EverAfterLand

9 Tips To Stay Sane While Hubby's Away - Advice From A Navy Wife

Being married to a military man all these ten long years (seriously, has it really been that long?) I have had my fair share of Hubby cutting out on me, leaving me alone with two monstrous children and a misfit dog.  We have made it through four deployments on a ship, one deployment on land and countless numbers of work-ups and work trips that lasted anywhere from a few days to eight months.  During all of these absences, I have picked up a couple of tips here and there that help me make it through on my own with some semblance of sanity and without strangling anyone.  Or running away from home.

Although I came awfully close a couple of times!

I pass my Survival Tips onto the rest of you.  Hopefully a few of them will help….

1. Close and lock all the doors and windows and draw the curtains BEFORE you put the kids in bed (preferably before it’s dark outside). – Security is the #1 issue for anyone that is home alone, especially a woman with her young kids.  Anyone who has watched a couple of ADT commercials or an episode of Law & Order: SVU knows that.  But I get it.  On a nice spring day, who wouldn’t want to have a few windows open?  Who hasn’t had kids run inside from an afternoon of play and not think to lock the door behind them (let alone wipe their feet)?  However, there’s nothing worse than coming downstairs all by yourself, in your dark, silent-as-a-horror-movie house, all creeped out that anyone outside could be watching your every move.  It won’t just keep you safer to make sure everything is locked before tucking the kids away, it’ll also keep you sane while the Hubs is away.
2. Keep your feet up! – I don’t hate all bugs.  Most of them I either don’t mind cohabitating with or feel completely competent squishing into oblivion.  But there’s one bug that is my Achilles heel.  Cockroaches.  (Ohmygosh, it makes my skin crawl just to type the word!)  When we first moved into our house in Virginia, we didn’t realize there was a whole colony of roaches in the crawlspace underneath.  Nor did we know that they were using an enormous hole below the bathroom sink as their portal into our home.  But we found out – right AFTER Hubster left on a deployment.  If you hate creepy crawlies as much as I do, make sure to stock up on the bug spray.  And be BRAVE!!!!
3. Do not fall asleep on the couch. – I really dislike going to bed at night.  In my heart, I am a Night Owl.  But in Real Life I am forced to be the mom who has to wake her kids up at 5:30 in the morning to get them dressed and off to school on time.  Even in the years before they went to school, my eldest had the habit of waking up at 6 am.  Every. Single. Day.  Do not discount a good night’s sleep.  Your rest is crucial!  A bad night’s sleep may mean the difference between keeping your cool under pressure, or screaming at the kids like a maniac.  I know it’s hard.  I know it’s cold and lonely in there.  Get your butt to bed anyway.
4. Plan on making kid-friendly, short prep meals. – First off, you should probably understand that I am NOT the cook in this family.  Hubby is the one who lives for the kitchen.  I live for chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven, and that’s about it.  But even if you are a chef du jour, I promise, by the end of the day you will be too wiped out to cook anything that takes longer than 15 minutes from start to finish.  And if you do have the wherewithal to cook an actual meal, make sure you’ve made enough to have leftovers for at least one more dinner (hopefully two).  And, when you’ve hit your wit’s end, I’ve got three little words that’ll not just save you, but make you a hero in your own home: Breakfast. For. Dinner.
5. Go easy on yourself. – It’s tough to keep up the same routine you have when Hubby is around.  The kids may not get their baths every night, you might use paper plates more than you’d like to, maybe you’ve hit McD’s often enough that your kids have duplicates of the same toy – it’s OK.  When Hubs is gone for several weeks or less, I consider the house to be in a state of Guerrilla Warfare.  You do whatever you gotta do to make it through the day, while also keeping your dictatorship from being overthrown by a coup.  Trust me, as long as those mini-monsters are fed, dressed and loved, they will be just fine.  (And they can always use their College Funds for therapy later – not that they’ll need to!)
6. Set the bar low. – Now is not the time to begin working on that new novel, decide to go Paleo, completely reupholster the couch by yourself or start on that quilt for your cousin’s baby shower, which happens to be next weekend.  Going from a two adult household to one is stressful.  The time you think you have for extraneous projects will be quickly eaten up by unforeseen events, or just plain ol’ exhaustion.  Not that it’s impossible to find time for extra activities when Hubster is away – it is!  It’s just that it takes several weeks for the family routine to adjust to the absence of those extra pair of hands.  Again, it’ll be OK.  I promise!
7. Don’t forget to feed the dog! – Same goes for taking out the trash, mowing the lawn, and whatever else it is the Hubs usually takes care of.  During Hubster’s last deployment, I taught myself (well, more like the wonderful store clerks taught me) how to clean and maintain our pool completely on my own.  For your Hubby’s household chores, you may need to hire some outside help.  Take a look at the finances and decide on what to do beforehand.  You really don’t want to figure this stuff out after the Homeowner’s Association has already left you a nasty notice because your weeds are waist-high.
8. Remember your support system. – I can’t tell you how many times other wives will say to me, listlessly, that their hubby has to go on a work trip for the first time since they had kids, and then add, “But I shouldn’t complain to YOU.  He’ll only be gone for a week, your husband leaves for months at a time!”  Actually, you absolutely should complain to me, because I know better than anyone what you are going through.  Yes, it could be worse, but just because it’s not at the level of “the worst” doesn’t mean that you should minimize your feelings.  Whether it’s two days or two weeks or two months, any amount of time apart that means something to you is completely valid.   And no, you never really get “used” to it.  You can get used to living as a single-parent family.  But I know I will never get used to feeling that half of my heart is missing.  Nor would I want to.  Things will get stressful and harried, and you will still fall asleep on the couch, even after I told you not to, and you will not always act like the A+ Parent you think you should be, but that’s how it is for everyone.  Make sure to talk to your trusted friends and family, the ones who will listen and try to understand (and know better than to throw a“well, it could be worse!” at you) when you are feeling stressed or overwhelmed. 
9. And please, please ask for help. – There are many people around you right now who would like nothing more than the opportunity to help you out with the kids or the groceries or the yard.  In fact, they’ve probably offered already.  Attempting to do this alone is not going to prove anything to anyone.  You are already strong.  Sometimes it’s a true show of strength to recognize when you need help.  It's like Blanche Dubois said, "I always depended on the kindness of strangers!"  Well, maybe not STRANGERS, necessarily (See Tip #1), but definitely the kindness of the good people you already know.

And that’s it!  Nine items to (hopefully!) assist in saving your sanity for however long your spouse is absent for.  Good luck!

Have a few "Home-Alone" tips of your own?  Leave them in the comments, I'd love to hear them!

The Week End - Such Is Life

I found this quote earlier today. It is exactly what I needed and what I am focusing on right now.

Thought I would jazz it up before sharing with all of you.

Enjoy!

 

 

A Little Bit Giddy...

The Elvis Duran Radio Show told me my day would rank as a 10 (the best you can get) when they scrolled through the horoscopes this morning.

Boy, oh boy, they weren't kidding! 

All day long I have received many positive comments and several FaceBook shares of my Mother's Day post from yesterday.  And all of that is reflected in the stats on my blog, which is showing a record number of pageviews in one day (at least for me, anyway!)

My day is way more than a 10.  It's like a 10 bigillion-zillion!

And it's all thanks to my tremendous friends and family and all of their wonderfully kind words!!

But here's the kicker of having a post that garners me so much positive attention...

What am I supposed to write now???

If you recall, I'm still in the throws of the 31-Day Blogging Challenge (Day 12, actually, not even half-way through!)

Posts like yesterday's are tough for me.  It's difficult to put myself in a place of such vulnerability, always worried that what I see as deep or spiritual, others will see as corny or just plain wrong....and then tell me so.  Such an incident has never occurred (thank goodness), which is why I think I've become more confident about writing these sorts of meatier posts. 

So, OK, I get the post written and put it out there for all the world to see, and get some good feedback from friends and family, and here's what usually happens next....

Nothing.

When I write something that is meaningful to me, I find it difficult to switch gears and knock out some other post that can't be at the same caliber as that last one.

Let's face it, I can't write these types of posts all the time for always.  I am just not that deep!

Which is why, normally, I would head for the hills.  Like a seller of snake oil, I'd pack up all my things into a beat-up old suitcase and high-tail it outta here before anyone would have a chance to discover that my Elixir of Life was just sugar water and dye.

OK, that's maybe a touch melodramatic (I may not be deep, but I've got imagination!)  The point I'm getting at (wait, there was a point?) is that, in the past, a post like yesterday's would have left me struck dumb, probably for a week or more, scared speechless that whatever I posted on this blog next would be such an enormous let-down to anyone who came back to read more.

Which is why I SO needed this challenge!  My type of "writer's block" never had to do with a lack of words to put on paper...er, computer screen.  The thing that has held me back from being a writer - a REAL writer - was plain, old-fashioned fear.  Fear of failure.  Fear of success.  Fear of failing after a success.  You name it, I've been scared of it.

Part of this challenge was to conquer, once and for all, these silly little fears.  Pack them up in that old, beat-up suitcase and throw them in a river.

So, that's it.  The "Day-After" post is complete, and I'm still standing!  My fears may not be completely dissipated, but I definitely took a big chunk out of 'em.

But just in case, I'd better take a spoonful of that snake oil, you know, for good measure.

The Gifts of a Mother - Lessons in Strength

“I never think of myself as strong,” she told me over a frosty mug of A&W Rootbeer.  “People tell me I’m strong all the time, but, I don’t know.  I don’t really believe that.”

I was stunned.  Speechless. 

How could my mom not see herself as strong?  After a lifetime of struggles great and small, how did she not understand that strength for herself?

The more we talked, though, the more I wondered – What exactly does it mean to “be strong?”

I think “strength” is often confused with “stoicism.”  The ability to remain unemotional during immensely sad, scary or confusing times. 

I see that less as “strength” and more as “compartmentalizing.”  Many people, myself included, when faced with a crisis (and especially when other loved ones are involved and looking for guidance) can lock away that part of themselves that is completely freaking out, opening it only after the crisis has passed or they have a quiet moment to themselves.

This, to me, is not strength, but a survival mechanism.

So what is real strength?  What is that inherent quality of a person that makes people say “Wow!  She is really strong!”

Being an avid fan of NBC’s Today Show, I have seen many Regular Joes and Joans come through, interviewed for surviving cancer, having a special needs child, or living through a terrible tragedy.

Many times, the host will say to that person, “What incredible strength you have!”

And many times, that person will look at them completely dumbfounded. 

After all, what was the alternative?  To stop fighting?  To give up on their child?  To curl up into a ball and cry until they just wasted away?

There have been times in the last few years that I, too, have felt just as dumbfounded.  People commenting about my supposed “strength” in the face of one adversity or another, when all I felt I had done is put one foot in front of the other and took care of what I considered to be my responsibilities.

I never set out to be “strong.”  Never considered myself any “stronger” for having done it. 

But that’s the funny thing about “strength.” It’s a muscle you can’t see developing yourself, it only looks like something to everybody else.

I returned home to Honduras, but the question still floated in and out of my consciousness.  What is real “strength?”

I landed on an answer this morning.  Not in any sort of formal way.  Not touched on by anything I had heard or read.  All-of-a-sudden, as I was scrambling eggs for breakfast, thinking about my mom and my sister and maybe a Mother’s Day post, I was struck with the definition I needed.

True “strength” goes beyond the ability to stay level-headed in a crisis.  It’s the ability to be knee-deep in disaster and still find a way to laugh.  To be at the heart of a tragedy and still hold onto the hope that, eventually, it will all be OK.  “Strength” is that amazing quality in a person that can be rattled and banged up and bruised and still get out of bed in the morning and do something for somebody else.  “Strong” people can be hit with more than anyone should ever have to bear and come out the other side still seeing the beauty in life.  The strong do cry.  They have breakdowns and deal with depression.  But “strength” is the ability to keep that horrible, traumatic thing from causing you to stall out on your own life.  The Strong keep moving forward with the hope that joy can live their hearts again. 

All of the “strength” that I am credited for can be attributed to the strength my mother demonstrated to my sister and me throughout our lives.

Through her, I learned that change is inevitable, but no matter how much everything changes, there will always be the love of family to support you.

That in life you don’t always get what you want.  But you always make do with what you have.  And you are grateful for it.

I learned the very valuable lesson early-on that people do not change, no matter how badly you want them to. 

And more importantly, to never be afraid to walk away from a person or situation that is hurting you more than helping you.

There will be times when the world is just unfair.  Go ahead and cry, don’t deny your feelings.  Then let it go and focus on the good parts of your life (and there are always good parts).

Don’t depend on anyone to save you.  Figure out a way to save yourself.

And don’t depend on somebody to support you.  Make yourself capable so you have the ability to support yourself.

Always find a reason to laugh.

Life will throw you some crazy curve balls, but you will always, ALWAYS survive it.

And no matter what, keep your head held high, and keep. moving. forward.

My mother has two daughters living lives that are just outside of normal, in ways that make other people say, “I just don’t think I could do something like that.”

But we do. 

And we have the ability, flexibility, mental clarity, and yes, even some strength to tackle each new day, every new challenge, all the shifts and turns that life throws at us, and come through it all with joy still in our hearts, knowing that tomorrow will be a new day. 

Because my mother’s strength showed us how.

The Challenge of Existing - Brené Brown and Conquering Comparisons

As I rounded the staircase, the screams could be heard bouncing off of walls and echoing through the hall.

There was no mistaking it:  it was our four-year-old Little Miss Sunshine in a very less-than-sunshiney mood.

Again.

My foot releasing from the last step at the top of the staircase, I breathed a hard sigh and turned into the girls' bedroom to investigate.

"What is going on in here?" I asked, in that Mom-Tone that says it had better be something of importance....or else.

Between wails, I barely made out the answer.

"Daddy only made these for PRISSY!!!!  He didn't make ANY for ME!!!!!!!" 

Sunny was clutching a couple of wooden coat hooks, one in the shape of a heart, the other, a butterfly.  The pair were two of four that Hubby had lovingly purchased from a craft store years before and hand-painted with acrylic paints.  Back then, we were in the midst of yet-another move, and he was preparing a bedroom for a tiny, brand-spanking new, two-month-old Miss Priss before she and I were due to arrive at our new home.  Instantly, I realized the source of my youngest child's despair.

"Oh, Sweetheart," I soothed, crouching down to rub her back, "Prissy had been born first, that's all.  Daddy painted these when she was a little bitty baby.  We already knew we wanted to have you, but we didn't know when, or even if you'd be a boy or a girl."

By then, Hubby had appeared from whatever dark shadow he had been hiding inside of.  In the small space of calm, a pause as Sunny took in a deep breath of air while contemplating what I had told her, Hubs added cheerfully, "See, I told you.  You just didn't exist yet!"

Her face twisted.

Then her head rotated a slow 360 degrees around her neck.  As she levitated off the floor, lightning flashing in the suddenly darkened sky, toys began hurling themselves across the room.

"DADDY SAYS THAT I DON'T EXIST!!!!!!" alighted the top of the shrill scream emanating from my freshly oxygenated preschooler, at a decibel that I was sure caused the neighbors to stop mid-stride in their hallways and kitchens and ponder as to the source of this strange new sound in the city.

My poor little baby.  The younger of a set of two little girls that we have been blessed with.  Who spends much of her waking life attempting to do, be and have everything her sister, three years her senior, does, is and has.

I wish I could say to her that "this, too, shall pass."  But the truth is, no matter how old we get, no matter how much we've achieved, there is always that part of ourselves that wishes to do, be or have something that someone else does, is or has first.

"Comparison is all about conformity and competition."  Brené Brown says in her book, The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You're Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are.  "At first it seems like conforming and competing are mutually exclusive, but they're not.  When we compare, we want to see who or what is best out of a specific collection of "alike things."

For most of my adult life, I have struggled with comparisons.  Comparing myself with people who had higher-paying jobs right out of college.  Young people who successfully run their own companies.  Crafters who create unique and beautiful and useful things.  Bloggers who have lucrative sponsorships or book deals.  Shoot, bloggers who manage to write every. single. DAY! 

"The comparison mandate becomes this crushing paradox of "fit in and stand out!"  It's not cultivate self-acceptance, belonging, and authenticity; it's be just like everyone else, but better."

And while I resisted the urge to throw a temper tantrum after every new story of success by people who are increasingly becoming younger and younger than myself, I have certainly felt frustrated.  Frustrated and defeated and discouraged that I might NEVER do, be or have ANY of these achievements that, I was sure, would magically fill me with a sense of accomplishment and pride and purpose.

That four-year-old inside of us still speaks in such absolutes, doesn't it?  "NEVER going to happen."  "NEVER going to be good enough."  "NEVER going to succeed at ANYTHING!"

That evening, I watched my sweet baby, her face contorted and red, standing, screaming, crying in the middle of a playroom filled with her own dolls and games and princess dresses, enough to open a toy store, ignoring them all, instead her fingers clenched around two wooden coat hooks that she had never paid any mind to in these four short years of her life, but which now stood as the ultimate symbols of every moment of every thing her sister had received that she, herself, had not.

It was a reminder to me.  A reminder of something that I eventually learned to understand in these thirty-odd short years of life on this earth. 

There are times when it is me, standing in the middle of my home filled with my own amazing children and husband and dog, more than I could have ever dreamed or hoped for in my youth, with my mind's eye clenched around another story about another blogger, or youngster, or stay-at-home mom who has a company or readership or monetary gain that, in that moment, stands for all the wants and things that seem so easy for everyone else, but still elude me.

"....many of us have bought into the idea that something has to be extraordinary if it's going to bring us joy. ...We seem to measure the value of people's contributions (and sometimes their entire lives) by their level of public recognition.  In other words, worth is measured by fame and fortune.  Our culture is quick to dismiss the quiet, ordinary, hardworking men and women.  In many instances, we equate ordinary with boring or, even more dangerous, ordinary has become synonymous with meaningless."

But now, when I find myself brooding on comparisons and unfulfilled wishlists, I am reminded of this little pearl of wisdom that I had picked up somewhere along the way that says to me, "That is a fine thing for that other person.  But you don't exist to do that.  That is not the path you were meant to follow.  Here, now, is everything that you exist for.  It is already with you, in you and around you.  Right.  Now."

It is not always the easiest thing to remember.  And it's an even harder thing to explain to a four-year-old with no sense of time and no siblings younger than herself.

Sunny was inconsolable for a good long while.  Hubster, being the source of her agony, removed himself from her sight (a wise move, in this case) and I managed to wrestle the little tirade into some pajamas.  All the while, I attempted to explain how it had been possible for her Father and I to have wanted to have her older sister, alone, first, and why we did not, for the three years before she was born, make sure that a future little sister would have the exact same things the older one did.

"You know, it's true," I said, stroking her hair, "for three years it was just me, daddy and your sister, because you just weren't here yet."  We were laying on her bed, the sunlight sinking away rapidly behind closed curtains.  "But you know what?" I went on, "Someday, Miss Priss will be all grown up, and she'll go to college or move into her own apartment, and then it will be just you, me and daddy for a few years until you graduate high school!"

Suddenly, from a separate bed a few feet away,  a slow sad sob could be heard rising up from under a mound of tangled blankets. 

"Prissy, are you OK?" I tentatively asked.

"YOU JUST WANT ME TO MOVE AWAY!!!!"

Oh, for heaven's sake!

Playing The Shame Game - Brené Brown and Accepting My Imperfections

First, I was startled.

Which then melted into horrified.

"What did she say????"

My friend here in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, where we are now planted, had recounted the words her daughters had quoted from MY daughter's mouth.

My sweet little seven-year-old Miss Priss.

And yes, they were mostly four-letter words.

Poop.  Fart.  Butt.

I.  was.  MORTIFIED.  Mostly because I had already had a talk with her about this exact same behavior over a month ago.  I thought we had moved past this.

Finally.

What is it with some kids that they become obsessed with potty words and toilet humor?  Is it genetic?  Cause if it is, it totally came from my dad!

"I told them that you had invited us over for a playdate on Wednesday," my friend went on, "and they didn't want to come.  They don't like these potty words she keeps saying.  They're embarrassed for her."

And I was embarrassed for me.

We talked for a little while longer, me saying those familiar catchphrases like, "I don't know where she gets this from" and "she really thinks this is funny, but I have no idea why."

After my friend left, I had visions of all the punishments my little princess was going to suffer.  I blamed our cable television, and decided she wouldn't watch anything for a month. 

Make that TWO months!

Feeling deeply unsettled, and with a little time to spare before lunch, I decided open up my Brené Brown book and try not to think about this problem for a while.

Recently, I started an online course called "The Gifts of Imperfection," hosted by the author of the book of the same name, Brené Brown.  Each week has a new chapter to read and tasks for an Art Journal.  So far, I have gained paint brushes, watercolors, 100# paper and a new perspective on the inner workings of my idiosyncrasies. 

Today would prove to be no different.

I cracked open my book (well, truth-be-told, I tapped open my iPad) and picked up where I left off in the chapter "The Things That Get In The Way."

Little did I know where that chapter was going.

I read this passage, but instead of reading it in terms of my own actions, I was reading it in terms of Miss Priss...

"...when we struggle to believe in our worthiness, we hustle for it.  The hustle for worthiness has its own soundtrack....the cacophony of shame tapes and gremlins - those messages that fuel "never good enough."

'What will people think {of my daughter}?'

'You can't really love yourself yet.  Your {daughter} is not {perfect} enough.'

'No one can find out {that my daughter thinks poop is hilarious}.'

'Who do you think you are to put {this child} out in the world?'"

I finally had a word for the way I was feeling.  The way I feel every time somebody points out a flaw in one of my children. 

Shame.

I was ashamed.  Not of my darling little girl, but of myself, for having been so erroneous in my parenting, she would consider a farting contest to be high art.  Where had I gone wrong? 

"Shame is that warm feeling that washes over us, making us feel small, flawed, and never good enough."

Yep, that was me in a nutshell.  Not just about my parenting, but everything.  From my lack of cooking skills, to my constant self-doubt about my writing abilities, despite readers (Hi Mom!) consistently telling me how much they enjoy my musings.  (The same, unfortunately, cannot be claimed for my musings in the kitchen.)

In no way was this caused by my friend, mind you.  I am all ears when it comes to the antics of my children.  It kills me that they already, at just 7 and 4 years old, have lives that are separate from my own.  My shame constituted what I consider a "Personal Problem."

"When we're in shame we're not fit for human consumption."

I had taken things that were said to me as a matter of record, twisted them up in my own mind, and put myself in a Shame Spiral.

"We need to get back on our emotional feet before we do, say, email, or text something that we'll regret."

And the worst part - I was conjuring up all these horrible punishments as a way to release my anxiety, by lashing out at my child and - ultimately - transfer this shame, MY shame, onto her. 

I do thank God that I finished reading that chapter first!

The chapter had been about healing your own shame issues and becoming more resilient.  What I discovered was not only the shame I feel for myself, those terrible maggots of "not enough" that eat away at your self-confidence and soul, but how I also feel shame on behalf of my children.  Children that I had always hoped would not be dragged down by judgemental feelings and a compulsion to be perfect.

I had so badly wanted more for them.

"[Shame] Resilience is often a slow unfolding of understanding.  What did that experience mean to me?  What were the gremlins mumbling?  Not only do we need to own our story and love ourselves in the process, we have to figure out the real story!"

After finishing the chapter and bookmarking my page, I thought more about this particular incident.  I took shame out of the equation and saw only my baby girl again.  A sweet, smart, special kid, with a heart the size of an elephant, a friend to everyone, and loyal to the end.  A creature of my and my husband's making who we've encouraged to think her own thoughts and be her own person.  Yes, she loves her toilet humor, and it took us a lot of lecturing and time-outs and stays in the bathroom to help her understand when it is and is not appropriate to be that type of silly.  The dinner table is not.  The playground is.  And since there have been no complaints from her teachers, no trips to the principal's office, it is safe to reason that all that "talking till we were blue in the face" finally sank in. 

Priss and I still had that discussion, though.  But instead of telling her she was not good enough, I pointed out that there are people, her two little friends included, who do not appreciate her type of humor.  That, in life, there will always people who will not appreciate everything she has to say.  But there will always - always - be people who do. 

It broke her heart (and shattered mine) to learn that not everyone in the world would love and accept her exactly the way she is. 

But the very next day, another friend, Prissy's "Fart-ner In Crime," sent over a request for a playdate.

 

 

 

The Picture People

This week has been a whirlwind of planning and strategizing and logistics.  I'm exhausted.  Plus my brain hurts.

And it's only Wednesday.

But this is typical of the week before VBS (Vacation Bible School) in the lives of the volunteers involved with this yearly event at our church. I have the glorious job of Registration.  Which means I am tasked with tracking the children participating, as well as the volunteers, creating the daily schedule, assigning volunteers to their jobs and children to their crews.  It's data and organizing and spreadsheets, which (oddly) is something I'm not only good at, but actually enjoy.

Still, in the madness of summer, it seems there's never enough hours in the day, never enough volunteers, and an unending flow of kids.  Last year's VBS totalled 230 kids that swarmed the halls of the church building.

This is no small job.

As I was piling dishes into the dishwasher the other day, my mind idly listed all the little tasks that needed to be accomplished. Purchasing T-shirts in an array of colors for the volunteers, creating a spreadsheet of aforementioned volunteers and their assigned locations, emailing that plus more information to those same volunteers, the list kept going. As I looked around my kitchen, a separate list was beginning to emerge, a list of housework that has been grossly neglected in the last couple of weeks. My home could be the setting for a bad TV horror movie, entitled, "The Flooring The Mop Forgot."

The girls were busily working with markers and paper at the kitchen table a few feet from me.  I was pulled out of my thoughts by the voice of Miss Priss exclaiming, "Here, Sunny, let me draw Jesus for you."

Curious, I wandered over to see what the munchkins were up to.

Miss Priss had drawn a colorful picture of she and Sunny, both blond, standing on either side of a long-bearded Jesus. In front of Sunny was a sketch of the same trio on another piece of paper, meant for her to color in. Both were completed with frames.

"Why did you make Sunny blond?" I asked, twirling a lock of Sunny's dark strands.

"Because!" Priss started, "I wanted to!"  Ah!  Sweet revenge for all the times I have answered her query of "why" with "because I said so!"

It was just about the cutest thing I'd ever seen them do. In fact, it is now officially on my list of Top Ten Cutest Things The Girls Have Ever Done Together, right behind "reading books and giggling on the bedroom floor," and just above "holding hands with bear in between."

I gushed over their drawings the way any good mother would, then returned to my dishes and the to-do list in my head.

I went about my day of data entering, and spreadsheeting, and emailing, but the girls and their pictures continued to enter my thoughts.

This is what VBS is, I surmised, this is what we are hoping to do with all the T-shirts and decorations, the games and the balloons, the volunteers and the organizers. We do this with a hope and a prayer that these 200+ kids, the majority having no affiliation with our church, will be able to picture themselves with Jesus. Will come to understand the God that loves them, unconditionally and without end.

I may look like some sort of crazed Sales Maven pushing my cart up to the register of Michael's with a stack of rainbow-colored "5 for $10" T-shirts toppling onto the counter.  And I may send emails at 11:58pm, confusing everyone by using the word "tomorrow."  (So, is that "tomorrow," like, "today," or "tomorrow," like, "tomorrow from today?")  And the film crew may be setting up cameras to begin taping that horror movie in my living room.  (They had to cut the kitchen scenes -- hubby scoured that zone last night.  Isn't he fabulous, ladies?)

But that is the throes of Vacation Bible School.  Not always pretty, not ever as organized as everyone wishes it was, but always done in an effort to make a picture with Jesus.

 

The Unearthed Writer: Seeing Through Fear

Pastor Christa looked deceptively casual, leaning against the concrete wall of the hallway.

I was walking out of the parlor with a couple of ladies after a rousing meeting of the Military Spouse Support Group at church. Something about her standing there seemed a bit off. Probably because she was alone. In this busy little church, I had never seen Pastor Christa without a few of the youth kids buzzing happily about her. Instantly, my brain decided to go in for a hug, and I dropped back from my friends to accomplish the task.

"Hey! How ya doin'?" I asked nonchalantly.

"Oh, good. Just waiting for my evaluation."

"Alrighty!" I said brightly, moving past her. Wait, I thought, what evaluation?

I paused, turned, "What evaluation are you waiting for?" It was then that I caught a glimpse of nervous energy behind the demur facade.

"An evaluation of me. I get one once a year."

Being Assistant Pastor, and having graduated from seminary school within the last few years, I was fairly certain that we were still counting these evaluations on one hand. Well, that sort of thing requires a Good-Luck-In-There-I'm-Behind-You-200%-style hug, about four levels higher than the How-Ya-Doin'-Nice-Night-Isn't-It? quickie hug that I'd just bestowed.

I don't care how awesome you are at your job, how confident you are at your abilities and skills, nobody since the Evolution of Evaluations has ever looked forward to actually receiving one. 

"You'll do GREAT!" I added.

Too generic, I thought. Lame. I had to do it. I had to tell her that thing that I'd been meaning to tell her for months and hadn't because, well, I guess I'd just been chicken.

"Are you ready for this?" I asked, holding her hand. She nodded. "Are you sure?" Another nod. "You're a huge reason I started writing again."

"Really?" she asked in that are-you-just-being-nice-to-me-cause-I-look-like-I-might-vomit-on-you kind of way.

"Really.  Truly.  Honestly," my eyes getting wet thinking back on that day.

"Thank you."

I didn't want to go into the whole story of it right then. A story that I'd been meaning to tell Pastor Christa for quite a while. I knew any minute she'd be called up for that evaluation (which in my mind was going to look like two men in black suits and dark sunglasses whisking her up the elevator to a stark white room where she had to choose between the red pill or the blue pill. OK, so my thoughts like to steal their material from The Matrix.....or did The Matrix steal its material from me?)

It was a Sunday many months ago. I had just dropped Miss Priss off at Kid's Church, all the way on the opposite side of the building, and had made my way back to the sanctuary. I don't normally go through the center door, opting to sit on the left side of the church. But in my tardiness, the only person still handing out bulletins was handing them out in front of the middle doors, so I gladly accepted one and walked in to find a seat.

The pews were pretty full that day and I was one of the last to enter. The only spot I could find was on the right side of the church. It felt a little weird, being way over there. But the sunshine was streaming in through the large windows lining the wall, making me feel comfortably warm and oddly illuminated.

The speakers came and went, talking about church goings-on, upcoming meetings and missions, the choir sang, the plate was passed, everybody settled down, and then Pastor Christa took her place behind the pulpit and delivered her sermon.  Since she normally speaks at an earlier service, I considered it a special treat that she was here in front of us 11:00ers.

The verse that week was Matthew 25:14-30, The Parable of the Talents, which spoke of a man giving his three servants talents, to see what they would do with them. She explained that back then, a "talent" was what they had called money, and the first two servants had invested their coins and managed to return to their master with more than they were given. The third decided to bury his talents in the ground, saving them, and came back with only his original coins. The master was very displeased that this third servant, due to a fear of losing, had not even bothered to try, and wound up gaining nothing.

I was confused.  I had not heard of this parable before.  What did money have to do with anything? Did I need some stocks or something?

As if reading my mind, Christa explained that "talents" are not simply money, but can be interpreted as the talents you were given by God. Like the master in the verse, God had given each of us specific talents when we were born, and it is up to us, as we move through our daily lives interacting with family and friends and acquaintances and strangers, whether to use our talents to create something more and better for the world, or to, likely because of fear, bury those talents in the ground, allowing them to be useful to no one.

Sitting in the warmth of those bright beams of sunshine, I felt like I finally had the answer to a question that I've been asking for the last few years. 

"What should I be doing???"

Although the job of Home Maker has been rewarding and exhausting and fulfilling and draining, I still had a feeling that there was something else.  The blog that first pointed out to me that I could maybe, possibly be a half-way decent writer had fallen to the wayside.  Frankly, I was tired of just being funny.  "Funny" was simply the black wax on the top of a craft-store scratch board.  I knew there was a rainbow of colors barely underneath the surface, but exposing those colors would make me vulnerable.  And that was terrifying.

My other love is my crafty projects.  Jewelry making, loom knitting, sewing, paper crafts, hairpin crochet, the Crafty Closet is like an archaeological dig for my multitude of crafting ventures.  (Did you hear that?  That was Hubby banging his head on the wall.  The Crafty Closet is kind of a sore subject with him!)  Although I enjoyed them all immensely, there had been no inspiration to pursue any craft in particular.

With two small kids and a sea-bound husband, I have limited time, and knew I could not actively pursue both.  So I sat on my hands, and did nothing.

There had been other signs before that fateful day.  Small nudges.  Bigger prodding.  I had ignored all of it.  I was always of the inclination that I would just know what the answer was.  And all I heard was silence.  Fear is a remarkable thing.  It's a material so tough and durable, not even the light can shine through.

Alone in my pew, bathed in pure sunlight, I reached for a pen and a blank concerns card from the box in front of me.  Feverishly, I began to write:

God has given me these talents.  I am selfish and lazy to not have used them. 

Do not have fear.

Give that fear to God and let Him sort it out.

There will always be more....

Something inside that sermon, on that day, in that seat finally broke through the wall of fear that I had been surrounded with.  I knew.  And beyond the discovery of that answer it became so clear, in that brilliant white light streaming through the church windows, that the answer had come to me a thousand times before in a hundred different ways.  I am a writer.  The one gift that I had determined I could never be good enough at, tossed into a coffee can and buried deep into the ground.  I wish I had the wherewithal to have written down some of the inspiring quotes from Pastor Christa's actual sermon.  Unfortunately, there is no Podcast to refer to, as of yet. 

After the service was over, I patiently eeked down the center aisle towards the main doors where I knew both Pastor Lee and Assistant Pastor Christa would be greeting parishioners.  I typically circumvent this line, preferring to exit out of a side door so I can retrieve my children.  But on that day, a blissful, blue-skied, beautiful day, I waited my turn and met Pastor Christa in the doorway, startling her with a hug. 

"Thank you," I had said, holding the embrace a couple beats too long.  "It really meant a lot."

"OK!" she said, bewildered.

Knowing there were others waiting behind me, I beamed one last smile at her, turned, and left.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I could never have told Christa all of this in the middle of that hallway.  First off, I could never have told her all of the above and had it come out in a cohesive manner.  I really am better in writing.

And I could have typed it all out and emailed it to her, but then I would have missed sharing this story with all of you.

I know that God has blessed me with many talents.  But the one I had buried and ignored for most of my life was writing.  Unearthing that coffee can wasn't instantaneous; it still took a little while to remember where I'd buried it.  And that old fear continues to grip me on occasion (like with this soul-baring post, for instance), but now I feel an energy and passion for my work that the old fear and anxiety were determined to keep from me. 

What about you?  What did you bury?  What is fear telling you you can and cannot do?

Fishbowl Fantasies

Who knew a walleyed pike could be so down-right inspirational?

But there I was, sitting in church on Sunday, goofing off with my friend, Katie, giggling about how our friend, Julie's, unborn baby nearly leaped out of her belly upon hearing the blare of a trumpet that was accompanying the Men's Choir in their rendition of "America The Beautiful."

Pastor Lee had just begun digging into his sermon, and Katie, Julie and I were finally settling down to give it a listen.  He was referring to a study that some scientist at some university or something (Pastor Lee was much better about properly referencing his references) had conducted on walleyed pike and minnows.

They had put a piece of glass between the minnows and walleyes, he explained.  The walleyes would bang and smash themselves against the glass, trying to eat those minnows, to no avail. 

Eventually, they simply stopped trying.

At that time, the scientists removed the glass partition so that all the fish were swimming together again.  But the walleyed pike wouldn't try to eat the minnows anymore.  They had been conditioned to think there was no way they could get to them.  Even when the little fish bumped right into the mouth of a walleye, the predator would just swim on, ignoring the prey. 

The sciency part of my brain was fascinated.  Wow!, I thought, it's so interesting how the conditioning process can work on animals.

Then Pastor Lee went on, "Those walleyed pike would rather starve to death than even try one more time to eat a minnow it thought it had no hope in catching."

For a second, my breath stopped.  In that breathless moment an electric thought flashed through the less-sciency, more spiritual side of my brain - Hadn't I been just like that?  Willing to let my soul starve rather than take the risk?

My lungs became operational again as Pastor Lee was sharing another story, this time about a goldfish who had spent it's life in a fishbowl.  The owner, one day, decided to set it free and dumped it into a river.  However, the little orange fish had been so conditioned to do nothing but swim in circles, it remained swimming in a circle around a rock, up until a bigger fish came along and ate it.

(I'm gonna take a guess that it was one of the walleyed pikes from the earlier story.  Having given up on minnows, the poor guy must've been ecstatic to find such an easy lunch!)

The sermon was pointing out that most of us have been conditioned - because of previous experiences with loved ones and bullies, teachers and bosses, failures and losses - to simply stop trying.  That we have a whole ocean surrounding us, yet we still swim in circles, our fears and anxiety becoming the glass bowl that we have conditioned ourselves into seeing.

This particular sermon struck me because it so encapsulated the progress I have made over the past year in dealing with my own fears and negativities, all produced within the confines of my head.  I'm not really sure how a woman can be surrounded by so many supportive friends and family, and still have such a strong voice in her head, sometimes whispering, sometimes screaming, that such-and-such idea is absolutely not going to work, so don't even bother trying.

"I miss reading your posts," I would hear from a friend or a cousin every once in a while, "they always made me laugh!"

I have a running list of fears regarding my writing.  Basic stuff, like nobody will like it (or worse, TELL me how much they don't like it!), to issues about being more vulnerable with my readers.  But would you like to know what is at the top of my Most Silliest Fears Ever?

#1 Most Silliest Fear EVER

* I will stop being funny and have nothing left to write about.

No lie!  That is one of my biggest fears!  That if I really write whatever hysterical post I've dreamed up.... and it turns out to be the funniest post that has ever been written in the entire history of the blogosphere.... that I will suddenly be struck dumb and have no inspiration to follow up with.... letting the millions and millions of untold readers who were waiting for the next equally funny writing... leading me to devastation and ruin!

WAIT!  What?!??  Devastation?  And RUIN????  Sometimes, I am just ridiculous. 

Which was what I finally realized in the ongoing course of overcoming my fears.  I told that nasty little voice in my head that if I suddenly never write another word again, I would rather know that I tried and that I made at least a few people chuckle before the well dried up.   

After that, I reminded aforementioned Nasty Voice that I am no longer listening to it anymore, and that I will be putting my faith in God*.  If God wants me to write, then that is what I will do.  And if He decides to pull the plug on the whole thing, well, that's fine, too.  Perhaps I will be a dog walker instead.

(Although I do hate to disappoint those "millions and millions" of fans that I will have by then, but, hey, maybe some of them will have dogs that need walking!)

In this past year I  feel like I have never seen my own fishbowl so clearly.  And not only do I SEE my fishbowl, I actually see what is beyond the glass.  This very post, for instance, puts me WELL outside of my fishbowl, my comfort zone. 

What about you?  What is outside of your fishbowl?  What have you had a nagging urge to do, or be, or see, but stopped yourself for reasons you're not even really sure of?  I would love to hear them!  (And you can leave anonymous comments, if you'd like!) 

 

*My spiritual, New Age-y Dad would frequently tell my sister and I, during one of his many spiritual-type talks, "I don't care if you wanna call it God, or The Universe, or a Great Big Tree, it's all the same thing."  So whatever term you want to use for God, it's alright with me!