Additional Parking in Rear

Well, I've made it through the Ultimate Invasion of Privacy.  Let me tell you, if you've never had one, the difficulty isn't in the procedure itself, it's the not eating for FORTY-EIGHT of the longest hours of your entire life before it.  I can't tell you how many times I found myself standing in front of the refrigerator before I remembered I couldn't eat anything out of it.  This afternoon I got up from the couch too fast and got dizzy just in time to knock over the (very full) garbage can.  I think I was starving, but it did give me a new appreciation for folks who do actually go hungry on a frequent basis.  It makes me glad I feed homeless people.  You can't eat anything except Jello.  Sunday I was so hungry I ate 4 of those little snack-pack jello's in rapid succession... and they were heavenly.  Preservatives and chemicals be hanged.  Right after the procedure today Dallas took us to dinner at Tijuana Flats, and never before have there been more delicious tacos.

As far as the Thing itself, all is well and I have some very pretty pictures of my colon, should you ever desire to see them.  The nurse was very friendly and efficient, the doctor appeared to be quite capable, and the anesthesiologist had some very lovely drugs.  Of course, I can't speak for whatever they did after I was out.  For all I know they could have shoved balloons up my rear and had me blow them up for a party.  But who knows, I wasn't there for that.  It's like when it's time to get the epidural when you go to have the baby:  you're in so much pain that you don't care how long that needle is, or where they intend to put it.  If they insist that they must pull an elephant through your left nostril, you eagerly anticipate the elephant.  And once you've got that nice floaty feeling, you will agree to anything as long as the epidural man keeps coming back; you don't care if he's cute or not.

On a completely different note, my Adventures in Cooking are moving right along.  I've made some truly wonderful Ghiradelli brownies, puffed millet bars that everybody loved, some Green Curry Lettuce Wraps, strawberry freezer jam, some astoundingly atrocious-colored vegetable soup that actually tasted pretty good, even if it did look like vomit, a lovely Tuscan Sausage and Swiss Chard soup, and some butternut squash that even Eli said was wonderful.  And if you can get an 8-year-old to eat butternut squash, you've succeeded in life.  I'm actually enjoying the cooking even though it really does take a heck of a lot longer when you use nothing out of a package.  I'm getting ahead though, by making extras of things, like cooked black beans, boiled shredded chicken, cooked ground beef, etc., and freezing it to make the next things I cook a little easier.

Well, I'm off to the next thing -- tagging outgrown clothes for a consignment sale.  They're due tomorrow.  I've tagged nothing.  You can judge me, go ahead.  I put the PRO in procrastination, folks.

Welcome To The Colonoscopy Years

Things are looking a little tipsy here in the Skornia household.  Tonight I was looking at what I made the kids for dinner (Dallas is out of town, so I didn’t have to be fancy) and I was thinking how different it was from what dinner would have been last month this time.  The kids had peanut butter sandwiches -- bread made with non-genetically modified wheat flour (French Pantry, from the CSA), and peanut butter that was just ground up peanuts, no partially hydrogenated anything (yeah, they didn’t like it.  Guess I’ll have to add in some sugar till they adjust.).  Veggie sticks instead of chips, and fruit smoothies.  How far we have come.  Carter loved the smoothie, which was made out of strawberries, blueberries, and bananas, but Sarah Cate said, “This tastes terrible.”  That’s her thing lately.  If she doesn’t like it, “This tastes terrible.”  However, after she denigrated my smoothie, she went over to the refrigerator and got the blueberries out and plopped herself down on the kitchen floor and proceeded to eat straight out of the container.  So whatever.

Even Betty has redeemed herself with a banana bread recipe that apparently was written on a day when she wasn’t hitting the sherry.  Not that I trust her completely, but she’s back in my good graces.  I made scrambled egg and bacon burritos for breakfast yesterday and put them in the freezer, and roasted Romanesco cauliflower last night for dinner.  That stuff is weird, folks.  It’s kind of like a cross between broccoli and cauliflower and really, I need my vegetables to not have identity issues if I am to be expected to eat them.  The florets are all pointy and dangerous.  It’s like eating arrowheads for dinner.   I feel the same way about asparagus spears – aptly named.   “Hi dear, just putting together your dinner of weaponry symbolism, be just a second.”  Hope we don’t get that again.  It wasn’t bad, it just wasn’t good.  Kind of non.  Even heavily medicated with parmesan cheese and olive oil, which I’m convinced covers a multitude of sins.  If you can’t be saved by olive oil and parmesan cheese, then you are a sad, sad vegetable.

I drove a few hours down I10 and back today, to pick up Carter from a visit with his grandparents.  While I was driving I was listening to one of Doug’s sermons (they’re on podcast, if you want to listen), you know, because of this whole growing thing.   Why God couldn’t just slap a sticker on your forehead and pat you on the butt as you go down the line of New Christianhood I just don’t know. 

I’ve done Bible studies and read books and all that, but one thing I love about Doug is that he has a way of dumbing things down enough so that even I can understand how to apply the Bible to this life I’ve been given.  So I listen to old sermons of his because I think they help get me where I’m going, which is to be so transparent that you see Jesus in me.  Anyhow today I was listening to a podcast on loving others, and exactly how we love people.  So I was on the one today about patience.  (You know, Love is patient, love is kind, etc. etc.) 

I am a naturally not-patient person.  What?  You?  But Dana, you’re a veritable BEACON of serenity.   I hear you saying it. But no, I’m not terribly patient.  I’m learning to be, even when it kills me.  I’ve learned to wait while Sarah Cate ties my shoe for the ninth time and makes us late for school, because her learning to tie her shoes and the satisfaction she gets from finally getting it right is way more important than whatever time it says on their sign-in sheet.   And to wait, and listen, when Carter is in the middle of the Longest Explanation Ever because it’s important to him that he gets to tell me THE EXACT MOMENT in the Lego song when it says “they’re awesome!”  There are no short stories with him.  This morning I asked Sarah Cate to come get dressed, and I had to wait while she laid on the floor, pushing herself on her back over the hardwood floor, doing the backstroke all the way to her room, because she was a mermaid.  I’ve only heard the song “Let It Go” fifteen hundred quadrillion times.  I have to wait for Max to come in from outside but first he has to rub his face on the door 6 times (three on each side) EVERY SINGLE TIME.  I waited for Sarah Cate to pour her own milk in her cereal even though it took three times as long and made an unholy mess, because learning to do things herself is important.  I don’t always get it right; I lose my patience and snap like every other red-blooded mom on the planet. 

But sometimes I see a moment in me when I do show patience, when I KNOW I would have responded differently 20 years ago, when God hadn’t started on me yet.  Like it was with the anger issue – who I used to be is not who I am now, and that is entirely due to God’s work in me.  When I endure the pain of waiting, or being annoyed, or being ignored, for the benefit of someone else, because I love them – when I do that, I show patience.  And I like to see that because it means I have grown just a tiny bit; at least I’m moving in the right direction even if it’s three steps forward and two steps back. 

Case in point, my butt.  You may well ask yourself why I'd talk about my own butt, but it's better than talking through it, and if you can't laugh at your own butt, I implore you, what can you laugh at? People, growing old ain’t for the faint of heart.  When you turn 40, everything starts falling off or breaking or growing hair or losing hair or changing color.  And my growing-older issue is a particularly sensitive one, related to the unmatched elation of carrying around two 8lb. bowling balls in my nether regions for 40 weeks each, and pushing one of them through a hole the size of a ball point pen.  This causes pressure, folks, and not the kind that makes diamonds.  I’m talking hemorrhoids.  Yes, the ugly truth, there it is, I had one.  (And now he’s 8 years old, ba dump bump.  I’m here all night.)  Even though I had it taken care of, I’m still dealing with a tear in my skin down there, and it hurts. In light of that, I’ve seen three different doctors, and tried all their medications, suggestions, therapies, pills, for a YEAR.  I have exhausted their ideas and I have been patient – when I really want to yell and say, "Would you just FIX it for Petes's sake?  I'd really like to poop just once this year without feeling like I'm being impaled, thanks ever so much."  Because I know they really are trying to help me, and it really does take time for something like this to heal, I don't say that. It's not their fault childbirth has been the gift that keeps on giving.  

Enter the colonoscopy.  I will soon be violated like I have never been.  Not that I have any dignity left, mind you, that went LONG ago, shortly after conception of bowling ball #1.  Once you’re pregnant, your body is not your own.  People want to poke it, touch it, rub it, look in it, feel it, comment on it, and take pictures of it.  You’re in the delivery room and your doctor comes in with 6 residents and he’s like, “Mind if they take a look with me?”  Sure, buddy.  Bring ‘em on.  I’ve had everybody but the janitor looking in there so far today.  Maybe your Mom’s in town, we could get her.  The food truck guy down on the corner hasn’t seen my cervix yet, could we get him to come up?  So, no.  I have no dignity and the thought of having someone shove a Nikon up my back door is not really too upsetting.  At this point.

So yes, I’m old now.  Heather and I used to make fun of our parents for discussing things like colonoscopies and foot fungus as topics of idle conversation, and now I'm one of them.  I’d like to just have this little issue go away and solve it myself without having other people look at my butt, but it’s not like I can go grab some liquid bandage or something and shove it up there.  I’d glue my own butt shut.  And since I already talk a lot of crap as it is, eliminating (get it?) alternate exits would only make that problem worse. 

I’m interested though, if you want to share.  What are some things God has done in you that you couldn't have done on your own?

Minor Setbacks in Confectionary Comestibles

I’m still trying to figure out this whole food thing.  It’s not like we’re going completely vegan or gluten-free or flourless or anything really hard.  It’s just that I’m still learning about additives, preservatives, chemicals with really long names, generally unpronounceable items in the foods I used to buy, and I’m learning to navigate a whole new world of products that don’t have that stuff in them.  It’s like going into a grocery store for the very first time; everything is new to me.  Trying to figure out if this brand of Stevia is better than that brand; should I buy from the bulk bin or the package; am I really expected to lay down $7 on a package of fair trade chocolate chips?  (The answer is not no, but HECK no.  We will keep shopping; keep your golden chocolate chips, Native Sun.)

I’m also cooking more from scratch than I ever did before.  Usually some part of what I’d cook would involve a pre-packaged something.  A can of beans, a spice packet, a can of condensed soup, a cake mix.  Now I’m learning to put all those things in a recipe in their original forms.  It’s daunting but it’s also kinda fun, and Dallas keeps asking me, “Are you sure this isn’t too much?  Are you sure this isn’t too overwhelming?  I really appreciate it and all, but I don’t want you to feel chained to the stove.”  And I appreciate that, because you know Dallas, he’s awesome.  And he’s mine, so go get your own.  But no, I’m starting to have a good friendly relationship with Mr. Stove, and Mr. Pantry, and Ms. Cookbook.  Till Ms. Cookbook threw herself a rod and left me stranded in the ditch.  Rotten wench.

Last week I tried to make a “Chocolate Brownie Cake” out of a recipe book (which shall remain nameless in order to protect the righteously stupid).  All I can say is that Betty must have been asleep at the blender or deep into the cooking sherry when that recipe was written, because it is an utter crock of …. sugar.  (Keepin’ it family friendly, folks.)  My friends Tad and Monica can attest to the fact that when I deviate from anything other than The Exact Printed Recipe, disaster will ensue.  Case in point, the Brownie Debacle of 2002.  Or 2003.  I was attempting to “defatten” the recipe for a boxed brownie mix by replacing some of the oil with applesauce.  I’d read several recipes that solemnly SWEARED this was not only possible, but the brownies would be just as delicious as their normal fat-laden artery-clogging counterparts.  Let me tell you folks, that is a big fat lie.  God put oil on this planet in order for us to bake our brownies with it, and if he had not intended for us to put oil in our brownies he would have given us Wesson Golden Delicious and Crisco Granny Smith.  But He, in His infinite wisdom, intended that if you’re going to make a dessert, you might as well just make it the way it was supposed to be made and have done with it.  And then go run a mile or two or have half of what you’d normally have if you’re worried about gaining weight.  Or just lick the spoon.

This recipe called for you to make a batter, then mix a cup of boiling water with some cocoa and sugar and pour that water mixture on top of the batter, then bake it.  Now I should have gone running in the other direction when I saw this, but I have (okay, had) a great deal of faith in people who print cookbooks, and the Insufferable Optimist was right there, saying this could work, you don’t know.  I mean, don’t they vet this stuff before they get it to final print?  Doesn’t somebody have to test it out and prove it’s a wonderful recipe before idiots like me will waste organic unbleached flour and half a stick of pasture-fed cow butter on it?  So I pressed on, and long story short, pouring water over batter, however chocolaty that water is, in effect means you are boiling a cake in the oven.  So when I pull this boiled-cake thing out of the oven, looking like something one might step in, the IO is still not giving up, saying, Hm, maybe you should let it sit there and let the chocolate sludge on the bottom kind of seep into the cake on top.  Maybe that’s what you’re supposed to do.  I consult the recipe and it says nothing of the kind, but the IO has a point, it’s got to cool anyway and maybe it’ll work.  So I go on about my business of cooking dinner and I hide the brownies under a pan lest Dallas see them and get all excited over nothing.  Because nothing disappoints this boy more than a chocolate dessert that is not for him.  When I make desserts to take to peoples’ houses I make two; one to take and one for him.  It keeps him in a soft sugar-induced haze, so that when I say things like, “Dear, I really need you to paint the kitchen for the third time because the color we picked the first time is a rather puke green and it’s making me ill,” he says “yes dear” and is not bothered by my unreasonableness.

But back to my brownies, which have not absorbed the sludge one iota in 20 minutes of marinating in it.  The IO slinks off, her pom-poms dragging the ground, her hopeful contribution to this fiasco negated.   So I taste a tiny corner, and it is foul.  Much like the texture of a kitchen sponge that has not had cocoa added, but rather has been shown a picture of cocoa.  Or a picture of a memory of cocoa.  I think, this will not do, and I go back to the recipe to make sure I didn’t forget or misunderstand something vital to brownie-making.  Nope, what I did is what was there.  I taste a little bit more just make sure I’m not being overly critical of a recipe that I’m not all that familiar with, and yet again the texture and flavor of this abomination is on the level of eating watered-down chocolate sponge.  So of course I toss it and Dallas asks me later about the brownies, which he has seen after all, despite my attempts to hide their brief existence, and I have to tell him that I have saved him from a fate worse than death.  (Tad and Monica will be thrilled to know that this time I tasted the brownies before I served them, saving my loved ones the uncomfortable position of having to say, “Mm, these are so, mph, good,” while looking surreptitiously for the nearest trash can, the sooner to divest themselves of this unfortunate, vile concoction I’ve foisted upon them.  I’ve learned.)

I’m annoyed, folks.  I just wasted an hour of my life on some unholy craptastic brownies.  AND I have no dessert and that means Dallas is going to be stuck putting canned chocolate frosting that he found in the back of the refrigerator on soda crackers out of desperation.  The boy NEEDS his dessert, people.  This is not some take-it-or-leave-it thing; dessert is an integral part of his life, and I enjoy being able to provide that for him occasionally.  Don’t they check these recipes out before they send them out into the wild?  Don’t they have somebody in the Crocker Kitchen saying, “Yeah, that recipe is gross.  Nobody in their right mind is going to want to eat chocolate-flavored O-Cello sponge boiled in cocoa sludge.  Let’s jettison that joker.”  Apparently not.

So, as I warned my family going into this, there are going to be some hiccups, some bumps in the road, and some full-on WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS moments.  I have not failed, though, I’ve merely learned to trust my instincts when I see something that doesn’t sound quite right, and I plan to give that Insufferable Optimist a good poke in the eye when she pops up next.  Dimwit.

Run Away, Run Away

Yesterday I ran 9.3 miles for no good reason.  I ran the Gate River Run, a HUGE race here in Jacksonville that they have once a year, that goes from downtown Everbank field (where the Jaguars play) and through the old beautiful neighborhoods of San Marco and Atlantic Boulevard and back around to downtown over the Hart Bridge, which they call the Green Monster.  It is aptly named because it is a monster of pain and suffering.  But I went into the run knowing that I was going to walk most of the race, because I have this weird foot thing going on right now and I knew I’d have only about 3 miles of actual running before I started to experience pain.  I don’t like pain.  A great deal of my life is spent avoiding pain.

So I went for a really long walk, along with 20,000 of my closest friends.  If you’ve never done this race before, let me tell you it is a MASS of HUMANITY.  There are so many people, you are never alone.  It does not matter who passes you or whom you pass, there are always about 400 people right next to you, and there are some interesting characters in this run.  I saw ladies in tutus, firemen, a man with a big fork (yes I did), Superman, children, people my age, people older than me.  Every race and color and age imaginable.  There are so many people you have to pay attention to where you’re putting your feet: you can’t just decide you’re going left.  You could get run over.

So I’m running my little race, finding my little groove, doing my own thing.  There are people passing me everywhere.  I know I’m not “keeping up;” I don’t feel bad about it.  Let me tell you people, everybody runs their own race, and you are not in competition with anybody but yourself.  Nobody cares what you eat or how much you eat or whether you exercise or whether you spent the better part of the morning with your arm elbow-deep in a bag of Almond M&Ms (oh wait, is that just me?).  Nobody cares if you’re faster or slower or fatter or thinner or smarter than the next person.  If YOU are not happy with what you are, change it.   These people passing me are running their own race and I’m running mine and I’m just kinda rollin’ on through, not really feeling too pathetic about my inability to run like Meb, just kinda moving with the ebb and flow of the people around me.   Until I get passed up by the streaker (not what you think; it’s somebody who’s been doing the race every year since its inception, which is like 30 years), who’s 85 and could probably kick my butt.   And then I get passed up by the lady rolling her own oxygen tank.  Twice.  I’m not kidding.  I started to feel a little bit pathetic after that.

As I’m running, I’m thinking about all the different running styles there are.  It’s fascinating, that God made us all so unique, yet He loves us all the same.  Keep in mind that I’m in with the Real People, not the Crazy People who are way up front and who are trying to beat a personal record [PR].  Or, God forbid, actually attempting to WIN this race, and as such, have passed the finish line like an hour ago and are currently massaging their rock-hard muscles with foam rollers while they snarf bananas and tell the local news, “As I was coming up on the 8 and a half mile mark I just dug into the depths of my very innermost being, bringing forth this second wind of Strength and Courage, and as a Phoenix rises from the ashes, with unbridled abandon I BURST forth over the finish line in a fiery spectacle of speed, resplendent in my sponsored tight shortie shorts, every pore glistening with liquid awesome.”  I’m nowhere near those people.   I’m back with the Real People.  

You’ve got:

The Manicurist:  these are the ladies who run with their elbows way up high, fingers splayed, as though they’re drying their nails.   They run like they’re late for a salon appointment, and they usually have the pretty compression socks and the coordinated running outfit and the headband.  They’re adorable and have it all together.  They bring fashion to the run.  Me?  I have no fashion.  I was born fashionless.  I have three pairs of black pants that are exactly the same, and black matches everything.   I have a hat that I stole from Dallas to keep my hair out of my face.    I wear it every run, and when it starts to smell like a big hairy trucker I throw it in the wash and switch to another hat.  That I stole from Dallas.

The Pugilist:  These are the ones that have their hands in a fist and they’re taking on the world, pumping their arms, gonna ROCK you, we BUILT this city, HOO RAH.  Doesn’t matter if they’re fat or thin or fast or slow, they’ve got this aura about them like, “I’m gonna kick this race in the TEETH!”  They run like they’re Navy Seals, I’m here to kick booty and I’m takin’ names.  That was me last year.  I got something to prove and I’m gonna prove it and GET OUT OF MY WAY.  I let those folks pass me.  They’re on a mission; I’m not.  I’m just out for a really long walk.

The Tea Party:  These are the girls for whom this is a social event and they are running ever so slowly, nine abreast, and they have no idea that there’s an actual RACE going on here.  What?  We came to chat about our boyfriends, we’re not running a race.  What race?  OMG, those people have beer!  In order to get around them, you’re going to have to go way off into the ditch or you’re going to have to Red Rover them from behind and break their Solidarity ChatFest by breaking through the middle.  Either way you might learn something about a new sexual position as you go by.

The Bouncer:  The people who are running on their tip-toes, wrists bent down, hands in front, bee-bopping along like they’ve not got a care in the world and this is a beautiful day for a run and all is well with my soul.  Puppies and sunshine and rainbows come flying out of their booties.  These people love to run; they run for the sheer joy of it.  The wind in their hair; the endorphins send them to new pinnacles of happiness and fulfillment.  They are the My Little Ponies of running.  Whatever.  They’re happy.  Who am I to tell them they just stepped on a squashed orange slice, likely teeming with pesticides, ground into the pavement by thousands of rubber soles probably put together by children laboring in third world countries?   Yeah.  Them.  They LIKE running.

Then there are the Shufflers.  That’s what I was yesterday.  The what-the-heck-was-I-thinking-when-I-signed-up-for-this runner.  We are the ones with our heads down, plodding along, alternately watching the pavement and the spectators and the girl in front of us and wondering how did she get her hair to do THAT today?  We’re just kinda makin’ it all happen, we walk for a while, then we run, then we walk, we wonder what that little twinge meant, we feel our toes hit the top of our shoes and wonder if we shouldn’t ought to have worn the OTHER socks today because there’s some unpleasant friction going on down there.  That’s me.

So I’m shuffling along and I’m wondering what the heck am I doing out here.  I’m running and I don’t even know why.  Now at one point there WAS a reason.  Last year I ran the Donna half marathon and the Gate 15K because that was kind of the culmination of a long year of finding the skinny girl inside the pudgy one.  The one who was lovingly enveloped in swathes of chocolate cake and donuts, for whom running a half marathon a year before THAT would have been akin to creating matter out of thin air.  Or curing cancer.  Or getting your boobs to be EXACTLY EQUAL in size, choose your analogy.  Anyhow, last year, THAT girl had something to prove.  This year, THIS girl thinks her time could have been better spent at home sleeping in ‘cause it’s SATURDAY.

But I’m wondering about all the other people who are out here on a beautiful Saturday morning, the ones who aren’t here for the social aspect or the novelty or because this is just what they do every year.   Because for them, maybe this year is THEIR year to prove something.  Maybe they’ve just found the skinny girl inside the pudge, or left an ugly relationship, or started a new career, or FINALLY took the vacation they’d been talking about, or beat cancer, or just lost somebody, or just found somebody.   

Whatever it is, there had to have been some pain, some sacrifice, some tough soul-searching moments to get here, and I’m PROUD of all you people about to yak up your breakfast climbing up this stupid bridge with me.  You go, you forty-year-old lady with pigtails and a tiara and a tutu.  You tear it up, you guy drenched in your own sweat even though it’s only like 68 degrees out here.  Lady with the oxygen, I totally hope you pass me again.  Guy with the picture of your daughter on your shirt, I bet she’s cheering you on.  Whatever you people are going through, whether it’s a mountain or a valley, I’m proud of you for getting out here and trying.  Because that’s all any of us are doing, trying to be the best we can be, for whatever reason that is. 

My reason? I’m trying to be the best I can be because I believe that’s what God has called me to do.  To fulfill the potential He had in mind for me when he made me.  Not to be better than you, because you’re you.   The best ME.  There’s no competition there, except what I make in myself.  The only finish line, the only purpose I need to concentrate on at any given moment, is Is what I’m doing glorifying God?  Dallas says when I set my mind to something I’m relentless.  And I kinda am.  I don’t have much of a gray area for things; with me I’m either going to do it all the way or I’m not going to even attempt it.  It’s not a great way to be; it has its upsides and downsides so it’s not like I’m recommending you adopt that as your own personal motto, LET THERE BE NO GRAY!, I’m just saying I tend to be a bit of a light switch about some things. But it does help me when I set my mind to something that I firmly believe is the correct path, and I firmly believe that God wants us to glorify Him in all that we do, no matter what it is.  If it’s raising kids, or working where you work, or doing the five BAZILLIONTH load of laundry, or helping someone who needs a hand up, or telling yourself I will not let my life be held hostage by a Twinkie.  Whatever. 

So I’m going to try that from now on.  That’s my thing.  Glorify God through whatever I do, doing the best I can every day with the resources He’s blessed me with, praising Him for those blessings, and using those resources wisely, so at the end of my race I can show that God did all those things through me, not me doing them myself.  ‘Cause He’s pretty cool like that.

Update:  here's a link to what the Gate River Run looked like this year: Gate River Run 2014

Anger

I don’t know exactly what I want this blog to be.  If you actually read this, maybe you could give me some ideas.  Or what you want to see.  I just write what I feel like writing about at the time and I figure somebody somewhere is probably having the same problem I am, so something I say might be helpful (either to you or somebody you know).  Or maybe it just might help you understand people who act like me.   Or maybe it just makes you feel better to know, “Man, at least I’m not as screwed up as SHE is.  I had no idea.  That makes me feel SO MUCH better about myself.”  Either way, I’ve provided a service.

So today I’m going to talk about what it’s like to be angry, or what it used to be like for me.  I'm not like this anymore, thankfully, but not because I fixed myself.  I tell you this because there are some people I know whom I’ve never seen angry.  They are just some very zen people, or they’re on something I REALLY need to try, or they hide it exceptionally well.   Maybe you’re one of those people, (in which case, can I have your prescription?) and you don’t know what it’s like to be really just Incredible Hulk annoyed.  But let me tell you, you're going to run into these snotty people, and understanding them a little bit better might help you deal with them.  When I was younger I really struggled with anger, and I was a snot to have to deal with, and even now there are some times when I could cheerfully punch somebody in the throat.  Hard.  With a chair.  But I don’t because I wouldn’t last a minute in jail.  I’m too pretty and I’m scared of conflict.  And orange is so unflattering.

Things that tick me off, not that I’m proud of it, but it is what it is (and keep in mind some are also things that make me angry about myself):

1. Rude customer service people.  If you have to be nasty, don’t be in a job where you have to talk to people.
2.  Adults who act like children, or blame others for their own actions.  Your childhood has passed.  Man up.
3. People who won’t admit it when they screwed up.  That’s part of being an adult.  It’s scary and it takes practice but learn to say I’m sorry.    

You could probably add to that list but those are three that really annoy me.  I try (harder now than I used to) to forgive people for being just as rotten as me, but for those three things I just have this knee-jerk reaction that seriously comes over me before I even know it’s happening.  Dealing with people like this can make me angry, and then continue to carry that attitude much longer than the event that triggered it.  I try (harder than I used to) not to let anybody else see that, but that is something I still struggle with (albeit infrequently now).  That's one of those changes knowing God can make; you can ask Him for help to overcome thoughts and actions you know aren't Godly, and He'll actually help you do it.

When I was young, that knee-jerk reaction of immediate anger and frustration at situations I had no control over just overwhelmed me, and most of the time I didn’t even know what was causing it, much less how to make it stop.  It’s like when your kids are toddlers, and having toddlers is kind of like having really short drunk people in your house.  They’re unpredictable, unreasonable, they fall down constantly, they make huge messes, and you can’t understand a word they’re saying.  They also don’t make a conscious decision about what they’re going to do in the world, the world just happens TO them.  They’ll be playing, happily poking the dog’s eyes or uprooting the houseplants, or emptying the dog food all over the kitchen floor, and suddenly they’re covered in pee.  They had no idea they had to pee, and if they did they only realized it about a nanosecond before it actually happened.  They don’t make decisions about what they’re having for lunch or when they’ll take a nap or whether to use cloth or disposable diapers.  They just have lunch put in front of them, and get put in a crib, and have their diaper changed at the exact time when whatever they’re engaged in is The Most Interesting Thing in the World and they are SO not gonna sit still for that crap.

For me, being angry was a lot like that, from about age 8 to um, 40.  No seriously, it was worst from about 8-18.  I could feel very angry and not have a clue where it was coming from, and I honestly felt like I was the only one dealing with that.  It could have been something that happened that day, but it also could've been something that had happened days ago that I still hadn't gotten over.  It seemed to me either that everyone else was just a naturally perky person who was never bothered by anything, or they were just SO MUCH more well-adjusted than I was.  Probably both.  At any rate since I was the only person in the entire free world with this problem, that meant no one understood it and I couldn’t talk to anyone about it, and certainly no one could help me with it.  An extremely ridiculous thought but when you’re 14 and you’re not sure if you’re supposed to be a kid anymore but you’re not an adult yet and you don’t know WHAT the heck you are, it’s a valid thought.  I handled it by going to my room and staying away from everyone, lest I say something incredibly mean and hurtful, until I got hold of it.  But I knew I couldn't stay in my room forever, and I was afraid that if I didn’t get on top of it, learn to understand it, it would take me over. 

Maybe you’ve got a kid this age, and you’re ready to clock ‘em.  Or maybe you deal with somebody at work like this, or you just went through the drive-thru and your Sonic girl was an absolute SNOT.  Let me tell you how I dealt with it and maybe it’ll help.

When I was a teenager I taught myself to very consciously go through EVERY SINGLE THING that could possibly be making me angry until I identified it, however dumb it was.  And usually it WAS dumb, but because I couldn’t readily identify it, especially if there had been no major event that would normally cause any sane person to be angry.  I had to start from scratch and be very methodical about it.  I’d sit and go through the list:

Did something happen at school today that I didn’t like?

Did somebody say something to me that hurt, or wasn’t fair?

Did I fail a test, or get a bad grade, or get embarrassed about something?

Did I have to wake up too early and not get enough sleep?  Am I really just tired?

Am I hungry?  Or sad?  Or worried about something?

Am I overwhelmed with school or stressed?

Am I afraid of something?

Sometimes it was something dumb like, I didn’t really want to eat those peas but Mom said I had to.  (Thanks, Mom, for making me eat peas.)  Other times it was I hate getting up early or I thought I liked this outfit when I left this morning but now I realize the skirt is too short and I’m feeling exposed.   Or I feel like I'm being misunderstood but I'm scared to speak up.  Or I missed too many questions on that test and I’m going to fail this class and I’ll have to repeat this grade and everyone will graduate without me and I’ll work in the McDonald’s drive-thru the rest of my life!  (I was a teenager.  Life was dramatic.)  Not that I’m disparaging McDonald’s drive-thru workers but that was a summer job for me one year and while it did help me buy my first car, I was hoping for more than that one day.  But until I got more practiced, I really did have to evaluate EVERY SINGLE THING about my day or week, and how I was feeling, and what could really be causing me consternation so I could address THAT and not the object of my anger (which could be anything, from a person to the frickin’ car door that wouldn’t open to the pencil that wouldn’t sharpen evenly on all sides to the homework problem that I couldn’t figure out).  Woe to you if you were in my path before I figured it out.

But sometimes it was a more abstract problem that took longer to ferret out, and I have noticed as I’ve gotten older that these problems are universal, and underlie a lot of why people are snotty.  (Drive-thru girl, I’m lookin’ at you.)  See if you recognize any of these next time you meet somebody who is being a total toad, and try to give them a little grace.  You'd be amazed what it can do:

Control, or lack thereof:  When you’re a teenager you don’t have a lot of control over your life, more so than when you’re a toddler but when you are riddled with emo teen angst and school seems like a really bad soap opera, you feel like you have no control over anything.  I personally like to be in control, which was a stumbling block for me to finding God.  I like things the way I like them and I want to do them my way, even if they’re wrong, and I don’t want to learn from your mistakes, I want to make my own.  I was born with my arms akimbo (it’s a word, look it up).  When I got old enough to live on my own and was making my own decisions and paying my own bills and taking care of myself, this aspect of feeling overridden got easier.  It made me feel good, feel successful, to know that YES! that was a challenge and I met it!  I am capable!  I’m valuable!  Some people don’t struggle with wanting to be in control, but I do, and feeling like I can’t make my own decisions is hard for me.  This is something I continue to try to identify even now, not that I necessarily have the same issue with anger as when I was young but I do have to guard against wanting to take matters into my own hands when I’m waiting on God to do something or to answer something.  (See Sarah and Hagar in the Old Testament, see how well THAT worked out).  Some people just don’t like feeling out of control and it’s hard to admit.  I hate feeling fat and I’m trying to lose weight but it isn’t working.  I want a baby so bad and she got pregnant without even trying so why can’t I?  My wife is divorcing me and I can’t make her love me anymore.  I can’t get my toddler to eat, poop, or sleep.  I’m single and why can’t I find ONE NICE GUY IN THIS WHOLE WORLD WHO ISN’T GAY OR CRAZY?

Fear:  This is a biggie and something I’ve learned to recognize in other people as well as myself.  When I was in high school we had a substitute teacher and she was an absolute HELLION.  Mean for no reason, sarcastic, and just generally a witch.  With a b.  As I’m sitting there getting just really ticked off about her attitude, I suddenly realized she was afraid of us.  And rightly so, I guess, would you want to get in front of 25 snarky 15-year-olds who know everything and aren’t going to shut up and pay attention to you because they can see that you don’t entirely know what you’re doing?  I just taught second-graders last week and they were so sweet and quiet and gave me hugs and now this ungodly flock of hormones is glaring at me just DARING me to make them study quietly!  They can smell fear and I want to go HOME!”  I’ve been angry when really I was afraid of having to give a presentation.  When I was really afraid of disappointing my boss.  When I was really afraid of failing myself.  When I was really afraid someone would see me as vulnerable and take advantage of me.  Carter has asked me, “Why did she call me a tattle-tale?  I just told the teacher when I saw she was hurting somebody.”  Because she was afraid she’d get in trouble, so she lashed out at you.  “Why are bullies mean to other kids?”  Because they’re hurting, and they’re afraid you might see it and think they’re weak, or make fun of them.  So they hurt you first.  Or maybe the person is dealing with something heavy that you can’t see.  My mom was diagnosed with cancer, and I’m scared I’ll lose her.  I’m losing my relationship with my teenage son; he’s turned into this hormonal ball of rage and I don’t understand him anymore.  We can’t pay our mortgage this month and I don’t know what I’m going to do.  See if you can figure out, next time someone’s angry, if you can identify if they’re really just afraid of something, give them grace, and talk them down from that ledge.

Worry or regret:  When you are worried about something, and it’s either not something you can control or it’s something you can’t control yet, sometimes it comes out in other ways.  For me I’d realize I was actually worried about something, and when I finally identified it, it made the anger manageable or completely dissolved it.  I said something today and it totally came out wrong, and now I’m sorry I said it, but I hate to admit it when I’m wrong. I completely lost my temper today.  I have a test/ presentation/ meeting coming up, and I’m nervous.  If you’ve got kids and they’re being a royal pain in the posterior (and they’re old enough to identify and articulate their feelings), ask them if they’re really just worried about or feeling bad about something. 

Next time you run into a toad, and if it's not the Sonic girl that you aren't ever going to see anymore, see if you can take a different approach with them.  Be quiet.  Be a good listener.  Let them know that if there's something they want to talk about, you're there.  If they need a hug, you've got one.  It looks to me like you're upset about something.  Is it anything I can help with?  Grunt. "NO."  Okay, well I'm here if you need me.  Just be available.  Don't take it personally.  It's not you, it's them.  No, I'm serious.  It really is.

Most of all, realize that the toad's feelings are valid, whether the true reasons behind them are readily apparent or not.  When I was very young, before I figured out how to deal with my own stupid self, I thought something was wrong with me, that it wasn’t okay to feel angry much less not know why.  Nobody else appeared to have this problem, and frankly if I could just “perk up” or “get over it” I’d have freakin’ done it already.  Let your kids know -- and realize yourself, if it’s you -- that the way they/you feel is valid, is important, is not to be overlooked – but identify the reason WHY and address THAT, not the symptom of the reason.  (And there’s always a reason; if there’s no reason for your anger or your meanness, that’s called being a psychopath, sweetie, and frankly I can’t help you here.) 

But also teach them that it’s not okay to lash out at others, or hurt others, because of the way they feel.  Teach yourself, or your kids, to resist the knee-jerk reaction (e.g., shoving somebody because they won’t move even though you asked VERY NICELY).  And be prepared to keep repeating yourself OVER and OVER and OVER and OVER, at least until your kids can start to try to do it themselves.  Or they write about it in their blog and you can finally say, “THAT’S what’s wrong with that girl!  I always knew she was flat-out crazy.”  I can see that you're upset about something, but I feel like you're taking it out on me.  I know you don't mean to, but maybe it would help if I gave you some space till you're ready to talk about it.  Pray for them.  Be patient.  Put your own feelings aside for a minute, and pick them back up when you've asked if you can help.  It's not you.  It's them.

So there you have it.  My thoughts on anger.

Grace

For the most part, Carter and Sarah Cate are kind to each other.  They play well together and they have a lot of fun.  But occasionally, and just lately, they have a hard time doing that, and some of it is just because of the difference in ages.  Some of it's because they want to be little snots to each other because they can.  Having been a Little Snot at one point (debatable about whether I still am one), I recognize snottitude. 

Carter is having a hard time understanding why Sarah Cate doesn’t react the same way he does to things, or understand things as well as he does.  I’ve been trying to explain to him that she’s not as mature; that her brain isn’t as developed as his is, because she hasn’t been around as long and hasn’t learned as much.  It’s our job as her mom and her big brother to help her learn things, and to cut her some slack as she learns and makes mistakes, but to continue to be patient with her and help her learn how to be kind and respectful.  But of course all of that doesn’t matter when he asks her to move so he can brush his teeth and she stands there like a 42-pound brick wall, staring at him like I was here first and if you wanna make something of it, come move me.  So of course he responds with A Mighty Shove and she comes to me crying and telling me Carter is a meanie.

So when I get his side of the story, I tell him I understand why he lost his patience, but that he shouldn’t have shoved her, and a better response would have been to have talked to her or come and asked me for help – which of course, at this age I’m not actually expecting he’s going to DO, but one day when he’s 25 and she gives him the Blank Stare of Defiance I’m hoping he remembers this moment and doesn’t give her a swift kick to the pants and send her flying into the wall.  I’m thinking ahead here.

And so he says, and rightly so, “But she’s just STANDING there being all mean and I asked her nicely and she’s not doing what I ask and THAT’S NOT FAIR!”  And there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

So I say he’s got to let it go, she’s 4 and he’s 8 and what she did isn’t right and I’ll talk to her, but sometimes we’ve just got to cut each other a little slack.

“What’s ‘cut her some slack?’”

“I mean give her grace.”

“What’s ‘give her grace?’”

“I mean, understand that she’s going to be rude and unkind and disrespectful and forgive her for it, but teach her that it’s wrong and what she should have done instead.  Don’t yell at her, but understand where she’s coming from.  She hasn’t had the time yet to learn all the things that you have.  But she’ll learn just like you did, if we’re patient with her.”

(I try very hard to get these kids to be kind and respectful to each other, because one day there will come a time when Dallas and I won’t be here and all they’ll have is each other.  They’re going to have to keep each other’s best interests at heart and learn to help each other through all the trials and difficulties this world is going to throw at them.  So even if it means I have to count to 10 or in some cases 9 billion and 42, I try not to overreact even if I really just wanna whack ‘em.  Sometimes I succeed.  Other times I run to the other end of the house and come back when the urge to go Defcon 8 on their ungrateful little butts has passed.)

“But that’s HARRRRRDDDD!” he wails at me, and he’s right, it is hard, and I’m trying to figure out a way to make him understand this. 

Flash back to that morning, when I was called upstairs in a Dire Emergency because Carter’s Lego butler man (who is not really a butler, but a spy, and he has a secret hideout that only he can get to and he is on his way there so he can meet with other spies) has been waylaid in his Very Important Mission by virtue of being stuck underneath Sarah Cate’s dresser, an unfortunate accident the result of some wildly energetic driving in his Lego-mobile.  In their attempts to rescue the butler, they tipped the dresser, which caused a picture frame to fall and shatter, and I have been called to come rectify the situation.   I did rescue the butler, and after many “I’m so sorry’s” and “we didn’t mean it’s” and “you’re the best mama ever’s!” I forgave them for breaking the picture frame because I knew they hadn’t done it on purpose and, well, that picture needed to be reframed anyway.

HA!  I’ve got something I can use!  So I reminded him of just that morning when the picture frame broke, and I told him I could’ve punished them for it, but I forgave them because I knew they weren’t trying to be destructive, it just happened.  I gave them grace.

And I told him that I give them grace when they mess up because God gives us grace, every day.  Every time we mess up and do what we know we shouldn’t do.  ¹⁸ For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature.^[c] For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. ¹⁹ For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.  (Romans 7:18-19)   Paul had the same problem; EVERYBODY has the same problem.  But he keeps going:  ²¹ So I find this law at work: Although I want to do good, evil is right there with me. ²² For in my inner being I delight in God’s law; ²³ but I see another law at work in me, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within me. ²⁴ What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death? ²⁵ Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!

Paul’s telling us that God knows we’re human and even when we WANT to do the right thing, sometimes we don’t.  But He gives us grace, because he loves us, and he wants to draw us closer to Him.  And we’re like that with our own children, too, because we want them to grow up into good, kind people who are not on bell towers with sniper rifles at some point in the future.

⁶ But he gives us more grace. That is why Scripture says: “God opposes the proud but shows favor to the humble.”^[a]  (James 4:6)

and

⁵ In the same way, you who are younger, submit yourselves to your elders. All of you, clothe yourselves with humility toward one another, because, “God opposes the proud but shows favor to the humble.”^[a (1 Peter 5:5)

Not that I can ever think of those scriptures when I need them; I had to look them up for you by Googling the snippets I could remember.  Don’t be thinking here that I’ve got all this stuff memorized and I spout scripture when my children misbehave.  Not EVEN CLOSE, people.  Mostly I’ve got a vague concept of what I think I heard once when Doug (our pastor) dumbed it down enough for me and I was happening to catch it during the time when I was trying very hard not to fall asleep in church because I stayed up too late watching House of Cards on Netflix (amazingly good show, btw).  See, now you know.  I don’t got nuthin’ you don’t got.  But sometimes I can turn those vague recollections into something my kids will understand, and for that I’m grateful.  And sometimes I just yell, "BE NICE TO EACH OTHER, FOR PETE'S SAKE!"  Yeah.  There are those days.

So he did understand that, because I think he was thinking at the time the picture broke, “Holy crap, how in the WORLD are we getting away with this?!”  And then of course I had to go have the conversation with Sarah Cate about how she needs to respect her brother and do what he asks when there's no reason not to be kind and helpful and blah blah blah.  Crisis averted, this time.

I thank God for those teachable moments.  Heh – moments when He’s teaching ME, not just me teaching my kids.

Talk Me Down From the Ledge

So back to the food issue.  Last night I'm putting away dishes and I'm having this internal conversation with myself.  I do this pretty often, gotten kinda used to it, and it's something I'm sure everybody does.  But I also have this person inside me whom I tend to think of as the Voice of the Insufferable Optimist.  The IO is the girl who whispers, "Sure, sign up for that half-marathon.  It'll be fun to run 13 miles in 30-degree weather."  You probably have one too.  Your own internal cheerleader, pom poms waving, who insists that YES! You can do that!  It's crazy and makes no sense to the rest of creation, but this is the way to go!  She's annoying, and it's because she's usually right.  I hate her.  My conversation goes something like this, as I'm putting tupperware away:

Dana:  Are we really going to do this?  Eat food that doesn't come in a package?
Insufferable Optimist: Yes, we are.
D:  But Dallas said don't go crazy, and this sounds really crazy to me.
IO:  You can do it!  (Pom poms waving wildly.)
D:  But this is weird food.  Things people in this house probably have never seen, much less are interested in eating.
IO:  Do you want to feed them chemicals?  Oreos are not food.
D:  Mmmm... Oreos.....
IO:  Yes, you are really going to do this.  The government is a big fat liar.  Chickens are people too.
D:  It's going to be really hard.  It's going to mean I have to COOK.
IO:  Wuss.

This is the conversation.  But I finish what I'm doing and I think, "It will all make more sense in the morning."

Except this morning I was still out there on the ledge and it only got worse.  Breakfast is not hard in this house, we usually eat cereal or toast or fruit or yogurt and I had all that in decent quantities.  But about 10am I started to get a little scared because oh my word these children are going to want lunch soon and I have no idea what to feed them.  I got my Food Bible out (the Mark Bittman book) and started flipping through recipes in the "lunch" area.  Chopped Cabbage Salad.  Salade Nicoise with Mustard Vinaigrette.  Thai Beef Salad.  Spinach and Sweet Potato Salad with Warm Bacon Dressing.   Now all those sound just fine to me but are they exactly the ones I want to test out on my four-year-old, who would much prefer a sandwich?  No.  We're having peanut butter sandwiches.

But then I start thinking and the IO is nowhere to be found, probably off thinking up new ways to get me to run a marathon or something.  And I am freaking the heck out.  How am I going to do this?  This is all so new!  Are they really going to eat this?  I don't have any ideas!  What if I spend three hours on something and they all hate it?

So I called my cousin Heather, and she talked me down from the ledge.  She and my friend Kristen are the people I emailed first when we decided we were going the slow food route, because they're smarter than me and they figured out this stuff WAY before I did, and she'd already sent me a couple good recipes, one for granola bars, which I'd made this morning and they were already in the fridge.

Dana:  Heather, I need help.
Heather:  What?
D:  I'm freaking out.  I need to feed these children lunch and I don't know what to do.  They're not going to eat anything in this book.  They're not going to eat quinoa with cilantro.
H:  What do you normally feed them for lunch?
D:  Peanut butter sandwiches, and we're having that, but what am I going to do tomorrow?  They're going to want to eat lunch AGAIN!
H:  You eat all the normal things you usually eat, you just get ones that are organic and not full of pesticides and preservatives.
D:  But I've bought MILLET!  I've bought millet and I don't even know what millet IS!
H:  You use the millet in the granola bars to make them less hard.  And in cereals and stuff.
D:  Crap.  I didn't put millet in the granola bars.  I'm a failure already.  I need some real-life recipes.  Can you send me some real food that these children will eat?

And so she has.  She has talked me down from the ledge of thinking that my children are going to have to subsist on barley and oats, by telling me all kinds of things that I didn't know that were out there.  So I'm going on a shopping trip, and I'm going to go find all these wonderful things that she says exist.  And we talked about growing a garden (which I started this afternoon, by the way, more on that later), and how to slowly incorporate these changes into the regular lives of these miniature house-dwellers so that they are none the wiser.  There is hope.  There is hope that we can learn how to eat the way we probably always should have been eating but I just didn't know any better.

Darn you government.  You suck.

My granola bars are AWESOME, by the way.

Thanks, Heather.

Perseverance

A very dear friend of my sister’s is going through a difficult day today; her dad is being taken off life support after (what was supposed to be) a very routine knee surgery.   My sisters, my parents and I, we love each other with a fierce batten-down-the-hatches love.   A Southern Living/redneck we-know-we-got-issues-but-we’re-in-it-together kind of love.  A circle-the-wagons, double-pinky-promise, clove-hitch-knot kind of love.  I know not every family has this, and I know how blessed I am, and I’m beyond grateful for it.  And so when one of them hurts, as my sister is hurting today, and as her very best friend in the whole world is hurting right now, I hurt for them.  I want to shield them from pain, take it back; give them a do-over, a mulligan.  Undo this awful thing that has happened.  Go back to some crucial point where a different path could have been taken and go from there.

But I can’t, so I pray.  I pray that the One who heals, the Great Comforter, would give them peace and strength to get through this minute, and the next one, and the one after that.  Getting through, taking one step after one step after one step, that’s called perseverance.  And I thought maybe you could use some of things I’ve been learning lately about perseverance.   Or maybe you know somebody who could.

In our Bible study, Disciplines of a Godly Woman (Barbara Hughes), this week’s lesson was on perseverance.  Now I know that I’m not the world’s foremost expert on this topic.  I freely admit that while I have had my own Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul, my problems are NOTHING compared to other peoples’ problems.  I’ve never struggled with addiction, I’ve never suddenly lost a life partner or a child, I’ve never been raped, hit, or even had to deal with a chronic illness.  I know those days are coming, I’m not expecting my life to be all sunshine and puppies (although that’d be nice, karma, I did just put a new roll of toilet paper up for the next person), but I’d like to hope that I’ll have the faith and assurance that God is in control of it, just like He’s in control of every good thing that comes my way.  At the end of my life, I’d love to say that I have praised Him in all things.   In Hebrews 12:1 it says “And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us…”  But people, that is really hard to DO in the real world.  When it comes down to brass tacks and it’s time to get up out of bed for the first time without your husband, or it’s time to go the job you HATE, or talk to a parent who can’t remember who you are, it is really. freakin’. hard to persevere.

Hughes writes in her chapter on perseverance of a couple named Scott and Janet Willis, who in 1994 lost 6 of their 9 children in an auto accident on the way to visit one of their other children.  She writes:

While driving north on Interstate 94 in Milwaukee, the van ran over a large piece of metal that punctured the gas tank, immediately turning the vehicle into an inferno.  By the time the van stopped and the parents fell out, their children were hopelessly trapped.  Six of their children went home to be with the Lord that day.

You’d think that the Willises would conclude that their God was far away at that moment.  Yet the burned, bandaged couple, still in physical pain, gave witness to God’s grace at a news conference.  Janet relates that when she looked back toward the van and began screaming, Scott touched her shoulder.  “He said, ‘Janet, this is what we’ve been prepared for.’  And he was right.  He said, ‘Janet, it was quick, and they’re with the Lord.’  He was right.”

The Willises’ testimony amidst the tears and heartache is amazing.  “I know God has purposes and God has reasons,” says Scott.  “God has demonstrated His love to us and our family.  There’s no question in our mind that God is good, and we praise Him in all things.”

“It’s His right,” agrees Janet.  “We belong to Him.  My children belong to Him.  He’s the giver and the taker of life, and He sustains us.”

Now I don’t remember this happening.  Keep in mind that back in 1994 I was not a Christ-follower and I thought all you Christian people were just kind of doing some other “fan” thing, kind of like when the Beatles hit town.  But I read this to Dallas and he found online a clip of Scott Willis speaking about a year after the accident, about adversity in general, that we all face, not specifically about the accident although that was a large part of his talk.  (It is here if you want to listen:  http://recollections.liblog.wheaton.edu/2010/12/09/tragedy-and-faith-scott-janet-willis/)  His talk was a great reminder that everyone faces adversity and there’s no measure of “whose is worse.”  Granted, having six of your children all die at once is a pretty awful thing and I REALLY hope God doesn't ask me to praise Him through something like that.  (Hear that, God?   When I’m getting poked with the crap-stick later on in life I don’t want that one, mmmkay?)  You can’t compare suffering and pain; there’s no barometer for that.  But what we CAN do is understand that suffering does have a purpose, and that purpose is to mature us, to be perfected.

Hughes says there are three reasons for suffering and I love this because as a mom I struggle to explain to Carter why bad things happen when we have a good God.  She says:

1.       Suffering is God’s means of perfecting us.

2.       Suffering is a means of spreading the gospel.

3.       In persevering through suffering we see God

Now I know that God sees things that we can’t, He’s got the Big Picture and we don’t, and that all things work together (²⁸ And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.   Romans 8:28.).  But I’ve still had a hard time really understanding, and therefore articulating to Carter, why everything can’t be awesome all the time (“everything is awesome…. everything is cool when you’re part of a team… you know it’s going through your head) and this helped me.  Hughes says that the words in Scripture used for “testing” likens what happens to us in trials to what happens to metal when it is refined.  It makes the metal purer.  “Christians must persevere through many trials and temptations if we would grow mature and be refined,” she says.

I like to know there’s a purpose behind hard times, it just makes my need for all things rational to be sated.  Jason Morriss from Austin New Church, in his message about Lent (http://www.austinnewchurch.com/#/anc-home/sermon-podcast) calls trials and suffering being in a “wilderness.”  And for some people that wilderness isn't just a hard time they go through and it gets better, for some people it’s like FORTY YEARS of wilderness.  There’s a lady at our church who came to Christ at 64; she’s 69 now and has been married to her husband for 40 years.  She’s a believer; he’s not.  She has to live with him every day, loving him, knowing him better than she’s ever known anyone else in her entire life, and knowing he’s missing out on the most awesome thing ever.  And there’s not ONE SINGLE THING she can do to convince him that he’s missing the boat except do what she’s doing:  love him, pray for him, and show him the love of Jesus every. single. day.  Every single minute.   She’s right smack dab in the middle of her wilderness and who knows when it will end; God’s timing is not our timing.  And she’s struggling to praise God in the wilderness, but she’s doing it because that’s what we’re called to do.

I have to say, for me (because this blog is about me me me and don’t you forget it), knowing where my loved one is going makes all the difference when they depart this life.  When my Grandma Broxson died, I wasn't yet a Christian.  Her death was the first I’d really experienced as a semi-adult (HA! not even semi, y’all; MAN I was clueless) at 22 and it was really confusing for me.   Mom and Dad said she was in Heaven but I didn't really get that at the time; I just knew that when I looked at her body, she wasn't there.  She was gone; that was a shell.  Fast track to when my Grandpa Bunaisky died when I was 27.  I’d become a Christian just the fall before and while I was a relative newbie as far as faith goes,  I was starting to understand that this world isn't IT.  And let me tell you folks, that’s a whole different experience when you previously thought it was.  Instead of this ginormous yawning chasm of nothingness that opens up after our lives, it’s a gap.  A gap between when you’re here on this earth with your loved one, and when your race is run and you’re together with them and Jesus.  You finish your race; they’ll be there at the finish line.  Now I’m not about to tell you what that gap is like, that finishing the race without your loved one.  Because I think what I've lost in this life can’t compare to what other people have lost and the depth, breadth, and height of their despair is different than mine.  I tend to think, that when the time comes that Mom and Dad have to go on without me, I will feel as though a great gaping hole has been rent in me and I will feel that emptiness for the rest of my race.  Frankly, I’m not looking forward to that and so I’m right now blocking thinking about it with every fiber of my being.  But my sister’s friend is right there RIGHT NOW, and because of that I want to hold her and hug her and my sister and fervently wish I could take even an iota of pain away for them both.  Just as I wish I could do that for my friends when they lost their fathers; my friend who has a sister with terminal cancer; my mother when she lost her brother and mother; my father when he lost his son. 

But I can’t, so I pray that God will bring them through this and comfort them every step of the way through this wilderness, however long that wilderness lasts.  For you too, if you’re in the middle of a wilderness.  That the “knowledge of Jesus’ power [would shift your] focus from the storms, raging around and within, to God’s will.  Luke 22:31-32:  ³¹ “Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift all of you as wheat. ³² But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers.”   I pray that when you’re in the sifter, and the path ahead is cloudy and it seems like God is silent, when circumstances are just. freakin’. unbearable, that God will turn your fear, your sadness, to faith.  Hughes says, “God’s purpose for sifting [is] to prove and perfect…faith.  That perfection is not to be completed in this earthly life.  But here and now, He gives everything we need to face whatever sifting He allows – He gives Himself.”

Anyhoo, I really found that chapter helpful this week and I wanted to share it with you; I hope maybe it helped you too.  

Shoes and Free Will

This has nothing to do with anything, but just something that occurred to me today while I was driving to work.  It was one of those “Ohhhh” moments where you remember something that happened months ago and you finally put it together, or something finally clicks, and you understand something you didn’t before.  Or maybe that’s just me and I’m the only one who can’t process things right away and I need months for it to seep through the hermetically sealed layer of LEAD that encases my brain.  Anyhow I had an “I get it” moment. 

Let me start from the beginning.  Last December there was a homeless guy in the Publix shopping center with a cart and a dog, and he was pushing the dog around on the cart and he had a sign that said he needed money or food or something, I don’t remember.  Anyhow I kind of ignored him, even though I do typically give money or food when I have it to homeless people.  Mostly I just respond when I feel THE NUDGE and that day I didn’t really feel overly burdened to give this guy anything.  I suppose that’s not a real Christian attitude, not to give something every single time I see someone who needs something, but there it is, the ugly me, and now you have seen it.  Like you didn’t already know I was a stingy wench anyway.  Anyhoo, I saw him a couple days later on a very cold morning and I happened to notice he had no SHOES.  And it was, like, 30 degrees that day, and here he was walking around on cold pavement barefoot.  So once I saw that, I was all, “Oh my gosh, man, where are your SHOES?”  So I made up my mind that I was going to buy this man some shoes.

That was maybe a Tuesday and I promptly forgot all about it until that Saturday, when Sarah Cate and I were off to a birthday party for a little friend of hers.  (Side note – “little friend.”  When my mom used to call my friends that, it would make me laugh because I would picture me and all my little friends – friends who were 1 foot high and I was this giant who had little tiny people-friends.   She called them my little friends until I was in high school and it never failed to make me laugh… and now I find myself doing it to my kids!)  So off we went to the party but I had a little bit of time beforehand, so we made The Fastest Target Trip In The History of Mankind so I could get this guy some shoes.  And socks.  And baby wipes because you know his feet would be dirty so he would have to clean them off before he put on his shoes.  (Don’t you start thinking I’m crazy, thinking about baby wipes for grown men.  This is where my mind was, never mind that he’s a homeless guy and he’s probably used to a little dirt here and there.  I’m just sayin’, baby wipes were what I was after.)

So off we race to the shoe department.  And I’m like, how in the WORLD am I supposed to know what size to get somebody I’ve never met?  It’s not like I’ve scrutinized the man’s feet, I just noticed the absence of shoes.  So I’m thinking, isn’t size 11 a man size?  Dallas wears size 10 and a half, and Dad probably wears a 12, so let’s split it and go with 11.  If they’re big, they’re big.  Who knows.  So I bought a pair of tennis shoes in size 11, some men’s athletic socks, some baby wipes, and off we went to the party.  On the way home I was telling myself that I was going to have to go home by that Publix and don’t forget, because I was going to go find that guy AND I could get a Diet Coke at Sonic too, so totally a win-win.  Because you know every good deed goes best with a Sonic Diet Coke.

And I get to the Publix and there is no homeless guy.  And I’m thinking, okay, he’s here every other day, why is he not here the one day I’m actually looking for him?  So I prayed, “God, if you want me to give this guy his shoes, let me find him.”  So around the parking lot I go again.  And there he is, standing in front of Sonic, in the rain, with the dog, WHERE I HAD JUST DRIVEN BY like 2 minutes before.   So I pulled up beside him, got out, and opened the back door and said to the guy, “I’ve got your shoes.”  Like we had somehow agreed on this beforehand and he had any reasonable expectation of some crazy girl stopping in the rain to give him shoes, of course, that’s what everybody does, right?  I was trying to be fast because I’d stopped right in the middle of the street, where people were going to have to drive around me.  And so of course when I try to be fast I get stupid and I say things like, "I've got your shoes."  The owl flies at midnight and all that.

 

He said,” What size are they?” and I said, “Size 11.”  And he goes, “That’ll work.”  So I gave him the socks and he put them on (I didn’t need the baby wipes because it was raining.  See.  All that for nothing.)   While he was putting the socks on I took the tags off the shoes and held them out and he put them on and I held his pants legs out of the way so he could tie them.  I put the rest of the socks on the cart, patted the dog on the head, he said, “Thank you,” I said, “You’re welcome,” I shut the back door and got in the car and left.  End of story.  Maybe a three-minute encounter.

Fast forward to sometime in February, when I’m driving through the Publix parking lot, and I see this guy again; I haven’t seen him since the Shoe Day.  I’ve got Carter in the car, and of course my mouth runs before my brain engages, as is my wont, and I see HE’S GOT NO SHOES ON.  And I say, “Mister MAN!  I bought you some perfectly good shoes!  Now go put them on and stop walking around barefoot!   Are you KIDDING ME??!”  Carter thought that was hysterical, and kept repeating it for DAYS.  So I wondered about that, where those shoes had got off to.  He couldn’t have worn them out.  Did he sell them for something else he wanted?  Did he give them away to somebody else who needed them more?  Did he take them off so people would feel sorry for him and give him money?  Did they hurt his feet so he chucked them?  I’ll never know, and I didn’t buy them for him so he’d cherish them forever and worship at the altar of All That Is Dana for blessing his rain-soaked life with the Great Gift of Target Shoes of Indeterminate Size.  I bought them for the simple fact that I saw that he had no shoes, and it was cold, and people need shoes on in the cold.  There it is.

So I forgot about it.  Until this morning when I’m driving through the Publix shopping lot and I was wondering if that guy was still around, and whether he had shoes on, because it’s really cold here this morning.   And it occurred to me that that homeless guy doing whatever he did with those shoes is eerily similar to what God does with us.  He grants us free will do as we please with regard to believing in Him.  He gives us the resources; He puts people in our path to show us His truth.  He gives us His word.  He draws us to Him in innumerable ways, whether it’s early on in our lives or the day that we die at 112.  But He leaves it up to us to decide what to do with it, because it’d be no fun for Him if he created a bunch of little robots that just did everything He told us to do.  Where’s the fun in that?  He WANTS us to choose Him.  But by giving us the choice, we might not make the choice to be with Him, and He knows that going into it.  He WANTS us to choose to be with Him, to glorify Him, to want to spend every day with Him.  But sometimes we throw it away because we think we know better, or sometimes we claim we don’t have the time to spend on Him.  I don’t know what that guy did with those shoes and I’ll never know, but the point was that they were his to do whatever he wanted with them.  They were a GIFT; I wasn’t asking for anything in return.  Just like Jesus is our gift, and all we have to do is take it and thank God for that gift and then share that gift with everyone else who doesn’t have it.  However you choose to share it, be that by buying homeless men shoes, or knocking on doors (“Landshark!”), or handing out tracts, or going on missions, or just by loving on somebody who needs it today. 

So there it is.  My incredibly long novel to share the simple statement that God loves you and wants to you make the choice to follow Him, which I could have said in less than one paragraph but somehow felt the need to hide that in a long story about shoes and homeless men.  And if you got all the way to the end, my friends, how much free time must you HAVE, and how bored could you POSSIBLY BE, to waste it on me? 

Seriously, though.  I’m glad you’re here.