Guilt? Living in a Van - CFI/Redwall Live Event

Oh, eek. I feel a teensy bit of guilt. Leading up to this Community First Initiative/Redwall Live event, in talking with people I know, I mentioned - well, more than mentioned - that it would be funny if the weather turned cold and snowy. I wanted Darren to feel a little pain. I guess my mercy heart went MIA. Careful what you wish for! Here we are, day one of this fundraising event, and we're looking at plummeting temperatures, expected to be in the teens by tonight, with tropical storm winds between 40-60 mph. Sorry, Daniel - I mean guys.

My boss Darren Heil (president and founder of CFI) and Daniel Herndon (owner of Redwall Live) will be camping out in a 1970s van under a billboard until they reach a goal of $25,000. Why? To jumpstart a couple of the mentoring programs CFI will be starting in January, as well as programs already in place. CFI offers these programs to schools at no cost, depending on grants, donations, and fundraisers.

Darren and Daniel will be tweeting this event and webcasting live 24/7. Take time to tune in. On Twitter: @forkout, @cfiinc. Blog: http://www.redwalllive.com/. On Facebook: check out the Fork Out page, also the Community First Initiative group.
To learn more about CFI's not-for-profit organization, check out our website at www.go-cfi.org

The Ringing of the Bells Part 2

“While women weep, as they do now, I'll fight; while little children go hungry, as they do now, I'll fight; while men go to prison, in and out, in and out, as they do now, I'll fight; while there is a drunkard left, while there is a poor lost girl upon the streets, while there remains one dark soul without the light of God, I'll fight-I'll fight to the very end!” -General William Booth, Founder of The Salvation Army

If you read my last blog, you already know how impressed I am with The Salvation Army soldiers. I had the privilege of chatting with Brent and hearing some of his story. He’s an inspiring guy.

Brent lives in Indianapolis and has been working for The Salvation Army for three years, two of which have been spent ringing the bell in front of my grocery.

This has been a tough year for Brent. He was laid off from his other job, and his unemployment is running out this month. He lost his apartment. Brent is a recovering alcoholic, and a job like this gives him hope and a positive outlook on life. It helps him to stay sober, in good spirits, and to keep his head up during hard times.

What gives him the heart for this job is when he was growing up, his family needed services like The Salvation Army provides. That motivates him to help others in need.

He feels this job isn’t for everybody but he’s capable. They work six days a week, eight to nine hours a day, and on the day after Thanksgiving they work a 12-hour shift. Can you imagine, thinking of the weather we experience here in Indiana - rain, sleet, snow, the below-freezing temps - standing out there hour after hour, the majority of the time without someone to pass the time?

And referring back to my previous blog, not all passersby respond in a cordial way. I asked him how he feels when people dodge him or don’t acknowledge him. He said he can’t make people respond, but he can pray for them.

Now Brent is no saint – we all have our moments. Sometimes he’s upset when he’s not acknowledged after he extends a smile and holiday greeting, and he really tries not to get mad. To paraphrase, he said you reap what you sow. But he’s quick to say it’s a God thing, and you can just pray for people and hope they would be less inconsiderate. If you can’t drop money in the kettle, that’s one thing, but a little holiday cheer in return goes a long way – human kindness.

I’ll close with this: Brent said this job inspires him to do well and to go down the right path, to put a smile on his face, and he knows “God takes care of the rest, especially for me.” Amen.

The Ringing of the Bells Part 1

It’s that time of year again. The decorations are going up. The Christmas music is playing. I’m a bit of a Scrooge about Christmas music. The radio stations that start playing it the day of Thanksgiving, or even earlier this year, for me it just gets old and stale. I know, I know, turn the station. I also am burned out on all of the old Christmas movies, but I quite enjoy Elf and Love Actually – how’s that for some new Christmas classics! And I’m not much of a shopper. I love spending time with my family on Black Friday morning, but I ride on their coattails, socializing with them while using their expertise on bargain shopping.

One of the things I do love leading up to the Christmas holiday is the ringing of the bells – that’s right, it’s Salvation Army time. And in particular, outside of my local grocery store are two guys who are the epitome of the Christmas spirit, showing the love of Jesus every time I walk in and out of that store. And I don’t often carry cash on me, so even when I don’t donate, they still treat me with a whole lot of kindness.

I’ve studied these guys (and not in a stalker kind of way!) to see how they react to different customers coming in and out of the store, customers I would describe as the dodgers, the cordials, the suddenly unawares, and the glancers. I've seen the soliders react to each type of customer in the same way: they smile and give hearty holiday wishes. It just blows me away. This is my interpretation of how Jesus calls us to be like in the Bible. They are showing the face of Jesus.

I took the opportunity to interview one of them which I’ll share with you in my next blog. I hope you’ll take the opportunity to read his inspiring story.

The New Girl

So there’s a new girl in town named Shelley. Shelley was born in Oregon but moved at an early age and spent the majority of her life in Arizona. I haven’t been there (or the southwest for that matter) myself – it’s on my list – but from what I’ve gathered, while the desert does hold its own unique beauty, there is not much in the way of color or change of seasons. Oh, and the heat, I’ve heard her mention the heat.

Although I don’t know Shelley all that well yet, she is my Facebook friend. I’ve been noticing her status updates, especially over the last month. The reason I bring this up, I’m from the Midwest. I’ve had the opportunity to do some traveling and I always marvel at how stunning nature is at the different locations I’ve visited.

The last time my family came home from a trip, I mentioned to my husband that we need to find something beautiful about Indiana (aside from the people – I love my peeps) that we’re just missing because we’re too familiar with the scenery. Of course, he scoffed. He’s a lifelong resident of Indiana. He’d move to Florida in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for his family living here.

Back to Shelley’s updates. She seems enthralled with Indiana’s weather. For example, we had rainy days; she loved them. Last weekend we had frost. Her post? “We are so excited to wake up to the first frost! It sparkles!” She took lots of pictures of trees and bushes changing colors, commenting she’s soaking it all in. And get this, her friends were excited right along with her. I’m assuming these friends are also from Arizona.

I enjoy the changing colors, but I’ve been paying more attention this year.
Shelley’s opening my eyes to that something beautiful in nature I’ve been craving here in Indiana. I hope her enthusiasm for that first snow will get me through the icy temps and slush that inevitably follows. Shelley, will you invite me to go sledding?

Memories of a Mentor

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” ~Maya Angelou

Do you remember two adults, excluding your parents, who made an impact on your life as a young person, positive or negative? I participated in a mentor training class over the weekend and that was a question the trainer asked. I remember one of each.

Let’s get the negative out of the way first. My high school guidance counselor was reviewing some test results and told me I was not college material. I left his office feeling stunned, later angry, and still later wanting to prove him wrong. So even though the guy was a jerk, it pushed me harder to succeed.

Now for the positive, Mrs. Sepich, my typing/shorthand teacher. When I first met her, she seemed a bit grouchy and intimidating. From what I remember, her mouth was set in a frequent frown, and her classes were run in a no-nonsense style. This is my perception - I could be wrong on that frown memory - because as I look through my yearbook, I see a beautiful smile. But I vividly remember I was going to mind my Ps and Qs. Thankfully I loved typing and shorthand classes so no trouble was coming out of me.

She wasn’t a grandmotherly/soft-spoken type of mentor. Being on the receiving end of a smile made me feel I had achieved success. When she gave me assignments from the school office, like typing up the rosters for the basketball home games, it made me feel competent and trusted. Getting involved in a regional shorthand/typing competition at her prompting helped me build confidence in my skills.

Mrs. S helped me by submitting my name for a scholarship, as well as helped me get a job at the courthouse in the city where I would be taking my classes. When I decided not to continue my education (I had this new job after all), the next time we met, she urged me to stay in school. When I traded in my goal of becoming a legal secretary for a court reporter, again, the smile. Her support instilled that I-can-do-anything-I-put-my-mind-to feeling.


I had a successful 20-year career as a court reporter. Now I’m moving on to try new ventures. As I write this, I realize 25-ish years later she still impacts my life. Thanks, Mrs. S.

It Takes a Neighborhood

The neighborhood we lived in until I was seven felt like its own little world. I remember playing well with my brothers, making mud pies, smuggling sugar snap peas from a neighbor’s garden, lying on the ground and trying to decipher the shapes of puffy white clouds. I learned to ride a bike in that neighborhood, as well as ride with no hands. I was quite the showoff, riding up and down the street.

I changed my dress multiple times a day, but I did not care for hairbrushes and face washing. Early one morning I could not find a clean pair of underwear, but I still chose to wear a dress. I remember shifting from one fanny cheek to the other while sitting on our frigid cement front stoop, waiting for my friend to come out and play.

The coolest kid on the block, whose first name was Kirby, came complete with leather jacket and mini-bike, and I pondered whether he was related to the Kirby name on my mom’s vacuum cleaner. I was thrilled when he came to my older brother’s pirate-themed birthday party and oh how I hoped he would notice me.

The woods behind our house was thick with sections of trees and berry bushes and was our place for adventure. We would run straight to the fort with a friend’s older sibling’s Mad magazine or comic book, clueless on what we were reading. There would be dares to try an unknown potentially poisonous berry. The real thrill was keeping an ear out for bears – an unsubstantiated rumor.

We played until dark or until we couldn’t take any more mosquito bites. My habit was scratching until they were oozing, and the remedy was cotton balls soaked in alcohol held on by Band-aids. After the initial urge-to-scream reaction, the bites quickly stopped itching and healed. I haven’t found a better remedy yet – although my son has no interest in trying this method.

These memories conjure up feelings of safety, happiness, high self-esteem, being nurtured, and I’m not talking just from my parents. Neighbors were an integral part. Neighbors looked out for each other. If a family had to rush one of their children to the hospital for an emergency, the siblings went to a neighbor’s house for the night. If a kid was down the road causing some trouble, an adult knew who the culprit was and yelled out, “I’m calling your mother.” No police, just calling the parent.

Is it any more dangerous for children now than it was then? I don’t know. We have more media coverage and awareness. But what I have noticed and have been guilty of is there isn’t a lot of neighborhood support, neighbors knowing neighbors. The neighbors down at the end of my street wouldn’t recognize my kid in a lineup, nor would I know theirs (no pun intended).

For me, this is a call to balance out my time on the back deck with some time on the front stoop (underwear included) and spend time getting to know these kids. From what I’m learning in the mentor program with which I’m involved, lives are easily touched by interactions with adults. I’m in!

TMI? I Think Not

To paraphrase Rapunzel from the movie Shrek the Third, “Everyone toots, Beauty,” and I’m going there with my blog today.

As some of you know, I was a court reporter for many years. I was setting up my equipment for a deposition one morning. There were two men in the room, an attorney and a witness. It was quiet except for the rustle of setting up my equipment. My case was on the floor, so I would bend down to get an accessory, stand back up, down and up.

Well, on one of the rotations it squeaked out - yes, I’ll say it, I farted. Oh how I was mortified. In my quick thinking I contemplated my options: Could I blame it on the squeaky chair next to me or maybe that I kicked my case? No. I saw they had looked up, and I decided to acknowledge my shame. I said it. “Excuse me.” I turned beet red, flaming red. My armpits immediately began to perspire. I still turn red to this day.

I tend to take myself a bit too seriously, take things too personally. Let me tell you, this event inspired my journey to lighten up, to try to laugh at myself more. If I don’t get the joke, I’m going to tell you I don’t get the joke. (Eeek, the “ohhh” moment years later when I figured out “what’s black and white and red/read all over.) The joke’s on me, baby. Bring it.

You're Such a Loser, Sweetie

In the course of reading Pete Gall’s book “Learning My Name,” in Chapter 2 he challenges me to figure out the name I call myself when I do something stupid.

There were lots of names. I spent a heap of energy trying to narrow them down to the core zinger that would capture them all. If you put that much effort into thinking about your negative names, you feel pretty darn lousy. It just brings all those feelings of failure right to the surface whether you are in the midst of doing something stupid or not.

I decided to break the thought pattern and focus on the next challenge in the book, to think of the name God calls me, because as Pete said (and I believe) The Big Guy’s not up there calling me that zinger.

It was challenging, thinking this way. My initial feeling was discomfort, like it was too prideful (which is actually reverse pride, but I digress on what I’ve learned in therapy). His example in the book for himself is “sweetheart.” I took some time to contemplate mine and “sweetie” kept coming back to me. The more I chewed on it, the better I felt it fit.

I used it this week. I was having a particularly rough day. Instead of thinking, “What is your problem? Snap out of it, Loser!”, I focused on God asking me, “What’s wrong, Sweetie?” I remember a feeling of sweet relief. It’s all in the name, isn’t it.

I Flunked

The church I attend had a series on anger last winter. There was so much information and insight I learned from the experience; i.e., imploders, exploders, and those who do both. I would say I do both.

I did not miss a Sunday during that series. I was riveted by the information I was learning. I am impaired in the arguing department. My style is to give the silent treatment until the other person “blinks”; and after enough anger builds up, well, look out for the tornado.

That’s why I was blown away by this series. Light bulbs turned on over my head. After completion, I was actually a little cocky – ok, not a little, I was cocky - in thinking, Hey, this girl’s got skills now for arguing. It’s too bad my husband didn’t learn this useful information, but he will really benefit from my new-found knowledge. We don’t argue THAT much, so I was almost looking forward to the next one to show off my new techniques.

I flunked. I became instantly defensive, bull-headed, indignant, self-righteous. It went south from the get-go. Think Linda Blair. I believe it’s the worst argument we’ve ever had – yes, my dearly beloved confirmed that’s the angriest he’s ever seen me. We don’t even remember what we were arguing about – just the anger.

What I’ve learned?
1. Listening to a series, while beneficial, is one thing; practicing new-found knowledge is another.
2. The last year and a half of counseling has been worth every minute of time and penny of money. My husband’s worth it; I’m worth it; our family is worth it. And after 17 years of marriage, we’re closer than ever.

I HAVE EVERYTHING!

I feel a bit sheepish as I glance over last week’s blog. After I hit "send" last week, it occurred to me my counselor would have asked me to think about what I do have. So here are just a few things that come to mind. Please understand they are addressing the complaints from last week. I am very grateful for my family, health, home, food – a very long list.

I have the opportunity to work with an organization I feel really passionate about: working with kids who would benefit from adult mentoring. Now that makes my heart sing. Kids make my heart sing.

I prayed for the chance to take on some change in my life. Boy, am I getting that opportunity. I’m seeing from this past week that I can succeed; that it’s okay to have failures (while not fun, it is progress in the perfectionist department); and that having the support of wizard techno people to help me with my Cra- – I mean Blackberry issues has saved my sanity.

I am still struggling with the crabby virus this week, but I am fortunate to have family and friends who are patient. I am hearing myself more in the midst of my crabbiness and apologizing quicker (at least I hope so – confirmation, dear?).

So to quote a wise sixth-grader from his first English paper of the year, “I’m not perfect, but I’m going to keep trying new things and having fun.” Thanks, buddy.

I HAVE NOTHING!

Over the last couple days I’ve tried to sit down to write my weekly blog and realize I’m stumped. I have nothing. I’m on information overload.

Throughout the last couple weeks I have: officially started my new volunteer position three days a week; started to learn Word and Excel; received an offer for a paid writing assignment and an opportunity to review a show at Indy Fringe Festival; my kid started school; and to top it off, I’ve switched over to the dark side – yes, a Blackberry. Have I mentioned before I am technologically inept? Email and court reporter software was the extent of my knowledge for over a decade.

I am 100 percent excited about all of these latest developments (except my kid starting school), but with these opportunities comes a high amount of stress with my learning curve. Add to that my perfectionist personality, phew. I’ve been snapping at my family, defensive, all-around crabby. Every bump in the road gets blown way out of proportion.

The one consistency through all of this is I stopped running before my summer trips due to a minor injury. Since the trips I’ve been making excuses as to why I haven’t started again – too busy, too hot out, feeling rundown. Well, not anymore! I started today. I was so frazzled, I threw on the shoes (screw the 80-degree weather) and ran. So it didn’t feel all that fabulous (lungs screaming – legs jelly), yet I am a little calmer, and I’m glad I’m finally back to doing something I love and makes me feel so much better.

Log Blog

I got stuck on a log. I was on my way to a meeting in the midst of a downpour, and there was sporadic road flooding. I saw something floating, but I thought I got through the “puddle” unscathed. Then I heard this dreaded “rrerrer,” a bit like the sound of a garbage disposal. The “rrerrer” was stuck under my car. Thankfully the usually busy road wasn't at that moment, so I had the chance to back up to try to break free. No such luck, “rrerrer” again. I pulled slowly to a right turn lane and looked under the car. Yes, a log.

The rule in my past profession was understood: if you're not 15 minutes early, you're late. This habit has carried over into my new position. My anxiety commenced.

Gratefully, a kind citizen stopped to assist. He jacked up the car just enough, and I pulled the log out. This log was about 4 feet long and about 7 inches in diameter. I picked that log up over my head and chucked it over the guardrail. The man turned to my son and said, “Wow, did you see what your mom just did?” To which I replied, “I am woman; hear me roar!” Okay, I didn't say that. But all my anxiety over being late went with said log. He had gotten some dirt on his light khaki work pants in the posterior area, which I politely informed him of while thanking him for helping me. He then pointed it at me for help, to which I politely replied, “Yeah, I can't help you with that, I'm married.” One good deed does not always warrant another.

My moral to this story is, one, when I'm nervous, find a log to chuck to release anxiety – physical exertion releases stress from my brain (duh!); and two, the ever-present not jumping to conclusions when someone is late. You never know, someone may have gotten stuck on a log on the way to a meeting.

Quid Pro Quo

What a sad state of affairs when your son presents you with a contract complete with lines for initials and signatures requiring family time each day. It's a game contract, and I won't go into all of the details. It is lengthy and filled with technical jargon, talks about penalties for missing days, and includes two grace days a week so long as they are made up in said week.

I don't know whether to be embarrassed that the kid had to write the darn thing or impressed at how well written it is and wondering if this is somehow related to a future career for him.

What I do know is he's turning 12 years old and is still asking to spend time with his parents, as my friends so insightfully pointed out; and that each time we honor his contract, he just glows. It reminds me of what I've read in some books: that we're depositing love into his emotional savings account from which I hope he will draw on in the roller-coaster teen years to come.

Do You Ever...

Do you ever have one of those weeks where you wish you would have just listened, spoke less, tried harder, paid more attention, prayed first, been intentional, stopped saying “should have” and “what if,” stopped second-guessing what you said or wrote, felt comfortable in your own skin, liked the person you are, knew what you truly stand for, knew what you truly believe, knew if you're being honest with yourself, that your intentions are true, why your heart aches so intensely, why you don't follow through when you say, “I want to learn how to (fill in the blank),” or “hey, let's get together soon,” wonder how many “if onlys” you'll leave behind in this life, try to justify something you did that you know was wrong, squander your progress?

Thank you, God, for giving me grace and hope.

What Nature Means To Me

The evidence of God, Jesus, Mary, the cross, religion, was evident pretty much everywhere we went in Italy on our vacation this summer. It is majestic, absolutely stunning, beyond anything I could imagine, and boy have I dreamed of Italy. It's surreal. I'm still processing I had the opportunity to stand in these historic places, before these wondrous pieces of art, in the Sistine Chapel under Michelangelo's ceiling... I am genuinely grateful for this opportunity of a lifetime.

And though I saw evidence of God in possibly every nook and cranny, where I felt Him, where my heart just swelled in wonder and my eyes filled with tears, was in the beauty of nature seen on the rolling hills of a vineyard, hills covered by grapes and olive trees, rose bushes used as a natural herbicide, the towers of a little city atop a hill in the distance, hazy blue skies and white puffy clouds, the wind blowing my hair and skirt, white cows, the smell of earth, manure, and hay, seeing field after field of sunflowers.

Nicaragua, it now dawns on me, stole my heart for its simplicity, the exotic sounds heard in the early morning hours of birds whose beauty I could only imagine, the howls of dogs, chattering insects, rain on the church's tin roof, the lushness of nature and the human kindness encountered at every turn.

And for me, that's the way I connect with God best.

MY Plans? Really?!

Okay, so not in my plans for Nicaragua was participating in the women's study group (insert God's chuckle here). I avoided that part of our team meetings leading up to the trip. Not interested. I'm newer to my faith and spirituality (when is that excuse not an excuse anymore?) and helping someone with a women's group intimidates me.

Well, the woman leading that group, Jen, and I started chatting on the first night in Nic about our faith journeys and continued to do so sporadically throughout the next couple days. Tuesday, the first day of her gathering, over 50 women attended. It was astonishing. There weren't church bulletins or reminders in the weeks leading up to the day; there was just an announcement two days before at church and a couple posters on the doorways.

Jen approached me that Tuesday night, asking me if I would tell my faith story the next day. I asked if she wanted the rated G version or R. She said whatever I wanted to tell. She felt it was important to just be real with these women. Over the last year I have had the opportunity to share my story a couple times (rated G and R), and each time it brings healing. So why not? I was actually excited, no nerves – yet.

I did get scared about an hour before. I started to doubt myself – would I say the right things, what if I offended someone - the junk in my trunk that I will work on for the rest of my life. I like to write what I'm going to say because I can edit, edit, edit. Thankfully, two friends appeared and reminded me God would provide the right words, and they prayed for my nerves to disappear (insert God's patient sigh).

Participating with the women's group is what I will cherish most from this trip. After I told my story and was asked some questions, these women from Nicaragua and from my church gathered around and laid their hands on me and started praying in Spanish. So surreal. Then we were hugging and crying.

Afterward a woman approached me and said she had connected with my story, and she will be praying for me. Praying for me? I'm still processing and having trouble articulating what this means to me. With all the poverty and sexual abuse and oppression they suffer down there, I'm overwhelmed with all the love given so freely (insert God's “I told you so”). These are the faces of Jesus.

By the way, if you ever hear words coming out of my mouth that start with “my plans” and not followed up with “but I'm rolling with it,” please grab the nearest 2-by-4 and knock me over the head.

Duck, Duck, Goose

So when I signed up for this mission trip to Nicaragua, I had certain ideas/thoughts about what might happen. Don't get me wrong, I felt pretty open about it. My friend Heather and I wanted to be the vagabundas on the trip, the ones who would help where help was needed, but my intent was to play with the kids as much as possible.

One of the things I didn't anticipate was freezing up as the children came through the door the first morning. In that moment it hit me how much I depend on language, talking, to connect with my 2nd through 4th graders on Sundays. I froze. I turned to my friend Morris in a panic and told him I have no idea what my role on this trip is going to be now that it won't be with the kids. I was crushed. Two minutes later I heard the words “pato, pato, GANSO!”, duck, duck, GOOSE. I was in. I sat down on the floor and from then on I was experiencing Heaven on earth on this trip. I tear up just thinking about how much I fell in love with these kids at that moment.
And it's not that I want to bring them home with me. I met some of their moms. They love their children. It's the ache that I want to see them every Sunday like I see my boys and girls here every Sunday. I don't want to wait a year and miss how much they grow, miss the huge - and I mean huge - hugs and many kisses they eagerly and freely give no matter how soaked you are with sweat. I would gently pull away, point at myself and pinch my nose and wave my hand, saying “oooh, stinky.” The darlings would pull me back in and just squeeze me tighter.

Mariposa (butterfly) kisses were a huge hit, eliciting lots of giggles, as well as finger twirls, two girls at a time twirling like ballerinas. My heart is overwhelmed with how much I miss them already. We were only there six days, but these six days were so intense with emotion that it felt like two weeks.

There are so many more stories to share, how it surpassed my wildest dreams and imaginations, so I hope you will tune in as I process this life-changing experience I had the opportunity to participate in. I only hope my words can express an inkling of the emotion I feel in my overflowing heart.

Jealousy

Our family dynamics have shifted in the last couple years, but they seem to have been more pronounced this last school year. My son is shifting to the other side; that is, he's not hangin' with his mama so much anymore. It's all about his dad. I could always count on a snuggle, calling out to me first with some new idea he wanted to share, the ever familiar “Hey, Mom, guess what...”

An example that comes to mind is what I experience when the three of us go to the movies. As a little guy, he would turn to me when something was funny to share the laugh; or if he was scared, he would grab my hand (or even end up in my lap!). Now it's my husband he turns to first for the laugh or excitement or surprise. And this may seem pouty, but sometimes he doesn't even turn to share it with me at all.

What I am clinging to when my feelings are hurt during this period of change is that this father-son relationship is shaping my son into the man he will become. My son informed me, “Because this man will craft this man.” I do find comfort in that statement. I'm going to work on cherishing the memories of the little boy who favored his mama and be ever so grateful that he has this awesome role model in his life.

My Husband's New Best Friend

I've been working on my priorities over the last year and a half since I quit my job, which required a substantial change in my spending habits. My small group spent the entire year of '08 studying a book called "Celebration of Discipline: The Path to Spiritual Growth" by Richard Foster. The month of February was spent on Simplifying, which was incredibly timely since I had quit my job the month before. I was the next-thing-will-make-me-happy kind of gal; everything from new clothes, the diamond ring for our tenth anniversary, new furniture, decorating the house, ad nauseum. Vacations were spent anticipating the next day's plans. To put it simply, a lack of contentment.

I've felt life change in my spirituality. My discontent is shifting. I mentioned it to my husband recently in passing. The conversation went something like this:
Me: Do you remember when I used to want that big diamond ring and kitchen table and new clothes, addiction to shoes, purses, watches (yada yada yada)?
Him: Oh, yeah.
Me: Well, I just don't feel that as much anymore. Jesus is filling that hole now (with a chuckle).
Him: Well, then Jesus is my new best friend.

Joy Stealer

My pound dog Tish growled at me the other day. I was stunned. We've had her for over a year. With my family of three, she is overly submissive. You come near her and she rolls on her back just waiting for a good rubbing. She's so needy for attention. We're her fourth home. Her bottom teeth are missing. She quickly dominated the lab we've raised since she was puppy with the food and our attention. Tish has had a rough life. Occasionally our fence gate is left open. Hallie, our lab, jets out and disappears off into wonderland. Tish? She lounges on the deck. To me it seems she's thinking, "Hallie, dude, you have no clue what it's like out there. Now this, this is the good life."
Cesar Millan, Dog Whisperer, miracle worker, emphasizes the need for walking your dog half an hour in the morning and 45 minutes in the evening. Helps to wipe out bad behavior. So much of what he says sets off light bulbs, "duh moments." Tune in. It's amazing stuff.
Well, I started the morning walk with Tish to calm some of this neediness. It tends to be overpowering. It had been ten mornings in a row and this dog craves it, anticipates it every day. Each morning she bolts for the door, wagging wildly, jumping, knocking into walls. On day 11, there just wasn't enough time to fit it in. On day 12, morning came and still no time. By late afternoon she was out of her mind. My son and I were ready to walk out the door again without her, and she promptly let us know enough was enough. She blocked the door. I called her to go in her room. (She is normally very content to hang out with the other dog in this room while we're gone.) She trotted near the room and bolted right back for the door. I called her again, same response, as if to say, "Listen, lady, I need my time here." I found her collar under her mass of fur and gently pulled her toward the room. She didn't budge. She hunched into the ground. I pulled a little harder. She growled at me! I proceeded to get behind her to pick her up. She's 65 pounds. Huffing and puffing, I lifted the front part of her body and dragged her, back legs resisting, to the room.
I took Tish for her walk this morning. She was overjoyed as we headed for the door. She's been so content ever since that walk. I stole her joy those last two days. I'm wondering what is my one joy that I could take each day that would set the tone to help me live a more contented, joyful, peaceful, kinder day. I've learned from Tish this is worth fighting for.

Just Another Day at the School Library

I volunteered in the school library last week. The task? Remove books that were irreparable from the shelves so the media specialist could replace them for the following school year. Now, there are a lot of books, so I was skimming through, looking for beat-up bindings, old-looking covers - some even looked like the old excuse "my dog ate it." Then I'd inspect them to see if pages were falling out, torn, etc.
While perusing, I saw familiar titles and some popular authors I've heard my son talk about, and I pulled a few from the shelves (I'm trying to take an interest in his love of fantasy and science fiction works - emphasis on "trying"). On the shelf, they had shiny, clear plastic-covered jackets - looked brand-spanking new. Upon further inspection? Binding falling apart, pages separating. It hadn't even crossed my mind to inspect what appeared to be perfectly intact books. I believe you call that "judging a book by its cover." And while I think kids tend to do the same, obviously they've gotten to know these now worn-out books well and they're still loving them just as they are.
Hmm, I think of how many years of my life I've spent putting on this facade as I was cracking and alone on the inside. In the last few years I've let some people "read my story," and man, how rewarding it has been to let people see my beat-up binding and torn pages! What a blessing it's been to replace my book (not forget it) with an authentic story rich with diverse and interesting characters who live lives in the trenches and aren't afraid to share it.