that's crazy talk

Hey all, how's it going?  I am taking an introduction course online - Introduction to Microsoft Word  2010 - so not having too much time to write.  But here are some thoughts for today. 

Psalm 14:1  The fool says in his heart, "There is no God."

Kind of a touchy topic to write about today, huh?  But I've been thinking about creation versus evolution for awhile now.  Main thoughts go something like this . . . I really, really believe in my heart that it takes more faith to believe in evolution than creation.  Seriously, look at the world around us.  How is it that this all came from a big bang?  Really?  I don't want to get into an argument with anyone, but I just don't get it.  I really don't.  As I type this it is a beautiful, sunny day.  Big, white, puffy clouds float across a brilliant blue sky.  The birds are chirping in the trees.  Plants are growing.  Grass is green.  It's beautiful, a beautiful day - and all of this just came out of nothing?  Things just happened to fall into place on their own?  That's crazy talk.

Next to me, stands my little girl waiting impatiently for me to finish my work so we can play ponies together.  Every night after she goes to bed, I sneak into her room and stand over her bed in awe of the beautiful one-of-a-kind girl she is; her own little personality intact, her face unique only to her.  What an awesome miracle.  And every day I look at my little boy as he walks bravely to school even on the days he doesn't want to.  I think about all the information and knowledge he's gained in ONE year of school - kindergarten, no less, and I am in awe, simply and utterly in awe.  They are miracles and no one's going to convince me that they just "happened" to turn out to be the beautiful, special, amazing kids that I love. They evolved from apes?  C'mon people, really?

As for me, I sit here typing this and thinking about the systems in my body all working together in a beautiful symphony; my heart pounding away, the lungs that fill with oxygen everytime I breath, my muscles, making it possible to even write this, my brain, responding to the signals from the rest of my body - all of this without me even having to think about it.  I ponder the unique, special ways that God has made me, my personality, my thoughts, my ideas - and all of it just came out of nothing?  No, I can't accept that.  You could talk to me 'til you were blue in the face, and I'm sorry, but I could not for one minute take the leap of faith that is a belief in evolution.

I don't even begin to grasp creation, and, if I had all the time in the world to list how this planet and all its inhabitants are amazing, one-of-a-kind, complex in their own way, there wouldn't be enough time nor  pages to even scratch the surface of all that God's done.  Even in a fallen state, the world is beautiful, and, if we stop and think about it, we are beautiful too - beautiful creatures meant to spend an eternity soaking in the love of God, loving him back, and walking with him each and everyday of our lives. 

We are special for many reasons.  But the most important reason is because we were handmade by God - miracles of epic proportion.  Even when we were in our mother's wombs, we were meant to play a special role in this miracle of life.  We were made for better things.  We were made to be smarter than the apes.  I'll finish off with this closing thought - two verses that sum up all I've been trying to say in four paragraphs. 

Psalm 139: 13-14.  For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb.  I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.

Value yourself more highly than a good majority of people on earth do.  Who wants to believe that they evolved from an ape anyway?

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.