I wrote this a year or two ago, but I'm posting it again. It's still so apropos, and there's really nothing I could add to it.
Tonight I watched one of the best Christmas movies of all time. While I was growing up, my mother always watched "It's A Wonderful Life" while she wrapped presents. I remember sitting at the top of the stairs on Christmas Eve, sometimes even at two in the morning, resting my head against the stairwell, my bare toes wrapped around the wooden stair; listening to the unrolling of the wrapping paper, the "shk shk, shhhhhk" of the scissors- my mother could glide through wrapping paper with scissors like a hot knife through butter: not a single jagged edge, straight lines all the way- hearing the clean "pop" that Scotch tape makes as its torn (incidentally, I absolutely love the smell of Scotch tape- it smells more like Christmas to me than anything else), and listening to George Bailey sing "Buffalo Girls", or Sam Wainwright screech "HEE HAW!"
And so of course, it does behoove me to carry on the tradition. Because after all, what better thing can you do while wrapping Christmas presents?
I have probably seen "It's a Wonderful Life" no less than fifteen times, and it still has yet to grow old. Every single time Mr. Gower boxes young George's ear, I kid you not, I bawl. Every single time. Tonight was no different. I sat there huddled up against my couch with tears streaming down my cheeks, listening to poor George crying out, seeing Mr. Gower's anguish- oh Lord, it's so sad!
I never fail to identify with the life George was dealt: the frustration, the claustrophobia of watching all your friends going on to do great things- all the things he should have done- and being held back by circumstances or choices that were made for him. I love how he makes the best of the life he got, loving his wife, his kids, his family and his town to the best of his ability. Making a difference every day in the little small things that he never even knew he did. I wince every time at the desperation in his eyes, the cruelty of Mr. Potter as he barks, "You're worth more dead than alive!"
And I laugh with joy every time he runs through the streets of Bedford Falls shouting, "Merry Christmas, Movie House! Merry Christmas, Emporium! Merry Christmas you wonderful old Building and Loan!" And I cry again as the town's people rush into his house- his beautiful, drafty old house- offering him money that they most likely couldn't spare, pouring back into his lap all the love, and goodness, and generosity he had shown them over the years. Mr. Gower, "calling in charges", Annie giving up her divorce money, and the bank examiner giving into the Christmas spirit.
Its funny to think how our lives intersect and touch so many others. One thing I do could effect so many people I've never met and never will meet. We are all like pebbles thrown in a pond, our ripples connecting, passing through, maybe even disturbing the ripples of those around us, and never even knowing that the pebbles thrown in with us have their own story, their own history, and their own effect on others. But what if my pebble had never been thrown? What if I had never touched one person, never caused one tiny ripple in the pond? Clarence was right when he told George he had been given a great gift- The gift of being able to see what the world would have been like without him.
I think that's what "It's a Wonderful Life" is really about. Showing us how much of a difference one tiny ripple can make in the world around us. Teaching us that the people we rub shoulders with, the people we smile at, frown at, laugh at and love are the ones that will ultimately change the life of someone around them- someone who adopts a child, preaches on the street, bags your groceries, or runs for president.
Who knows? Maybe my ripple will change the world.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
In Case You Were Wondering
I hate that I decide to take a nap, fall asleep for about 20 minutes, and then wake up and can’t go back to sleep. I think the whole “power nap” theory is a crock. I don’t feel better. My brain just works too much.
So, instead of taking a nice nap with my fuzzy new Christmas blanket, I’ll write a blog. I’ll title it: Things About Me You Didn’t Need to Know!
1. I wish I was taking a nap.
2. I used to be a dog person. After I had kids, I didn’t want a dog. Dogs are so needy, and I don’t need anything else needing me.
3. I’ve lived in my house for over 3 years, and I’ve never hung the first picture on the walls. I take thousands of pictures, and I don’t hang them up.
4. I secretly listen to the High School Musical soundtracks.
5. I hate wearing socks.
6. I have only shaved my legs about once every 2 weeks since the end of October. What’s the point?
7. I get somewhat offended when someone tells me my style is “unique” or, “I could never pull that off!” I think it’s a backhanded compliment, and you’re basically telling me I’m weird and you’d never be stupid enough to wear what I’m wearing.
8. I hate almost all of Amy Grant’s Christmas songs, but I especially loathe her version of “Sleigh Ride”. When she yells “Yoo Hoo!”, it makes me want to punch things.
9. I’m obsessed with literary analogies and metaphors, especially about nature. My brain is always thinking of them. I don’t ever like to share them or write them down- they’re so very Anne Shirleyesque, and I don’t want to be laughed at.
10. If I’m mad at you, chances are you’ll never, ever know.
11. I’m really, really bad at sharing. I hate it, actually. I don’t want to share- go get your own.
12. I felt called to go to Africa when I was about 14, but I decided I didn’t want to. I rarely thought of it again until this past year, and now I would give almost anything to get there, even though I’m terrified. There. I’ve never told anyone that before.
13. I’ve never dreamed of living in the country. No thank you.
14. I’m very bad at motivating myself to do things I don’t want to do, ie: laundry, dishes, waking up early, taking a shower when it’s cold.
15. I only like candles that smell like baking things, unless it’s a Christmasy candle.
16. I hate summer and winter. I don’t like extreme temperatures. I don’t want it to get any hotter than 85 or any colder than 50.
17. I don’t wear black and gray and white because I’m depressed or trying to be emo or whatever. I wear them because I genuinely like the colors, and I don’t like bright clothes.
18. I read books I like over and over. I don’t get tired of them, and I don’t understand people who don’t reread.
19. I don’t want to turn 30.
20. I talk to myself in a British accent.
21. If I ever have the money to get a boob job, I will. So don’t be shocked or anything.
22. I’ve been changing diapers almost every day for the past 7 years, 3 weeks, and 1 day. That’s very, very depressing.
23. I don’t want to live in an old house really, but I’d love to live in a house that looks like an old house.
24. When I’m talking, I spell the words in my head.
25. I don’t like having long nails.
26. Total silence hurts my ears.
27. I know I don’t get enough sleep, but when bedtime comes I always convince myself I can use less. Sleeping feels like such a waste of “me” time.
28. I own four green towels, all in different shades. Only one of them was originally mine. I don't know where I acquired the others.
29. I have an unholy horror of dressing in American flag colors. You'll never see me wearing red, white, and blue, even if it's jeans, on purpose.
30. The smell of Pampers diapers makes my Mom hormones go into overdrive.
31. I almost erased this whole blog because it’s so pointless.
So, instead of taking a nice nap with my fuzzy new Christmas blanket, I’ll write a blog. I’ll title it: Things About Me You Didn’t Need to Know!
1. I wish I was taking a nap.
2. I used to be a dog person. After I had kids, I didn’t want a dog. Dogs are so needy, and I don’t need anything else needing me.
3. I’ve lived in my house for over 3 years, and I’ve never hung the first picture on the walls. I take thousands of pictures, and I don’t hang them up.
4. I secretly listen to the High School Musical soundtracks.
5. I hate wearing socks.
6. I have only shaved my legs about once every 2 weeks since the end of October. What’s the point?
7. I get somewhat offended when someone tells me my style is “unique” or, “I could never pull that off!” I think it’s a backhanded compliment, and you’re basically telling me I’m weird and you’d never be stupid enough to wear what I’m wearing.
8. I hate almost all of Amy Grant’s Christmas songs, but I especially loathe her version of “Sleigh Ride”. When she yells “Yoo Hoo!”, it makes me want to punch things.
9. I’m obsessed with literary analogies and metaphors, especially about nature. My brain is always thinking of them. I don’t ever like to share them or write them down- they’re so very Anne Shirleyesque, and I don’t want to be laughed at.
10. If I’m mad at you, chances are you’ll never, ever know.
11. I’m really, really bad at sharing. I hate it, actually. I don’t want to share- go get your own.
12. I felt called to go to Africa when I was about 14, but I decided I didn’t want to. I rarely thought of it again until this past year, and now I would give almost anything to get there, even though I’m terrified. There. I’ve never told anyone that before.
13. I’ve never dreamed of living in the country. No thank you.
14. I’m very bad at motivating myself to do things I don’t want to do, ie: laundry, dishes, waking up early, taking a shower when it’s cold.
15. I only like candles that smell like baking things, unless it’s a Christmasy candle.
16. I hate summer and winter. I don’t like extreme temperatures. I don’t want it to get any hotter than 85 or any colder than 50.
17. I don’t wear black and gray and white because I’m depressed or trying to be emo or whatever. I wear them because I genuinely like the colors, and I don’t like bright clothes.
18. I read books I like over and over. I don’t get tired of them, and I don’t understand people who don’t reread.
19. I don’t want to turn 30.
20. I talk to myself in a British accent.
21. If I ever have the money to get a boob job, I will. So don’t be shocked or anything.
22. I’ve been changing diapers almost every day for the past 7 years, 3 weeks, and 1 day. That’s very, very depressing.
23. I don’t want to live in an old house really, but I’d love to live in a house that looks like an old house.
24. When I’m talking, I spell the words in my head.
25. I don’t like having long nails.
26. Total silence hurts my ears.
27. I know I don’t get enough sleep, but when bedtime comes I always convince myself I can use less. Sleeping feels like such a waste of “me” time.
28. I own four green towels, all in different shades. Only one of them was originally mine. I don't know where I acquired the others.
29. I have an unholy horror of dressing in American flag colors. You'll never see me wearing red, white, and blue, even if it's jeans, on purpose.
30. The smell of Pampers diapers makes my Mom hormones go into overdrive.
31. I almost erased this whole blog because it’s so pointless.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Generalities
Sometimes you write with a specific reason for doing so. And sometimes you just write for the sake of writing. Today, I’m doing the latter. I just feel like writing something. I suppose it will just be generalities, stupid, pointless things strung together into one blog for no other reason than the one I just stated. I feel like it.
I like driving in the fall. A few days ago, I was coming home from dropping Ashton off at school, and a leaf blew across my path, skittered against the windshield, and kept on going; sailing across Pembroke Ave., on a mission to land somewhere, and perhaps be picked up by a small child who collects pretty colored leaves. Watching the leaves fall makes me a feel a little melancholy... the year is fading slowly, trying to retire with as much dignity as she can muster. Like a little old lady whose hair is falling out, but she still dresses in her finest clothes, hoping it’s what people will remember her for.
There’s a Volkswagen repair shop that I pass every day on the way to and from the school. I always wanted a Beetle. Not as a “real” car, you understand, just a fun, cruising around car. I’ve always wanted to throw my grocery bags in the front of the car instead of the back. A young man, maybe 19, 20ish is out in the parking lot every morning, working on all the Beetles and Rabbits. Some days he wears a ball cap. I imagine his name is Chad... he looks like a Chad to me. Sometimes an older man stands out there and watches him work. I wonder if it’s because Chad is doing it wrong, or if it’s just for the company. I figure old Mr. Beetle is young Chad’s mentor, and maybe gave him the baseball cap, too. I think he and Mrs. Beetle invite Chad over for dinner once in a while, and send him home with a foil wrapped plate of pot roast and mashed potatoes. Chad looks like he could use some good home cooking.
Christmas is coming up. I really do “wait for it the whole year long”, even though this area isn’t really a Marshmallow World in the winter. In September, I get the box of Christmas movies out and coerce my kids into watching them. I justify it by telling myself that the Charlie Brown movies come in a box set, and I need to get The Great Pumpkin out for them to watch, and well would you look at that? The Christmas one is in there too! Well, I don’t see any reason not to watch it, seeing as it’s already out. And if we watch Charlie Brown, we may as well watch The Polar Express, and White Christmas, and all the other ones. The only one I don’t watch until Christmas “season” is It’s A Wonderful Life. That one is special. In October, I start listening to Christmas music in secret. I don’t listen to it in the car, but I turn it on while I take a shower, or when I’m cleaning or folding laundry. Over the past few years, though, I’ve been getting sad come November. I’ve begun to see how very quickly time goes by the older I get. And once it’s November, the whole Christmas season just rushes by in a whirl of parties, programs, and colored lights. I don’t love Christmas for presents, or family get togethers, or church programs. I love Christmas simply because it is. I love that it’s special. It’s so special that it gets its own movies, cookies, stories, clothes. And I’ve realized that I don’t love Christmas Day so much as I love all the days leading up to it.
I’ve started letting Chloe choose her own clothes. This is a huge step for me. She picks things like, brown and teal leggings with a plaid skirt and a purple shirt. With sparkly gold shoes and Hello Kitty socks. I absolutely hate it. Who knew it would be so difficult to watch her prance around dressed like that? She thinks she’s absolutely beautiful. Her own words. “Mommy, I am so absolutely beautiful in this!” What can I tell her? “No, my dear, actually you look rather like a homeless child who stole from another homeless child who stole from a bag lady who stole from Lady Gaga”? Of course I can’t. So I just let her pirouette and preen, and resolve not to leave the house. Because she is absolutely beautiful in the fact that she knows it. Somewhere along the way, every woman’s self confidence and security gets destroyed, and I’m determined my daughter's isn't going to be destroyed at all if I can help it, much less by me.
That's enough rambling by me for today. What’s going through your mind this week?
I like driving in the fall. A few days ago, I was coming home from dropping Ashton off at school, and a leaf blew across my path, skittered against the windshield, and kept on going; sailing across Pembroke Ave., on a mission to land somewhere, and perhaps be picked up by a small child who collects pretty colored leaves. Watching the leaves fall makes me a feel a little melancholy... the year is fading slowly, trying to retire with as much dignity as she can muster. Like a little old lady whose hair is falling out, but she still dresses in her finest clothes, hoping it’s what people will remember her for.
There’s a Volkswagen repair shop that I pass every day on the way to and from the school. I always wanted a Beetle. Not as a “real” car, you understand, just a fun, cruising around car. I’ve always wanted to throw my grocery bags in the front of the car instead of the back. A young man, maybe 19, 20ish is out in the parking lot every morning, working on all the Beetles and Rabbits. Some days he wears a ball cap. I imagine his name is Chad... he looks like a Chad to me. Sometimes an older man stands out there and watches him work. I wonder if it’s because Chad is doing it wrong, or if it’s just for the company. I figure old Mr. Beetle is young Chad’s mentor, and maybe gave him the baseball cap, too. I think he and Mrs. Beetle invite Chad over for dinner once in a while, and send him home with a foil wrapped plate of pot roast and mashed potatoes. Chad looks like he could use some good home cooking.
Christmas is coming up. I really do “wait for it the whole year long”, even though this area isn’t really a Marshmallow World in the winter. In September, I get the box of Christmas movies out and coerce my kids into watching them. I justify it by telling myself that the Charlie Brown movies come in a box set, and I need to get The Great Pumpkin out for them to watch, and well would you look at that? The Christmas one is in there too! Well, I don’t see any reason not to watch it, seeing as it’s already out. And if we watch Charlie Brown, we may as well watch The Polar Express, and White Christmas, and all the other ones. The only one I don’t watch until Christmas “season” is It’s A Wonderful Life. That one is special. In October, I start listening to Christmas music in secret. I don’t listen to it in the car, but I turn it on while I take a shower, or when I’m cleaning or folding laundry. Over the past few years, though, I’ve been getting sad come November. I’ve begun to see how very quickly time goes by the older I get. And once it’s November, the whole Christmas season just rushes by in a whirl of parties, programs, and colored lights. I don’t love Christmas for presents, or family get togethers, or church programs. I love Christmas simply because it is. I love that it’s special. It’s so special that it gets its own movies, cookies, stories, clothes. And I’ve realized that I don’t love Christmas Day so much as I love all the days leading up to it.
I’ve started letting Chloe choose her own clothes. This is a huge step for me. She picks things like, brown and teal leggings with a plaid skirt and a purple shirt. With sparkly gold shoes and Hello Kitty socks. I absolutely hate it. Who knew it would be so difficult to watch her prance around dressed like that? She thinks she’s absolutely beautiful. Her own words. “Mommy, I am so absolutely beautiful in this!” What can I tell her? “No, my dear, actually you look rather like a homeless child who stole from another homeless child who stole from a bag lady who stole from Lady Gaga”? Of course I can’t. So I just let her pirouette and preen, and resolve not to leave the house. Because she is absolutely beautiful in the fact that she knows it. Somewhere along the way, every woman’s self confidence and security gets destroyed, and I’m determined my daughter's isn't going to be destroyed at all if I can help it, much less by me.
That's enough rambling by me for today. What’s going through your mind this week?
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Mother, Heal Thyself
As a child, being sick in my household was golden. It was a rare treat. I’m aware that this might sound strange to some, but in a family with 6 kids, anything that got you Mom’s undivided attention was a plus. Being sick got you the comfiest corner of the couch, ice cream, soup and ginger ale, supreme domination over the television, and in my case, fruit cocktail baby food. Not only did it get you special treatment, it got the other kids in trouble (insert Snidely Whiplash laugh here): “Don’t you fuss at her, she’s sick!” “Don’t you change the channel, she wants to watch Pink Panther!” and my favorite: “Don’t you dare even think about touching that ice cream! She’s sick!!!” Even the worst illnesses were enviable at our house. Adam broke both of his legs (two different times, not at once), and he got the whole couch, and a neon green cast, and crutches, and the front seat in the van. One year, Nathan contracted the flu and it went into his brain stem. Granted, this was a major illness, and potentially fatal. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t walk, and had to relearn how to write his name. But I mean, he got a fruit basket from the church. Hello? A FRUIT BASKET, people! I can still taste those pears in December (if this sounds callous to you, you have to remember that I was only 8, and my parents downplayed the seriousness of his situation to us- and they were pears. In December.).
Well, I’m all grown up now, with kids of my own. And being sick is not a treat, it’s just one more pain in the butt thing to deal with while dealing with all the other pains in my butt.
I woke up Saturday morning with sinus pressure that slid straight into my ear when I rolled over in bed. There was no preventing it. It just happened. I don’t know how many of you have had ear infections as an adult, but for those who haven’t, let me enlighten you: &*$%#%@^$%@!@&#^!!!! That about sums it up. They hurt like hell, hell, hell. I’m sorry, there really is no other way to put it. The pressure is unbearable. In two days I got to the point where I was praying for my eardrum to just burst and have done with it. I honestly don’t know how kids do it over and over and over. To make it even better, I got laryngitis too. So on top of the constant pain in my ear, the stuffed cotton feel, the fluctuation between ringing, radio static, and the ants from THEM sounds, I now sound like Eartha Kitt as the cat in The Emperor’s New Groove (“Is that my voice? Is that... my voice?!”).
I’m not complaining though. No, of course not. Mothers aren’t allowed to do that when we get sick. We just push through, the troopers that we are. The kids still have to get ready for school, they still need to eat, and have diapers changed, and matching socks found. Life stands still for no woman, ear infection or no. But oh, I miss being a sick kid. All I want to do is curl up on my bed, watch Pink Panther, and eat fruit cocktail baby food. Unfortunately, that’s not feasible for me now. But I can take steps to not push myself so hard.
So yesterday, after three hysterical meltdowns as a direct result of trying to be super woman all weekend, I came to the following conclusions: While I continue to be sick,
I WILL:
1. Make sure I take my antibiotics religiously.
2. Take care of my kids basic needs.
3. Listen to my Phil Wickham Christmas album over and over, because it makes me happy.
4. Drink plenty of fluids, even if it hurts to swallow.
5. Thank my husband for taking care of the kids and washing the laundry last night.
6. Write a blog about being sick. Ha!
I WILL NOT:
1. Worry about the piles of laundry waiting to be folded.
2. Sort all the Halloween candy.
3. Answer anymore phone calls after I have told people to please not call me because it hurts to talk.
4. Let the dishes in the sink drive me crazy.
5. Leave my house unless absolutely necessary.
6. Convince myself that I have to be all things to all people.
And maybe I’ll buy my own fruit cocktail baby food.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Terrible, Terrible, Terrible
My baby turned 2 today. This breaks my heart a little, since she’s my last baby. My last little 2 year old.
That said, let me just add that Atleigh is the two-est 2 year old I’ve ever owned. Allow me to brag a little, if you please. My two oldest, while not exactly angelic, were pretty close, as 2 year olds go. For instance: I’ve never had to baby proof my house. That’s right. Never. I’m actually a firm believer in NON baby proofing. I think if you cover up and lock everything, it’s only going to make the child more prone to mess with whatever it is you’ve covered and/or locked. Neither Ashton nor Chloe ever tried to stick pennies in light sockets, play with cleaning products, strangle themselves in blinds, or bathe in the toilet. They never climbed on tables, colored on walls, unraveled toilet paper, threw World War 3 tantrums, or anything else that a standard 2 year old seems to do. If they ever did do something in that field, it only took once or twice before they learned not to. I suppose I was spoiled. I didn’t know any better. That’s just the way it was.
Whatever it was, outstanding parenting, angelic genius children, or sheer luck, it’s been more than repaid now. My day of reckoning has come. To say that Atleigh eclipses both of her siblings in the “Terrible Twos” category is a gross understatement. I don’t even know what to do with her. I’m bewildered. Not only has she accomplished all of the above examples of utmost Twodom, she has upped the ante and proved that 2 year olds the world over could be capable of so, so much more.
She has flushed Chloe’s socks down the toilet, gotten into my makeup drawer and used my concealer stick to color her entire body- her ENTIRE BODY- green, and emptied a whole bottle of baby shampoo onto her hair and tried to “wash” herself. She rips pages out of books. She colors on the walls, the furniture, and the appliances with red (why does it always have to be red?) marker and/or crayon. She climbs up onto the kitchen table to look in the snack box. One time she found a pack of mint gum in there and had taken bites out of every single piece of gum. With the wrappers still on. Then she spit the bites out all over the counter. I guess she doesn’t like mint. She has crammed DVD’s into Jeremy’s PS3 twice- TWICE!!!- and he’s had to take the thing completely apart to get them all out (thank God YouTube has a video for everything). She’s the only one of my children who has learned to wrangle her way out of her car seat straps while I’m driving.
Even just now, as I’m typing this, she came and sat on the kitchen floor with a pen and the book I’ve been reading. I said, “Atleigh, give that to Mommy please.” She tries to hand me the pen. I said, “No, Atleigh, the book. Let me have the book, please.” She stands up, takes 2 steps toward me with the book outstretched, then sits back down on the floor, and throws it to me instead. “Here ya goooo!” Why? You were already halfway to me! Just HAND me the book!!
And the tantrums! Don’t even get me started on the tantrums! I’ve never had to apologize to the general public over my child’s behavior! I’ve never had to bribe a child in the store with cookies or crackers just to get her to shut up. It’s not for my sake, or for hers. It’s just so she’ll SHUT. UP. It’s for everyone else’s sake. I know how annoying it is to listen to a baby scream through a whole grocery store.
I’ve called my mother in tears, wondering what is wrong with her. Does she have a learning disability? Is she a sociopath? Is she demon possessed? Every time, my mother’s answer has been: “No. She’s just two.”
With all this said, I’ve decided there’s an easier way to handle this situation. I’ve decided it’s time for me to stop making excuses to strangers, offering up an apologetic “I’m sorry. She’s two.” I’ve decided it’s time to let Atleigh speak for herself.
I'm thinking of ironing this onto every single piece of clothing she owns. Maybe I’ll market it to mothers of 2 year olds. Here are some variations on my idea:
“PLEASE EXCUSE ME. I’M 2.”
“DON’T BLAME MOMMY. I’M 2.”
“PLEASE DON’T TALK ABOUT ME AT THE DINNER TABLE TONIGHT. I’M 2.”
“NEXT YEAR I’LL BE BETTER. RIGHT NOW I’M 2.”
“I PROMISE MOMMY IS RAISING ME BETTER THAN THIS.”
And then I’m going to make a t-shirt for myself. And make myself wear it everyday as a reminder that I’m not a failure, and I’m not crazy:
“I’M DOING THE BEST I CAN. IT’S JUST THAT SHE’S 2.”
(All slogans, concepts, and ideas were created by and are property of Mary Smoot.)
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Pondering Passion
I’ve been pondering a lot lately about what my passions are. Believe it or not, this is something I ordinarily do; I suppose I have identity crises frequently. This week, it seems I’ve upped my dose of narcissism, probably due in part to the fact that the subject at my women’s Bible group this week was passion. We were each given a work sheet of sorts, with columns to write down our interests, our abilities, possible points of intersection, and possible hindrances to whatever we came up with.
Well, the interests part was easy: writing, photography, music, plays/musicals, being a millionaire.
The abilities were similar: writing, photography, singing, spending money.
So my point of intersection is obvious, right? Write and star in a musical about photography and make a million dollars. Done and DONE!
After I had a good giggle over that, I got serious. I looked at my paper and sighed. The interests and abilities were about the same, but the intersection was gone. The truth is, it’s hard to make things intersect when your life is constantly going in a million different directions. The worst part of it is, it feels like it’s going in different directions, but heading nowhere. Like those paths in Alice in Wonderland. I realized I’ve never really had an acknowledged “passion”. There are things I’ve been interested it, things I’ve been passionate FOR, but nothing that really defines me.
Now, take my husband (...please! Ba da bing!) : there’s a man who wears his passion on his sleeve. Anyone who spends more than five minutes talking to him will know, Jeremy has a passion for music, and ministry through music. He has a passion for his band, and for reaching people through that medium. Not just that though. It’s so much more. The ideas that man has blow my mind. Written down on dry paper, they seem like impossible pipe dreams. But when you’re with him, and you hear him talk about them, you’re suddenly convinced that they’re possible, and not just possible, but probable. I think that’s what true passion does to others around you. But another meaning for passion is suffering. Jeremy’s done that, too. He’s suffered for his passion. He’s lain awake at nights, tossing and turning, calling himself crazy for wanting - no, not wanting- needing to make something of himself. He’s gotten angry, he’s cried, he’s begged God to give him something else to work with. But for that to happen, Jeremy would have to become a completely different person. His passion defines him. It IS him.
So I got to thinking.... what defines me? What makes me tick? Again, the interests and abilities came up: I love writing, so I write. I love photography, so I take pictures. Thankfully I have plenty of kids to take pictures of. I love singing, so I sing..... in my car (I’m working on the singing in front of people again thing). Then I got to the hindrances section. Easy. Kids, family, lack of time, lack of money, lack of confidence. Lack of “intersection”.
But then I thought: What if I could be passionate for my kids? What if I could be passionate for my husband, for my family and my friends, for the craziness that is my life? Why do I have to “discover” a passion? Can’t I just be passionate for what I have now, and who I am, right now?
There is plenty of time to discover passions, to “discover myself”. I know what I love doing, what brings me joy, and those things aren’t going to fade with time.
I don’t need to discover a passion. I just need to be passionate.
Well, the interests part was easy: writing, photography, music, plays/musicals, being a millionaire.
The abilities were similar: writing, photography, singing, spending money.
So my point of intersection is obvious, right? Write and star in a musical about photography and make a million dollars. Done and DONE!
After I had a good giggle over that, I got serious. I looked at my paper and sighed. The interests and abilities were about the same, but the intersection was gone. The truth is, it’s hard to make things intersect when your life is constantly going in a million different directions. The worst part of it is, it feels like it’s going in different directions, but heading nowhere. Like those paths in Alice in Wonderland. I realized I’ve never really had an acknowledged “passion”. There are things I’ve been interested it, things I’ve been passionate FOR, but nothing that really defines me.
Now, take my husband (...please! Ba da bing!) : there’s a man who wears his passion on his sleeve. Anyone who spends more than five minutes talking to him will know, Jeremy has a passion for music, and ministry through music. He has a passion for his band, and for reaching people through that medium. Not just that though. It’s so much more. The ideas that man has blow my mind. Written down on dry paper, they seem like impossible pipe dreams. But when you’re with him, and you hear him talk about them, you’re suddenly convinced that they’re possible, and not just possible, but probable. I think that’s what true passion does to others around you. But another meaning for passion is suffering. Jeremy’s done that, too. He’s suffered for his passion. He’s lain awake at nights, tossing and turning, calling himself crazy for wanting - no, not wanting- needing to make something of himself. He’s gotten angry, he’s cried, he’s begged God to give him something else to work with. But for that to happen, Jeremy would have to become a completely different person. His passion defines him. It IS him.
So I got to thinking.... what defines me? What makes me tick? Again, the interests and abilities came up: I love writing, so I write. I love photography, so I take pictures. Thankfully I have plenty of kids to take pictures of. I love singing, so I sing..... in my car (I’m working on the singing in front of people again thing). Then I got to the hindrances section. Easy. Kids, family, lack of time, lack of money, lack of confidence. Lack of “intersection”.
But then I thought: What if I could be passionate for my kids? What if I could be passionate for my husband, for my family and my friends, for the craziness that is my life? Why do I have to “discover” a passion? Can’t I just be passionate for what I have now, and who I am, right now?
There is plenty of time to discover passions, to “discover myself”. I know what I love doing, what brings me joy, and those things aren’t going to fade with time.
I don’t need to discover a passion. I just need to be passionate.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Kiss And Tell
Author’s Disclaimer: This blog contains statements and opinions that may be offensive to some readers. The author takes no responsibility for offended feelings. ;)
I’m a person of many pet peeves. Big surprise, right? I’m also a planner and a thinker. So I’ve thought about this blog for awhile before I decided to post it. I can always tell when an idea is going to stick and force itself to be written about. It starts as a thought, then balloons into an opinion, then sentences and paragraphs start to form inside my head. Sometimes, as in this case, I try to push it aside, but it refuses to be pushed. So I’ve decided maybe I just need to get it out of my system.
As I said, I have a lot of pet peeves. Some are stupid, like people who don’t put the toilet paper in the right way. In case you’re curious, over is the right way. And some are serious, like people who refuse to put their kids in car seats. This one has been niggling at the back of my brain for weeks.
In my opinion, a relationship with God is like a marriage. Actually, it’s not just my opinion, it’s Biblical (Eph. 5: 22-33). Marriage is a beautiful thing; it’s a public testimony of a personal commitment. There are some parts of my marriage that I have no problem making public: When my husband does special things for me, like cooking dinner, unloading the dishwasher, finally painting the bathroom vanity drawers after we’ve lived in the house three years (This was just last week!!!). But there are parts of my marriage, intimate parts, that I don’t share. There’s a reason for that. It’s personal. It’s private. It’s meant just for he and I to share.
So, in keeping with the marriage/God parallel, there are parts of our relationship with God that I think are meant to be public, and parts that are meant to be private. If God is speaking something special to me, I don’t go shout it from the rooftops, or a social forum, or whatever. That’s like me posting on Facebook or Twitter, “I HAD THE MOST AMAZING SEX LAST NIGHT!!!” It’s not something that everyone needs to know. It’s private. And intimate. It’s like kissing and telling.
I don’t feel the need to frequently tell myself (or the public): “I trust Jeremy. I know he’s not going to cheat on me today. He’s proved himself faithful to me.” People know he’s proved himself faithful by evidence of our relationship. People know I’m married to him by evidence of our relationship. They don’t need to be reminded, and they don’t need proof.
I’ve heard a lot of people lately, saying that God has told them this, or God has shown them that. I don’t dispute their claims. I know God speaks to people. And I’m not saying that it’s wrong to publicize our relationship with God. That would be completely opposite of one of the key points of Christianity.
I know I risk offending people by posting this, and I hope no one feels singled out by me. But here's my opinion:
Luke 18:9-14
[9] To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everybody else, Jesus told this parable: [10] "Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. [11] The Pharisee stood up and prayed about himself: 'God, I thank you that I am not like other men -- robbers, evildoers, adulterers -- or even like this tax collector. [12] I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.'
[13] "But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, 'God, have mercy on me, a sinner.'
[14] "I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted."
Here’s my point: Be quiet. Be intimate. And don’t kiss and tell.
I’m a person of many pet peeves. Big surprise, right? I’m also a planner and a thinker. So I’ve thought about this blog for awhile before I decided to post it. I can always tell when an idea is going to stick and force itself to be written about. It starts as a thought, then balloons into an opinion, then sentences and paragraphs start to form inside my head. Sometimes, as in this case, I try to push it aside, but it refuses to be pushed. So I’ve decided maybe I just need to get it out of my system.
As I said, I have a lot of pet peeves. Some are stupid, like people who don’t put the toilet paper in the right way. In case you’re curious, over is the right way. And some are serious, like people who refuse to put their kids in car seats. This one has been niggling at the back of my brain for weeks.
In my opinion, a relationship with God is like a marriage. Actually, it’s not just my opinion, it’s Biblical (Eph. 5: 22-33). Marriage is a beautiful thing; it’s a public testimony of a personal commitment. There are some parts of my marriage that I have no problem making public: When my husband does special things for me, like cooking dinner, unloading the dishwasher, finally painting the bathroom vanity drawers after we’ve lived in the house three years (This was just last week!!!). But there are parts of my marriage, intimate parts, that I don’t share. There’s a reason for that. It’s personal. It’s private. It’s meant just for he and I to share.
So, in keeping with the marriage/God parallel, there are parts of our relationship with God that I think are meant to be public, and parts that are meant to be private. If God is speaking something special to me, I don’t go shout it from the rooftops, or a social forum, or whatever. That’s like me posting on Facebook or Twitter, “I HAD THE MOST AMAZING SEX LAST NIGHT!!!” It’s not something that everyone needs to know. It’s private. And intimate. It’s like kissing and telling.
I don’t feel the need to frequently tell myself (or the public): “I trust Jeremy. I know he’s not going to cheat on me today. He’s proved himself faithful to me.” People know he’s proved himself faithful by evidence of our relationship. People know I’m married to him by evidence of our relationship. They don’t need to be reminded, and they don’t need proof.
I’ve heard a lot of people lately, saying that God has told them this, or God has shown them that. I don’t dispute their claims. I know God speaks to people. And I’m not saying that it’s wrong to publicize our relationship with God. That would be completely opposite of one of the key points of Christianity.
I know I risk offending people by posting this, and I hope no one feels singled out by me. But here's my opinion:
Luke 18:9-14
[9] To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everybody else, Jesus told this parable: [10] "Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. [11] The Pharisee stood up and prayed about himself: 'God, I thank you that I am not like other men -- robbers, evildoers, adulterers -- or even like this tax collector. [12] I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.'
[13] "But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, 'God, have mercy on me, a sinner.'
[14] "I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted."
Here’s my point: Be quiet. Be intimate. And don’t kiss and tell.
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