Life is a tornado watch.
You can hunker down in the basement,
or get up on the roof,
let the wind give you rock star hair
and yell,
I knew you were coming.
That's why I didn't rake the leaves.
I actually found this is in a book I was reading...but when I saw that it was from an insurance ad I immediately read it with the low, deep voice of the guy from the Allstate ad, also known as, David Palmer. Go back and read it again. It's funnier when you picture him saying it...
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
How Morbid and True...
We're packing up. We're giving things away. I feel a little sad. I read these paragraphs the other day from a box of notes that ended up in the recycling bin. I felt a little morbid reading this and then I found it to be true as well...
From one point of view, the whole of life may be seen as a taking away, as one long and painful series of subtractions. We are forever being called upong to pull up stakes, to release our hold upon the things and places and people we have loved, an even upon each precious second as it slips through our aging fingers. Our very bodies are like tents, says Paul in his letter to Corinth, the most temporary of houses, and our whole existence under the sun bears the marks of exile and nomadism. If we are lucky enough to survive into old age, it will only be to find that even the most basic amenities of life will begin to be withdrawn from us one by one: legal freedoms, good health, friends, the comforts of our own home, physical and intellectual abilities, the capacity to think clearly, remember things, read a book, walk around the block, enjoy food, go to the bathroom. An old man is a ruined city, a fallen kingdom, a disaster are full of leaks and potholes and crumbling walls. In the end there may be nothing left to him but life itself, the faintest squiggle on a piece of graph paper, and even that may be unceremoniously flicked away like a speck of lint from the collar of the dashing young world.
There is no escaping this fate...
What? This is so morbid. I stopped reading right there, but I hope the author goes on. I hope he then writes...
But for those who know Him, for those who have called upon His name, a hope lies at the end. You will come to a place where there is no weeping or gnashing of teeth. You will come to a place that is perfect because the author or life dwells there. And you will dwell and live with Him. In the garden He would only visit. After the fall, He was present in Spirit only, except for a brief time that He came as one of us. But in eternity, we will dwell with Him. Forever. And things will be perfect. What was lost, will be restored. What needs redemption, will be redeemed. That whatever you have given up in this life, your home, your cute paisley and green shirt, your Strawberry Shortcake watch that you've had since you were five, etc. there will be a sense of restoration... you will be in a place where the giving up of those things is now made perfect.
But that was just what I would have written. Here's what he wrote...
By waging so pitiful a struggle not to become obsolete, when in reality the whole natural flow of physical life is toward obsolescence, what people really do is to declare a preference for temporal values over eternal ones. What they do, in fact, is to reject the Kingdom of God and its gift of eternal life. As it turns out, the only way not to reject eternal values is to submit willingly to the erosion of temporal ones. A spirit of graceful submission is required of every person in life, and there can be no peace without it. For one way or another we must all be humbled, even unto death. One way or another we must all die a little every day, and in the process we will all suffer unspeakably.
Hmm...I like what he wrote, there's truth there. But I like what I wrote better. It's more hopeful...it surrenders, I think, to the great eternal value I am strengthened by each day. Hope. Hope in my King who is to come and who will one day rule perfectly. Hope not in what I gave up, but Hope that one day it will not matter that I gave it up. Because He has made all things new and the world has been completely redeemed. I look forward to that day...but for today, I will probably experience more of what that author wrote. So I will keep pulling up my stakes, releasing my hold on the people, places and things I love. But I will do so with hope...
From one point of view, the whole of life may be seen as a taking away, as one long and painful series of subtractions. We are forever being called upong to pull up stakes, to release our hold upon the things and places and people we have loved, an even upon each precious second as it slips through our aging fingers. Our very bodies are like tents, says Paul in his letter to Corinth, the most temporary of houses, and our whole existence under the sun bears the marks of exile and nomadism. If we are lucky enough to survive into old age, it will only be to find that even the most basic amenities of life will begin to be withdrawn from us one by one: legal freedoms, good health, friends, the comforts of our own home, physical and intellectual abilities, the capacity to think clearly, remember things, read a book, walk around the block, enjoy food, go to the bathroom. An old man is a ruined city, a fallen kingdom, a disaster are full of leaks and potholes and crumbling walls. In the end there may be nothing left to him but life itself, the faintest squiggle on a piece of graph paper, and even that may be unceremoniously flicked away like a speck of lint from the collar of the dashing young world.
There is no escaping this fate...
What? This is so morbid. I stopped reading right there, but I hope the author goes on. I hope he then writes...
But for those who know Him, for those who have called upon His name, a hope lies at the end. You will come to a place where there is no weeping or gnashing of teeth. You will come to a place that is perfect because the author or life dwells there. And you will dwell and live with Him. In the garden He would only visit. After the fall, He was present in Spirit only, except for a brief time that He came as one of us. But in eternity, we will dwell with Him. Forever. And things will be perfect. What was lost, will be restored. What needs redemption, will be redeemed. That whatever you have given up in this life, your home, your cute paisley and green shirt, your Strawberry Shortcake watch that you've had since you were five, etc. there will be a sense of restoration... you will be in a place where the giving up of those things is now made perfect.
But that was just what I would have written. Here's what he wrote...
By waging so pitiful a struggle not to become obsolete, when in reality the whole natural flow of physical life is toward obsolescence, what people really do is to declare a preference for temporal values over eternal ones. What they do, in fact, is to reject the Kingdom of God and its gift of eternal life. As it turns out, the only way not to reject eternal values is to submit willingly to the erosion of temporal ones. A spirit of graceful submission is required of every person in life, and there can be no peace without it. For one way or another we must all be humbled, even unto death. One way or another we must all die a little every day, and in the process we will all suffer unspeakably.
Hmm...I like what he wrote, there's truth there. But I like what I wrote better. It's more hopeful...it surrenders, I think, to the great eternal value I am strengthened by each day. Hope. Hope in my King who is to come and who will one day rule perfectly. Hope not in what I gave up, but Hope that one day it will not matter that I gave it up. Because He has made all things new and the world has been completely redeemed. I look forward to that day...but for today, I will probably experience more of what that author wrote. So I will keep pulling up my stakes, releasing my hold on the people, places and things I love. But I will do so with hope...
Thursday, May 7, 2009
What makes something home?
Currently in our apartment there are two places to sit. One is a brown square ottoman/coffee table/blanket storage unit/box that sits in our living room. However we like to put our laptop on top of that brown square box, so for human beings, there really is only one place to sit and that would be the floor. The floor is unfortunately covered in the remnants of what used to be a quite comfortable and cute (if I do so so myself) apartment that we called home. Over the next three days the remnants will be packed in six bags and two carry-ons, given to friends, given to Goodwill, recycled or trashed. And that will be the end of our home in Dallas.
How do I feel? A mixture of emotions would probably describe it best. In a book called Home I was recently reading, the Father said of his wayward son, "I wish he would come home." It made me stop and think. What did he mean by home? The first time I read the sentence I thought he meant come home, as in come home to the Lord. The second time I read it I thought he meant come home as in come home to the physical place where he lived. Then I read it again, and I felt like he meant that he wished his son would find peace.
Home can have so many meanings. In a way my heart is home because of what Christ has done for me. I'm home anytime I'm seeking God and walking closely to Him. But home also means a physical place in this lifetime. I know I will go home to Him one day, but until then, what makes a place home to me? Are you ready, I made a list:
Just in case you're wondering, that's a picture of my husband in his ducky towel. Yes, I know.
Tomorrow after some of these things are cleared out we plan to lay out our six bags and two carry-ons and pack up the remaining. And when we do along with the things that are necessary to living, I'm going to pack a few things that make a place home to me. By the way, apparently for my husband this ducky towel is a mark of home because it was rescued from the Goodwill pile just hours ago.
How do I feel? A mixture of emotions would probably describe it best. In a book called Home I was recently reading, the Father said of his wayward son, "I wish he would come home." It made me stop and think. What did he mean by home? The first time I read the sentence I thought he meant come home, as in come home to the Lord. The second time I read it I thought he meant come home as in come home to the physical place where he lived. Then I read it again, and I felt like he meant that he wished his son would find peace.
Home can have so many meanings. In a way my heart is home because of what Christ has done for me. I'm home anytime I'm seeking God and walking closely to Him. But home also means a physical place in this lifetime. I know I will go home to Him one day, but until then, what makes a place home to me? Are you ready, I made a list:
- A comfy bed or a comfy chair where I can sit and read
- A book to read
- A coffee mug to be filled with yummy coffee or yummy tea
- A nightstand next to my bed for books, a Bible, lotion, my coffee mug and an alarm
- Good music
- Cute boxes where I can put treasures or junk
- Flowers or something green that can be seen either inside or through a window
- Carpets or slippers to keep my feet warm
- My journal
- Pictures on the walls
Just in case you're wondering, that's a picture of my husband in his ducky towel. Yes, I know.
Tomorrow after some of these things are cleared out we plan to lay out our six bags and two carry-ons and pack up the remaining. And when we do along with the things that are necessary to living, I'm going to pack a few things that make a place home to me. By the way, apparently for my husband this ducky towel is a mark of home because it was rescued from the Goodwill pile just hours ago.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The types of vegetarians...
You may or may not know that until the approximate age of 23 I was a Lacto-Ovo Vegetrarian. From that point forward I became a Flexatarian, or in other words, I started eating fish and chicken. But at no point, and I mean at no point in my life would I ever, ever, ever, except under dire circumstances, become a Vegan. Dear me...that is just too dreadful.
And here is why I could never be a Vegan. My friend owns a vegan restaurant in Dallas that is rocking awesome. Seriously, try the party platter...there is a cheese dip on that platter that is better then real queso...and it's made with pistachios. If I Yelped, I'd give this place an awesome review and 5 stars. It's called the Spiral Diner and seriously, you really should try it.
So we went the other night. Every time I go I try to order something new, because as a Flexatarian I can't always order everything off the menu...but not a Spiral Diner. And trust me, I want to try everything. So I got the Sketti and Meatballs. They were delicious...no complaints here, I loved them. I had some left over, so I took it home to eat later. And three days later I did, except do you know what I did, I did this...
Yes, ladies and gentleman. That would be cheese on top of my delicious, balanced and perfectly protein packed Sketti and Meatballs. I couldn't resist. I was in the privacy of my own home, my friend would never know (unless you send her this blog entry...and don't do that) and I love cheese on top of my spaghetti. So if you want to know what type of vegetarian I am, I'll tell you...I'm the type who can't eat red meat because it makes her stomach explode from the inside but could never go back to her lacto-ovan ways because she loves sushi, salmon and the #1 at Chic Fil A too much to go back.
So what does that make me? I feel like the term Flexitarian is too generic. I'd like to call myself a Sush-mon-Chickatarian. So if you're stopping by Chic Fil A today, give me a call...I'll meet you there.
And here is why I could never be a Vegan. My friend owns a vegan restaurant in Dallas that is rocking awesome. Seriously, try the party platter...there is a cheese dip on that platter that is better then real queso...and it's made with pistachios. If I Yelped, I'd give this place an awesome review and 5 stars. It's called the Spiral Diner and seriously, you really should try it.
So we went the other night. Every time I go I try to order something new, because as a Flexatarian I can't always order everything off the menu...but not a Spiral Diner. And trust me, I want to try everything. So I got the Sketti and Meatballs. They were delicious...no complaints here, I loved them. I had some left over, so I took it home to eat later. And three days later I did, except do you know what I did, I did this...
Yes, ladies and gentleman. That would be cheese on top of my delicious, balanced and perfectly protein packed Sketti and Meatballs. I couldn't resist. I was in the privacy of my own home, my friend would never know (unless you send her this blog entry...and don't do that) and I love cheese on top of my spaghetti. So if you want to know what type of vegetarian I am, I'll tell you...I'm the type who can't eat red meat because it makes her stomach explode from the inside but could never go back to her lacto-ovan ways because she loves sushi, salmon and the #1 at Chic Fil A too much to go back.
So what does that make me? I feel like the term Flexitarian is too generic. I'd like to call myself a Sush-mon-Chickatarian. So if you're stopping by Chic Fil A today, give me a call...I'll meet you there.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Packing up the Wagon Train...
In the 5th grade my class completed a unit called Westward Ho. Together in groups of five we formed our own wagon trains. If you know me then you might know that I have had a lifelong obsession with two things: mystery stories involving female detectives and driving across the United States in a covered wagon. I blame three people for these obsessions, my Mom for taking me to the library too much, Nancy Drew and Laura Ingles Wilder. The third person whose biography I read a few years back which has made me since decide that she was definitely sassy. But I digress...
So when I found out that we were going to spend six weeks pretending to travel across the continent in a covered wagon, it was on. I was definitely stoked. As a group we had to make decisions about what trails to take, what to pack and what to leave home, how fast we would allow our horses travel each day and what we would do about food rations. After reading the Little House on the Prairie series multiple times, I was ready. I put on my game face made a few decisions like: pack the rope, leave the Tiffany lamp. Bring flour and coffee, and a smidge of salt, but don't overdo it by bringing too much sugar. And when it came time to cross the canyon with a raging river at the bottom, that rope came in handy. It ended up even shaving a few days off our trip and possibly saving the wagon because winter was a coming. My group didn't do to shabby, in fact we actually reached Oregon first out of all the other groups. Don't ask me what happened to the group that got stuck in the snow. Fortunately in our simulation they didn't lose any points for earning the nickname Donnor Party.
Flash forward 20 years and I have to admit, part of me still would like to travel across the country in a covered wagon. The other part of me now feels the emotional pain that a decision like that must have involved. Leaving family and friends on the other side of the continent, to travel across the country for six months all the while not be entirely sure you would make it through: Indian attacks, surprise blizzards, snake bites, viruses, hunger and with the knowledge that when you got to the other side it could even be worse. That just does not sound as pleasant to me anymore.
However, something about the conversations we're throwing around the apartment lately remind me a little bit of playing that Westward Ho game. Here's what I mean:
"Should we pack the first aid kit, extra gauze and ice pack?"
"I don't know. We can only bring 594 pounds worth of stuff and it all has to fit in these six bags." (By the way, our bags will not actually carry that amount of stuff. 594 pounds is just the weight of the luggage we have determined we are willing to pay to bring.)
"Well, we do need to take care of ourselves during accidents. It's a good investment of space. Let's bring it."
So, when we get to Asia and we find ourselves in a bind in need of a band aid or Benadryl, the severity of the situation might not be as great as that wagon train crossing the raging river, but at least we'll know we've come prepared. I might bring a few figurative "Tiffany Lamps" because this ain't the wild west after all, this is moving by jet plane.
Maybe I'll start thinking of this month of my life as "Eastward Ho." It sounds more exciting then what I have been calling it in my mind: "Spending four weeks sleeping on air mattresses, on the floor or in someone else's bed because you are in the middle of a humongous move to another country where you can only bring 6 bags, 2 carry-ons and a husband."
Yeah, Eastward Ho. It sounds a lot more exciting and is less of a mouthful.
So when I found out that we were going to spend six weeks pretending to travel across the continent in a covered wagon, it was on. I was definitely stoked. As a group we had to make decisions about what trails to take, what to pack and what to leave home, how fast we would allow our horses travel each day and what we would do about food rations. After reading the Little House on the Prairie series multiple times, I was ready. I put on my game face made a few decisions like: pack the rope, leave the Tiffany lamp. Bring flour and coffee, and a smidge of salt, but don't overdo it by bringing too much sugar. And when it came time to cross the canyon with a raging river at the bottom, that rope came in handy. It ended up even shaving a few days off our trip and possibly saving the wagon because winter was a coming. My group didn't do to shabby, in fact we actually reached Oregon first out of all the other groups. Don't ask me what happened to the group that got stuck in the snow. Fortunately in our simulation they didn't lose any points for earning the nickname Donnor Party.
Flash forward 20 years and I have to admit, part of me still would like to travel across the country in a covered wagon. The other part of me now feels the emotional pain that a decision like that must have involved. Leaving family and friends on the other side of the continent, to travel across the country for six months all the while not be entirely sure you would make it through: Indian attacks, surprise blizzards, snake bites, viruses, hunger and with the knowledge that when you got to the other side it could even be worse. That just does not sound as pleasant to me anymore.
However, something about the conversations we're throwing around the apartment lately remind me a little bit of playing that Westward Ho game. Here's what I mean:
"Should we pack the first aid kit, extra gauze and ice pack?"
"I don't know. We can only bring 594 pounds worth of stuff and it all has to fit in these six bags." (By the way, our bags will not actually carry that amount of stuff. 594 pounds is just the weight of the luggage we have determined we are willing to pay to bring.)
"Well, we do need to take care of ourselves during accidents. It's a good investment of space. Let's bring it."
So, when we get to Asia and we find ourselves in a bind in need of a band aid or Benadryl, the severity of the situation might not be as great as that wagon train crossing the raging river, but at least we'll know we've come prepared. I might bring a few figurative "Tiffany Lamps" because this ain't the wild west after all, this is moving by jet plane.
Maybe I'll start thinking of this month of my life as "Eastward Ho." It sounds more exciting then what I have been calling it in my mind: "Spending four weeks sleeping on air mattresses, on the floor or in someone else's bed because you are in the middle of a humongous move to another country where you can only bring 6 bags, 2 carry-ons and a husband."
Yeah, Eastward Ho. It sounds a lot more exciting and is less of a mouthful.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Eeyore, my good friend...
For years I've had a good friend that I've kept sitting on my bed. His name is Eeyore, see isn't he cute?
He's been a good friend, always there to lend a soft squishy body to be squeezed either while reading a good book or having a good cry. He never talks too much and completely unlike his personality, he never is grumpy. He actually doesn't say too much. One time in college, Eeyore even got stolen. See, look...
But now I am saying good-bye to Eeyore. He is going to Goodwill along with a lot of other things. I don't feel too sad, because in all truth, Eeyore hasn't sat on my bed for about a year. He's been stuffed underneath my bed waiting for a rainy day when he was needed again. How can I do this to a friend so loyal and true you might ask? Well, it's because of this, my own personal life-sized Eeyore.
Don't be fooled by that cute little grin and the mischievous glint in this little guy's eyes. Add 25 years and a whole lot of video games and IBC root beer and this little guy has the disposition of a grumpy old donkey. He has a cloud over his head and everything. Just the way I like him...
He's been a good friend, always there to lend a soft squishy body to be squeezed either while reading a good book or having a good cry. He never talks too much and completely unlike his personality, he never is grumpy. He actually doesn't say too much. One time in college, Eeyore even got stolen. See, look...
But now I am saying good-bye to Eeyore. He is going to Goodwill along with a lot of other things. I don't feel too sad, because in all truth, Eeyore hasn't sat on my bed for about a year. He's been stuffed underneath my bed waiting for a rainy day when he was needed again. How can I do this to a friend so loyal and true you might ask? Well, it's because of this, my own personal life-sized Eeyore.
Don't be fooled by that cute little grin and the mischievous glint in this little guy's eyes. Add 25 years and a whole lot of video games and IBC root beer and this little guy has the disposition of a grumpy old donkey. He has a cloud over his head and everything. Just the way I like him...
I'm not Listening...
I found this the other day. It's from a presentation a classmate did at DTS. I'm a really bad listener. I should read this regularly.
...I'm not Listening
When I'm thinking about an answer while others are talking, I'm not listening.
When I give unsolicited advice, I'm not listening.
When I suggest they shouldn't feel the way they do, I'm not listening.
When I apply a quick fix, I'm not listening.
When I fail to acknowledge their feelings, I"m not listening.
When I fidget, glance at my watch and appear to be rushed, I'm not listening.
When I fail to maintain eye contact, I'm not listening.
When I don't ask follow-up questions, I'm not listening.
When I top their story with a bigger, better story of my own, I'm not listening.
When they share a difficult experience and I counter with one of my own, I'm not listening.
Really, all I have to do is listen. I don't have to talk, just listen.
By Dave Rober
...I'm not Listening
When I'm thinking about an answer while others are talking, I'm not listening.
When I give unsolicited advice, I'm not listening.
When I suggest they shouldn't feel the way they do, I'm not listening.
When I apply a quick fix, I'm not listening.
When I fail to acknowledge their feelings, I"m not listening.
When I fidget, glance at my watch and appear to be rushed, I'm not listening.
When I fail to maintain eye contact, I'm not listening.
When I don't ask follow-up questions, I'm not listening.
When I top their story with a bigger, better story of my own, I'm not listening.
When they share a difficult experience and I counter with one of my own, I'm not listening.
Really, all I have to do is listen. I don't have to talk, just listen.
By Dave Rober
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