Christmas is coming. The nativity is arranged, cookies are baked, decorations are in place. We even managed to get a wreath on the door this year, and the presents are all purchased. Our children are excited. My husband and I are trying, but we feel strange.
All tragedy is horrible, but it seems worse when it happens near Christmastime. Today before I sat down to write this, I looked on a few news sites, and soon my eyes were brimming with tears again. I see our precious children, ages 8, 7 and 4, reflected in each little face. My "why?" is a pale shadow compared to the grieving parents. In self-defense, we can't look too long at such pain.
How, especially as a Christian, do any of us navigate suffering? How do we find the life preserver to cling to, the rock to stand on when the waves are so wild? And how can we balance a world that contains both pain and joy so close together?
In thinking about this for the past few days I realized again that the original Christmas didn't occur in a holy vacuum. There may have been peace in the stable that night, but all around the world was up to its usual tricks. Poverty, hunger, cruelty, slavery - all were thriving even as Christ was born. Days later, dozens of mothers reeled as Herod's men killed their tiny sons, for reasons they probably never understood. Pain and joy were side by side from the start.
"In Him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it." John 1: 4, 5.
The light seems so small and fragile at times. The candle flickers and nearly goes out. The darkness looms large for days, months, decades. Evil marches on. In such moments, despair seems entirely logical.
The message of Christmas that I want to understand is that the light does indeed shine and the darkness has not overcome it. Christmas is only the beginning of the story, and it takes place amid the pain and heartache and joy of the real world. It is not unrealistic fantasy - it's the truest thing there is. There is evil in the world, yes; but there is also much good. I want to strengthen and uphold the good, to fight for it and protect it, to be on the side of joy and light. So this year I will say a prayer for those in Newtown, and weep with those who weep, even at a distance. I will hug my children more. I will sing carols in hope and anticipation, I will strive to make good memories for our family. I will try to remember that "though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet." In every way I can, I will uphold the light. Darkness will not overcome it.
Friday, December 21, 2012
Thursday, September 27, 2012
The Joys of Jello Salad: Because sometimes Jello makes life better
So here I am after a 2 month hiatus, and what do I choose to write about? Jello salad. Makes perfect sense, right? Follow me on this.
When I went to the supermarket this week, I ventured down the candy aisle, because we may have a camp out this weekend, and camp outs require S'mores, which require marshmallows. Then I decided to check the back of the mini marshmallow bag to see if they had a receipe for Rice Krispy bars. (I have tried to make Rice Krispy bars without a recipe, and it was a complete failure). Not only did the bag have a Rice Krispy recipe, it also had the recipe for Watergate Salad.
If you've never had Watergate Salad, just wait till the end of this column, because I'm going to give you the recipe, and it's so easy. I still remember the first time I ate it. It wasn't at home; my mother never made Watergate Salad in her life. She cooked mostly out of the More-With-Less Cookbook, which, in its chapter on salads, sternly informed the reader that "Too many salad recipes read like dessert - gelatin mix, whipped cream, sweetened canned fruit ..." When we had jello, it was made with orange juice and plain gelatin, or had carrots in it. Just not the same. That being said, she made great chocolate cake and chocolate chip cookies on a regular basis, so I don't hold the orange juice jello against her.
Grandma Rhoda was different, and it was in the little brick rancher on Sprecher Road (which always smelled like fresh bread) that I first ate Watergate Salad. We had gone there for dinner on Sunday, into that tidy house with the corner china closet, the chenille-like sofa with the afghan draped over the back, the painted china lamp, and upholstered rocking chair. We all sat down around the table, which had been moved into the living room, and extended its full length. I don't remember the rest of the menu, but based on what she served over the years it was probably ham, ham loaf or roast turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, succotash made with home frozen corn and lima beans, a cut glass platter of celery, perhaps sweet potato croquettes, buttered noodles, and angel food cake. There was also a glass bowl of something strangely light green: "Watergate Salad." One bite of the Cool Whip, pistachio pudding, marshmallow and nuts, and I loved it. From that time on, I looked for this concoction at every reunion and fellowship meal, and gleefully helped myself.
Fast forward to the early years of marriage, when I borrowed mom's cookbooks. In the salad chapter of the Black Rock cookbook, what should I find but my old friend, Watergate Salad. I hadn't realized how easy it was to make, and proudly made a bowlful for us that week. Nate liked it but wasn't crazy about it, and I decided it had better remain an occasional treat, or I'd eat way too much.
Most of the time I try to eat healthfully, and avoid jello and instant pudding, which, let's face it, is pretty much pure sugar. But there are times when my inner Mennonite cannot be denied; times when a meal feels a little skimpy, and needs something to round it out, times when life seems the better for a touch of sweetness. In that light, I present my two favorite jello salad recipes. If it makes you feel better, call them dessert.
Watergate Salad:
3 1/2 oz pack pistachio instant pudding
9 oz container Cool Whip
20 oz can crushed pineapple
1/2 cup chopped nuts
1/2 cup mini marshmallow
Mix all ingredients in a bowl. Chill. That's it.
Cranberry Orange Salad
6 oz. pack orange jello
1 1/2 cups boiling water
1 16 oz. can jellied cranberry sauce
1 8 3/4 oz can crushed pineapple, drained
1/2 cup diced celery
Dissolve jello in boiling water, add cranberry sauce. Chill until thickened; stir in pineapple and celery. Pour into mold and chill until firm. If it makes you feel healthier, unmold "onto crisp salad greens."
p.s. I am aware the Watergate Salad is technically not a jello salad, but I lump all the jello/pudding/canned fruit/cool whip concoctions into that class. And it's my blog :)
When I went to the supermarket this week, I ventured down the candy aisle, because we may have a camp out this weekend, and camp outs require S'mores, which require marshmallows. Then I decided to check the back of the mini marshmallow bag to see if they had a receipe for Rice Krispy bars. (I have tried to make Rice Krispy bars without a recipe, and it was a complete failure). Not only did the bag have a Rice Krispy recipe, it also had the recipe for Watergate Salad.
If you've never had Watergate Salad, just wait till the end of this column, because I'm going to give you the recipe, and it's so easy. I still remember the first time I ate it. It wasn't at home; my mother never made Watergate Salad in her life. She cooked mostly out of the More-With-Less Cookbook, which, in its chapter on salads, sternly informed the reader that "Too many salad recipes read like dessert - gelatin mix, whipped cream, sweetened canned fruit ..." When we had jello, it was made with orange juice and plain gelatin, or had carrots in it. Just not the same. That being said, she made great chocolate cake and chocolate chip cookies on a regular basis, so I don't hold the orange juice jello against her.
Grandma Rhoda was different, and it was in the little brick rancher on Sprecher Road (which always smelled like fresh bread) that I first ate Watergate Salad. We had gone there for dinner on Sunday, into that tidy house with the corner china closet, the chenille-like sofa with the afghan draped over the back, the painted china lamp, and upholstered rocking chair. We all sat down around the table, which had been moved into the living room, and extended its full length. I don't remember the rest of the menu, but based on what she served over the years it was probably ham, ham loaf or roast turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, succotash made with home frozen corn and lima beans, a cut glass platter of celery, perhaps sweet potato croquettes, buttered noodles, and angel food cake. There was also a glass bowl of something strangely light green: "Watergate Salad." One bite of the Cool Whip, pistachio pudding, marshmallow and nuts, and I loved it. From that time on, I looked for this concoction at every reunion and fellowship meal, and gleefully helped myself.
Fast forward to the early years of marriage, when I borrowed mom's cookbooks. In the salad chapter of the Black Rock cookbook, what should I find but my old friend, Watergate Salad. I hadn't realized how easy it was to make, and proudly made a bowlful for us that week. Nate liked it but wasn't crazy about it, and I decided it had better remain an occasional treat, or I'd eat way too much.
Most of the time I try to eat healthfully, and avoid jello and instant pudding, which, let's face it, is pretty much pure sugar. But there are times when my inner Mennonite cannot be denied; times when a meal feels a little skimpy, and needs something to round it out, times when life seems the better for a touch of sweetness. In that light, I present my two favorite jello salad recipes. If it makes you feel better, call them dessert.
Watergate Salad:
3 1/2 oz pack pistachio instant pudding
9 oz container Cool Whip
20 oz can crushed pineapple
1/2 cup chopped nuts
1/2 cup mini marshmallow
Mix all ingredients in a bowl. Chill. That's it.
Cranberry Orange Salad
6 oz. pack orange jello
1 1/2 cups boiling water
1 16 oz. can jellied cranberry sauce
1 8 3/4 oz can crushed pineapple, drained
1/2 cup diced celery
Dissolve jello in boiling water, add cranberry sauce. Chill until thickened; stir in pineapple and celery. Pour into mold and chill until firm. If it makes you feel healthier, unmold "onto crisp salad greens."
p.s. I am aware the Watergate Salad is technically not a jello salad, but I lump all the jello/pudding/canned fruit/cool whip concoctions into that class. And it's my blog :)
The Joys of Jello Salad: Because sometimes Jello makes life better
So here I am after a 2 month hiatus, and what do I choose to write about? Jello salad. Makes perfect sense, right? Follow me on this.
When I went to the supermarket this week, I ventured down the candy aisle, because we may have a camp out this weekend, and camp outs require S'mores, which require marshmallows. Then I decided to check the back of the mini marshmallow bag to see if they had a receipe for Rice Krispy bars. (I have tried to make Rice Krispy bars without a recipe, and it was a complete failure). Not only did the bag have a Rice Krispy recipe, it also had the recipe for Watergate Salad.
If you've never had Watergate Salad, just wait till the end of this column, because I'm going to give you the recipe, and it's so easy. I still remember the first time I ate it. It wasn't at home; my mother never made Watergate Salad in her life. She cooked mostly out of the More-With-Less Cookbook, which, in its chapter on salads, sternly informed the reader that "Too many salad recipes read like dessert - gelatin mix, whipped cream, sweetened canned fruit ..." When we had jello, it was made with orange juice and plain gelatin, or had carrots in it. Just not the same. That being said, she made great chocolate cake and chocolate chip cookies on a regular basis, so I don't hold the orange juice jello against her.
Grandma Rhoda was different, and it was in the little brick rancher on Sprecher Road (which always smelled like fresh bread) that I first ate Watergate Salad. We had gone there for dinner on Sunday, into that tidy house with the corner china closet, the chenille-like sofa with the afghan draped over the back, the painted china lamp, and upholstered rocking chair. We all sat down around the table, which had been moved into the living room, and extended its full length. I don't remember the rest of the menu, but based on what she served over the years it was probably ham, ham loaf or roast turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, succotash made with home frozen corn and lima beans, a cut glass platter of celery, perhaps sweet potato croquettes, buttered noodles, and angel food cake. There was also a glass bowl of something strangely light green: "Watergate Salad." One bite of the Cool Whip, pistachio pudding, marshmallow and nuts, and I loved it. From that time on, I looked for this concoction at every reunion and fellowship meal, and gleefully helped myself.
Fast forward to the early years of marriage, when I borrowed mom's cookbooks. In the salad chapter of the Black Rock cookbook, what should I find but my old friend, Watergate Salad. I hadn't realized how easy it was to make, and proudly made a bowlful for us that week. Nate liked it but wasn't crazy about it, and I decided it had better remain an occasional treat, or I'd eat way too much.
Most of the time I try to eat healthfully, and avoid jello and instant pudding, which, let's face it, is pretty much pure sugar. But there are times when my inner Mennonite cannot be denied; times when a meal feels a little skimpy, and needs something to round it out, times when life seems the better for a touch of sweetness. In that light, I present my two favorite jello salad recipes. If it makes you feel better, call them dessert.
Watergate Salad:
3 1/2 oz pack pistachio instant pudding
9 oz container Cool Whip
20 oz can crushed pineapple
1/2 cup chopped nuts
1/2 cup mini marshmallow
Mix all ingredients in a bowl. Chill. That's it.
Cranberry Orange Salad
6 oz. pack orange jello
1 1/2 cups boiling water
1 16 oz. can jellied cranberry sauce
1 8 3/4 oz can crushed pineapple, drained
1/2 cup diced celery
Dissolve jello in boiling water, add cranberry sauce. Chill until thickened; stir in pineapple and celery. Pour into mold and chill until firm. If it makes you feel healthier, unmold "onto crisp salad greens."
p.s. I am aware the Watergate Salad is technically not a jello salad, but I lump all the jello/pudding/canned fruit/cool whip concoctions into that class. And it's my blog :)
When I went to the supermarket this week, I ventured down the candy aisle, because we may have a camp out this weekend, and camp outs require S'mores, which require marshmallows. Then I decided to check the back of the mini marshmallow bag to see if they had a receipe for Rice Krispy bars. (I have tried to make Rice Krispy bars without a recipe, and it was a complete failure). Not only did the bag have a Rice Krispy recipe, it also had the recipe for Watergate Salad.
If you've never had Watergate Salad, just wait till the end of this column, because I'm going to give you the recipe, and it's so easy. I still remember the first time I ate it. It wasn't at home; my mother never made Watergate Salad in her life. She cooked mostly out of the More-With-Less Cookbook, which, in its chapter on salads, sternly informed the reader that "Too many salad recipes read like dessert - gelatin mix, whipped cream, sweetened canned fruit ..." When we had jello, it was made with orange juice and plain gelatin, or had carrots in it. Just not the same. That being said, she made great chocolate cake and chocolate chip cookies on a regular basis, so I don't hold the orange juice jello against her.
Grandma Rhoda was different, and it was in the little brick rancher on Sprecher Road (which always smelled like fresh bread) that I first ate Watergate Salad. We had gone there for dinner on Sunday, into that tidy house with the corner china closet, the chenille-like sofa with the afghan draped over the back, the painted china lamp, and upholstered rocking chair. We all sat down around the table, which had been moved into the living room, and extended its full length. I don't remember the rest of the menu, but based on what she served over the years it was probably ham, ham loaf or roast turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, succotash made with home frozen corn and lima beans, a cut glass platter of celery, perhaps sweet potato croquettes, buttered noodles, and angel food cake. There was also a glass bowl of something strangely light green: "Watergate Salad." One bite of the Cool Whip, pistachio pudding, marshmallow and nuts, and I loved it. From that time on, I looked for this concoction at every reunion and fellowship meal, and gleefully helped myself.
Fast forward to the early years of marriage, when I borrowed mom's cookbooks. In the salad chapter of the Black Rock cookbook, what should I find but my old friend, Watergate Salad. I hadn't realized how easy it was to make, and proudly made a bowlful for us that week. Nate liked it but wasn't crazy about it, and I decided it had better remain an occasional treat, or I'd eat way too much.
Most of the time I try to eat healthfully, and avoid jello and instant pudding, which, let's face it, is pretty much pure sugar. But there are times when my inner Mennonite cannot be denied; times when a meal feels a little skimpy, and needs something to round it out, times when life seems the better for a touch of sweetness. In that light, I present my two favorite jello salad recipes. If it makes you feel better, call them dessert.
Watergate Salad:
3 1/2 oz pack pistachio instant pudding
9 oz container Cool Whip
20 oz can crushed pineapple
1/2 cup chopped nuts
1/2 cup mini marshmallow
Mix all ingredients in a bowl. Chill. That's it.
Cranberry Orange Salad
6 oz. pack orange jello
1 1/2 cups boiling water
1 16 oz. can jellied cranberry sauce
1 8 3/4 oz can crushed pineapple, drained
1/2 cup diced celery
Dissolve jello in boiling water, add cranberry sauce. Chill until thickened; stir in pineapple and celery. Pour into mold and chill until firm. If it makes you feel healthier, unmold "onto crisp salad greens."
p.s. I am aware the Watergate Salad is technically not a jello salad, but I lump all the jello/pudding/canned fruit/cool whip concoctions into that class. And it's my blog :)
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
You Might Be a Swiss German Mennonite If ...
The inspiration for this post came to me on Saturday night. I had some leftover cooked chicken, and decided to make a casserole, using the white sauce recipe from the More-With-Less Cookbook. I concocted the casserole, put buttered bread crumbs on, and baked it. After eating the first mouthful, it seemed rather bland. Pickles, I thought, that's what this needs. Accordingly, I ran down to the basement, fished the last jar of bread and butter pickles off the shelf, and added them to my plate. As I finished supper, I started thinking about how stereotypically "Mennonite" the whole episode was, from the cookbook I used, to the pickles, to the buttered bread crumbs. This led to a whole list:
You Might Be a Swiss German Mennonite If ...
1. You think home canned peaches or applesauce enhance almost any meal.
2. You own the Mennonite Community Cookbook, the More-With-Less Cookbook, and/or Simply in Season.
3. You've ever dated your fourth or fifth cousin.
4. You can easily trace at least one side of your family back to the 1600s, usually to Switzerland.
5. You grew up doing Buy Fresh, Buy Local.
6. You secretly miss accapella hymn singing.
7. At least one member of your family is still involved in farming.
8. You have a female relative named Esther or Ethel.
9. You always make sure to attend church when there's a fellowship meal.
10. You grew up collecting soap for MCC at summer Bible School.
11. You have put together an MCC relief kit.
12. You feel vaguely guilty each time you shop at WalMart.
13. You never admit to shopping at WalMart.
14. Your family photo albums are an excellent record of the appearance and disappearance of plain dress in the 19th and 20th centuries.
15. Your church library had books by Christmas Carol Kauffman.
16. Someone in your family spends a lot of time in geneaological research, and has produced a "family book."
17. You married someone with the same last name (see number 3).
18. You freeze crazy amounts of corn each summer.
19. Thrift store shopping is entertainment and a sport.
20. You know several people who participated in VS, YES, STAT, or GO with EMM, and you immediately know what these acronyms mean.
21. Your church library had an old copy of the Martyrs Mirror on the top shelf that no one ever looked at.
22. You think pretzels and ice cream are a great Sunday night supper.
23. You chuckled at this list and could easily make your own.
You Might Be a Swiss German Mennonite If ...
1. You think home canned peaches or applesauce enhance almost any meal.
2. You own the Mennonite Community Cookbook, the More-With-Less Cookbook, and/or Simply in Season.
3. You've ever dated your fourth or fifth cousin.
4. You can easily trace at least one side of your family back to the 1600s, usually to Switzerland.
5. You grew up doing Buy Fresh, Buy Local.
6. You secretly miss accapella hymn singing.
7. At least one member of your family is still involved in farming.
8. You have a female relative named Esther or Ethel.
9. You always make sure to attend church when there's a fellowship meal.
10. You grew up collecting soap for MCC at summer Bible School.
11. You have put together an MCC relief kit.
12. You feel vaguely guilty each time you shop at WalMart.
13. You never admit to shopping at WalMart.
14. Your family photo albums are an excellent record of the appearance and disappearance of plain dress in the 19th and 20th centuries.
15. Your church library had books by Christmas Carol Kauffman.
16. Someone in your family spends a lot of time in geneaological research, and has produced a "family book."
17. You married someone with the same last name (see number 3).
18. You freeze crazy amounts of corn each summer.
19. Thrift store shopping is entertainment and a sport.
20. You know several people who participated in VS, YES, STAT, or GO with EMM, and you immediately know what these acronyms mean.
21. Your church library had an old copy of the Martyrs Mirror on the top shelf that no one ever looked at.
22. You think pretzels and ice cream are a great Sunday night supper.
23. You chuckled at this list and could easily make your own.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
We Can Rebuild Her, part 2 (finally!)
Let's see, where was I? Oh yes, thirsty and floating on morphine. Ahem. The rest of the day and night is a blur. I remember being moved to my room, Nate talking to the doctors, me staring down dazedly at all the tubes I was hooked up to, and being thankful that everything was still numb. On Saturday, I was allowed to have some soda and bouillon. University of Penn is a wonderful hospital, but three years ago their food fulfilled every bad hospital stereotype in the book. I didn't think it was possible to make chicken bouillon and jello taste bad, but they managed it. But hey, it was nourishment, of a sort. Since I couldn't sit up unassisted, we spent some time learning how to raise and lower bed so that I could recline. Did I mention that I also had big cuffs (like blood pressure cuffs)wrapped around each leg, massaging them so I wouldn't get blood clots? I'd forgotten about them till this moment. I was a rag doll, propped up on pillows, content, for the moment, to lie there quietly.
Doctors and nurses popped in every few hours. My surgeon came by, and said all had gone well. She asked if a group of residents could come to see me, and I agreed. By this point in the game so many people had seen so much that a few more eyes didn't matter. So a group of cheerful young surgeons in training came in, inspected the six surgical drains, the incisions, listened to Dr. Wu describe part of the surgery, and trooped out. Later that day Nate headed for home, and it was just me, the nurses, and TV. I spent a lot of time watching things like "What Not to Wear" and the soon-to-be-trainwrecked Jon and Kate. Somewhere out there people were having makeovers, living their lives, and raising children. I wanted to be part of that world.
My sister came to visit on Sunday. I ate more horrible jello as we watched TV and talked. Later that day, at least I think it was that day, the nurses told me I would have to get up and walk. What a process. Somehow they got me out of bed and behind a walker, and there I was, hunched over like an 80 year old bald woman, shuffing out of my room and down the hall. A nurse helped me get started, and said to take it slow and do my best. Again, the surrealism of the experience took over. Was this me? A year ago I had been a healthy new mom with a full head of hair. Now ... who was I? A hunched figure in a hospital gown, muttering through gritted teeth "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."
Perhaps it was seeing all the happy people on TV who were learning what to wear, or perhaps the drugs were wearing off, but for whatever reason, Monday was a low point. The day started out well, with a visit from a woman I had met on some cancer forums. She'd had a similar surgery in the same hospital less than a year earlier, and she drove all the way from New Jersey to meet me in person. She brought a care package, and was full of encouragement. A Muslim woman, she blogged for about a year after this, then disappeared from the internet, so we never met again. Khala Jan, if you're still out there, I don't know if I ever thanked you for your kindness. I truly hope to see you again.
After she left, I was able to get up and use the bathroom for a few minutes, where I could look in a mirror for the first time. The surgeon did an incredible job, but the reality of the scars, bandages, drains and my own helplessness hit me full force. A sweet nurse found me, 15 minutes later, still sobbing. She helped me back into bed and assured me that I would indeed recover, and all would be well. I made an effort to trust that she was right. I also resolved not to look in the mirror for at least a week.
Next time, "Moving On"
Doctors and nurses popped in every few hours. My surgeon came by, and said all had gone well. She asked if a group of residents could come to see me, and I agreed. By this point in the game so many people had seen so much that a few more eyes didn't matter. So a group of cheerful young surgeons in training came in, inspected the six surgical drains, the incisions, listened to Dr. Wu describe part of the surgery, and trooped out. Later that day Nate headed for home, and it was just me, the nurses, and TV. I spent a lot of time watching things like "What Not to Wear" and the soon-to-be-trainwrecked Jon and Kate. Somewhere out there people were having makeovers, living their lives, and raising children. I wanted to be part of that world.
My sister came to visit on Sunday. I ate more horrible jello as we watched TV and talked. Later that day, at least I think it was that day, the nurses told me I would have to get up and walk. What a process. Somehow they got me out of bed and behind a walker, and there I was, hunched over like an 80 year old bald woman, shuffing out of my room and down the hall. A nurse helped me get started, and said to take it slow and do my best. Again, the surrealism of the experience took over. Was this me? A year ago I had been a healthy new mom with a full head of hair. Now ... who was I? A hunched figure in a hospital gown, muttering through gritted teeth "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."
Perhaps it was seeing all the happy people on TV who were learning what to wear, or perhaps the drugs were wearing off, but for whatever reason, Monday was a low point. The day started out well, with a visit from a woman I had met on some cancer forums. She'd had a similar surgery in the same hospital less than a year earlier, and she drove all the way from New Jersey to meet me in person. She brought a care package, and was full of encouragement. A Muslim woman, she blogged for about a year after this, then disappeared from the internet, so we never met again. Khala Jan, if you're still out there, I don't know if I ever thanked you for your kindness. I truly hope to see you again.
After she left, I was able to get up and use the bathroom for a few minutes, where I could look in a mirror for the first time. The surgeon did an incredible job, but the reality of the scars, bandages, drains and my own helplessness hit me full force. A sweet nurse found me, 15 minutes later, still sobbing. She helped me back into bed and assured me that I would indeed recover, and all would be well. I made an effort to trust that she was right. I also resolved not to look in the mirror for at least a week.
Next time, "Moving On"
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
We Can Rebuild Her, part 1
Note: It's hard to write about major surgery without getting close to the realm of Too Much Information. I will try to avoid most of the actual gory details as I reflect on this date 3 years ago. You've been warned!
May 8, 2009. Friday before Mother's Day, 6 a.m. Nate and I drive through the Phildadelphia streets. We have to be at the hospital by 6:30. We drive in silence. What is there to say? I hurried through getting dressed. Didn't look down. Tried to pretend it was just another doctor's appointment. I will be in surgery for 8 hours if all goes well.
Thanks to heredity and chemo, my already small veins had shrunk to nothing. The poor young man tried five separate times to start an IV in my arm or hand so the doctors could begin administering anesthesia. In case you were wondering, it really hurts to have an IV put in, especially after the third time. Dr. Boraas, one of the surgeons, came over to talk to me as they began try number five. The last thing I remember is her kind voice.
The first thing I am aware of next is the thirst. It is raw, intense, primal. I need water, and I need it now. My tongue feels like cotton, my throat thick and dry. Blinking, I see that Nate is there. "I'm thirsty." He gets the nurse. No water. One ice chip. It barely makes a dent. The first hour out of anesthesia feels like a constant battle for ice. I'm angry. Stop being so stingy about it! I feel heavy and numb.
Next, they move me to a different room. Everything has gone well. No trace of cancer in the tissue, and things look good. I'm thankful, but so tired, and getting more aware of the pain. Where's that morphine pump? I have 8 surgical drains, and a pump that I can hit for more medicine. All I have to do for the rest of the day and night is rest. We'll talk about getting out of bed on Sunday (Mother's Day). As far as I'm concerned, they can postpone that thought for a week. I can't even turn on my side or sit up in bed without the nurse's help. But at least they're giving me more water.
May 8, 2009. Friday before Mother's Day, 6 a.m. Nate and I drive through the Phildadelphia streets. We have to be at the hospital by 6:30. We drive in silence. What is there to say? I hurried through getting dressed. Didn't look down. Tried to pretend it was just another doctor's appointment. I will be in surgery for 8 hours if all goes well.
Thanks to heredity and chemo, my already small veins had shrunk to nothing. The poor young man tried five separate times to start an IV in my arm or hand so the doctors could begin administering anesthesia. In case you were wondering, it really hurts to have an IV put in, especially after the third time. Dr. Boraas, one of the surgeons, came over to talk to me as they began try number five. The last thing I remember is her kind voice.
The first thing I am aware of next is the thirst. It is raw, intense, primal. I need water, and I need it now. My tongue feels like cotton, my throat thick and dry. Blinking, I see that Nate is there. "I'm thirsty." He gets the nurse. No water. One ice chip. It barely makes a dent. The first hour out of anesthesia feels like a constant battle for ice. I'm angry. Stop being so stingy about it! I feel heavy and numb.
Next, they move me to a different room. Everything has gone well. No trace of cancer in the tissue, and things look good. I'm thankful, but so tired, and getting more aware of the pain. Where's that morphine pump? I have 8 surgical drains, and a pump that I can hit for more medicine. All I have to do for the rest of the day and night is rest. We'll talk about getting out of bed on Sunday (Mother's Day). As far as I'm concerned, they can postpone that thought for a week. I can't even turn on my side or sit up in bed without the nurse's help. But at least they're giving me more water.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Three years later
Friday the 13th was a good day. Nate was home, Easter goodies were prepared, eggs were painted. The day was filled with the usual laundry, childrearing, food prep, and general housekeeping work. Nothing special, but everything good.
Monday April 13 2009 was another good day. I walked into the chemo room for the last time. For the eighth and final time I sat down in the beige recliners, pulled down my shirt collar so the nurses could put the needles into my port, and started chewing the tic-tacs to cover the taste of saline, anti-nausea medicine, and Taxotere. For the last time I looked around at the bookshelf with light literature and mostly current magazines, the box full of crocheted hats under the table, and the flyers for TLC, a company that makes wigs, hats, and scarves. The next day I would come back for one last painful shot of Neulasta, to keep my white blood cell count up. The shot always hurt going in, and my bones would ache for three days. But it was the last time.
I remember hoping that this treatment would be scheduled before Easter. It would feel good, and symbolic, to have this part behind me, to enter fully into the triumphant celebration of the resurrection. But actually, I think it's more appropriate the way it was.
It's often said that we live on the Saturday before Easter: Jesus has died for us, but hasn't returned to the earth for the final time in power. We are still waiting for the full promise. It's more accurate to say that we are living on Easter Monday, Tuesday, and every day after that. We know Jesus died for us, rose again, and defeated death in that moment. Now we wrestle with what to do after that, when each Monday morning rolls around again.
We live in a world where the "resurrection power" is not fully realized, and will not be until Jesus returns. Like the disciples, we try to go about our lives with the hope and knowledge that Jesus rose from the dead: as we gather together, as we walk along the road, as we go back to the lake, before breakfast, trying to find ... something that will help it all make sense. In the Bible, Jesus shows up at random, odd moments: in an upstairs room, along the road to Emmaus, by the Sea of Galilee, where he is cooking fish. That is how the resurrection power expressed itself to the disciples. I think I would have been expecting something more dramatic. (Although after the Holy Spirit came down at Pentecost, the drama did pick up).
The world is still full of suffering. People get cancer and MS. Children are hurt. Marriages break apart. Tornadoes destroy homes and communities. Daily life is filled with the sandpaper irritation of living with fellow sinners. What do we do with all this? Jesus rose from the dead, we know the eventual end of the story, so why isn't life better?
I don't have any profound answers for this, but the past three years have made a few things more clear. First, Jesus was honest about the reality of suffering. "In this world," he said, "You will have trouble." He never gives false hope. So, the next words are also true: "But take heart; I have overcome the world." Second, many people, including myself, can say that it is in the hard experiences of life that we can feel God's support most clearly. There are no more illusions that I am in control. God has to carry it all, which is how it should be since "underneath are the everlasting arms."
And finally, I think God is always trying to help us grow, and strengthen our trust and faith. Like muscles, they have to be worked so they can become stronger. It can hurt, and it usually does. Why is it set up this way? I have no idea. But in the end, as a Christian, I trust that God's plan is best, and he will give me strength. Even on Monday mornings.
Monday April 13 2009 was another good day. I walked into the chemo room for the last time. For the eighth and final time I sat down in the beige recliners, pulled down my shirt collar so the nurses could put the needles into my port, and started chewing the tic-tacs to cover the taste of saline, anti-nausea medicine, and Taxotere. For the last time I looked around at the bookshelf with light literature and mostly current magazines, the box full of crocheted hats under the table, and the flyers for TLC, a company that makes wigs, hats, and scarves. The next day I would come back for one last painful shot of Neulasta, to keep my white blood cell count up. The shot always hurt going in, and my bones would ache for three days. But it was the last time.
I remember hoping that this treatment would be scheduled before Easter. It would feel good, and symbolic, to have this part behind me, to enter fully into the triumphant celebration of the resurrection. But actually, I think it's more appropriate the way it was.
It's often said that we live on the Saturday before Easter: Jesus has died for us, but hasn't returned to the earth for the final time in power. We are still waiting for the full promise. It's more accurate to say that we are living on Easter Monday, Tuesday, and every day after that. We know Jesus died for us, rose again, and defeated death in that moment. Now we wrestle with what to do after that, when each Monday morning rolls around again.
We live in a world where the "resurrection power" is not fully realized, and will not be until Jesus returns. Like the disciples, we try to go about our lives with the hope and knowledge that Jesus rose from the dead: as we gather together, as we walk along the road, as we go back to the lake, before breakfast, trying to find ... something that will help it all make sense. In the Bible, Jesus shows up at random, odd moments: in an upstairs room, along the road to Emmaus, by the Sea of Galilee, where he is cooking fish. That is how the resurrection power expressed itself to the disciples. I think I would have been expecting something more dramatic. (Although after the Holy Spirit came down at Pentecost, the drama did pick up).
The world is still full of suffering. People get cancer and MS. Children are hurt. Marriages break apart. Tornadoes destroy homes and communities. Daily life is filled with the sandpaper irritation of living with fellow sinners. What do we do with all this? Jesus rose from the dead, we know the eventual end of the story, so why isn't life better?
I don't have any profound answers for this, but the past three years have made a few things more clear. First, Jesus was honest about the reality of suffering. "In this world," he said, "You will have trouble." He never gives false hope. So, the next words are also true: "But take heart; I have overcome the world." Second, many people, including myself, can say that it is in the hard experiences of life that we can feel God's support most clearly. There are no more illusions that I am in control. God has to carry it all, which is how it should be since "underneath are the everlasting arms."
And finally, I think God is always trying to help us grow, and strengthen our trust and faith. Like muscles, they have to be worked so they can become stronger. It can hurt, and it usually does. Why is it set up this way? I have no idea. But in the end, as a Christian, I trust that God's plan is best, and he will give me strength. Even on Monday mornings.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Green church paint and a time that is gone, finale
The previous two posts were a nostalgic look at the church of my childhood. I didn't even touch on summer bible school, with its massive annual soap collecting project. Soap and VBS are forever connected in my mind. Instead, I wanted to end on a slightly more introspective note.
When I was growing up, the church was in the last stages of trying to cling to rules and disciplines from earlier in the century. At its best, this stemmed from a high view of church as a voluntary community of the redeemed, who now should strive to live a life visibly different from the world. At its worst, this devolved into endless wrangling over musical styles, changes in church formats, and above all, dress, particularly the covering. (Someone needs to write a doctoral dissertation about the approximately 100 years of renewed emphasis on plain dress in the Mennonite Church, including how many people it kept in the church and how many people it drove away).
What happens to a church when it puts so much emphasis over so long into certain rules and customs which are then discarded? I can't forget a random remark from one of the oldest members of our church a few years ago. We were standing in the pews after church had dismissed, and I don't remember anything specific about the conversation, but it must have dealt in some way with the many changes our church has gone through over the years. "Yes," he said, with barely suppressed anger "we worked so hard to live by all the rules when we were young, and now they tell us it didn't matter."
So much pain, conflict and heartache resulted even from the covering question. I know people left the Mennonite church over it. I'm just old enough to have experience wearing one, a lace "doily" that I put on only for church. I stopped wearing it sometime during high school. Today, it's not even an issue in our church, and I suspect it isn't much of one in the broader conference. It was so important for so long, and now ... it's not.
What are the issues that we focus on today that will cause our descendants to look back at us with bemused wonder? Ordination of women? (It's just a matter of time before that is accepted by the Conference) Acceptance of non-celibate homosexuals? How will the boundary lines be redrawn?
I suspect/hope that most boundary lines evolve out of a genuine attempt to apply the Bible to life. The application may change, but ideally the principal remains. If we spend too much time focusing on things that are not genuinely scriptural, might this lead to the theological equivalent of Peter and the Wolf? After spending so much time on what are later deemed to be nonessentials, will we be able to recognize a genuine threat to the flock? (Goodness, that sounded preachy). I don't know, but green paint makes me think about such things occasionally.
When I was growing up, the church was in the last stages of trying to cling to rules and disciplines from earlier in the century. At its best, this stemmed from a high view of church as a voluntary community of the redeemed, who now should strive to live a life visibly different from the world. At its worst, this devolved into endless wrangling over musical styles, changes in church formats, and above all, dress, particularly the covering. (Someone needs to write a doctoral dissertation about the approximately 100 years of renewed emphasis on plain dress in the Mennonite Church, including how many people it kept in the church and how many people it drove away).
What happens to a church when it puts so much emphasis over so long into certain rules and customs which are then discarded? I can't forget a random remark from one of the oldest members of our church a few years ago. We were standing in the pews after church had dismissed, and I don't remember anything specific about the conversation, but it must have dealt in some way with the many changes our church has gone through over the years. "Yes," he said, with barely suppressed anger "we worked so hard to live by all the rules when we were young, and now they tell us it didn't matter."
So much pain, conflict and heartache resulted even from the covering question. I know people left the Mennonite church over it. I'm just old enough to have experience wearing one, a lace "doily" that I put on only for church. I stopped wearing it sometime during high school. Today, it's not even an issue in our church, and I suspect it isn't much of one in the broader conference. It was so important for so long, and now ... it's not.
What are the issues that we focus on today that will cause our descendants to look back at us with bemused wonder? Ordination of women? (It's just a matter of time before that is accepted by the Conference) Acceptance of non-celibate homosexuals? How will the boundary lines be redrawn?
I suspect/hope that most boundary lines evolve out of a genuine attempt to apply the Bible to life. The application may change, but ideally the principal remains. If we spend too much time focusing on things that are not genuinely scriptural, might this lead to the theological equivalent of Peter and the Wolf? After spending so much time on what are later deemed to be nonessentials, will we be able to recognize a genuine threat to the flock? (Goodness, that sounded preachy). I don't know, but green paint makes me think about such things occasionally.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Green church paint and a time that is gone, part 2
As I was saying, I've attended the same church for most of my life, but many things have changed. The paint is white now. The foyer is carpeted, there's a small nursery, children's church, and no one ever stands behind the pulpit to preach a sermon.
Mennonites are not a liturgical people, but the church of my early childhood was so structured as to be the next thing to liturgy. We arrived a few minutes before 9, and filed into the sanctuary. Men sat on the right side, women sat on the left. There were a number of plain coats on the older men, and coverings on most women over 15. (Most families with young children did sit together, although my parents found it beneficial to sit separately with us - sort of a divide and conquer strategy).
At 9, the song leader would stand up and lead a hymn, accappella. The Sunday School superintendant would have a short devotional, and we'd be dismissed to Sunday School. As we filed out, we'd sing another song, often "Follow the Path of Jesus." It was always fun to guess when the singing would stop as we entered our respective classrooms.
After Sunday School we all came back upstairs. We would have a brief time of announcements, several more hymns, and the offering. The sermon started at 10:30, and was nearly always over by 11, or 11:15 if the preacher really had a lot to say. To help keep us aware of time,there was a clock thoughtfully placed above the pulpit, so the congregation could fix their eyes upon it, as well as a clock on the rear wall above the door, so the preacher could be aware of his time limit.
Most preachers would end with a benediction, such as "Now unto Him who is able to keep you from falling, and present you faultless before the throne with exceeding joy, the only wise God our Savior, be glory, majesty, dominion and power both now and forevermore." I haven't heard that in years, but it's still there in memory. He would walk down the aisle while we sang the final hymn (often the doxology), and shake hands as people left the sanctuary.
More next time!
Mennonites are not a liturgical people, but the church of my early childhood was so structured as to be the next thing to liturgy. We arrived a few minutes before 9, and filed into the sanctuary. Men sat on the right side, women sat on the left. There were a number of plain coats on the older men, and coverings on most women over 15. (Most families with young children did sit together, although my parents found it beneficial to sit separately with us - sort of a divide and conquer strategy).
At 9, the song leader would stand up and lead a hymn, accappella. The Sunday School superintendant would have a short devotional, and we'd be dismissed to Sunday School. As we filed out, we'd sing another song, often "Follow the Path of Jesus." It was always fun to guess when the singing would stop as we entered our respective classrooms.
After Sunday School we all came back upstairs. We would have a brief time of announcements, several more hymns, and the offering. The sermon started at 10:30, and was nearly always over by 11, or 11:15 if the preacher really had a lot to say. To help keep us aware of time,there was a clock thoughtfully placed above the pulpit, so the congregation could fix their eyes upon it, as well as a clock on the rear wall above the door, so the preacher could be aware of his time limit.
Most preachers would end with a benediction, such as "Now unto Him who is able to keep you from falling, and present you faultless before the throne with exceeding joy, the only wise God our Savior, be glory, majesty, dominion and power both now and forevermore." I haven't heard that in years, but it's still there in memory. He would walk down the aisle while we sang the final hymn (often the doxology), and shake hands as people left the sanctuary.
More next time!
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Green church paint and a time that is gone
The back stairwell of our church suffers from a water problem. A light layer of mildew fights to gain the upper hand over the paint, which is itself peeling in patches. This is a problem for the trustees. As I left the library a few weeks ago and skipped lightly down the stairs, I noticed that the original green paint now showed through in certain areas.
Ah, the green paint. Put on when the church was renovated in the 1950s, it is the church color of my childhood. Nor was our church the only one to use it. At times, it seemed as if half the conference had decided to embrace that pale, yet strangely vivid, shade of green.
This was the 50's, after all, the decade of pastels. There are still pink and blue tiled bathrooms dotting the landscape. (At the time, it must have seemed a delightful change after years of WWII army drab).
I go to the same church I attended as a child, and though the outside is still brick, almost everything else has changed. The entrances were even flipped around in the 1994 renovation.
My 20 minutes is up - next post will continue the green theme.
Ah, the green paint. Put on when the church was renovated in the 1950s, it is the church color of my childhood. Nor was our church the only one to use it. At times, it seemed as if half the conference had decided to embrace that pale, yet strangely vivid, shade of green.
This was the 50's, after all, the decade of pastels. There are still pink and blue tiled bathrooms dotting the landscape. (At the time, it must have seemed a delightful change after years of WWII army drab).
I go to the same church I attended as a child, and though the outside is still brick, almost everything else has changed. The entrances were even flipped around in the 1994 renovation.
My 20 minutes is up - next post will continue the green theme.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
About tattoos, but not entirely
Shocking revelation here: I'm not really a tattoo person. (I have a theory that tattoos and tea are, on a some fundamental level, deeply incompatible). I don't have a tattoo, don't plan to get one, and have asked Nate to please be tattoo free when he leaves the Army. Other people get them; fine. I don't have much use for them.
So, when the tattooed couple entered the pool for family swim last week, I proceeded to compose their story in my head. They probably met in a bar, were a little wild, and have only settled down now that they have a child, the cute 3 year old who immediately joined my children in the shallow end. Both the man and woman had several tattoos on legs, arms, and back. Because there were hardly any other people there, and because I'm nosy, I covertly glanced over at the tattoos. Yep, indecipherable Japanese or Chinese characters, some butterfly thing, etc. Pretty typical. He also had a face tattooed on the upper chest, and I tried to make out who it was. His favorite singer? A movie star? The man turned, and I could see the tattoo clearly. It was a picture of Christ, with "King of Kings" written underneath it.
I glanced quickly at his wife, and now saw that her arm sported a tatoo: a cross with sunrise behind it, and underneath, the word "Hope."
Christians get tattoos. I know this. Some family members have them. But I was unprepared for how moved I felt by seeing such a tattoo in this context. Right away, my picture of them changed. Maybe they did meet in a bar, maybe they were wild. Perhaps they also enjoy body art, and play guitar or drums in a house church.
I found myself watching them more carefully. Would their behavior mirror the inked message? They were gentle with their son. They shared their pool toys with my children. They talked to each other with quiet enthusiasm and humor. They were not ashamed to show their spiritual allegiance in word and deed.
The whole experience was a little grace note, right there in the pool. My quick and easy stereotypes took a knock. As our family splashed and played, my eyes kept straying to those images again and again: "King of Kings. "Hope." I left feeling more uplifted, and all because of a tatto.
So, when the tattooed couple entered the pool for family swim last week, I proceeded to compose their story in my head. They probably met in a bar, were a little wild, and have only settled down now that they have a child, the cute 3 year old who immediately joined my children in the shallow end. Both the man and woman had several tattoos on legs, arms, and back. Because there were hardly any other people there, and because I'm nosy, I covertly glanced over at the tattoos. Yep, indecipherable Japanese or Chinese characters, some butterfly thing, etc. Pretty typical. He also had a face tattooed on the upper chest, and I tried to make out who it was. His favorite singer? A movie star? The man turned, and I could see the tattoo clearly. It was a picture of Christ, with "King of Kings" written underneath it.
I glanced quickly at his wife, and now saw that her arm sported a tatoo: a cross with sunrise behind it, and underneath, the word "Hope."
Christians get tattoos. I know this. Some family members have them. But I was unprepared for how moved I felt by seeing such a tattoo in this context. Right away, my picture of them changed. Maybe they did meet in a bar, maybe they were wild. Perhaps they also enjoy body art, and play guitar or drums in a house church.
I found myself watching them more carefully. Would their behavior mirror the inked message? They were gentle with their son. They shared their pool toys with my children. They talked to each other with quiet enthusiasm and humor. They were not ashamed to show their spiritual allegiance in word and deed.
The whole experience was a little grace note, right there in the pool. My quick and easy stereotypes took a knock. As our family splashed and played, my eyes kept straying to those images again and again: "King of Kings. "Hope." I left feeling more uplifted, and all because of a tatto.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Twenty Minute Increments
Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote many entries in her diaries about the difficulties of balancing writing and motherhood. She had a nanny and a cook, and a separate trailer or tent in which to write. The physical detachment was possible; it was the mental detachment that was difficult.
I'm guessing this is true for most mothers of small children. We know that the buck stops with us. At any moment, we may hear footsteps pounding up the steps, fists banging on the locked door, and a "Mom? Mommy? Are you in there?" Once again, our train of thought is derailed.
I don't want to be mentally detached from my family. They give shape and substance to my life, and they are the best thing that's ever happened to me. Still, someday I want to write in more than 20 minute increments with no editing.
That's what you're getting here folks: anything I can type up in 20 minutes or less. Right now I'm trying to shape future posts about tattoos, Mennonite cookbooks, green church paint, and life as an army wife. Maybe that'll happen when I can write for a giddy 30 minutes at a time!
I'm guessing this is true for most mothers of small children. We know that the buck stops with us. At any moment, we may hear footsteps pounding up the steps, fists banging on the locked door, and a "Mom? Mommy? Are you in there?" Once again, our train of thought is derailed.
I don't want to be mentally detached from my family. They give shape and substance to my life, and they are the best thing that's ever happened to me. Still, someday I want to write in more than 20 minute increments with no editing.
That's what you're getting here folks: anything I can type up in 20 minutes or less. Right now I'm trying to shape future posts about tattoos, Mennonite cookbooks, green church paint, and life as an army wife. Maybe that'll happen when I can write for a giddy 30 minutes at a time!
Thursday, March 1, 2012
I (Don't) Want My HGTV
When we moved to our house 8 years ago, we decided not to get cable. I grieved the loss of a few TV shows for awhile, then moved on. Now it feels normal to read or watch DVD's in the evening, and I find myself looking at commercials and current shows with a bemused wonder, as if I've just wandered out of the backwoods.
The only place I get access to cable, therefore, is at the Y, and since I'm still too cheap to buy earbuds, I look for channels that have subtitles, like a news station. Last week, however, someone had left the TV on the HGTV channel, so I settled down to watch the program. It was about kitchen renovation. A very nice young couple completely remodeled their (already attractive) kitchen. When I turned on the TV, the wife was in a warehouse watching the program host display pieces of granite countertop. The camera then showed the maple cabinets, new hardwood floor, stainless steel appliances, and the black granite countertop the couple eventually selected. They built a custom windowseat (I liked that a lot), and finished it off with all kinds of "staging" accessories so it would look good in the final camera shot. The final price? A mere $49,000.
I'm not trying to judge this couple or the program. Heaven knows I'd like to be able to spend $49,000 on a kitchen or any home improvement at all. What bothered me was what happened in my mind after I turned off the TV. Yep, you guessed it, I started mentally tearing my perfectly adequate kitchen apart. "Let's see ... if we could just take out the wall between the kitchen and dining room ... then maybe install a bump-out bay window, with a window seat underneath ... possibly a center island ... new appliances ... more countertop ... and you know, I'd love a 4th bedroom and master bath, a family room, a rear deck, and isn't it time the front of our house actually had some landscaping ..."
At this point I had to mentally shake myself and realize that madness and marital discord lie down that road. Truly, there is no end to the home improvement projects once you get started.
My interest in houses has grown over the years. I should have majored in architecture or construction. The house I live in is, shall we say, not perfect. It's still more "fixer" than "upper." This is not easy, especially when you live in a relatively wealthy area, full of house-proud people. The bar around here is set rather high. And, unfortunately, that gives me lots of opportunity for house-envy. It's easy to forget that most of the world does not have access to a 12 room perfectly landscaped house. Many people would be thankful for a roof over their heads, literally.
Since this is already an area I struggle with, HGTV simply feeds my discontent. I focus on the 20% of things I don't have, instead of being thankful for the 80% I get to enjoy. So, for now, HGTV will remain an occasional guilty pleasure, and I'll keep working on being content.
The only place I get access to cable, therefore, is at the Y, and since I'm still too cheap to buy earbuds, I look for channels that have subtitles, like a news station. Last week, however, someone had left the TV on the HGTV channel, so I settled down to watch the program. It was about kitchen renovation. A very nice young couple completely remodeled their (already attractive) kitchen. When I turned on the TV, the wife was in a warehouse watching the program host display pieces of granite countertop. The camera then showed the maple cabinets, new hardwood floor, stainless steel appliances, and the black granite countertop the couple eventually selected. They built a custom windowseat (I liked that a lot), and finished it off with all kinds of "staging" accessories so it would look good in the final camera shot. The final price? A mere $49,000.
I'm not trying to judge this couple or the program. Heaven knows I'd like to be able to spend $49,000 on a kitchen or any home improvement at all. What bothered me was what happened in my mind after I turned off the TV. Yep, you guessed it, I started mentally tearing my perfectly adequate kitchen apart. "Let's see ... if we could just take out the wall between the kitchen and dining room ... then maybe install a bump-out bay window, with a window seat underneath ... possibly a center island ... new appliances ... more countertop ... and you know, I'd love a 4th bedroom and master bath, a family room, a rear deck, and isn't it time the front of our house actually had some landscaping ..."
At this point I had to mentally shake myself and realize that madness and marital discord lie down that road. Truly, there is no end to the home improvement projects once you get started.
My interest in houses has grown over the years. I should have majored in architecture or construction. The house I live in is, shall we say, not perfect. It's still more "fixer" than "upper." This is not easy, especially when you live in a relatively wealthy area, full of house-proud people. The bar around here is set rather high. And, unfortunately, that gives me lots of opportunity for house-envy. It's easy to forget that most of the world does not have access to a 12 room perfectly landscaped house. Many people would be thankful for a roof over their heads, literally.
Since this is already an area I struggle with, HGTV simply feeds my discontent. I focus on the 20% of things I don't have, instead of being thankful for the 80% I get to enjoy. So, for now, HGTV will remain an occasional guilty pleasure, and I'll keep working on being content.
Friday, February 24, 2012
How Do I Know
When I'm on the elliptical at the gym, my mind tends to wander. Maybe you know the feeling. Anyway, I started thinking about the 5K race that I just asked a friend to register me for. (Please ignore the terrible grammar in that sentence). Three years ago I said that I wanted to finish treatment, get in good shape, and run a 5 K. Two out of the 3 have been completed, now it's time for the last item.
Still, as I was running, hamster-like, on the elliptical, I started to get a little nervous. I'm not a runner, and anyone who took high school gym class with me can testify to this. I was the person walking around the track after the first half mile because I didn't like to sweat. Most of my exercise now is on gym machines or zumba classes. Could I really run over 3 miles? In public?
Then my wandering mind flashed back over a year ago. Nate had started running, dropped 40 pounds, and gotten in much better shape. "Come on," he said, one Sunday afternoon. "Let's go to the park, and you can run a litle with me." Well, any time with my spouse and without the children along is a good thing, so I laced up my sneakers, and went along. I figured I'd run for a few minutes with him on the trail, and then hike the rest of the way, occasionally calling out encouragement. This is not exactly what happened.
We started up the trail, which included a hill right at the beginning. I was already sweating. Nate, an excellent and natural runner, was breathing easily. "This hill will be over soon. Come on, you can do it!" The hill was over soon, and we ran along the path for a few minutes. But what was ahead of us? Another hill! Larger! "I don't think I can do this one" I managed to gasp. "Just try. I'm right here beside you. " So, I gritted my teeth, and took the hill. Almost stopped running, but pride and curiosity (and Nate) kept me going.
And that's how it went for the rest of the run. I tripped over a root, fell flat, and kept going. We went up and down more hills, past the pond, past hikers who looked calm, cool, and relaxed. Every time I started to walk, Nate encouraged me. "You're doing great. Keep running. No walking here!" Muttering under my breath, when I could catch my breath, I kept going. I lost track of time, and distance. Surely we'd run several miles by now.
Finally, I could see the car up ahead. " I didn't think I'd make it" was all I could say. Nate grinned. "I knew you could. Do you know how far you ran today? 4 miles! Way to go!"
Four miles. I'd never run four miles in my life.
Basking in the endorphins, I smiled back. Wow. Me, the ultimate non-athlete, just ran four miles. I would never have tried this without him. My husband pushes me further than I think I can go, and while I may mutter under my breath sometimes, I'm grateful for the encouragement, and the sense of accomplishment.
Can I run a 5 K ? I'm still nervous but I know I can. Thanks to Nate, I know I can run three miles, because with him by my side, I once ran four.
Still, as I was running, hamster-like, on the elliptical, I started to get a little nervous. I'm not a runner, and anyone who took high school gym class with me can testify to this. I was the person walking around the track after the first half mile because I didn't like to sweat. Most of my exercise now is on gym machines or zumba classes. Could I really run over 3 miles? In public?
Then my wandering mind flashed back over a year ago. Nate had started running, dropped 40 pounds, and gotten in much better shape. "Come on," he said, one Sunday afternoon. "Let's go to the park, and you can run a litle with me." Well, any time with my spouse and without the children along is a good thing, so I laced up my sneakers, and went along. I figured I'd run for a few minutes with him on the trail, and then hike the rest of the way, occasionally calling out encouragement. This is not exactly what happened.
We started up the trail, which included a hill right at the beginning. I was already sweating. Nate, an excellent and natural runner, was breathing easily. "This hill will be over soon. Come on, you can do it!" The hill was over soon, and we ran along the path for a few minutes. But what was ahead of us? Another hill! Larger! "I don't think I can do this one" I managed to gasp. "Just try. I'm right here beside you. " So, I gritted my teeth, and took the hill. Almost stopped running, but pride and curiosity (and Nate) kept me going.
And that's how it went for the rest of the run. I tripped over a root, fell flat, and kept going. We went up and down more hills, past the pond, past hikers who looked calm, cool, and relaxed. Every time I started to walk, Nate encouraged me. "You're doing great. Keep running. No walking here!" Muttering under my breath, when I could catch my breath, I kept going. I lost track of time, and distance. Surely we'd run several miles by now.
Finally, I could see the car up ahead. " I didn't think I'd make it" was all I could say. Nate grinned. "I knew you could. Do you know how far you ran today? 4 miles! Way to go!"
Four miles. I'd never run four miles in my life.
Basking in the endorphins, I smiled back. Wow. Me, the ultimate non-athlete, just ran four miles. I would never have tried this without him. My husband pushes me further than I think I can go, and while I may mutter under my breath sometimes, I'm grateful for the encouragement, and the sense of accomplishment.
Can I run a 5 K ? I'm still nervous but I know I can. Thanks to Nate, I know I can run three miles, because with him by my side, I once ran four.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Mrs. Popularity
I have yet to meet anyone who says "You know, I really enjoyed high school. I felt comfortable in my skin, got good grades, and was a fairly popular person with a lot of friends." (If this describes you, please let me know. I want proof that such a person exists).
In my case, the grades were reasonably good, and I made some excellent friends, but I certainly never ran with the "popular" crowd. No one hung on my every word, or considered a party incomplete without me. Not that I'm resentful or scarred by this or anything. Certainly not.
However, it has belatedly occurred to me that I'm very popular with certain people: specifically, 3 small people under the age of 10. They constantly ask me to play games, go outside with them, and take them places. They seek me out while I'm brushing my hair, or my teeth, or attempting to finish getting dressed. They may not hang on my every word (or do everything I ask them to), but they bask in my approval, and even routinely tell me that I'm pretty. The irony is that now, in one sense more "popular" than I've ever been in my life, I often respond to my fawning followers with "For Pete's sake, can I get a moment's peace?" or "I'll play a game later," or "All right everyone, outside. Scoot! I had 3 of you so you could play games with each other, not me."
I'm not apologizing for this. Children need to learn to play independently. Still, I've resolved to try and be a little more thankful for the fact that my children, at this stage of life anyway, want to spend lots of time with me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go play "Go Fish."
In my case, the grades were reasonably good, and I made some excellent friends, but I certainly never ran with the "popular" crowd. No one hung on my every word, or considered a party incomplete without me. Not that I'm resentful or scarred by this or anything. Certainly not.
However, it has belatedly occurred to me that I'm very popular with certain people: specifically, 3 small people under the age of 10. They constantly ask me to play games, go outside with them, and take them places. They seek me out while I'm brushing my hair, or my teeth, or attempting to finish getting dressed. They may not hang on my every word (or do everything I ask them to), but they bask in my approval, and even routinely tell me that I'm pretty. The irony is that now, in one sense more "popular" than I've ever been in my life, I often respond to my fawning followers with "For Pete's sake, can I get a moment's peace?" or "I'll play a game later," or "All right everyone, outside. Scoot! I had 3 of you so you could play games with each other, not me."
I'm not apologizing for this. Children need to learn to play independently. Still, I've resolved to try and be a little more thankful for the fact that my children, at this stage of life anyway, want to spend lots of time with me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go play "Go Fish."
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Perfect versus Good
It's taken me nearly 4 months to start this blog because I wanted it to be perfect. Oh sure, I've had brilliant conversations with myself while ferrying our children around in the minivan, but would said brilliance hold up in the cold light of a blog? And why add one more blog to the thousands that are out there? Face it, there are plenty of reading, thinking, house decorating, crafty, witty moms out there, who write excellent blogs. Do I need to add my two cents?
And yet ... for over 20 years I have thought of myself as a writer. This is probably because several teachers told me that I had some talent for writing. I certainly have no writing to show for it, and sadly, this is because of fear. Fear that it will not be perfect. . Fear that the image I have of myself is in fact wrong. A comment one teacher made still echoes in my mind 20 years later. "You have such talent, and you're so afraid to use it." I don't know if she's right about the talent but I'm not starting another decade without making an attempt to find out.
I'm guessing I'm not the only person who finds that the perfect is so often the enemy of the good. Last Sunday the sermon was about the parable of the talents. The man who received one talent buried it in the earth, where it would be safe. He was afraid to risk it, and lose what talent he had. Meanwhile, those who received five and two talents invested them, and earned more. When the master came back, he rebuked the man who had buried the talent, and instructed him to give his talent to the man who had five. Because of his fear, he lost everything.
It's a hard story to read. It doesn't seem fair. After all, he didn't lose his talent in a bad investment. He simply kept it safe. What was so wrong with that? The truth is, that when we try to hold onto the gifts or talents we have, for fear that we'll mess up or that we'll make a mistake, we lose the opportunity to use them to bless others, however imperfectly. Sometimes we don't get it right. It's okay. The important thing is to try, to make the attempt, to live in hope, not in fear.
So that's what I'm attempting to do. Even as I write this post I'm criticizing it - "How does it sound? Too self-absorbed? Did anyone actually read to the end?" Enough! This is my life, and I'm going to write about the journey as I see it. For a firstborn perfectionist, that's a start.
And yet ... for over 20 years I have thought of myself as a writer. This is probably because several teachers told me that I had some talent for writing. I certainly have no writing to show for it, and sadly, this is because of fear. Fear that it will not be perfect. . Fear that the image I have of myself is in fact wrong. A comment one teacher made still echoes in my mind 20 years later. "You have such talent, and you're so afraid to use it." I don't know if she's right about the talent but I'm not starting another decade without making an attempt to find out.
I'm guessing I'm not the only person who finds that the perfect is so often the enemy of the good. Last Sunday the sermon was about the parable of the talents. The man who received one talent buried it in the earth, where it would be safe. He was afraid to risk it, and lose what talent he had. Meanwhile, those who received five and two talents invested them, and earned more. When the master came back, he rebuked the man who had buried the talent, and instructed him to give his talent to the man who had five. Because of his fear, he lost everything.
It's a hard story to read. It doesn't seem fair. After all, he didn't lose his talent in a bad investment. He simply kept it safe. What was so wrong with that? The truth is, that when we try to hold onto the gifts or talents we have, for fear that we'll mess up or that we'll make a mistake, we lose the opportunity to use them to bless others, however imperfectly. Sometimes we don't get it right. It's okay. The important thing is to try, to make the attempt, to live in hope, not in fear.
So that's what I'm attempting to do. Even as I write this post I'm criticizing it - "How does it sound? Too self-absorbed? Did anyone actually read to the end?" Enough! This is my life, and I'm going to write about the journey as I see it. For a firstborn perfectionist, that's a start.
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