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.