Disney songs and a lot of days I feel like I'm desperately looking into the sky for a parachuter, someone to bring me a word of perspective, and someone to tell me I'm heading in the right direction.<br />
<br />
I recently read a quote by E. L. Doctorow (I have no idea who he is, but Anne Lamott quoted him, so he must be okay. And a quick Google search reassures me that he's a well-known historical fiction writer. And he has a killer last name, so he's completely reliable). Anyway, my new friend E. L. said, "Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights but you can make the whole trip that way." Sounds like good life advice to me. Especially if you're a mom of young kids. Because most days all you can see is what's right in front of you: the skinned knee, the timeout, the laughter around the table, the bath time silliness, the made up songs, the pee on the shoe. It's all so close up that you have no sense of whether or not you're actually heading in the right direction (whatever that is). Which is why I'm learning I need to have people in my life who are on the other side of young motherhood and I need to listen to them.<br />
<br />
I was at the grocery store the other day with my kids, who actually love grocery shopping. As we were checking out, a woman behind me said, "You're in such wonderful season." I knew what she meant; I'd heard it before. "Thanks. I think so too," I said with a smile, but I was thinking:<i> Yes, I know, they grow up so fast and I'll miss all the fingerprints on my mirrors. I'm supposed to take this all in. But it's really hard to do that, lady. Even when I think I'm taking it all in, time still seems so slippery. </i><br />
<br />
She continued and I braced myself for the sentimental "My kids are all grown now" chat, and while she did go there, she also gave me some words from the great beyond that while I knew were true, were hard to believe in the I-have-my-kids-at-the-grocery-store-at-4:00-on-a-Friday moment I was in. She said, "My kids are teenagers now, and I remember when grandmothers used to come up to me when they were little and give me advice, but now I have advice of my own: Raise your children in the Lord, and raise them in the church, and when they're teenagers and they don't want to listen to you, they'll have people in their lives who they <i>will</i> want to hear from."<br />
<br />
It wasn't like a revelation to me or anything, but it was a timely reminder from the sky that what I'm doing with these kids each day is about a bigger story than the one I can see and sense all the time. It was a reminder that there's a whole forest here made of these trees I'm among, and that while I can't see the whole, I can keep walking the parts, trusting that the parts are what make the trip so wonderful.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-37421482401888882512015-04-27T14:25:00.000-05:002015-05-03T20:01:19.014-05:00Boundaries: an outline<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://blog.generalassemb.ly/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/boundaries-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://blog.generalassemb.ly/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/boundaries-2.jpg" height="215" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://blog.generalassemb.ly/blog/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/boundaries-2.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>*Originally written as a guest blog for my friend Kaitlin. Head over to <a href="https://kjgunter.wordpress.com/">her blog</a> for inspiration, beauty, and a good old-fashioned pep-talk.</b></span><br />
<br />
Somewhere along the line, the word "boundaries" got complicated. It went from marking the edge of <br />
a territory to having all sorts of relational implications that are anything but clear.<br />
<br />
In their purest form, boundaries tell us where a space ends or begins and are meant to clarify and direct. For our forefathers, they created order out of a vast new world. They keep Appalachian Trial hikers from getting lost on an already long journey. And they keep my neighbors' dogs' poop off my grass. See? We want and need boundaries. So why are they so darn confusing in relationships? I don't have all the answers, but here's a place to start:<br />
<br />
<b>Know why you're drawing the boundary. </b><br />
Boundaries are meant to protect, clarify, direct, and keep the peace. If you're creating boundaries for other reasons (i.e. "This isn't convenient" or "This isn't easy" or "I don't like this person"), check your motives. <i>We mask a lot of selfishness in the word "boundaries." </i><br />
<br />
<b>Ask for wisdom.</b><br />
If your boundary-making is rightly motivated, though, then you're wondering when to begin or end a friendship/relationship, and that's a murky matter. Do a lot of listening--listening to people wiser than you, and listening to God. Don't make any quick moves; be deliberate and patient about seeking wisdom. And remember that a boundary for some isn't a boundary for everyone. Without wisdom, you'll make too many lines, too few lines, or lines that just won't work.<br />
<br />
<b>Draw the line</b><br />
The Israelites cried out for God to deliver them from the pursuing Egyptian army, and God did make a way through the sea, but first He said something unexpected to Moses: "Why are you crying out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on" (Exodus 14:15). We absolutely need to begin with crying out to God for wisdom, but then we need to move on--not that we stop crying out to Him, but that we don't stop there. Prayer moves us to action.<br />
<br />
So, once you've determined to start, continue, or end a relationship, figure out where the lines are, and know that the process of "figuring out"is evolving. You'll stumble and mess up. You'll try something that doesn't work and stumble upon something that does. That's okay. I don't know many (any?) people who create boundaries perfectly the first time.<br />
<br />
<b>Color inside the lines</b><br />
You've drawn the lines and now you have to do the hard work of following through. The boundaries have given you a new sort of freedom because you've clarified expectations, but you have to color inside the lines you've drawn. This, of course, is the hard part. It means breaking habits of engaging or disengaging, and old habits really do die hard. Give yourself grace to mess up (because you will), but also make it hard for yourself to mess up: gather a few people around you who know about the lines you're drawing and ask them to help you stick to it.<br />
<br />
Let's get really practical. If you've committed to pursuing, be intentional about time with that person; call, text, get together, drop by, make a plan. If you've committed to ending, be intentional about latching those fences. Delete the number, resist communicating when you want to, and be okay with things feeling distant and awkward. So easy to type, eh? <br />
<br />
And an important side note: drawing the line doesn't always mean announcing your line. In many cases, no one but you has to know the line's there; other times, the line needs to be clearly communicated. Again, seek wisdom.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<b>Prepare for the lines to change (or not).</b><br />
Have you ever looked at early maps of the United States? They're way off. The guys drawing those maps didn't have drones and computers to create accurate lines; they were <i>walking</i> the lines. We're like them. We don't have the luxury of a bird's eye view to our lives because we're living them, which means our perspective will change over time, as will (possibly) our relationships. Relational lines don't have to be permanent. It's why adopted children reunite with birth parents, fizzled friendships rekindle years later, and teachers can be friends with their students once they graduate. People change. Circumstances change. So our lines need to be moveable. Not always, but sometimes.<br />
<br />
<b>Here's the bottom line (get it?): </b><br />
Spend more time considering the WHY of your boundaries than you think you need to.<br />
Be okay with messing up along the way.<br />
Don't get judgy and throw your boundaries on others, or adopt theirs just because.<br />
Be intentional, prayerful, and humble throughout the process.<br />
Like our country's map, the lines won't always be straight and symmetrical, but the ones you create (thoughtfully) are better than no lines at all.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-17778796373129792582015-04-23T06:30:00.000-05:002015-04-23T06:30:00.884-05:00Three Things Thursday: Puerto Rico Edition<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Thing One: Kayak at night in the <a href="http://www.pureadventurepr.com/adventure_trips/bio_bay_lagoon_tour_excursion/">Bioluminescent Bay</a></b></span><br />
What's cooler than kayaking at night in water that glows and sparkles? Answer: nothing. It's probably the coolest thing I've ever done in my life, and worth every penny. The kayaking is accessible for any age, and because you go in a group, the pace is leisurely. The route begins by going through an archway of mangrove trees (see photo below), where our guide pointed out lots of iguanas that sleep in the trees.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.daywithkaye.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/bioluminescent_bay_puerto_rico_night_day_with_kaye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.daywithkaye.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/bioluminescent_bay_puerto_rico_night_day_with_kaye.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.daywithkaye.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/bioluminescent_bay_puerto_rico_night_day_with_kaye.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I wish I remembered the science behind it all, but once we were in the bioluminescent bay, the water around our paddles glowed as we stroked or ran our hands through it, and as fish dispersed around our kayak, we saw them light up through the water like shooting stars. The world only has a handful of these places because of the necessary combination of extra salty water, temperature, and certain elements in the water to create the same light effect as a lightning bug. Tiny flagella light up once a night, but because millions are in the water, it looks like the water sparkles. Magical. <span style="font-size: x-small;">Tip: get toward the front of the line so you can ask the guide questions as you go.</span><br />
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/02/77/fb/8d/bioisland-the-biobay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/02/77/fb/8d/bioisland-the-biobay.jpg" height="320" width="182" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/02/77/fb/8d/bioisland-the-biobay.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Thing Two: Hike <a href="http://www.elyunque.com/about.html">El Yunque National Forest</a></b></span></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cheapflights.wpengine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/El-Yunque-Rainforest_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://cheapflights.wpengine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/El-Yunque-Rainforest_1.jpg" height="160" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://cheapflights.wpengine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/El-Yunque-Rainforest_1.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
If you love beauty and the outdoors and a little hard work, this is a MUST. I'd recommend looking at some maps ahead of time, but especially stopping to talk to one of the workers there to ask about the best route. We had a map and the guy we talked to cut an hour or two off our hike and gave us pointers on the most beautiful views and areas. (Our entire hike was just under two hours.) The official visitor's center is not worth your time; they charge you and it's not particularly helpful. And I would NOT recommend going on a tour of the rainforest. You'll be doing a dinky hike at a snail's pace with a bunch of strangers and hearing about the history of Puerto Rico, which is wonderful and interesting, but not nearly as interesting as just exploring the place yourself. I'm not making this up; the views really are as gorgeous as this picture.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Thing Three: Eat a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quesito">quesito</a></b></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://s3.amazonaws.com/foodspotting-ec2/reviews/475352/thumb_600.jpg?1301893560" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://s3.amazonaws.com/foodspotting-ec2/reviews/475352/thumb_600.jpg?1301893560" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://s3.amazonaws.com/foodspotting-ec2/reviews/475352/thumb_600.jpg?1301893560">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have no idea what's in this pastry of goodness, but it doesn't really matter (and I probably don't want to know). Just know that you should try it and that you might have to eat one every morning (or afternoon or evening) that you're there because you may never get to eat one again. The Nutella-filled one might change your life. My mouth is watering just typing about it. Goodness.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-82891055440461824172015-04-18T11:00:00.002-05:002015-04-18T11:03:14.702-05:00An Introvert Mom's Guide to Staying AliveLet's get one thing straight: I adore Donald Miller. I hang onto his words with the white knuckles of a Titanic survivor floating on a piece of wood. Words from people like him help me stay afloat and feel alive. And another thing I love: he's a fellow introvert. He gets the need and desire and enjoyment of complete aloneness, and he recently wrote an article about it called "<a href="http://storylineblog.com/2015/04/15/introverts-guide/">The Introvert's Guide to Staying Alive</a>."<br />
<br />
With lines like, "My head feels like a junk drawer [without alone time]" and "For an introvert, [extroverted activities is] the equivalent of hooking an IV up to their artery and draining their blood," I'm screaming YES! YES! YOU GET ME!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/9e/72/61/9e7261dc5e141029975d1d96a4cdb0a4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="99" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/9e/72/61/9e7261dc5e141029975d1d96a4cdb0a4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/9e/72/61/9e7261dc5e141029975d1d96a4cdb0a4.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He goes on explain what kinds of alone activities give him rest and life. Among them: going to a movie by himself, taking a long walk with his dog around a nearby lake, taking drives, and eating alone. And they all sound <i>glorious</i>. But there's one problem: he's not a stay-at-home-mom of little people under the age of four.<br />
<br />
So, I'm wondering: <b>how do introverted moms of littles recharge?</b> Eating alone? Ha! Taking a drive? I call that "getting my non-napping kid to sleep." Doesn't count. It all looks very different under my hood and I'm struggling to know how to recharge as an introvert in a world that puts me around people (or their monitors) all day long. I'm constantly living in the tension of <i>wanting</i> to be with my kids a lot but also feeling drained by being around people (them) all day. If I put them both in MDO, I'm missing time with them that I love. If I keep them with me all the time, I'm feeling depleted. And guilt follows me everywhere: guilt when I'm not with them and guilt when I'm not refueling. Yuck.<br />
<br />
I have no idea how you other introverted moms of littles do it, but since I (we?) just love lists (and since I'm still trying to identify what gives me rest), here are a few ways I've learning to steal away:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><b>Figure out what gives you rest. </b>Shopping makes me hyperventilate, so that's never on my radar, but could be on yours. Being at a coffee shop is still too peopled. I need quiet. And time to write. And time to think. For me, that's at home in my PJ pants drinking coffee, and usually writing. It's how I'm writing this post today and I'm so happy to be alone I could cry! (Many thanks to the hubs for giving me an hour here and there when I need it.)</li>
<li><b>Be okay with smaller pockets of time. </b>My alone time tank doesn't really like little drops of time here and there; she'd much prefer to guzzle. But the gallons of time are so rare that I have to be okay with one minute with the door locked in the bathroom, a sentence scribbled on a napkin to write about later, or 10 minutes while they watch a movie for me to read or think or just drink a hot cup of coffee. In another room. By myself. </li>
<li><b>It's a season</b>. The littles won't always be at your feet, pulling on your shirt, and shadowing your every move. Really, they won't. </li>
<li><b>Once a year, take a personal retreat. </b>Be away from people for at least 24 hours. <a href="http://carawjohnson.blogspot.com/2015/02/the-best-gift-anyone-has-ever-given-me.html">Get a hotel</a>, stay at a friend's house while they're out of town, do the work to organize childcare or time off work and get the heck alone. It's like spitting in the ocean, but it's something. And you'll be surprised by what comes out of you when you get a whole day or more by yourself; it's a completely different experience from a couple of hours or even an afternoon alone.</li>
<li><b>Use the time you have to rest. </b>Now that my kids nap at roughly the same time, I usually have an hour in the middle of the day when they're both asleep and the house is quiet. While I don't completely count this as "alone time" since I'm still "on," it's quiet time without them, and that's valuable. My tendency is to spend that time prepping dinner, eating lunch (alone!), shaving my legs, returning emails--doing something productive, something I can point to and feel accomplished about. But I need to try to have at least a couple designated days a week to rest and write and do whatever is life-giving during that time. And it's going to take discipline for me to stop <i>doing</i> and start <i>doing what's restful</i>, what will recharge me. I also need one night a week that's mine to spend however I need to, and Phil is great about giving that to me. </li>
<li><b>Be okay with saying no.</b> Be okay with not filling your schedule to the brim and saying no to even good things once in a while. Example: some years, I go to Bible study, some years I don't. Some weeks we have play dates every day, some weeks we have none. Some weeks we have people in our home for dinner more nights than not; other weeks, we just have family time. </li>
<li><b>Don't make alone time an idol. </b>I love alone time so much that I quickly find myself living for it, and losing my mind when I don't have enough; it can be a vacuum. On the one hand, there's a real need for time alone; it's how I get my energy. On the other hand, our whole lives are about sacrifice--loving others at our own expense, which often means saying yes to talking on the phone with a friend when you'd rather read read a book, or saying yes to engaging your kids when you'd rather put on a movie for them. The hard thing here is <i>there's no rulebook</i>. Sometimes choosing to sacrifice your need for alone time is godly and other times it's foolishness.<i> </i>Which leads me to my last point:</li>
<li><b>Pray for wisdom. </b><i>I have no idea when introversion slips into selfishness and when sacrifice turns to depletion.</i> It's different from moment to moment, day to day, and person to person. So mostly I need to pray a lot, all day long, asking God to show me how to live with wisdom.</li>
</ul>
<div>
Fellow introverted moms, how do you recharge? What gives you rest? How do you steal away in your extroverted life? </div>
CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-457136723175503852015-04-15T21:53:00.002-05:002015-04-15T21:54:15.432-05:00The way it was always meant to be<div class="MsoNormal">
I studied a camouflage of jewel-colored water glint as ocean
lapped coral so rhythmically we use the sound for therapy. For four
days last week, Phil and I stole away to Puerto Rico, an early celebration of a DECADE
together of wedded bliss, challenge, laughter, heartache, adventure, mistakes,
joys, and intimacy. And the trip was just about perfect.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_wEPPNmMFlY/VS8jrHZy5LI/AAAAAAAAB0o/_Xowi20N-VY/s1600/photo%2B1-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_wEPPNmMFlY/VS8jrHZy5LI/AAAAAAAAB0o/_Xowi20N-VY/s1600/photo%2B1-10.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I only wish I’d written more. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The muse was with me. (And how could she stay away? Such beauty and
inspiration, time and leisure.) But I needed Virginia’s room of one’s own and
the peopled beach kept the writing just out of reach. But it did give me the
opportunity to read the most perfect book I’ve ever read—the kind of book whose
language inspires you to be a better writer and whose characters feel familiar and
sympathetic and whose storyline is compelling. It was so delectable that I’m
giving it its own post soon, so I’m going to make you wait for the title. It’ll
be worth it, I promise. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WSSZW0SISw8/VS8jqiwAljI/AAAAAAAAB0k/MZeRA3CeNdY/s1600/photo%2B2-9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WSSZW0SISw8/VS8jqiwAljI/AAAAAAAAB0k/MZeRA3CeNdY/s1600/photo%2B2-9.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As each day yawned, I felt the bubbling of words inside and
turned them over like smooth stones in my palm. And a couple of times, I put
the words to paper –punchy, unexpected sentences strung together so
interestingly that even I was amazed they came from me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But many times, the words gave up trying to
escape because I choked them. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ll write
when I get back, </i>I kept telling myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But now I’m back home and the words are gone, the muse has
left, and it’s taken me days to write a version of our trip because the words
fall short every time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves/>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:DoNotPromoteQF/>
<w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther>
<w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian>
<w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/>
<w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/>
<w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/>
<w:OverrideTableStyleHps/>
<w:UseFELayout/>
</w:Compatibility>
<m:mathPr>
<m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/>
<m:brkBin m:val="before"/>
<m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/>
<m:smallFrac m:val="off"/>
<m:dispDef/>
<m:lMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:rMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/>
<m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/>
<m:intLim m:val="subSup"/>
<m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/>
</m:mathPr></w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
DefSemiHidden="true" DefQFormat="false" DefPriority="99"
LatentStyleCount="276">
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Normal"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="heading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" QFormat="true" Name="caption"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="59" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
But this post isn’t just about what I wished I’d done; it’s
about what we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i>. <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">And I'm telling you it felt like we were
walking on dry ground between walls of ocean. The weather was always sunny but
never hot. We rode a ferry to an island each day, and I spent every boat ride
trying to find the words to describe the water there. We hiked the rainforest and kayaked at night in the bioluminescent bay and talked and laughed and ate and
read and slept til we wanted to. It was heavenly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">I really do think God
made us for things like this--to commune deeply and drop our jaws at beauty and
explore nature and emotions without fear. But sin entered the world and it
isn't like that anymore. We have fractured relationships and spinning lives
that miss beauty and experience shame. But it was a taste of the GOOD that God
created this world to be and the PERFECTION that He promises it will be again and I'm grateful.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Times;">Stay tuned for more trip reflections and the book review!</span></div>
CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-8202006314103593302015-03-19T13:31:00.004-05:002015-03-19T13:31:50.061-05:00Three Things Thursday<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Thing one: the cookie that might change your life<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/42/21/0a/42210a528464917037d4668f4e264938.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/42/21/0a/42210a528464917037d4668f4e264938.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/42/21/0a/42210a528464917037d4668f4e264938.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</b></span><br />
<i><b><a href="http://www.realsimple.com/food-recipes/browse-all-recipes/salted-oatmeal-cookies">Salted Oatmeal Cookies with Dark Chocolate.</a></b></i> My husband says we need to put a copy of this recipe in the safe. I say it's going to be the cookie my kids refer to as "my Mom's cookies." And the kids--they inhale them faster than any other food. It made Real Simple's "Fifteen best recipes" list this past issue, so I figured I'd try it and oh-my-yum, yes these are the greatest cookies I've ever tasted. Chocolate chip cookies are my absolute favorite dessert--even over gourmet pies and pastries and gelato. I'm usually a purist, not interested in funky ingredients that tend to turn a perfectly good chocolate chip cookie into something entirely too complicated and strange for my palate. So when I first saw that this recipe, I was skeptical of the cinnamon. I love cinnamon, but not in my chocolate chip cookies. But I do love oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, and I love pairing salty and sweet, so I gave it a try. Game-changer, y'all. Follow the recipe exactly. Suck it up and buy yourself a small tub of Crisco (it keeps the cookies soft for days). Take the plunge and buy Ghiardelli dark cocoa chocolate chips (one bag makes two batches, and be sure to chop them so the chocolate flavor is throughout the cookie). And whip out an extra dollar for some sea salt (table salt is NOT the same). You won't regret it! <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Thing two: the documentary that might change your mind<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://40.media.tumblr.com/b6541a5ecc8f2154878bfa5d8f7d711c/tumblr_n84gv1jukz1qzqsq3o1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://40.media.tumblr.com/b6541a5ecc8f2154878bfa5d8f7d711c/tumblr_n84gv1jukz1qzqsq3o1_500.jpg" height="320" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://40.media.tumblr.com/b6541a5ecc8f2154878bfa5d8f7d711c/tumblr_n84gv1jukz1qzqsq3o1_500.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</b></span><br />
My deep-thinker, math education professor, movie-buff, long-time friend Sarah sent me this review. No need to reinvent the wheel, but I will give you the $2.00 it costs to watch this!<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
This movie had a profound impact on me, so I commend it to you. It’s a documentary about public defenders: those lawyers who are assigned to defend folks who are charged with a crime but can’t afford a lawyer. Although the film has no religious commentary and no one in the film talks about faith, I came away from this movie having a bigger view of who Jesus is and what He has done for me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
The film gave me insight into certain aspects of the criminal justice system, and I learned that public defenders have a stunningly difficult job. The cynics among us (myself included) might assume these are cut-rate lawyers who couldn’t get a decent job or morally bankrupt individuals who enjoy getting criminals off the hook by revealing technicalities or loopholes in the law. I repent of this cynical view, because I now realize how ignorant (not to mention how uncompassionate) it was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Court-appointed lawyers defend the least of the least. They represent those who are defenseless, powerless, and penniless. It occurs to me that this is very Christ-like. One of the lawyers in the film (Brandy) talks very candidly about the struggle. She is overworked and underpaid and has seen immense evil and injustice done by her clients as well as to her clients. Without trying to be dramatic, she describes her job as hell. How can she possibly save all those who need to be saved? One of her mentors offers some perspective: you have to go to hell to rescue those who are in hell. That, I thought, is exactly what our Savior did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">In another interview, Brandy recalls a client who was charged with murder. She worked diligently to defend him, and even visited him in jail, not just once or twice, but every time he called. She was his only advocate. While she was working on his case, she found out that he was plotting her murder. His plan was that if she did not win his case, he would arrange to have her killed. When I heard this story, I was enraged. It’s bad enough to be in a thankless job with few positive outcomes. But imagine if the person you were so faithfully fighting for actually wanted to kill you. That’s when I thought of Jesus’ death for me. While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.</span><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Thing three: the Moo quotes that might make you laugh</span></b><br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>After seeing a picture of one of my college roommates who we spent some time with last year, Moo insists on carrying the picture of her husband and her around and sleeping with it next to his bed saying, "I'm really into Lauren right now." </li>
<li>To me one day: "You and me--we're best friends."</li>
<li>In trying to understand why Jesus didn't just "beat the bad guys," Moo said, "Maybe Finn McMissile could come and help beat some of them with Jesus." </li>
<li>To me after dinner one night, "How was your day, Honey?"</li>
<li>ME: Moo, are you going to get married one day? MOO: Um, yes. ME: Who are you going to marry? MOO: (thinking) An angel." </li>
</ul>
CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-33501998278559906732015-03-16T14:16:00.003-05:002015-03-16T14:16:36.235-05:00When you just can't trust<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://blog.childrensdayton.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/child_scared_bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://blog.childrensdayton.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/child_scared_bed.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://blog.childrensdayton.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/child_scared_bed.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Of all people, I get his fears. Like him, I went to bed most of my childhood nights with a sheet over my head, my body curled away from the door (in case they attacked, they'd be further from my heart). The shadows mocked me, disappearing when I flipped on the light and dancing when I turned it off. They were monkeys, snakes, evil attackers with long noses and beady eyes. The window next to my bed was a break-in portal; all someone had to do was climb a ladder and use one of those glass-burning tools to silently open my window and I would be all theirs. My parents sleeping the floor above would never know until the morning.<br />
<br />
Night after night, thoughts like that stormed my mind, and no amount of sleepytime tea, reading, soothing music, or praying seemed to help. So his three-year-old words to me the other night, "I'm trying to trust Jesus and it's just not working"--I knew that feeling. That feeling of silence on the other end of the Universe when He's promised He's there.<br />
<br />
We do a lot of memorizing scripture about fear around here--partly because I still need it and partly because I'm convinced that nighttime fears often have a satanic element to them. Jesus fought Satan with scripture; so will we. But those scriptures can be so tough:<br />
<br />
<b>"Fear not, for I am with you" (Isaiah 41:10). </b><i>How do you just NOT FEAR? What do you do when you fully believe He is with you AND you are still fully fearful? What does that say about me?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>"When I am afraid, I will trust in you" (Psalm 56:3). </b><i>My son's statement is mine: "I'm trying to trust, but it's not working. I'm still afraid. I'm still doubting."</i><br />
<br />
<b>"He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart" (Psalm 91:4).</b> <i>What happens when it seems like God isn't protecting us with his fathers as a mother hen would protect her chicks? What's God up to when bad things happen, when He doesn't keep us from harm?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Tough, tough questions, folks. <i>Really</i> tough questions to explain to a three-year-old. But I'm learning to let him see me struggle with them as well, to seek God even when He doesn't make sense.<br />
<i><br /></i>
When my boy is cowering under his covers and falling asleep in tears, my heart identifies, and it breaks. I want him to experience deep peace and trust, and it'd be so much easier just to stay in his room until he falls asleep or let him sleep in my bed with me, but doing that wouldn't teach him to trust in Jesus; it'd teach him to trust in me. There's an element to parenting that <i>is</i> me modeling Jesus for him, and so I comfort and pray and listen. But I can't be Jesus for him. If I stayed every night until he fell asleep, he'd never have an opportunity to trust. I can give him tools to fight the darkness (and we have--flashlights, night lights, prayer, scripture, logic, coming back to check on him incrementally, etc.), but I can't fight it for him. At some point, he has to put into practice what he's learning. He has to trust that Jesus is who He says He is: that He is with us even when He feels absent, that He is bigger than evil, even when evil seems to have the upper hand.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Trust</i>--it's about the hardest thing to do, isn't it? So much perceived risk to believe in what's unseen but sure. It's the original sin: not trusting that God had their best in mind, Adam and Eve tried to circumvent Him by taking matters into their own hands.<br />
<br />
I see him struggle night after night and I remember those years of nights of my own, and all I want to do is take those fears away. But that's it's own kind of distrust and control, the idea that I can somehow fix and save him. When I can step back and get perspective, more than anything, I want him to know his need for Jesus, and to be able to experience God's presence and faithfulness <i>in</i> the fears. And if that's true, letting him struggle may be the greatest gift I can give him, and me.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-67311047046671859792015-03-13T16:52:00.000-05:002015-03-13T16:52:06.464-05:00Three Things ThursdayI know, I know. It's actually Friday, but I've gotta stick with the alliteration, so just pretend with me that it's Thursday, okay?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Thing One: The time I had surgery (oh wait--that was today)</b></span><br />
Minor surgery, people. But I got some great sedation that gave me some of the best sleep I've had in months, so if that's what it takes to get some good sleep around here, sign me up! Had to get some veins in my leg lasered (again...had the same procedure done last fall), thanks to babies and genetics. Come to think of it, I probably shouldn't be typing post-op, but maybe it'll be more exciting this way for all of us. Will be walking again tomorrow and out of pain in a month or so! Wahoo!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Thing Two: The time I got hit on at the gym</b></span><br />
As promised, here's the tale of me getting hit on at the gym (back a month ago when I actually went to the gym): I was doing a much-needed ab workout on a mat, listening to a <a href="http://www.whitehorseinn.org/">White Horse Inn</a> podcast, intentionally tuning out the world and any other worker-outers there. And then I felt it. Eyes in my direction. Over and over. A guy maybe 10 feet from me doing some other ab workout on a machine just bore into me and I could FEEL it, even though I never even looked up at him. Mid-crunch, he walks over to me and says, "You look like you know what you're doing. I wonder if you can help me." I restrained the eye roll I wanted to give him (because seriously, what in-shape dude really needs ab advice from some girl in the gym?). But he proceeded to ask my advice about how to do ab workouts without hurting your lower back. I toed the line between playing the game and cold shoulder pretty well, I think, but I have to say, it felt good to know that two kids later, I've still got it. Whatever "it" is.<br />
<br />
P.S. If you don't know about <a href="http://www.whitehorseinn.org/">White Horse Inn</a> and their podcasts, acquaint yourselves with them ASAP! Some of the deepest and most accessible theology in the modern world. Good, good stuff.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Thing Three: My go-to pancake recipe</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VkH5dptS54Y/TFX1j0i7iSI/AAAAAAAACYY/19_BbpP5tNQ/s1600/DSC06295.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_VkH5dptS54Y/TFX1j0i7iSI/AAAAAAAACYY/19_BbpP5tNQ/s1600/DSC06295.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></b></span></div>
<br />
I grew up eating some pretty awesome pancakes that my mom made with cottage cheese in them. Sounds gross, I know, but they were all kinds of delicious. But since my kids don't always love their fruits and veggies, I wanted to find a recipe with apples or applesauce in it, and then I found this little gold nugget: <a href="http://www.thesisterscafe.com/2010/08/applesauce-pancakes-with-cinnamon-syrup-2">Applesauce Pancakes</a>. It's our Saturday morning go-to and a must-make if you're in a need a of reliable pancake recipe! They're so good that I usually just eat them dipped in applesauce rather than syrup! Yum.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-47276872037858597082015-03-05T14:16:00.004-06:002015-03-06T05:56:22.129-06:00The shoes that remind me I'm a writer<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9DXmAmjyqTo/VPiqqyxVe8I/AAAAAAAABz4/6dRFHI_IO5k/s1600/shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9DXmAmjyqTo/VPiqqyxVe8I/AAAAAAAABz4/6dRFHI_IO5k/s1600/shoes.jpg" height="320" width="236" /></a>Elvis had his blue suede shoes and Dorothy her ruby slippers, but these are <i>my</i> shoes. The ones I'm most proud of and the ones that define me best.<br />
<br />
Let me back up a bit, though, to 2010. I'd taken the fast track through graduate school, finishing in just a year since my husband's job took us to and from that city for only 365 days. Graduate school is no joke, and graduate school for a degree in writing (in a year) is <i>really</i> no joke. My brain and beliefs and abilities and stamina stretched farther than I thought it could, and I felt defeated and powerful all at the same time.<br />
<br />
My degree was in writing and rhetoric, but the class I looked forward to most was a creative writing elective: Creative Nonfiction. I had no business being there. I'd never taken a nonfiction writing class in undergrad because my school was too small to offer it, so I entered the class with excitement, but not experience (journaling and blogging, it turns out, doesn't actually mean you can write nonfiction well). The class was also a workshop rather than lecture-based, but this green little sapling could have used more than a few lectures on what the heck I was supposed to be doing. Of the eight people in that class--an odd mix of undergrads, retirees, middle-aged professionals, and graduate students--I was by far the worst writer. And I was reminded of that every week as we met and shared our writing. Each week, I'd read and write and work as hard as I knew how to produce something that wasn't completely laughable, and each week I was met with lots of kind and not-so-kind criticism. What I would later come to realize was that this was the way of writers; you have to start somewhere, and no matter where you are on the continuum of "good writing," you'll always face criticism and could always be better.<br />
<br />
My professor must have prayed every night that I'd drop the class, and she may have cried when the drop/add period ended and I was still showing up on Thursday nights to share my writing disasters. This went on for a semester. I had small victories, like starting to use contractions more often so my writing sounded less stilted, but overall, it felt as if I'd moved an inch on a yardstick.<br />
<br />
Then came our final writing assignment. We chose the topic, and my professor looked at me after class one night and said, "Write about something that made you cry." "Okay," I replied, looking off and racking my brain for what that would be. I went home and spent the next several days in the world of Writer's Block. I was also reading Lauren Slater's <i>Lying</i> at the time for class, and something happened: Slater's book caught fire in me. Her words swirled and sang and crackled with warmth, and I was given nothing short of inspiration; I'd found my <i>muse</i> that so many writers talk about. I'd always thought the idea of a "muse" was a bit dramatic, but there she was.<br />
<br />
I closed Slater's book and started typing the best story I've ever written, about the time I went to the funeral of a dear friend's husband who was killed in Afghanistan, helping her get dressed and ready to bury her young husband. The story was due the following day and I wrote for hours straight in a sort of frenzied passion, emailing it to the class for review after the deadline.<br />
<br />
Thursday night arrived and I approached it with with my usual dread and longing, but this time with something new: expectation. I knew what I wrote was different; I knew it was good. When my story came up for discussion, it was met--for the first time--with praise, water in the desert.<br />
<br />
Fast forward a few months to a nonfiction writing competition the English department was holding. The grand prize was $200, so pretty much the jackpot for a graduate student. <i>What the heck</i>, I thought. <i>I'll just turn that story in and see what happens. </i>I arrived at the end-of-the-year awards dinner with expectations to say some goodbyes and clap for others, but as I sat down with my plate of food, my Creative Nonfiction professor walked up. "Did you look at the program?" I had it closed to the right of my plate at the table. I mean, I was looking at it, but her question had me perplexed. "What do you mean?" I asked. "Just look at it," she said as she walked to her table across the room. I opened the program, scanning for...I wasn't sure what. And then I saw it. Creative Nonfiction Competition Award........................Cara Johnson. A laugh spilled out of me. I was absolutely the last person in the room deserving of a Creative Nonfiction award. I'd practically botched every nonfiction writing assignment all semester and had no experience and no business writing nonfiction, and <i>I</i> was the winner? It was the first time I'd ever been paid for my writing, and that same swirling, singing, crackling muse came swooshing back in with all its warmth. <b>For the first time in my life, I believed what had been true all along: I was a writer.</b><br />
<br />
So, the shoes--<i>my</i> shoes. I left the awards dinner that night wanting something to mark that moment. It was too late for dinner and my husband was working, so I did something I almost never do: I went shopping (because I had $200 that <i>I had earned)</i>. But I went shopping my way--at T.J. Maxx. And there in the shoe section were my shoes; it was love at first sight. They were sensible-artsy. Make that sensible-artsy-comfortable. Actually, make that sensible-artsy-comfortable-affordable. And my favorite color. I've never once regretted that purchase. And while most days writing feels like playing dress-up and toddling around in my mother's heels, these shoes remind me that writing fits me, wraps around me snug, and moves me forward.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">P.S. If you'd like to read the story I wrote that won the contest, please send me your email address and I'll send it your way!</span>CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-48463102912440986272015-02-27T13:34:00.001-06:002015-02-27T13:34:13.321-06:00Six days you shall be sick, and on the seventh, leave your house!I went to the grocery store yesterday and realized that it was the first time I'd left my house in SIX DAYS. Holy. Freaking. Cow. I was <i>going</i> to leave several times, but then someone else threw up or I was too nauseated or I needed to sleep.<br />
<br />
Six days, y'all. That's recluse material right there.<br />
<br />
But as of (maybe) today, I think we're all well. Finally. The last few weeks have felt like a few months, and like I've been living in some alternate universe where we're the only family left on earth and my earth has shrunk to the size of my living room because that's where all the towels and trashcans have been gathered.<br />
<br />
I've felt under God's thumb since Christmas, feeling like I can't catch break from sleeplessness or sickness or just plain hard days.<br />
<br />
I feel absolutely afflicted.<br />
But not crushed.<br />
Completely perplexed by why all this would be happening so unrelentingly.<br />
But not driven to despair.<br />
(2 Corinthians 4:8-10)<br />
<br />
Not much has gotten easier and circumstances aren't drastically different, but it's the strangest thing. In the affliction, I keep sensing the kindness of God. Not some sick sadistic "God's-pain-is-good" or a trite sweep, "God is teaching me so much through this hardship." It's more that I've sensed in small ways that while He hasn't taken away my difficulties, He also hasn't abandoned me. In fact, He's done the opposite: He's been holding me close. Our quarantine has brought depth and repentance to my marriage, simple, restful days and schedules, lots of opportunities for reflection and desperation, an opportunity to show myself needy to those around me, and sweet (albeit) sick time with my kiddos. And, in the Great Plan, Phil happened to be off this past week--something we eye-rolled back in November when he had to take this random vacation week. Silly us.<br />
<br />
So I'm fragile, but sustained, and promise I'm done whining about sickness, at least this go-around. I <i>have</i> had a life. I've read a book! My kids have said/done hilarious things! I got hit on at the gym! Good stuff. But six days at home sick and my brain is still getting up to speed. Soon, people. Soon.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-14038581958602534672015-02-20T21:29:00.002-06:002015-02-20T21:29:41.746-06:00The best gift anyone has ever given me, ever.The man at the front desk must have wondered what my story was--a woman in her mid-thirties with bags under her eyes so big you could fit your keys in them, checking into a hotel at 1:30 in the afternoon by herself. Surely they do that, guess people's stories. I know I would. Worst case scenario, I would have pegged me as an abused woman looking for a safe place until I figured out the next step. Best case, I was an intriguing writer, looking for solace to write my next piece. I wouldn't have pegged me for what I was: an exhausted mama who could hardly string a sentence together she was so tired.<br />
<br />
For months, I'd rearranged and organized and planned to be out of town for a conference for three days. My mom would drive in from a few hours away to help with the kids since Phil was working part of the time, I'd cooked meals ahead of time to make it easy for everyone, and I'd spent at least an hour typing up specifics of childcare to make a smooth transition. For about six weeks leading up to this trip, nothing has felt easy. We've had sick kids and I've been sick and had weird ailments and one child has genuine nighttime fears and the other child is cutting five teeth at once and we're all sleep-deprived in a way I could only compare to having an infant. Even the weather tried to keep me from going (my mom wasn't sure if she'd be snowed in or not), but the stars aligned and we had a window where it looked like I could go and all the details would fall into place.<br />
<br />
Until 4:00 a.m. on the morning I was supposed to leave. Moo woke with his first ever ear infection, which meant I needed to take him to the doctor, which meant I wasn't going to make it to the conference on time. No problem; I'd just get there late. But then came the vomit in the car seat on the way home from the doctor. Thank God my mom was there to help watch Noodle while I cleaned the boy and every other surface of my house and car. With a tearful goodbye, I sent Mom home, grateful for her coming but not wanting to get her sick. My heart sunk a little, but I could still leave the following morning when Phil got home and make the second half.<br />
<br />
But with one child waking from a fever all night and another screaming from teething pain, I got a grand total of three hours of sleep last night. Going to that conference wasn't looking likely anymore; I wasn't even awake enough to safely be behind a wheel.<br />
<br />
My heart sank. A lot. All that planning and orchestrating--for what? Obviously, sick kids are worth missing something for--it wasn't that. It was that I felt like I'd done all this work and spent all this time on something that would have no fruit--or rotten fruit, whichever analogy you want. I wanted to know why this was all happening; it just didn't seem fair. And really practically, I just needed some sleep and a break from being needed at all hours of the day and night. I'd held on for weeks, but I was about to break.<br />
<br />
It wasn't long before Phil suggested that I get a hotel in town for the afternoon and all night while he watched the kids. The thought thrilled me but was quickly met with guilt: <i>I can't leave the kids. I can't leave him with sick kids. That's so indulgent of me.</i> But he wouldn't have it, and as I began to wrap my head around the reality of so many hours to myself to do whatever its was that was life-giving, my heart lightened rather than sunk. So I was sent away with a kiss, leaving the kids in the most able hands of their daddy and looking at a day and night to myself. I don't think I've had this much time to just to myself since I had kids.<br />
<br />
As an introvert, I know time by myself and away is vital for me, but I didn't realize just how "by myself" I needed to be, and for how long sometimes. My tendency is to take alone time and be productive with it or invite others into it rather than protect it; I've fooled myself into thinking that protecting it is selfish, and while it can be, it hasn't been yet.<br />
<br />
So I resisted being productive (working out, running errands) and opted for the harder discipline: pulling away, being quiet, being totally and completely alone. I almost didn't go to Starbucks for coffee and writing because I didn't want to leave the cocoon, but I figured it might not be good for me to be in a hotel room for 18 straight hours (and love it).<br />
<br />
I took a shower so stingy hot and long that my skin pinked and pruned.<br />
<br />
I ate lunch and dinner in bed and didn't have to make or clean up after it.<br />
<br />
I took a perfect nap.<br />
<br />
I binge-watched Jimmy Fallon and SNL on breaks from writing.<br />
<br />
Because I wrote. For hours. It was like electricity.<br />
<br />
I blocked out fantom cries and soaked in silence; I barely talked.<br />
<br />
And my legs haven't been this smooth in a month.<br />
<br />
I feel taken care of and rested and a little bit more human. This is absolutely the best gift anyone has ever given me, ever. There's a whole other spiritual side to this story, but I'll have to share that later because this day began 17 hours ago and it's time for this tired mama to sleep through the night.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5894932251571780589.post-69464344901442281752015-02-13T15:00:00.002-06:002015-02-20T21:29:53.227-06:00The story my floor is telling<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://picklebums.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/cars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://picklebums.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/cars.jpg" height="211" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://picklebums.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/cars.jpg">photo credit</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My living room floor is littered with candy from a Valentine's Day care package, farm animals abandoned near the barn, an elaborate garage built for Lightning McQueen (who, by the way, has magical powers to sleep all day and all night in there, given that he has some "sleep songs" sung to him every now and then), some clean laundry that's giving me the eye for typing instead of folding, a homemade paper crocodile that's giving me the creeps with it's unblinking stare, and about 18 other things tucked into bookshelves, under ottomans, and inside other toys--with good reason, of course.<br />
<br />
In my mind, my floor is evidence of some bad, out-of-control week because I feel like a bad, out-of-control mama a lot of the time, but as I write, that floor of mine is sounding pretty fun (except for the laundry part). Despite one of my kids being awake for the day at 4:30 (or before!) every morning this week (read: exhausted mama who's kicking on Jesus and caffeine, in that order), their lives and mine are pretty darn great. As my friend says, "We're living the dream!" And we are.<br />
<br />
So we had to stay home all week because we're sick. So we're running on fumes. So we maybe shouldn't be operating machinery because we're <i>that</i> tired. But our days are good, filled with playing and painting and reading and chasing and singing made up songs. Truthfully, there are lots of moments when I'd rather be somewhere else or do something else; sometimes I go to the bathroom when I don't actually need to pee just to have a minute to myself, and even then I see the little fingers under the door (or the forceful kick, thank you toddler boy).<br />
<br />
<i>But my floor tells a different story, one full of life and happiness, and it's funny because my insides don't feel lively and happy right now. They're just surviving, deciding what's absolutely necessary to make it to the next meal, to make it to whenever it is that I can sleep. But I'm glad to see that the external is coming out differently, which means somewhere in my get-me-out insides there's life. Because it's spilling out--onto my floors, into my car, under my couch. And I've maybe never been so grateful for the glorious mess staring back at me. </i><br />
<br />
But there's still the laundry, so, you know, waxing eloquent about the mundane has to stop somewhere. On to folding.CWJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05978108532785187591noreply@blogger.com0