that crazy hair

An excerpt from Pools of Blessing

When I was a child my mother kept my hair short.  I don’t think she liked to mess with either my sister’s or my hair.  Consequently,  I never had those beautiful girlhood tresses hanging down my back like so many of my friends did.  Not only was our hair kept short, but it was also permed every three months. The outcome was anything but desirable.   Because my hair looked eerily similar to the character, Estelle’s, from the TV show, “The Golden Girls”, my husband, when he sees pictures of me from back then, refers to me as Stella.  And I have to say that minus the gray hair, he’s pretty much right.  The eighties were not good to me hair-wise. 

Mom not only kept our hair short, but she wore hers short as well.  Having thin, fine, hair Mom always seemed to struggle with how to fix it.  Every morning she painstakingly dried, curled, and combed her hair until it was, in her mind, at least presentable.  Sometimes I would watch her getting ready and think to myself, ‘Why is Mom so obsessed with how her hair looks?  Why can’t she just go out without all of the fuss?  Does she really think she’ll be judged if it’s not perfect?’

But sometimes the words you say, or in this case, think, have a way of coming back to bite you.  Because, ironically enough, I’ve always hated my hair, too.  Whether it’s cut short, or hangs long around my shoulders, worn up, or curled down, it never seems to be quite good enough.  Still I try.  I get my haircut and think, ‘Oh they fixed it so nicely, I can’t wait to get home and play with it.’  But inevitably, no matter how good the cut is, I can never make my hair look good enough.  Someone else always does it better. 

I never really understood all this drama over hair until, one day, Mom shared a story about her own mother.  Mom’s grandma, my great-grandma, Ella Pokorney, tended to be a stern, rigid person.  If something was done, then it needed to be done well.  Consequently, the year my grandma turned fourteen, Ella, her mother, began to take her to the beauty shop once a week to have her hair done.  Up to that point, Grandma had been an avid and enthusiastic swimmer, but from then on she was forbidden to swim or participate in any “sweaty activities”. 

After that my grandmother never washed or “did up” her own hair.  As an adult, she would visit her favorite beautician, Jewel Chappell, once a week on Fridays with an appointment scheduled for 4:00pm. 

Mind you now, this is all a theory, but doesn’t it seem a little crazy to you that we all, my great-grandmother, grandmother, mother and I have been so obsessed with our hair?   It’s like the “I hate my hair gene” has been passed down through the generations.  And, sad to say, this gene lives on brilliantly in me.   My hair hangs down to my shoulders, but even now I am considering cutting it short.  It just doesn’t look good enough.  It’s not perfectly perfect. 

Sadder still, I keep my little girl’s hair short too.  I don’t want to have to fix long hair because I feel so inept at fixing my own.   Yes, the “I hate my hair” gene is alive and well in me. 

But, as I write this it occurs to me that someone needs to stop the madness.   Maybe that somebody needs to be me.  There is a sane part of me that’s learned  this; sometimes you need to do things for the pure pleasure of trying.  Failure isn’t something to be avoided at all costs, it’s a stepping stone to learning how to do things well.  If perfection isn’t achieved, that’s ok.  The process is more important than the outcome.  

So, for my daughter’s sake, and the sake of my granddaughters and great-granddaughters to come, I will bring an end to this vicious cycle.  I will let my daughter grow her hair long if she wishes.  Even now, while her hair is chin length, I practice by putting bows and ribbons in it.  Perfect or not, I have to try.  I have to learn to let my hair down a bit.  No pun intended.

so long, farewell

Hey all!

Just a quick note to let you know that I'm not going to be writing entries for a few weeks.  I am going to meet with an agent at the Nebraska Writer's Guild spring conference.  I'll be sharing the book I'm working on.  It is still pretty raw and I have a lot of work to do to get it ready.  Anyway, I love writing the blog entries so I will keep doing them eventually.  Thanks to those of you who are faithful followers and to all for the positive feedback, encouragement, and support from the beginnings of my blogging journey til now! 

that crazy plank

Let me just say that I hate being judged.  Do you know what I mean?  The kind of judgment you feel boring a hole into your heart when you do something in public that seems out of the ordinary, unconventional, or just plain wrong.  Prime example:  My three-year-old, who shall remain nameless, threw a tantrum in the store the other day.  She played ‘wet noodle’ when I went to pick her up, and all the way out the door I felt the humiliation of it.  People stared at me condemningly.  I can just imagine what they were thinking, ‘What a bad mother she must be.  She has such poor control over her own child.’

Jesus once said, “Do not judge or you too will be judged.  For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.” (Matthew 7:1 –NIV)

Such great wisdom.   I know because I used to be so judgmental myself.  I may have never said anything out loud, but I could condemn others with the best of them.   Oh, how I used to judge – for what I perceived to be poor parenting, or lack of self-control, or  weight,  or clothes worn.  If someone didn’t act like I thought they should, or walk, or talk, or be what I thought they should be, I judged them.  And let me just say, I was pretty harsh in my judgments.  No one, I mean no one, got a perfect ten from me.  But there were plenty who received subpar scores.  Now I just have to sit back and laugh.  Who did I think I was back then sitting on my throne judging any and everyone based on my principles, my standards?

I guess what I’m learning is the old adage,” You never know what another person’s life is like until you walk in their shoes for a bit.”  I like to call it ‘Seeing the Big Picture’.   It’s no fun when one of my little ones acts like a terror and leaves me humiliated in front of a family member, friend, or stranger.  But lately I’ve been dealing with it this way reminding myself that those judging me don’t see the whole picture.  They’re only catching a glimpse or a snapshot at the moment.

Seeing the bigger picture is important.  Remembering that you don’t know the person’s story, or circumstances, or situations is a good starting point.  After all you don’t want other people judging you , do you?   Remember what Jesus said, ‘With the measure you use, it will be measured back to you. ‘

It’s funny how we can point out others weaknesses and shortcomings more than we catch those things in ourselves.  In fact, many times, the thing I’m critical about in another is just as glaringly obvious in my own life.   Just because I don’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there.  This reminds me of a teaching that Jesus once shared:

Why do you look at the speck in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?  How can you say to your brother, ‘Brother, let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when you yourself fail to see the plank in your own eye?  You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye. ‘  (Luke 6:41-NIV)

So the next time you feel like ‘getting up into someone else’s business’ take a good long look in the mirror.  If you find a plank there, you’ll probably want to remove it.  After all, you don’t want to poke your friend’s eye out. 

Sudden, Dramatic, Complete

Do you ever feel like nothing about life will EVER change that it just keeps going on and on – a pattern or routine that will never be disrupted.  I know I felt like this, especially when I was little.  Life moved so slowly.  I wanted to be taller, or older, able to do things I wasn’t allowed to do at my age.  The days seemed to crawl by. 

That was then, and this is now.  Now that I am older and wiser I try to cherish each day knowing all too well that I will never get it back.  I guess I’ve been thinking about this quite a bit because I’ve realized that  all of a sudden my babies have grown into kids, and I’m left wondering how it happened.  Of course I realize they grow every day, but it happens in such small ways.   It’s hard to see the change taking place before my very eyes because it’s so miniscule.  And I realize that all these small changes add up to one big change – a sudden, dramatic, complete one.   I know I’ve shared this quote before, but I think it’s worth resharing:

Thus God works out His own high purposes slowly as it seems oftentimes, but surely and with unerring wisdom until all things being done, the end is sudden, dramatic, complete.  ~ Cynthia Heald

Back when I was a teacher it seemed like that was what I would always be.  Despite the stress and load of work, I loved it.  Then I left to stay at home with my kids, and, just like that, my teaching days were over.  To this day when fall begins and teachers prepare for the new school year, I miss it; the newness of it all, the camaraderie, the staff, the students.  I miss it all.  And I realize that I will never get that season of life back.   Now that I’m trying to make writing my career, I realize in all likelihood I will never again teach in a classroom.  It makes me sad.  But you know what makes me even sadder?   The fact that I took some of it for granted. 

Another example of taking things for granted happened during my single years.  When I was in college, I fully expected to be married by the time I graduated.  When that milestone came and passed I thought, ‘Well, maybe my mid twenties.’ Those came and went too.  As I got closer to that magic age of 30, I wondered if I would ever be married and have kids of my own.   But God was working on my heart, and I began to realize something.  While there was a large part of me that wished I was married, I would never be able to get those years of being single back.  From then on, I worked hard to appreciate that very special time in my life. 

Once I was married, I realized what a gift I’d been given.   As a single person, I had made some very dear friends.  I had traveled, taken backpacking trips.  I stayed up late when I wanted to, slept in, ate cereal for dinner when I didn’t feel like making anything.  Life was simpler then.  It was all about me; my time, my life.  No one else to be accountable to.   That was a precious time. 

Now, being married and having young kids I try to make each day count.  Yes, the house isn’t as clean as I’d like it to be.  Yes, there are days the kids drive me batty.  Yes, it would be so easy to think, “If only they were a little bit older . . . ,”  But when I catch myself thinking these things I stop and remind myself, they will never be small again.  I will never get these days back.  In fact there are moments when I wish my babies would still be - my babies.  Already I’m beginning to wonder, ‘How did they grow up so fast?’   

I had a dear friend in high school whose mom gave the best advice I’ve ever been given. ‘ Don’t wish any part of your life away.  You will never get it back.  Make the most of each day.  Make each day count.’  Hope this is encouragement for you.  Treasure each day.  Treasure your loved ones.  Treasure the priceless gift of now.  Make every moment count.

Teach us to number our days aright that we may gain a heart of wisdom.  Psalm 90:12

that crazy garbage disposal

It’s confession time.  Do you know what household “appliance” scares me the most?  I guess there’s really no surprise since it is the title of this entry.  But humor me anyway.   It’s the garbage disposal; yes you read it correctly, the garbage disposal.  I’m telling you, it’s an apparatus to be feared.  Don’t ask me why, but ever since I was a little girl, my fear and dread of the garbage disposal have been like thorns in my flesh.  All right, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but, nonetheless, the garbage disposal has truly mystified me for the past 38 years. 

First, it was the warning from my mother.  You know the one . . .  “Never, ever put your hands into the disposal while it’s running.  You could cut off your fingers.”  This warning was enough to scare the living daylights out of me.  Of course, I was grateful for the information.  No mangled hands for me, no sirree.

As an adult I figured keeping my hands out of the disposal was the only rule to follow.  I had that one down, no problem.  But, hold on, when I entered college a second warning from a roommate made me wish I’d never even heard the word garbage disposal.  Now I had two rules to follow?  Too much pressure.  It happened one night while I was cleaning the kitchen.   I was pouring the rest of my yummy Raman noodles down the drain and was set to switch on the garbage disposal when my roommate grabbed my had and firmly told me, “Never, ever (there’s that phrase never, ever again so I knew this was  serious.)  Never, ever run the disposal with hot water.  Always use cold.” 

Suddenly my brain was spinning.  Could this be possible?  Did I miss something?  For the life of me I couldn’t recall this rule at all.  Had Mom forgotten to tell me?  Oh, the dilemma.  But being a girl that likes to play it safe, I added this rule to my manual on garbage disposal etiquette.  From now on, I would use only cold water when I ran the disposal.  Once I’d begun to follow this rule faithfully, I breathed a sigh of relief.  Surely there were no more rules to follow.  I was safe and well informed on the finer points of disposal use.  

But then I got married, and once again I was forced to acquire a new rule.  To make matters worse it came from my husband.  While I was cleaning the kitchen one night and using the disposal very appropriately, I must say, his advice blindsided me.  “Honey, aren’t’ you running that disposal a little long?  I remember in Home Ec the teacher told us to run it for only short spurts.”  I gave him a cold, calculated look.  Now I know my mother had never, ever given me this “never, ever” advice.  Did I really want to change everything up just because some home ec teacher told my husband something fifteen or so years ago?  And the answer was, of course, yes.  Why take a chance?

Sighing, I shut of the garbage disposal and added the new “rule” to my list.  I vowed from then on to follow these three rules faithfully.  Each time I used the disposal I muttered my three rule mantra, “Hands clear.  Cold Water.  Short Spurts.  Hands clear.  Cold water.  Short spurts.”   

By now you may be thinking, “This gal is crazy.  Who’s afraid of the garbage disposal?”  But my fears are real deep-seeded ones.  Which leads me to a question; what exactly am I afraid of?  You’re going to laugh, but I really think it all boils down to one thing.  I’m a rule follower.  One of those who pours over a recipe to ensure that I’m using the right amount, of the right ingredients, in the right order.  Rarely do I just creatively “throw something together” for dinner. 

What’s worse my son is following in my footsteps.  At conferences, his teacher informed me that whenever another student in class does something wrong; he’s quick to tell them that they “broke the rules”.  And with that, I realized that I need to try to be a little less anal about “following the rules” and a little more open to the possibility of making a mistake.  After all, I don’t want my children to grow up with the same insane fears I have. 

And while I may never completely get over my fears of the disposal, the lesson in this will perhaps be a good reminder.  It’s okay to mess up.  It’s okay to not doing everything perfectly all the time.  Except, of course, for the mangled hand thing – I probably want to get that one right.  But the others?    It’s okay if I don’t follow the manual all the time.  So as I close this silly tale, I will ask for only one favor.  If you know of any more rules about running the garbage disposal, please don’t send them my way.  The “rule follower” in me thanks you. 

children are a gift

Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him.

 (Psalm 127:3 NLT)

Some days I don’t feel that the above verse applies to my family.  My five- year-old who stubbornly refuses to do his chores, a gift?  Really?  My three-year-old who has mastered the art of throwing a tantrum - she’s my reward?  If I were to count the number of times my children have misbehaved, acted defiantly, ignored my commands – well,  I don’t think there’d be enough books in the world to contain all those stories.  So what’s up with this “children are a gift” thing?   

I remember shortly before I had my first child a baby shower was thrown for me.  One of the “activities” that the guests participated in was to write down words of advice.  Even now I enjoy looking back at these words of wisdom.  One particular bit that has stuck with me through the years came from an aunt of mine.  She wrote, “Remember your child is a gift entrusted to you to train and nurture as only you can do.”  Call me crazy, but I really think that my husband and I were meant to raise our two children in a way that only we can.  God entrusted these babies into our care.  He handpicked us to raise our unique and special little ones. 

What’s more, I believe that about every parent.  Each parent is given the gift and ability to raise their own unique ones.  The problem is that we sometimes forget that.  We forget that they’re entrusted into our care.  We forget how special they are to God, how special they are to us.   Too often in the midst of the muck and mire of life we forget that our children are, indeed ,treasures.

Jesus set a precedent when it came to caring for little ones.  He blessed the children when they came to him.  He soundly rebuked his disciples when they tried to shoo them away.  The kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these, he said. (Matthew 19:14)  So why don’t we act like that - like our children are the best and greatest gifts we have ever been given? 

Even worse, why do some become careless and callous towards these “gifts” – neglecting and even abusing the very ones who were meant to be treasured.   Children are the most vulnerable beings on the planet.  They depend on us.  They look to us to for all of their needs.  We are their parents.  We were, in essence, meant to “die to self” in raising them.

I would like to share a story that broke my heart.  It started out as a prayer request from a friend.  This dear friend called me to say that her brother’s girlfriend was pregnant. Not only that but she had decided to terminate the pregnancy.  I don’t know what the reason was – why this path was chosen, but I can’t help but see a terrible irony here.  You see, my friend and her husband have been unable to have children, and they want so badly to be parents.  So here you have this couple eager to expand their family while their brother’s girlfriend makes the decision to end her baby’s life.  And, yes, I’m going to refer to “it” as a baby.  They are gifts after all, born or unborn. 

There is a law in 36 states that states that if a fetus is killed inside its mother’s womb the perpetrator is charged with double homicide.  Crazy.   And what it all boils down to is a matter of convenience, isn’t it?   We call the child a baby when it’s wanted and a fetus when it’s not. 

I know this is a sensitive subject , one I hesitate to bring up.  But even as I write this I can’t get that verse out of my mind.  Children are a gift, they’re a reward.  What if we believed that in every fiber of our being?  If we did, I’m convinced we would see the unborn and all children differently.   We wouldn’t reject a gift as precious as a child because we know that a gift rejected is a sad thing indeed. 

Comfort Food

You know what I’ve realized about times of crisis?  The first place I run to get some comfort?  The kitchen.  Yea, you got it – I need comfort food.  Anyone out there who can relate?  Go on.  You don’t have to be shy.  Give a shout out for comfort food. 

Perfect instance?  Last night.  My son, bless his darn little soul, wanted to grow his dinosaurs - you know the ones that expand in water.  Apparently, he assumed the dinosaur would grow to be ten feet long.  So he left them in the sink to grow some more.  The problem?  He left the water running, and we didn’t discover the ensuing crisis until at least twenty minutes had passed. 

Thankfully, my husband heard something out of the ordinary, “What’s boiling he asked,” “Nothing,” I responded “There's nothing on in the kitchen.”  Five seconds later, “Oh [expletive], oh [expletive.]”  My husband rarely swears in front of the kids so when he did, I knew we were in trouble.  Running after him, I realized the problem immediately.  We had a flooded bathroom.  The telltale signs were the water stains beginning to form on our ceiling.  The first thing I wanted to grab as I chased my husband up the stairs?  Chocolate.  Yup, at that moment of crisis, I needed me a little chocolate fix. 

In fact, there were certain Girl Scout Cookies in the freezer calling to me, ‘Nici, we’re here for you, we’ll take all that stress you’re feeling away.’  I sooo wanted to grab those cookies and shove them in my mouth as fast as possible.  Only I was too busy gathering buckets and towels to have time to raid the freezer.  At least for the moment. 

When the dripping had mostly stopped, the cravings came fast and hard.  I was ready to grab half a pack of those Girl Scout treats and devour them in less than sixty.  (That’s seconds, not minutes.)  In fact, I was somewhat upset with myself that I didn’t have the really good stuff on hand.  I needed a better stock of comfort food;  Ben and Jerry’s, or those little chips by the name of Frito.  I especially needed my standard candy bar favorite -  a Caramello.  But not a one of those treats was in the house to soothe my sorrowing soul.   At this point, I didn’t care.  Any sweet treat would do.  So I ran to the kitchen, pulled out the box of cupcakes (lucky for me there were leftovers from the Super Bowl party), and prepared to drown my sorrows in those sweet little cakes.

But, for just a moment, I hesitated and thought long and hard about something.  Would this cupcake, or rather cupcakes, for I was prepared to devour as many as it took to get a really good buzz, would they really provide the comfort I so desperately needed?  Sugar rush, yes, good feelings, yes, guilt, well that I could deal with later, but real comfort, the kind that would last?  The answer was a resounding, no.  The cupcakes would taste good going down, but they weren’t going to give me peace, or slow my spinning thoughts, or assure me that, in the end, everything was going to be okay.  No, my sweet treats would only provide temporary comfort - a short term fix followed by a sugar crash that would result in feelings of regret and guilt.

Why would I even stop to consider this you might question.  Who cares if it was only a temporary fix.  After all, don’t we all run to food when we need some comfort?  But the thing is I don’t want my comfort to come from a candy bar.  I want it to be better than that.  I don’t want a temporary fix.  I need the real deal.  I need God, my Father.  See, lately I’ve been thinking about the role of food in our lives.  We love.  We crave.  We adore food.  It’s our fast fix.  But I don’t think it was meant to be that way.  I really don’t.  After all what was the original sin all about?  Food.  And we’ve been struggling to keep it in perspective ever since. 

Philippians 3:19 Their destiny is destruction, their god is their stomach, and their glory is in their shame.  Their mind is on earthly things.

Does that verse apply to me?  Yes, absolutely, and resoundingly, yes.  And I guess I’m at the point where I just don’t want it to be my life’s verse.  I want to keep food in perspective.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not going to rule out chocolate or some of the above named treats.  I just want to learn to enjoy what I eat and be satisfied with it.  Not always craving more, more, more, but being grateful for my portion, whatever it may be.  So the next time you run into a crisis and those salivary glands kick in, remember this truth.  Food will always fall short of the mark.  It will never be enough to satisfy our deepest cravings.  Those cravings were meant to lead us to God alone.