In the morning when I wake up I am of course, first myself, and then I am a wife and a mother. Throughout the day I find myself in a continuous changing-of-the-guard of sorts, as I attempt to flow efficiently and effectively through the additional roles that fill in the lines of my job description. As a home-schooling teacher of an almost teen, I add educator to a line, then there is home-manager, which can also be read as “maid”, accountant and budget manager, designer and decorator, and more and more frequently, wedding and event planner. The newest role of re-entry student threatens to make a splash in the equilibrium of my day, and every once in a while the roles of friend, sister, and daughter sneak in to wrestle a few minutes from the precarious balancing act that is my delightful and disjointed life.
I have enjoyed many roles in my fifty years of roaming this earth, and find that each of them form a piece of the greater whole, that is my most true self. I have dove to the depths of 120 feet in the waters of the South Pacific, a character in a magical chase of woman, shark and tortoise, and I can take you there. I have hovered motionless waiting for a tiny fish to peek from its Saki bottle abode in the watery white sands off the coast of Truk lagoon, blue waters clear and crystal, wrecks of an Imperial navy once mighty, resting forever quiet, and I can take you there. I have come to my knees before God, mighty and mysterious, and watched as he put together the pieces of a broken and hopeless life, and I can take you there. I have known the empty arms of a woman who has released son and husband to the heartache of death, and I can take you there.
The minutes of my days, my weeks, my months, and my years have seen many places, and many roles have been played on the stage of my life, yet every moment of every day I find that one role nags at my brain, and tugs at my heart; the singular role that pulls all my pieces together and make sense of them, every moment of every day, I, am a writer.
A writer writes even when no one is reading. A writer writes to release the stories true and imaginary, heartbreaking and hilarious, finished and unfinished from the confines of their bursting brain. A writer writes to free themselves of the words that pour through their brain at any time of their choosing, with and without permission. A writer writes because somewhere deep inside of themselves they believe it is exactly what they were made to do, even if they don’t believe that they themselves were created at all, a writer still feels driven to express, to speak with words of black and white, to create. A writer writes because although in the morning they may wake up a mother, or a father, a wife or a husband, a businessperson or an accountant, every minute of every day, they are a writer. I write, because every moment of every day, something says to me, “You were born to write.”
The Tools of My Trade
"I don't know what I think until I write it down." Joan Didion
Author Joan Didion notes in her book, “The Year of Magical Thinking” (2006.) that at one point in her quest as an author, her husband, an accomplished screen-writer remarked that she would not truly become a writer until she maintained the habit of carrying a notepad with her constantly. The notepad, of course was for the purpose of recording those random bits of beauty, wisdom, and wildness, which will of course only come to the writer at an inconvenient and interruptive time. Upon reading this, knowing that my career as a writer had lay fallow for some fifteen years, I made a commitment to the notepad, and she and I have become inseparable partners in a singular purpose; that this writer who had not penned much more than a college paper, and the random thank you note, would once again set off on the lovely and languishing journey called writing.
In her book, “Bird by Bird; Some Instructions on Writing and Life” (2006), author Ann Lamott notes that to be good writer, one must first be a reader. While writers often rely on experiences from their own life as a starting point for their writing, reading other authors, both great and marginal, gives the writer the opportunity to study style, context, tone, and use of verbiage. Ultimately, reading enlarges the perspective of the writer, and while making them struggle with the deep jealousies that come with the knowledge that someone else is a great and published author, or worse someone else writes drivel, and yet still got paid for the spew that you are currently reading, still, reading spurs the creative mind.
Other tools of the writing trade include a good laptop computer, or some well-sharpened pencils, a hand that doesn’t cramp in revolt at hours of writing, a dictionary, a thesaurus, a book of quotations, interesting people, places, and perspective, and of course, life experience, life experience, and life experience.
In a recent interview with O Magazine, poet and author Dr. Maya Angelou remarked that her writing tools include a quiet hotel room where she a keeps her notes, “a Bible, a thesaurus, a dictionary, and a bottle of sherry.” (April 2011) As for this writer, sherry aside, writing without prayer is like toast without butter, dry and devoid of taste, and often, my inspirations come in that time right after I have opened my Bible, gotten to my knees, and listened to the voice of the singular Master of the creative word.
The tools of my craft have begun to fill the empty spaces of my home, notes litter my purse, my car, and a writing file, a little black notebook sits on my bed stand, ideas are scrawled in the margins of books that I am currently reading or have recently read, on church programs, and on my daily to do list. As I drive, if a witty quip or a deep reflection comes to mind, I ask my children that are riding in the car with me to send a text of my thought to my phone, or I call and send myself a message. In encouragement of my craft, a once guest room has been reconfigured and retitled by my husband as writer’s retreat, echoing his belief in me each time he mentions the term. My tools in place it is time to tame the beast.
Taming the Intimidating Task
I have heard it told that the great American author Jack London compelled himself to sit at his desk each day and pen a specific number of words. Writer’s write, they make themselves write, and I make myself write. It is a discipline. The apostle Paul, in his writings to his young associate Timothy instructs him with the following admonition recorded in 1 Timothy 4:7 of the Bible, “Discipline yourself for the purpose of godliness.” As for me, I believe that any writing skill I have is a God-given gift, and should be treated as such, for the use of my Creator, for the encouragement, edification and education of others, and of course, just for the delight of the using the gift. And so I discipline myself, making an effort to read wisdom literature, and excellent authors, and seeking to write a minimum of twenty minutes a day.
Writer’s Block
What do you feel when you see a blank page? When for one reason or another you are compelled to write a report, a letter, or a simple thank you note to your mother. Do beads of perspiration form on your brow? Then do the shakes begin, and perhaps it is worse than a cold-turkey drug withdrawal? For some people there is nothing more intimidating than a blank page. Writers feel the same, it is a sick and unnerving game of chicken as one hears in their mind, “I have no words to write, I am compelled to write, nothing is coming to my tortured brain, and my deepest desire is to write.” Having this condition known as Writer’s Block can make one think; “Oh it would feel so good to bang my head against the wall.” One may recall that they had a brilliant thought while driving in the car, or in the middle of the night last night, or while sitting on the toilet, and now all shining ideas seem to have flushed down that proverbial porcelain pot along with the rest of the excrement. When faced with such frustration, this writer has no choice but to disagree with the voices in my head that argue that I will never write anything of value again and write, until a void and staring page becomes words, and words become a sentence, and poetry turns into blog, sentence into article, and chapter into book.
Self-Publishing
Some fifteen plus years ago, my writing partner and I would look forward to the daily ritual of going to the mailbox. Inside this treasure trove of such, we might find glorious evidences that someone; somewhere thought we could pen a word or two. A successful day might bring an acceptance letter from a magazine, or a check from a publishing house, or even for evidence of true accomplishment, an actual story or article set in beautiful type comfortably resting between the two covers of a magazine or book. Ah, writer’s heaven. Today, as an unsure but hopeful writer, my work finds itself appearing regularly in a self-publishing format called the blog.
Originally titled web logging, the blog is an interactive web site where a writer can post a variety of compositions from diary form to advertisement in style. Once the blog is posted to the website people using the web can access the author’s blog page, read the posting, and even leave a comment for the writer. In an effort to discipline myself to practice the art and skill of writing, I set forth a personal challenge within myself to complete a number of pieces that were finished enough for the reader’s eye, and self-publish them in the blog format. The intent of this project was simple and straightforward, as a writer, I needed to write, and even the thought that someone else might be reading spurs my desire to write well. Blog writers also have the opportunity to share biographical information for the reader, as well as other blogs that the writer may read or contribute to.
Resources for Writers
Resources for writers abound, some excellent and some marginal. For the readers benefit I have noted within the text several books that may assist in the writing process. Those interested in the writing experience may also find assistance through local colleges that offer courses and seminars for aspiring writers, as well as writers groups that are formed specifically for the purpose of writers encouraging writers.
Although writers write because they must, they often have the deep desire to see their write in print and to open their mailbox and find a tangible monetary reward. As for this writer, I will keep on praying, keep on making those furious scribbles I call notes, and keep on writing with the hope that not only will my work be read, but that it will make a difference in the life of even one human being, and if I open my mailbox to a cache of checks, I will consider it an honor and a privilege to get paid to do a job that I love.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Saturday, January 15, 2011
The Land of Sun and Sea Breezes
For some reason the memories of my childhood that are the most crystal for me are those of my adolescent and teenage years. As an almost seven year old little girl, my parent's had loaded me and my three siblings up into the back seat of a 65 Ford Mustang and driven us across the continental U.S. from Detroit to California, for a job relocation. My father worked for the Ford Motor Company, and they had decided to send us from the land of snow and auto parts, to the land of sunshine and sea breezes. In my memories, the move was magical.
My recollections of living in Warren, a little suburb of Detroit are few, but most of them are lined with snowsuits and images of my older brother some 5 years my senior "walking" me to school through the winter snow while pelting me from the rear with a carefully crafted arsenal of snowballs. I can recall the extra time spent at the beginning of each school day engaged in mastering the subject of Snow gear Removal 101. I have a mystical memory of a field trip to woods near my elementary school, where my mind’s eye tells me my mother was in attendance. Truth, or conjured, I cannot say. I have also heard rumor that as a toddler, I rolled canned goods at my younger brother, hoping to impede his progress in learning to walk, and that later he took the scissors to my ear, perhaps to repay my earlier abuses. I maintain that if this story bears any truth, that I was simply preparing for a bright and prosperous future in bowling, and that somehow I have been robbed of a professional career that could have been. It has also been told, that when I was yet an infant in my crib, my older sister had to pat my bottom to sleep each and every night, in order to keep me from wailing my household into despair, with my bedtime rants. Knowing myself as I do now, I will not question the validity of this tale, but must say, "Sis, if you are reading, I love you, and a million thanks for saving my life!" Finally, I remember my mother escorting me to the doctor's office when a screw on the swing set won an ill-matched bout with my eye, and stitches were required. These are the extent of my pre-sunshine recollections. What I do not remember is my dad, and though I know he was there, working hard, and doing exactly what fathers of his generation did, he does not appear in my memory bank until the land of swimming pools warms my frostbitten memories.
As a mother, it concerns me the depths of what my children may have forgotten, or whether their sweetest memories are hidden away from them like long packed away children's story books. I became a mother at 21, having four beautiful blonde children in the short period of six years, a son and then three daughters. A little more than five years later another blonde son was added to our family. Life was full of New Year’s Day trips to the ocean to watch dad surf and walk in the sand, and each child being tucked in and prayed for and then sung a lullaby at bed time. Our first tiny house had a backyard twice as big as the house, with a bamboo forest where they played hide and seek, and a wooden play set that Grandma and Papa had erected in the backyard. Daddy fell asleep at family gatherings and we teased him by quietly putting a stuffed toy on his stomach, and then taking photographs to be displayed at the next holiday. There were walks in the park, and fiesta birthday parties, and the general joy of being a family.
When my youngest son was not yet three, we lost his beloved brother and father to the ocean that they both loved so dearly, and in many ways I began to disappear as well. It is amazing how my identity had entwined itself so tightly around this man and boy, and only by the very present grace of God, did I maintain the understanding that my beautiful daughters and young son needed me. I loved my children with all of my heart, and wanted to give them the very best, but somehow instead of taking the pieces of my shattered heart to the God I had always trusted, I tried to tuck them away, ashamed of my own brokenness. My heart wandered, looking for healing in places where none could be found, and clinging to God with one hand, while I shook my fist at him with the other. By my daughters teen years I had let my faith in God slip out the back door like an unwanted party guest, and the Christ-centered home that their father and I had so carefully cultivated, became a home of shattered hearts and broken dreams. In my lack of faith, God was still faithful, and gently, lovingly, he reminded me of the woman that he designed me to be, and the promises that I had made hand in hand with their father, to dedicate our children to Him. He restored my hope and my desire to again build a family that shines with loving-kindness, joy, and a sense of being valued.
Now, as I see the wounds that these amazing children still bear, I wonder just how many I inflicted with the sharp edges of my once shattered heart. If for me, it is not the beautiful days of being a little girl that most shine in my mind, but rather the awkward years of being a gawky freckled red-haired teen, then perhaps their broken teen years are also what threaten still to steal their joy. I long for them to recall the lullaby’s, the crisp breeze of an early morning on the beach, a snuggle on the couch with mom and dad; life in the land of sun and sea breezes. I cannot undo the brokenness inflicted by their losses, nor by my own hurt, but I have the opportunity daily, for as long as I am blessed to walk this earth with these amazing individuals I call my children, to show them unmeasured grace and value, the humility of understanding that no words of apology cover my failures, and countless acts of love that are due them just because, they are my children.
My recollections of living in Warren, a little suburb of Detroit are few, but most of them are lined with snowsuits and images of my older brother some 5 years my senior "walking" me to school through the winter snow while pelting me from the rear with a carefully crafted arsenal of snowballs. I can recall the extra time spent at the beginning of each school day engaged in mastering the subject of Snow gear Removal 101. I have a mystical memory of a field trip to woods near my elementary school, where my mind’s eye tells me my mother was in attendance. Truth, or conjured, I cannot say. I have also heard rumor that as a toddler, I rolled canned goods at my younger brother, hoping to impede his progress in learning to walk, and that later he took the scissors to my ear, perhaps to repay my earlier abuses. I maintain that if this story bears any truth, that I was simply preparing for a bright and prosperous future in bowling, and that somehow I have been robbed of a professional career that could have been. It has also been told, that when I was yet an infant in my crib, my older sister had to pat my bottom to sleep each and every night, in order to keep me from wailing my household into despair, with my bedtime rants. Knowing myself as I do now, I will not question the validity of this tale, but must say, "Sis, if you are reading, I love you, and a million thanks for saving my life!" Finally, I remember my mother escorting me to the doctor's office when a screw on the swing set won an ill-matched bout with my eye, and stitches were required. These are the extent of my pre-sunshine recollections. What I do not remember is my dad, and though I know he was there, working hard, and doing exactly what fathers of his generation did, he does not appear in my memory bank until the land of swimming pools warms my frostbitten memories.
As a mother, it concerns me the depths of what my children may have forgotten, or whether their sweetest memories are hidden away from them like long packed away children's story books. I became a mother at 21, having four beautiful blonde children in the short period of six years, a son and then three daughters. A little more than five years later another blonde son was added to our family. Life was full of New Year’s Day trips to the ocean to watch dad surf and walk in the sand, and each child being tucked in and prayed for and then sung a lullaby at bed time. Our first tiny house had a backyard twice as big as the house, with a bamboo forest where they played hide and seek, and a wooden play set that Grandma and Papa had erected in the backyard. Daddy fell asleep at family gatherings and we teased him by quietly putting a stuffed toy on his stomach, and then taking photographs to be displayed at the next holiday. There were walks in the park, and fiesta birthday parties, and the general joy of being a family.
When my youngest son was not yet three, we lost his beloved brother and father to the ocean that they both loved so dearly, and in many ways I began to disappear as well. It is amazing how my identity had entwined itself so tightly around this man and boy, and only by the very present grace of God, did I maintain the understanding that my beautiful daughters and young son needed me. I loved my children with all of my heart, and wanted to give them the very best, but somehow instead of taking the pieces of my shattered heart to the God I had always trusted, I tried to tuck them away, ashamed of my own brokenness. My heart wandered, looking for healing in places where none could be found, and clinging to God with one hand, while I shook my fist at him with the other. By my daughters teen years I had let my faith in God slip out the back door like an unwanted party guest, and the Christ-centered home that their father and I had so carefully cultivated, became a home of shattered hearts and broken dreams. In my lack of faith, God was still faithful, and gently, lovingly, he reminded me of the woman that he designed me to be, and the promises that I had made hand in hand with their father, to dedicate our children to Him. He restored my hope and my desire to again build a family that shines with loving-kindness, joy, and a sense of being valued.
Now, as I see the wounds that these amazing children still bear, I wonder just how many I inflicted with the sharp edges of my once shattered heart. If for me, it is not the beautiful days of being a little girl that most shine in my mind, but rather the awkward years of being a gawky freckled red-haired teen, then perhaps their broken teen years are also what threaten still to steal their joy. I long for them to recall the lullaby’s, the crisp breeze of an early morning on the beach, a snuggle on the couch with mom and dad; life in the land of sun and sea breezes. I cannot undo the brokenness inflicted by their losses, nor by my own hurt, but I have the opportunity daily, for as long as I am blessed to walk this earth with these amazing individuals I call my children, to show them unmeasured grace and value, the humility of understanding that no words of apology cover my failures, and countless acts of love that are due them just because, they are my children.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Project on Prayer
For my readers,
I have been working on a project called 365 Days of Prayer, if you would like to see what I am doing you can follow this link:
http://musingsinsimplicity.blogspot.com/
Thank you for your grace and thoughtfulness,
Stacey
I have been working on a project called 365 Days of Prayer, if you would like to see what I am doing you can follow this link:
http://musingsinsimplicity.blogspot.com/
Thank you for your grace and thoughtfulness,
Stacey
Friday, October 29, 2010
Words of Grace
Today, as I was speaking to a friend of mine, my youngest daughter, listened on, and then turned to me as I was mid-sentence, and said, "Mom, you sound like a Pastor-Poet." To be quite honest, I have never heard the term Pastor-Poet, and quite believe, that it was an invention of her creative 12 year old mind, but may I say, given the bevy of commentary a budding almost-teen can aim at a mother, these were words were welcomed with open arms. Whatever this gracious sounding title may confer in meaning to who I am, or to the worthiness of my words, it spoke as vastly as the oceans to my sense of worth and esteem. In a word, my daughter conferred upon me the elusive "V" word...Value.
As a mother of many children, sparing you the details, as to not derail this diatribe with the horrors of child birth, or other sordid tales too long to tell; I have found myself often questioning my value, as well as the regard that I have imparted to my family. I find this is a dilemma alarmingly constant, not only among mothers, but among women, young and old, a malady of self-deprecation and perhaps it is simply a disease that is gender blind. We each wander through life with a great question mark seemingly tattooed on our hearts, and our often fragile psyche's, seeking a word, any word, that indicates we are worthy. As with this ailment of plague dimensions; self-deprecation, we often create a devastating legacy, tearing down with our own words, those we intended to build.
I have often been fascinated at the power of words, and how I, in my humanness, am more adept at using them to harm, then I am at using them to heal. As a woman who proclaims herself to be a follower of Christ, I have had to question my own willingness to take ownership of the weight of my words. If I am charged to think about what is pure, what is noble, what is lovely, admirable, excellent, then should I not also let these things come off my lips. I mean, shouldn't I be shouting them from the rooftops, or at a bare minimum, whispering them in the ears of my loved ones? What is my good report of having a God who loves me, if I do not then behave as one who is loved, and confer this love upon all those who come in to my path? In my self-deprecating arrogance, have I not conveyed that I do not agree, that I am not worthy of that love, nor is that love powerful enough to fill me, change me, and overflow out onto all those I encounter. I refuse for another day to live in such a demeaning manner, and without question, choose to affirm who I am, and thereby have words of value for those I encounter, because truly, I am in awe of the people with which I have the privilege of sharing life.
Unfortunately, as a woman of habit, sometimes habit of the negative persuasion, I must confess that believing that I, and others, are due esteem, if for no other reason than because each is a masterfully carved work of artistry, must become more than a work of head-knowledge. For this woman of humankind, it must become a work of intentionality, a discipline of the self. What is the famous quote? A picture can paint a thousand words? Pardon, if I have erred in verbiage, but as for me, I believe a word aptly spoken can create so brilliant a portraiture on the heart so as to change a life for an eternity. In my world, they are words of simplicity: the knowledge for each of my children that the last words I will say to them before they go out the door or hang up the phone will be "I love you," to my son, "You are a fine young man," to a friend, "You are amazing," to my husband, "Thank you for being so good to me."
I love the thought of a Pastor-Poet, and thinks that perhaps I would like to be one, if a pastor is simply one who gently leads others towards was is truthful, and a poet is simply one that weave verses beautiful enough to heal a heart. Then let it be so. For today, I will be content to share the wise words of a boy to his bear:
Promise me you'll always remember:
You are braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.
--Christopher Robin to Pooh
I pray that though I may have failed in days past, from today and forward I will only help ALL that I encounter to know that they are so much braver, so much stronger, and so much smarter than they have dared to imagine...
Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things(Philippians 4:8, NIV)
As a mother of many children, sparing you the details, as to not derail this diatribe with the horrors of child birth, or other sordid tales too long to tell; I have found myself often questioning my value, as well as the regard that I have imparted to my family. I find this is a dilemma alarmingly constant, not only among mothers, but among women, young and old, a malady of self-deprecation and perhaps it is simply a disease that is gender blind. We each wander through life with a great question mark seemingly tattooed on our hearts, and our often fragile psyche's, seeking a word, any word, that indicates we are worthy. As with this ailment of plague dimensions; self-deprecation, we often create a devastating legacy, tearing down with our own words, those we intended to build.
I have often been fascinated at the power of words, and how I, in my humanness, am more adept at using them to harm, then I am at using them to heal. As a woman who proclaims herself to be a follower of Christ, I have had to question my own willingness to take ownership of the weight of my words. If I am charged to think about what is pure, what is noble, what is lovely, admirable, excellent, then should I not also let these things come off my lips. I mean, shouldn't I be shouting them from the rooftops, or at a bare minimum, whispering them in the ears of my loved ones? What is my good report of having a God who loves me, if I do not then behave as one who is loved, and confer this love upon all those who come in to my path? In my self-deprecating arrogance, have I not conveyed that I do not agree, that I am not worthy of that love, nor is that love powerful enough to fill me, change me, and overflow out onto all those I encounter. I refuse for another day to live in such a demeaning manner, and without question, choose to affirm who I am, and thereby have words of value for those I encounter, because truly, I am in awe of the people with which I have the privilege of sharing life.
Unfortunately, as a woman of habit, sometimes habit of the negative persuasion, I must confess that believing that I, and others, are due esteem, if for no other reason than because each is a masterfully carved work of artistry, must become more than a work of head-knowledge. For this woman of humankind, it must become a work of intentionality, a discipline of the self. What is the famous quote? A picture can paint a thousand words? Pardon, if I have erred in verbiage, but as for me, I believe a word aptly spoken can create so brilliant a portraiture on the heart so as to change a life for an eternity. In my world, they are words of simplicity: the knowledge for each of my children that the last words I will say to them before they go out the door or hang up the phone will be "I love you," to my son, "You are a fine young man," to a friend, "You are amazing," to my husband, "Thank you for being so good to me."
I love the thought of a Pastor-Poet, and thinks that perhaps I would like to be one, if a pastor is simply one who gently leads others towards was is truthful, and a poet is simply one that weave verses beautiful enough to heal a heart. Then let it be so. For today, I will be content to share the wise words of a boy to his bear:
Promise me you'll always remember:
You are braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.
--Christopher Robin to Pooh
I pray that though I may have failed in days past, from today and forward I will only help ALL that I encounter to know that they are so much braver, so much stronger, and so much smarter than they have dared to imagine...
Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things(Philippians 4:8, NIV)
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Have a Good Run!
Running and life have been a common theme for me over the last month...perhaps because my daughter has been participating in triathalon events, and tomorrow will run her first 1/2 marathon. Other friends, friends in my "advanced" age bracket, have been training and competing as well. Again, and again, I have been inspired by messages with this theme, and by those all around me, who run their race with focus, and with endurance. Today, I am reading and running, but writing only a little. I just ran across a passage in a text I am studying, and hope that it will inspire you as it has me.
"Like the marathon...every life race has periods of extreme discomfort interspersed with excitement and joyful enthusiasm. At times, we all encounter hindrances that impede our progress. Some of these are beyond our control, but many are obstacles we create for ourselves.
In the race of life, for example, we get sidelined when we allow our bodies to get out of shape, our relationships to cool, or our spirituality to be neglected. Sometimes we're distracted from running strong because we look at the crowds, hoping to get applause or wanting to prove something to our critics. Worse is the tendency to keep our eyes on the competition, habitually monitoring the progress of others until we lose our own direction. "Making comparisons is the cardinal sin of modern life," according to business guru Jim Collins. "It traps us in a game [or race] we can't win. Once we define ourselves in terms of others, we lose the freedom to shape our own life."
Gary R. Collins "Christian Coaching"
"Strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race that God set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith." Hebrews 12: 1-2
For today, I will keep my focus on that which has been set before me: Love my family every day in tangible ways, write every day without being concerned if anyone reads my words, get on the treadmill and take another tenth of a mile, and set my face like a flint on the One who set the race before me. Tomorrow, I will get up and cheer my daughter on, even if in her focus, she only sees the finish.
Have a good run!
"Like the marathon...every life race has periods of extreme discomfort interspersed with excitement and joyful enthusiasm. At times, we all encounter hindrances that impede our progress. Some of these are beyond our control, but many are obstacles we create for ourselves.
In the race of life, for example, we get sidelined when we allow our bodies to get out of shape, our relationships to cool, or our spirituality to be neglected. Sometimes we're distracted from running strong because we look at the crowds, hoping to get applause or wanting to prove something to our critics. Worse is the tendency to keep our eyes on the competition, habitually monitoring the progress of others until we lose our own direction. "Making comparisons is the cardinal sin of modern life," according to business guru Jim Collins. "It traps us in a game [or race] we can't win. Once we define ourselves in terms of others, we lose the freedom to shape our own life."
Gary R. Collins "Christian Coaching"
"Strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race that God set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith." Hebrews 12: 1-2
For today, I will keep my focus on that which has been set before me: Love my family every day in tangible ways, write every day without being concerned if anyone reads my words, get on the treadmill and take another tenth of a mile, and set my face like a flint on the One who set the race before me. Tomorrow, I will get up and cheer my daughter on, even if in her focus, she only sees the finish.
Have a good run!
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Works of Wonder
I am a crier. I don't mean a little tear here and there, kind of a crier. I mean the kind that makes my children laugh at me in the movie theater. The kind that causes my husband to ask almost every Sunday in church if I
am okay. The kind that buys waterproof mascara in bulk. I mean this literally, I stock up. As I write, I can count five bright orange tubes of Cover Girl, waiting under my sink to repair my potentially tear stained face. As best as I can remember, I have been a crier for the most of my adult life. Even before I truly realized that life was hard, and people suffered in ways that I could not bear for them to suffer, I cried. I cried watching children's movies, I cried when I was proud of someone I loved, I cried when life was perfect and beautiful and beyond all that I could imagine. Tears flowed in sympathy, and in empathy; in pain, and in awe. Once,as a young mother I laid in bed next to my husband and wept at the realization that my children would grow up too fast, and then they would leave me. Yes, that was me, the consumate crier.
Tears are my Catharsis. They come to heal and cleanse my wounds,they come when I hear a story of deep triumph, and they come when I suddenly realize how utterly stunning and magnificent life, and the people I am priveleged to have in my life, can be. I believe in people, and despite the depth of my own errors, I believe in myself, and the great possibilities that lie inside of each one of us. I am a member of a family that has suffered great loss. I watch as my children,who lived through the death of their eldest brother and father, choose to live an amazing legacy to their loved ones adventurous spirt. Again and again, I hear the stories of amazing human beings that have broken free from their hindrances, their chains and defeats, and have pressed forward to be human examples of fearsome and wonderful design. I watch on, as a friend struggles with cancer, living each day with purpose and joy before her children, and I remember my own father in the last stages of his battle, sitting one by one with each my children, giving each a special gift, and establishing within them the legacy of knowing they are loved. I encounter women who have lived their lives in service to others stretching out a hand to say the future can be different, serving in meal lines, mentoring single mother's, and investing their own lives and funds in broken hearts and broken people, far and wide...and I let the tears roll.
Some weeks ago, I had the gift of witnessing one of my daughters participate in a Triathalon. The mere act of registering for the event made my knees weak on her behalf, but her embarkation into a new world of running, riding, and ocean swimming, for the greater purpose of funding a local children's hospital, lit a fire in my heart. The discipline and devotion with which she began her journey was remarkable, but not unlike the devotion that I had seen earlier in her older sister as she undertook a marathon, or even the perserverance of their sister, who once believing herself "not smart," learned that she could learn and began to believe in her own intelligence, completing her Bachelors with the honor of two scholorships. I tell you these things not to basque in pride at my offpsring, but rather to note that the brilliant, the tear-worthy surrounds us, but it is our acknowledgement of it's presence that can fill our hearts and souls with the quest for the great, and the wonder that can make each of us reach for to be the "more" that we long to be.
I am not afraid of my tears, nor frightened that in allowing myself to desire to be all that I was designed for that I will feel too much pain, or bear too much disappointment, perhaps exhausting my vast well of tears.
We each are made for a purpose, perhaps one of mine is to cheer the people in my life on, to tell them their lives are worth living, that they each have the possibility to make a difference. To cry with them, to cry for them, and to well up in joyful tears at their victories. To my children I must say thank you. Thank you for showing me how worthwhile each day can be, and that there are tears that are sweeter than any gift I could ever receive. I love you each...keep encouraging one another. You inspire me.
My daughter trained for her event with a team, and within that group of athletes she had a partner, both of them new to the tri event. When she
emerged from the ocean swim, her team mate had not yet hit the sand. She
stripped off her wetsuit, ran to her bike, prepped for the next leg of the journey, and then waited... I called to her not understanding her delay, and then she turned, saw her teammate, nodded her head, and they mounted their bikes. Later, she explained that each of them had a different strength, but they committed to see each other through to the end. To spur each other on, I say, to greatness. The greatest of which is lending each other a hand in the journey.
I am grateful. To see the awesome in the everday, and everyday, to see and meet people who are truly awesome. If tears roll from my eyes when I encounter them, it is because once again I have been given a gift, the privelege of being in the presence of those who inspire, love, care, and labor to leave a legacy, as well as the joy of knowing... I, also, am fearfully and wonderfully made, designed to inspire other's, and to wipe their tears. I know that full well!
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.
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
Marianne Williamson
am okay. The kind that buys waterproof mascara in bulk. I mean this literally, I stock up. As I write, I can count five bright orange tubes of Cover Girl, waiting under my sink to repair my potentially tear stained face. As best as I can remember, I have been a crier for the most of my adult life. Even before I truly realized that life was hard, and people suffered in ways that I could not bear for them to suffer, I cried. I cried watching children's movies, I cried when I was proud of someone I loved, I cried when life was perfect and beautiful and beyond all that I could imagine. Tears flowed in sympathy, and in empathy; in pain, and in awe. Once,as a young mother I laid in bed next to my husband and wept at the realization that my children would grow up too fast, and then they would leave me. Yes, that was me, the consumate crier.
Tears are my Catharsis. They come to heal and cleanse my wounds,they come when I hear a story of deep triumph, and they come when I suddenly realize how utterly stunning and magnificent life, and the people I am priveleged to have in my life, can be. I believe in people, and despite the depth of my own errors, I believe in myself, and the great possibilities that lie inside of each one of us. I am a member of a family that has suffered great loss. I watch as my children,who lived through the death of their eldest brother and father, choose to live an amazing legacy to their loved ones adventurous spirt. Again and again, I hear the stories of amazing human beings that have broken free from their hindrances, their chains and defeats, and have pressed forward to be human examples of fearsome and wonderful design. I watch on, as a friend struggles with cancer, living each day with purpose and joy before her children, and I remember my own father in the last stages of his battle, sitting one by one with each my children, giving each a special gift, and establishing within them the legacy of knowing they are loved. I encounter women who have lived their lives in service to others stretching out a hand to say the future can be different, serving in meal lines, mentoring single mother's, and investing their own lives and funds in broken hearts and broken people, far and wide...and I let the tears roll.
Some weeks ago, I had the gift of witnessing one of my daughters participate in a Triathalon. The mere act of registering for the event made my knees weak on her behalf, but her embarkation into a new world of running, riding, and ocean swimming, for the greater purpose of funding a local children's hospital, lit a fire in my heart. The discipline and devotion with which she began her journey was remarkable, but not unlike the devotion that I had seen earlier in her older sister as she undertook a marathon, or even the perserverance of their sister, who once believing herself "not smart," learned that she could learn and began to believe in her own intelligence, completing her Bachelors with the honor of two scholorships. I tell you these things not to basque in pride at my offpsring, but rather to note that the brilliant, the tear-worthy surrounds us, but it is our acknowledgement of it's presence that can fill our hearts and souls with the quest for the great, and the wonder that can make each of us reach for to be the "more" that we long to be.
I am not afraid of my tears, nor frightened that in allowing myself to desire to be all that I was designed for that I will feel too much pain, or bear too much disappointment, perhaps exhausting my vast well of tears.
We each are made for a purpose, perhaps one of mine is to cheer the people in my life on, to tell them their lives are worth living, that they each have the possibility to make a difference. To cry with them, to cry for them, and to well up in joyful tears at their victories. To my children I must say thank you. Thank you for showing me how worthwhile each day can be, and that there are tears that are sweeter than any gift I could ever receive. I love you each...keep encouraging one another. You inspire me.
My daughter trained for her event with a team, and within that group of athletes she had a partner, both of them new to the tri event. When she
emerged from the ocean swim, her team mate had not yet hit the sand. She
stripped off her wetsuit, ran to her bike, prepped for the next leg of the journey, and then waited... I called to her not understanding her delay, and then she turned, saw her teammate, nodded her head, and they mounted their bikes. Later, she explained that each of them had a different strength, but they committed to see each other through to the end. To spur each other on, I say, to greatness. The greatest of which is lending each other a hand in the journey.
I am grateful. To see the awesome in the everday, and everyday, to see and meet people who are truly awesome. If tears roll from my eyes when I encounter them, it is because once again I have been given a gift, the privelege of being in the presence of those who inspire, love, care, and labor to leave a legacy, as well as the joy of knowing... I, also, am fearfully and wonderfully made, designed to inspire other's, and to wipe their tears. I know that full well!
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.
"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
Marianne Williamson
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Observations in Delight
No story today...Simply observations in delight.
I have spent the last several months preparing to write, reading books on writing, discussing ideas for writing, and beginning the mechanics of writing. Writing, writing, writing. I have little notebooks littering my purse, and a bigger journal that I grab when I know I will have a few minutes of time for my thoughts to ruminate. The notebooks are beginning to be filled with bits and pieces of my mind, scrawled as illegibly as they appear in my brain, matter not yet mature, not yet formed in it's entirety. My husband has already grown used to my mid-sentence interuptions to our conversations, or the sight of me climbing into to bed, only to climb right back out and scrawl another thought. "More ideas," he says, as if he is trying to understand this new animal that appeared in his wife's body. I have half written pieces sitting protected in my computer, not ready for consumption, and yet, I have begun to take ownership over the idea that I just might be, nay, I will say it strongly so my ears will hear, "I am a writer."
I am a woman who believes in purpose, and even more, I believe I was specifically designed by a loving God, on purpose, and for a purpose. As a young woman of 21, I was drawn to a movie called "Chariots of Fire." The film is based on a true story, and it's central character is an Olympic runner by the name of Eric Liddell. Called to the field of missionary work, Liddell also had a deep love of running, a passion that was coupled with the innate skill and discipline necessary for the sport. Liddel took delight in being all that God had designed him for, and in the movie he states, "I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. When I run I feel His pleasure." I can still feel the way those words took my breath away the very first time I watched that movie, and heard the statement, "I feel His pleasure." That excitement, that anticipation, still wells up in my heart every time those words come to my mind.
I had no idea at 21 years of age where my life would take me. I was a young mother, newly married, and wrestling with how to be married. I certainly could not imagine what I was designed for, nor that I was truly designed for a purpose, or that a Creator cared enough to design me, specifically me, to be a pleasure to Him. I also lacked the understanding that I might be required to discipline my self to discover those skills and gifts that were uniquely mine, but I knew, even then, that I wanted to feel God's pleasure in my life. I wanted to be His creation.
Recently, I sat in a lovely cafe, the name of which translates roughly to the daily bread. I ordered tea and a brioche, and the young waitress brought me a pot of tea, a bowl, and a carrier filled with large jars of jam, and one of spreadable chocolate. Announcing my ignorance, I asked the obviously savvy server, if the bowl was for my tea. With a smile indicating she understood my naivete in the ways of tea bowls, she simply said yes. Feeling generous, I poured my cream into the bowl, filled it's depth with tea, and tore off a piece of brioche, to lavish it with chocolate spread. Something about drinking my tea from a bowl felt abundant, even spoiled and decadent.
I was there to write, but having somehow forgotten my trusty writer's notebook, I grabbed an advertisement from my purse, and began tucking my notes among the letters. A certain joy began to fill inside of me, a delight. I sat watching the drops of an earlier rain hanging from the wooden chairs on the patio outside my window. I breathed in the sweetness of a heaping bowl of tea. I enjoyed the pots of lavender glistening with moisture, and delighted in the realization that again God, was "making" me. I want to be His artwork, and to enjoy all of His creation. As I sat scrawling notes, thinking of the the life I have lived, I could not help but think of the verse in Song of Solomon, a book of poetry and passionate love, "He has brought me to His banqueting hall, and His banner over me is love." And so I scrawled it on my paper, my "Writer's Notes," and hoped to always know His pleasure, and to daily discipline myself with the commitment of a swift runner, to be what I was made for. This, is my daily bread.
Excerpt from "Chariots of Fire" (1981)
Eric Liddell:
You came to see a race today. To see someone win. It happened to be me. But I want you to do more than just watch a race. I want you to take part in it. I want to compare faith to running in a race. It's hard. It requires concentration of will, energy of soul. You experience elation when the winner breaks the tape - especially if you've got a bet on it. But how long does that last? You go home. Maybe you're dinner's burnt. Maybe you haven't got a job. So who am I to say, "Believe, have faith," in the face of life's realities? I would like to give you something more permanent, but I can only point the way. I have no formula for winning the race. Everyone runs in her own way, or his own way. And where does the power come from, to see the race to its end? From within. Jesus said, "Behold, the Kingdom of God is within you. If with all your hearts, you truly seek me, you shall ever surely find me." If you commit yourself to the love of Christ, then that is how you run a straight race.
I have spent the last several months preparing to write, reading books on writing, discussing ideas for writing, and beginning the mechanics of writing. Writing, writing, writing. I have little notebooks littering my purse, and a bigger journal that I grab when I know I will have a few minutes of time for my thoughts to ruminate. The notebooks are beginning to be filled with bits and pieces of my mind, scrawled as illegibly as they appear in my brain, matter not yet mature, not yet formed in it's entirety. My husband has already grown used to my mid-sentence interuptions to our conversations, or the sight of me climbing into to bed, only to climb right back out and scrawl another thought. "More ideas," he says, as if he is trying to understand this new animal that appeared in his wife's body. I have half written pieces sitting protected in my computer, not ready for consumption, and yet, I have begun to take ownership over the idea that I just might be, nay, I will say it strongly so my ears will hear, "I am a writer."
I am a woman who believes in purpose, and even more, I believe I was specifically designed by a loving God, on purpose, and for a purpose. As a young woman of 21, I was drawn to a movie called "Chariots of Fire." The film is based on a true story, and it's central character is an Olympic runner by the name of Eric Liddell. Called to the field of missionary work, Liddell also had a deep love of running, a passion that was coupled with the innate skill and discipline necessary for the sport. Liddel took delight in being all that God had designed him for, and in the movie he states, "I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. When I run I feel His pleasure." I can still feel the way those words took my breath away the very first time I watched that movie, and heard the statement, "I feel His pleasure." That excitement, that anticipation, still wells up in my heart every time those words come to my mind.
I had no idea at 21 years of age where my life would take me. I was a young mother, newly married, and wrestling with how to be married. I certainly could not imagine what I was designed for, nor that I was truly designed for a purpose, or that a Creator cared enough to design me, specifically me, to be a pleasure to Him. I also lacked the understanding that I might be required to discipline my self to discover those skills and gifts that were uniquely mine, but I knew, even then, that I wanted to feel God's pleasure in my life. I wanted to be His creation.
Recently, I sat in a lovely cafe, the name of which translates roughly to the daily bread. I ordered tea and a brioche, and the young waitress brought me a pot of tea, a bowl, and a carrier filled with large jars of jam, and one of spreadable chocolate. Announcing my ignorance, I asked the obviously savvy server, if the bowl was for my tea. With a smile indicating she understood my naivete in the ways of tea bowls, she simply said yes. Feeling generous, I poured my cream into the bowl, filled it's depth with tea, and tore off a piece of brioche, to lavish it with chocolate spread. Something about drinking my tea from a bowl felt abundant, even spoiled and decadent.
I was there to write, but having somehow forgotten my trusty writer's notebook, I grabbed an advertisement from my purse, and began tucking my notes among the letters. A certain joy began to fill inside of me, a delight. I sat watching the drops of an earlier rain hanging from the wooden chairs on the patio outside my window. I breathed in the sweetness of a heaping bowl of tea. I enjoyed the pots of lavender glistening with moisture, and delighted in the realization that again God, was "making" me. I want to be His artwork, and to enjoy all of His creation. As I sat scrawling notes, thinking of the the life I have lived, I could not help but think of the verse in Song of Solomon, a book of poetry and passionate love, "He has brought me to His banqueting hall, and His banner over me is love." And so I scrawled it on my paper, my "Writer's Notes," and hoped to always know His pleasure, and to daily discipline myself with the commitment of a swift runner, to be what I was made for. This, is my daily bread.
Excerpt from "Chariots of Fire" (1981)
Eric Liddell:
You came to see a race today. To see someone win. It happened to be me. But I want you to do more than just watch a race. I want you to take part in it. I want to compare faith to running in a race. It's hard. It requires concentration of will, energy of soul. You experience elation when the winner breaks the tape - especially if you've got a bet on it. But how long does that last? You go home. Maybe you're dinner's burnt. Maybe you haven't got a job. So who am I to say, "Believe, have faith," in the face of life's realities? I would like to give you something more permanent, but I can only point the way. I have no formula for winning the race. Everyone runs in her own way, or his own way. And where does the power come from, to see the race to its end? From within. Jesus said, "Behold, the Kingdom of God is within you. If with all your hearts, you truly seek me, you shall ever surely find me." If you commit yourself to the love of Christ, then that is how you run a straight race.
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