A little winter self-talk

I think it started after Christmas when Todd started ripping up the floor in the room adjacent to our kitchen.  December was expectedly crazy, like every Christmas season in every mother’s life is.  I was hoping January could be a little lazy.  But Todd is up every morning about 6 or so, dressed in his Carhart coat and muck boots feeding the cows and checking the chickens.  He starts Avery’s van for her and makes us breakfast.  He leaves at 8, takes the kids to school, and comes home at 6:30.  We eat 6:30-7 and then he changes into his comfy clothes (a lot like Mr. Rogers would), takes care of the animals and works on the floor till about 10.  Saturday he worked all morning and and came home and worked on the floor all afternoon.  Which is great, he likes it, it’s fine.

But it makes me feel like a slug.

I talked to him outright about this and of course he’s totally fine with anything I want to do.  He’s happy that I clean the house and do the laundry and have meals every night.  He really is the easiest husband in the world.  So it’s got nothing to do with his expectations or disgruntlement; it’s me.

I had that conversation with myself again.  It’s pretty much the same one I have with Todd every year at this time when life is slower, work isn’t as busy, finances are tighter.  He reminds me it’s like this every year in January and February.  And I remember he’s right.  The winter months between the holidays and spring planting are just a little quieter especially coming off a high-speed summer followed by fall and the holidays.  (In my book it is heavenly.)  But this time of year sometimes makes me wonder if I’m pulling my weight, if I’m doing enough, if I should be looking for a job.

And I have.  Every now and then I peek to see what’s out there.  But I keep feeling not to commit.  Not now anyway.  Which is weird.  I have five kids; only three live at home.  They don’t need me for much.  Just dinners and groceries.  And to remind them to do their Saturday chores.  It’s a strange thing to be a stay-at-home-mom of no kids at home.  I feel like I’m retired, just taking it easy while the rest of my family is off working all day.

Case in point, I was talking with some ladies over Cafe Rio not long ago; we were celebrating a successful White Ribbon Week.  (I don't do this all the time, but it is an occasional indulgence.) Anyway, we covered all sorts of topics from autism to pornography, from what keeps us busy to why we do what we do.  As stay-at-home moms, I wonder if this group is typical. Because they’re rarely home.  Maybe it’s because our kids are older and all in school.  It just seems that these women have their fingers in all sorts of activities and a million things scheduled on their phones. And so we talked about that. Because theoretically we have a good seven hours a day of discretionary time every school day, plenty of time to do as we choose.  I was curious about what they filled their days with.  I already knew a lot of what they were involved with, but stringing it all together made me a little dizzy.  And so sleepy.  I’m in awe of what these ladies accomplish in a week.  I admitted as much and told them it might be easier to just go to work.  They have so much to juggle (I know that simply because scheduling an event with them sometimes takes weeks).  I guess it’s a throw-back to my comparison days and I wondered if I was making as much of my seven-hour-a-day-discretionary-time.

I’ve worked full-time, part-time, and not at all.  I’ll say hands down I prefer being able to stay home.  Not long ago my teenaged daughter came home early from school with a fever.  I was able to totally switch my plans around and come home to be with her.  I didn’t do much at all, she just rested on the couch.  But I was here, and my heart soared that I was able to be.  Another afternoon this week I just had my little 13 year old son home; everyone else was at work or with a friend.  So we cuddled under a huge blanket and watched The Secret Life of Pets.  I know there was work to be done, but I knew that I would remember that afternoon for the rest of my life.  I’ve lived long enough to know what’s important and what can wait.

So yeah, maybe you’d expect my house to be clean since I have all day to clean it—it’s not.  You may expect elaborate meals—don’t.  We have pizza, tacos, and spaghetti as often as everyone else.  You may think we’d live by cute colored chore charts and motivational sayings, not really.  At all. In fact, come the weekend, I have to think about what they need to do for their weekly chores.  You may think I do everyone’s laundry and change all the sheets in a systematic fashion—I don’t.  I do Todd’s and mine, but that’s it.  (I have no idea when anyone last changed their sheets.)  You may think I make a morning out of going to the gym—not my thing.  Or you may wonder why I don’t know my scriptures better than I do since I have all day to study them—I wonder that myself.

I try to not complicate things or plug too much in; I like to have a loose framework for the week but I like to stay flexible for things that may come up. I never expected to have days like this, but it’s the dreamiest life I can imagine. I know I sound lazy.  Spoiled.  Pampered.  I know, I know.  Every now and then it hits me and I wonder what my purpose is, what I’m really supposed to be doing with my life at this junction.  Go back to school like so many of my friends? Volunteer more? Get a job? I know.  I have plenty of time, my kids are self-sufficient, heaven knows we could use the extra money.  And yet I hesitate.  I’d rather make food from scratch and wear jeans that are a few years old and do without if we don’t need me to work. Because I’m not convinced that what I’d be gaining would compensate for what I’d be giving up; I’d have to know for sure that switching things up would be best for our family at this moment.

And I always come back to this.  At least for a season or two longer I want to be the one who’s here if the kids get sick. Or are having a rough morning.  I want to be not only physically available, I want to be emotionally here and not completely wasted by the time I see them at the end of the day.  I want to be able to say yes when someone calls, I can help with that funeral, I can make a salad, I can come to that meeting, I can watch your baby, I can give you a ride, I can take you to the temple, I can host her birthday lunch.  I want to have the flexibility to meet needs spontaneously, to take care of my friends and my family, to have time to write when a friend or sister needs advice or to just talk, to just be available.  But at the same time, I almost feel like I need to explain myself, to prove that I’m using my time wisely.  I know Todd’s not asking it in that way at all when he asks how my day was, but sometimes I’m embarrassed to say I helped at the school and talked with a friend and had a bunch of kids over all afternoon, and that’s it. Doesn’t sound like anything much at all.  I guess it’s because none of what I do feels laborious or like real work; I feel satisfied, content, I enjoy where I am. I don't think everyone would like this slow-paced life though. And I feel a little guilty when the other members of my household work so hard all day.  And then come home and continue toiling—whether it’s with chemistry or the latest house project. And then I remind myself, Todd and I've done all their homework, we already went to school, it's ok that it's their turn. And I guess in a way I'm still working too, it just feels easier to do dishes and make them a treat and write a blog when they're trying to figure out genetics and the flooring puzzle.  (p.s. Just between you and me, I know he actually likes that kind of stuff; he would rather stick needles in his eyes than to write even the few paragraphs I’ve just written.)

But I’ve lived long enough to know the value of what we women do.  Those who have jobs, those who do the books for the family business, those who have babies and toddlers at home, those who are going to school, those who work at home, those who have a little of it all, and even women in my station in life whose kids are older and gone most of the time.  It sometimes feels like moms in my stage of life have nothing tangible to show or account for our days. But I am humbled by the privilege I have; honestly, I’m so very grateful for it.  I have so many options, so many choices as to how I spend my hours, and I know not every woman does. I cling to this scripture reminder, For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required and I try to make sure I’m making this time count.  It’s too valuable to just stay home and listen to my audio books and do puzzles all day (doesn’t that sound dreamy though? And so tempting???), although everyone gets a lunch break.

I love being a mom, I love taking care of our household and keeping things running smoothly, I love being a friend, I love keeping in touch with loved ones and being able to fill a need.  So while I wonder sometimes if it’s enough, if I should be doing more with my time, if I need a job to fill in the gaps, if I’m using this gift of time to its fullest, I’m grateful for dear friends a few years down the road who encourage me to enjoy this blessing, to of course use my time well, but to recognize the good we can do in this stage of life when we don’t have our little kids with us all day.  This is a chance to do different work, to contribute in other ways. I think it feels like I’m taking the easy way out because I enjoy it all so much.  But I think it’s great to be happy in whatever phase of life we’re in, and for now I really do feel immense peace right where I am.

While we're waiting

As always, I’m scrambling with dinner when the kids have to be out the door in no time.  I was restless as I watched my bacon sizzle for BLTs so they could eat before they had to leave, wishing it to cook faster than nature’s laws allow. But as I left it frying, I assembled the lettuce and tomatoes and put some bread in to toast.  I returned to my post happily surprised by how much progress my little strips had made.  Allaying my angst.

I remembered last week.  I’d made a cake and basked in the sweet scent permeating the kitchen air until I went to take it out and saw the three raw eggs in the bowl on the counter.  Not one of them embedded in the cake within the oven.  This was 8:23.  I had a meeting at nine with a luncheon immediately following.  I had only one choice.  Obviously I started over, making sure the eggs were where they belonged. But, typically Caren, and always for a variety of interesting reasons, I was running super close to my deadline.  So I stood sentinel near the oven, coaxing it to puff up and tighten and brown faster.  Which does nothing but raise my anxiety.  I still had to make the topping, brush my teeth, and get my stuff together.  So I stepped away and left my little cake on its own while I went about my other business.

I’ve used this technique repeatedly.  Usually when cooking, but all over the place really.  I’m always pushing the clock, so instead of getting all worked up I’ve noticed I do better when I use my waiting time to do something productive.  Instead of hovering over my toast, I put on my mascara.  Instead of waiting for someone to get back to me, I leave my phone in my room and come down to handle dinner.  That insane pick-up line at school, love it!  I just read my articles and my mail.  I finally get back to the friends who’d written earlier in the day or read a little something in my book.  (On a good day, I even take a nap!) Relationships that are a little tense? Sometimes it's best to just step back and give it some time.

I just think there’s something more here.  I’ve noticed this works even on the big things in life.  How often do we hover over God, willing Him to move the pieces of our lives a little faster, getting more impatient with every passing day that our prayers are seemingly unanswered?  Instead of checking the pasta again, butter the garlic bread.  Instead of shaking our fists at Him, find someone who needs you and spend some time there.  Instead of wondering where your future spouse or job or house is and becoming increasingly annoyed that things aren’t coming together, work on developing yourself, broaden your interests, your circle, your job search, your playing field.  Instead of worrying, fretting, stewing, hashing it out over and over with Him, I need to settle. I've laid it all out before Him, I've done what I can, it's out of my hands. Walk away and do something else to pass the time.  You’ve put the cake in.  Give it time to do its thing; it’ll take awhile.  Let it.  You’ve asked God for help.  He knows.  Leave Him space to work out the details.  It’ll probably take awhile.  Let Him.

Talented

My entire life, up until like five days ago, I thought I just didn’t hear the announcement and make it to the line-up quick enough when they called out for the talent give-away.  I’ve consoled myself over the years by reminding myself ad nauseam of the parable of the talents; some only got one Caren, just be sure not to lose your one, don’t bury it whatever you do, it’s all you’ve got.  I’ve also reminded myself that some talents are as simple as being a good listener, not everyone gets to sing or write best sellers.  And so I’ve been fine, really; I’ve just always been in awe of the ones with ten, chalking it up to their good fortune.  

I told my little presidency the other day when they were talking about love notes, that it’s the only key I know on the piano of talents.  So I just keep playing it over and over and over.  But something clicked and I realized that I was just making excuses.  I realized that while that may be true, maybe we don’t have as many natural abilities as some others, talents are more than raffle tickets handed out as we floated out of the sky all those years ago on our way to earth.  It’s not as cut and dry as we may think: she’s talented, I’m… not as much.

Over the years we’ve had numerous talks with our daughter who has been discouraged by the fact that she doesn’t do sports or play piano or any other number of things. I’ve felt sorry for her and disappointed in myself, feeling like it was my fault, wishing I could have a mom do-over (for like the two thousandth time).  But then it hit me that we provided opportunities for her at every turn throughout her short life.  We let her play soccer and volleyball and try piano, she has a guitar, we bought material for a quilt.  We gave her art lessons, we’ve offered a million times to sign her up for sewing lessons. I cook nonstop and I’ve encouraged her to join me repeatedly and learn before she leaves for college.  But you might know our philosophy by now, we let our kids choose for themselves and make as many decisions as possible.  And with at every junction, I asked her if she was sure, absolutely sure, she wanted to quit piano.  Definitely.  No more volleyball? No. You sure you don’t want to take a class? No, I’m good.

So the other day I got it, took myself out of the equation and gave it back to her.  And realized I struggle in exactly the same way.  And perhaps most of us do.

It hit me that some, if not most, of the talents we admire in others are simply a result of their efforts.  Of course some are born with beautiful voices or an affinity for numbers or have just the right physique for ballet or basketball, I’ll give you that.  But truly, I’m beginning to see that I’ve just assumed that it was all just a little lopsided with nothing to do but shrug and give myself and Avery the pep talk, that’s just the way it is.

But what if talents aren’t just gifts bestowed upon us from a good witch with a magic wand (or God), what if we could actually create talents ourselves?  What if we had power to develop whatever talents we want?  And please note that I’m not taking God out of the loop.  I absolutely believe we are each given talents, special gifts unique to us that come a little easier, that we embrace and feel comfortable with, as though we’d developed them before and are just remembering.  Absolutely.  I’m just saying, there may be more we can do, we shouldn’t limit ourselves to what comes easy and what we’re good at.  We can push ourselves to try things that aren't as natural, that are a little uncomfortable, that take some work. 

I just think back to the rough starts of so many athletes, inventors, writers, and other well-loved and admired folk.  They played ball for hours on their own.  Their projects and ideas and works were rejected repeatedly.  They failed over and over and over.  But their efforts paid off because they believed in themselves and because they worked.

I think of my dad who became a fantastic upholsterer.  He may have had some a natural inclination to work with his hands, but he didn’t make tiny models of furniture as a little boy.  It was something he learned and worked at over many, many years.  I think of my friends who sew so beautifully and seemingly effortlessly and of my friends who play piano and organ.  Some are naturals and truly have a gift, but others learned just the same way all of us would’ve had to learn, one book, one lesson at a time.  They’ve just put in the hours to practice and develop a skill.  I think of Andrew with his knives.  As an eight year-old he wasn’t making them, he simply tinkered in the garage with materials available to him.  He spent hours and years fine-tuning his art.  My mother-in-law makes amazing stained glass art, but she didn’t know a thing about it until she decided she’d like to try it as a hobby.  My sister takes poignant photos, but she’s been at it for years and years and years.  We’d probably label all these people as talented and wish we could have a talent of our own.  But in reality, it’s simply that they had an interest, a desire to try something.  And then they put in the time and effort, hours and hours and hours, years and years, to develop these skills.  It’s not so much that they just have an eye for photography or how colors go together or special dexterity or knowledge of music that was just born in them, although that may be true some of the time, they just stayed with it and put in the effort.

So my epiphany has freed me.  And embarrassed me. I’m excited about all the possibilities I always thought were closed to me. I don’t have to be limited by what I’m naturally good at, I can work to get good at anything I want.  I’ve always just told myself I’m not good at sewing, public speaking, running, singing, leading, they’re just not my talents… but what if I wanted to get better?  There’s no reason I can’t, now that I think about it.  I’m embarrassed because in essence I’ve been taking the easy way out, I’ve been lazy, full of excuses for why I’m not as talented as others in those areas.

And we don’t have to limit ourselves to dancing or sculpting, what if we were to develop our talents as far as relationships?  What if we stopped telling ourselves we just aren’t the compassionate type? Or an interesting conversationalist?  What if we made the effort to learn how to be a better communicator and friend? What if we don’t have to stay the way we are? What if we could make these weak areas stronger? What if we could create some of our own talents?

I know you all know this, I’m not sure why it never occurred to me before.  I guess I separated hobbies/interests and talents, thinking they were two different categories, when what we call talents can start out simply as interests that, with a little nurturing, just grew up.

Just so you know

My sister thinks it should be a bracelet; I lean more toward a lanyard.  A t-shirt for the younger set. Whatever method we decide on, we’re just aiming for something along the lines of a medical alert notification that an old person would wear.  Just so people know what’s going on.

We laughed at the idea as our friend was telling us about her daughter who’s had rough time lately.  Her filter is sort of off kilter.  Her memory is a sort of hazy.  So her bracelet might read, Recovering from a brain injury.  Between the lines you’d read, So help me figure out how I know you.  And don’t hate me if I lack tact.  I’m working on it.  But it’s so hard.

I have young friends straddling the adolescent and adult worlds, completely unsure what about their futures.  I tease my college son that his t-shirt ought to spell it out.  I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. I don’t know what I think or feel or should think or feel about the girl I’m dating.  Yes, I want to get married.  No, not soon.  Don’t ask me any more questions.

I vote for the lanyard like we get at conferences, those little plastic sleeves with card stock inserts.  Because then we could change out the cards depending on what’s going on.  Or maybe if you had that kind of bracelet with snap-out faces that would work.  They wouldn’t be excuses; they would just help explain things succinctly without a lot of fuss.  We’d know what we’re all dealing with with a simple glance.  So many questions answered without really getting into it.

The past month most of us would’ve needed a stack of card stock squares for our lanyards or at least changeable bracelet faces.  The week before Christmas is always a doozy.

Some of my cards would’ve read 

• I’m sick. I’m holding it together just for this.  I know I seem regular but this is hard for me.
• I’m not sure I’m the right person for what I’ve been asked to do.  I could give you the names of a hundred other women who I’d like to nominate for the job.
• I still haven’t figured out how to know how God is talking to me and I need him desperately and I’m frustrated that I’m this old and still don’t get it.
• I’m not sure how to do Christmas.  I know I should have this kind of stuff figured out, I’m old, I should know better.  I hate that I even have to worry about this.  It’s not even what it’s about.  I know that, but I’m the mom.  The magic maker.  Even when I’m running on close to E.
• I want to make things nice for my family who’s coming to visit.  I want to pamper them.  But if I could really have my wish, I just want to be in bed with my fluffy Christmas novels.
• I don’t know what to say to your nice words.  I can’t take credit for any of it.  I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond.  But you are so sweet.
• No, we aren’t doing that great Lighting the World or anything else.  We’re doing awesome just to gather at the bookends of the day and at least listen to how other people are serving.
• I’m feeling sad and left out today. I’ll be fine.  But yes, that’s smeared mascara.  Not to worry, I’ll wash it off tonight.
• I want to be the person I need to be.  But I wonder how if I’ll ever get there.
• I am heartbroken. And I have no idea how to fix our relationship.
• I’m jealous over how much will power so many of you have and all the amazing things you’re doing.

I can’t help but think of all the cards I could pass out to the people I love, who have confided in me recently.

• I’m stressed about school.  I feel dumb. I try so hard.  I don’t get it, it is so frustrating and discouraging.
• I honestly have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.  Yes, I have a major.  But I wonder if it’s going to work out or if it’s even what I want to do. I’m unsettled and not sure what I should do next semester. Or for my life.
• I just had surgery a month ago.  I’m tired. I know you’re all depending on me.  But I feel tired.
• I’m worried about my kids.  I can’t talk about it.  But I’m heartbroken.
• I don’t want to be here.  But I’m making the best of it.
• I feel so weak.  I want to be able to do normal life.  But I’m sick.
• I feel so vulnerable.  I don’t have anything left.  But they’re all depending on me to be strong. I can’t let them down.
• We would love to have more kids.  I’ve had two miscarriages.  I’m so sad about it.
• I want to change the world, but I’m only one little person. I’m discouraged about the problems in the world. And I’m confused.
• I’m lonely.
• My marriage may be over. I don’t know whether to desperately try to hold it together or resign myself and move on.
• I’m overwhelmed and have no idea where to start.

Ideally, we could be good enough friends that bracelets and lanyards would be dropped by the side of the road when we run to see each other and we would just embrace and get right to it.  And obviously that’s easier with closer friends; those t-shirts and things would be for the benefit of strangers who you don’t really want to get into things with.

But let’s go back to the close friends part.  I’ve questioned this a million times.  Especially the older and more impatient I get.  Why can’t we be real? I get it when it’s not your story to tell, like if it’s your kids or husband causing you sadness.  But why can’t we tell each other what’s really going on within our own hearts?

What would happen if we opened up and shared even a little? Well, I can tell you two scenarios.  One, the person you’re talking with will be surprised at your candor and shuffle the conversation around because it’s gotten too uncomfortable.  And we’ll go back to talking about how much snow we’ve gotten.  Bummer.  Or, her eyes will fill with tears at the very same time yours do.  You’ll connect.  You’ll have forged some kind of weird sister bond right there on the spot; neither of you will ever be the same.  And you will forever be friends.  Even if you hardly ever see each other again.  And maybe there’s some middle ground, but I haven’t noticed that as much.  Usually I’m shut down (always very politely of course) or we’ve united on a deeper level.  I just think it’s worth taking the risk.

Because what will happen if you confide you’ve been dealing with infertility for years? Or you have social anxiety? Or you can’t seem to get going these days? Or you feel discouraged as you see your life pass by and you wonder if this is all you’re here for?  Or you're feeling paralyzed by all these decisions about what to do at this crossroad? Or you're feeling regret over the past? To admit any of this? What then?

I’d say this is why so many women tear up when we let our guards down and share what we’ve been tucking away. We release.  Both of us. We exhale. It’s such a relief. Immediately we both feel normal and understood and heard.  Heartfelt communication is connection.  And don’t we need that more than almost anything else these days?

So it’s up to you whether you hide behind a smile or a printed t-shirt.  But consider the option of not hiding at all.  Maybe take a chance with someone you feel you can trust, maybe a friend you don’t know yet but just have a good feeling about.  Maybe slow down when it comes to that part of the conversation and start with something small, something like, Can I be honest?

Background noise

The quintessential setting for a seven-degree lazy afternoon with the kids watching some basketball game at school and my teenaged daughter working on a history project (an unusual interpretation of the Gilded Age, a nine-block quilt).  I took advantage of my fortuitous circumstances and left the shards of our day where they were, curled up on one of our matching love seats with my parka as my pillow and a lush, rabbit-fur-like shroud of a throw blanket in front of the fire I’d made an hour earlier and gave myself 20 minutes.

As I lay in that drunken sweet spot between wakefulness and all-the-way asleep, I melted as I listed to the quiet sounds surrounding me.  The dishwasher humming along, the washing machine whirring, my daughter ironing, the plane in the distance, the fire occasionally popping, the heating kicking on.  Intoxicating as a lullaby.

When our college son was home for the holidays it was like going back in time to his high school years when we’d fall asleep to the purr of his belt sander, which I think rests right below our headboard in the attached work shop.  When I was little I’d go to bed listening to the the late-night 80s sit coms or news of the day from my room, my dad on the living room couch as sentinel, the dull roar of the tv my comfort.  I still love hearing Todd’s tools as he works late into the night on a house project or him turning the pages of his seed catalogs and beekeeping magazines in bed next to me. I like listening to the running water in the bathroom next to us as our daughter takes her late-night shower and gets ready for bed.  Not always the softest sounds, but to me it’s the ordinary-ness of it all that delights me.

As I was lulled to sleep in this cozy afternoon environ, I couldn’t help but ask what exactly what it was I loved so much about all I was listening to.  And I think it’s because all the sounds just feel familiar. It’s comforting to just be a part of everyday house noises because it means life is ticking along, work’s getting done, but nothing’s urgent or stressed.  The canning jars bubbling on the stove or the crockpot’s occasional spit.  The lawnmower a few houses over.  The trimmer next door.  No matter the season, any of these harmonious sounds coalesce into a reassuring sort of din, a backdrop that calms me and helps me feel cocooned, like life is still normal; it's all so homey-feeling.

And that’s just it.  They’re simply the sounds of home.  They have a way of helping me feel safe, like I've found my oasis.  Just like my sister tells me about the birds.  As long as you hear birds singing, the world isn’t in eminent danger.  Meaning a super volcano isn’t about to erupt. Or a tsunami isn’t coming our way. I guess these sounds just soothe my soul in a catatonic world that is so harsh and shrill.  These quiet—or just routine—background tones remind me that even as crazy as it all feels to live during these turbulent times, there is still peace.  And for me that’s just being home.  The soft hum of my appliances, confirming that I’ve accomplished even something small in the day, eases my anxieties and worries about so much out there.  I bask in the percolating water filter system, the drop of the ice in the freezer bucket, the dryer churning its load, our dogs breathing beside me, an occasional squeak in the settling roof, sounds of a house.  They help me re-group, re-setting my soul.  I'm just content, happy to be home to hear them.

Word of the year

How concise, how tidy, how efficient.  A friend piqued my interest by posting a concept umbrella for her year and petitioning us to respond in turn. Just one word to dictate the direction we’re looking toward this year, a tight little tag-line summation of all we hope to accomplish.  Love it.  Except, as I asked my friends for theirs, I was left hanging!  What does she mean by that?  What angle is she coming from? What does she really hope to achieve, accomplish, become, discard, or change?  What’s behind her word? Purpose. Family. Service. Committed. Serenity. Hope. Peace. Change. Positivity. Intentional. Acceptance.  Wow! What teasers! I can’t wait to ask them in person what they’re talking about.  Like with Todd.  He didn’t even take a breath before he responded immediately with Progress. Of course! I already know all about his ambitions to transform our farm and house into a property he can feel proud of; he’s been working on it tirelessly for an entire year and hasn’t lost momentum.  As soon as he said it, I knew it had already been driving him for some time.  But some of the others gave me just a peek, intriguing me, leaving me hanging.  Was it just something off the cuff, had they been mulling this over for awhile, are there other words too, is this just for fun or is this serious? Did they just pick a word out of a hat or is this meant transform their lives?  And what will the end of the year look like with this kind of focus?  A simple exercise, but full of possibilities and potential!

As I was going about my day, not on my knees, not in a meditation pose, not being super zoned in, I just asked Heavenly Father—and myself—simply what I needed to change or do or be more of right now.  And quietly I knew.  Not heard, but just recognized.  Listen is my word.

I don’t know how Heavenly Father means for it to look exactly, but I was already humbled and knew the potential this little word could have in my life.  I’m not horrible at this, in fact I’ve made huge changes over the years.   I’m just not fantastic or great or even really good at it.  But I want to get better.  I didn’t feel chastened by the suggestion, but charged. Not reprimanded, more roused.  Not embarrassed, just excited. I loved how personal my little word was, how it reminded me again how intimately He knows me.  It fits me.

So then I started to write about it for you all—almost poetically.  In a sing-song writer’s voice.  Good grief.  It felt so fake.  So I scratched all that and, as you’ve become accustomed to, I’m giving it to you straight, not pretty or flowy or even eloquently, but personally and simply. Just some random thoughts, Nerf bullets I felt pinging me, not creating alarm, just a sort of heightened awareness.

Listen intently to the people I’m with.  Not to be heard but to hear.  This is an incredibly easy and obvious approach to solid conversation. But recommitting myself to keeping quiet, to squelching my tendency to interrupt, to paying attention to what my daughters and friends and husband and leaders and sons and sisters and strangers are telling me, to really tune into the other perspective, to put myself in their shoes, to hear where they’re coming from… that’s magic, that’s immediate insight, that’s powerful.  Taking the pressure off me to come up with something appropriate or helpful or insightful.  All I need to do is be present, really here, listening to what’s on their minds, what’s in their hearts, what’s important to them right now.  They don’t care about my response, not really.  At least not the words of my response.  To people (because I’ve been the people), all that matters is that someone hears us.  That’s validation, confirmation, security, intimacy, closeness. It’s rare.  And craved.

But at the same time, listen to what those people aren’t telling us.  I need to tune in to what they’re saying with their bodies and eyes and expressions and how I’m feeling as they talk.  Hearts are breaking, people are lonely, souls are unsettled.  I need to keep listen to what I’m sensing.  Listen to their unspoken longing. And listen as I feel what I can do to help.  At the same time I know we should make people be accountable for what they are saying, some buzzword like content communication.  But as a regular person, I’ve been there.  A lot of times we say what’s expected, what’s appropriate.  Not always how we really feel.  Listening involves watching for what else is going on.

A silly one but one I’m insisting on as I’m getting older… only surround myself with things I love. Listen to what matters to me. This is super hard because I like cheap, I buy things on a whim that I don't even really like or that aren't me, somehow things pass through the house, my hands that I'm not sure what to do with. I don’t want to worry about something so shallow when there’s so much going on in the world.  I know.  But, I’m learning to listen to myself by acknowledging my preferences and decluttering. I don’t know if anyone else feels this way, but I feel a little off, a little unsettled, when I’m wearing something I don’t love (ok, so this is a whole other issue and blog because this is every day) or when I keep waking up to a picture I've always hated. So maybe it’s a pair of earrings or home decoration or even a kitchen towel that I used to love but it's just not me anymore.  I should be grateful I even have these things. I think I am.  But I have had so many items cross my path over the years that I’m learning to be judicious with what I keep; there’s just too much and I lean a tad minimalist.  If I don’t love it, I want it to go to someone who really will.  If it doesn’t fit, if I’ve always felt frumpy in it—and here’s the hard part—even if I paid real money for it—I need to let it go. It is freeing to me and so validating to listen to what I really want to surround myself with.  I feel heard, my opinions are valued. If I can’t listen to myself, why should I expect anyone else to respect or hear me?

Quit listening to satan.  Or any other negative voices.  Super easy and obvious who’s doing the talking; it’s definitely not God.  Listen to the ones that encourage me to be better.  When I’m feeling an inkling of inferiority or inadequacy or defeat or discouragement, I know for a fact who’s influencing me.  I’ve got no time for that.  And so yes, I admit I’m feeling it, think about what’s going on in my life to spark these thoughts, and then the only great option is to turn to God to see what he’s got to say about them and me.  And then I listen when I ask him for help.

Listen to my body.  When it’s time to go to bed.  Or even nap. I know I should eat more salads and vegetables even though I don’t really love them, I feel it. But I also feel strongly not to stress about it. I’ve feel impressed to take more walks, and I’m so glad for all the times I’ve listened.  I want to make it strong. So I can use it for good.  I try to cherish it and love it instead of taking it for granted or talking poorly about it.  I try to listen when God tells me it’s a gift.

Listen when I feel to do something good without coming up with excuses.  For the time being, we don’t need to figure out if it’s from God or our own good idea.  Go with it.  Listen when we’re prompted to move.  Especially in a way we weren’t expecting or even thinking about.  Don’t brush it aside.  There’s a reason we’re getting the idea.  He needs us to be his hands.  Sometimes we’re the only one who can help in a particular situation. Instead of lackadaisical, let’s be eager and ready whenever and however we’re needed.  This is hard because there’s so little feedback to know if what we felt to do mattered.  And yet, I have to think those ideas to check in with one of the kids or to text or email or call or write someone are inspired.  Most of the time I have no idea what the point was, if it made any sort of difference.  But I trust God.  And I trust those familiar feelings.  I’m learning to listen to even the subtlest of nudges.

Listen to nature, this one is so me. But I know it sounds like one of the paragraphs I should’ve omitted because it’s kind kind of fake-writer-like.  But I’m good with keeping it because this one makes such a difference.  And I can vouch for it first-hand. When I stop to hear the shrills and songs of the birds, the lapping and crashing of the waves, the popping and crackling of the fire, the wind in the grasses and leaves, the chatter of squirrels, the crunch of the snow, the crushing gravel, I’m present. Engaged and aware of what’s happening right now. Appreciative.  Humbled. Nature is the easiest, fastest way to feel what’s real, to sift through all the noise and to center ourselves.  To settle.  One of my favorite listens.

Listening to children and old people is admittedly hard for me. I’m good with babies and their new coos and garbled words, but I’m impatient with the others. To slow down is something I’m forever working on.  It takes time to make out what they’re saying, to read between the lines, to understand the significance and brilliance of their simple words.  I’m pretty bad at this.  I tend to shy away from these situations because they make me uncomfortable.  I’m fast and efficient.  I know I’m missing out.  But the older I get, the more I’m recognizing I need to work on this.

Likewise, I’ve found so much value in listening to the wisdom of those who have lived long. I’m forever asking older moms and dads what advice they can give me, what they would’ve done differently, what they’re glad they did.  Why not learn from those who’ve gone before us, who are a few miles down the road?  The details are a little different between here and there, but not really.  Listen. You’ll see.

I listened this year when I struggled with relationships.  I didn’t want to hear it, but it was clear.  Pray for them and love them.  At first it wasn’t that great, my heart wasn’t that into it, I felt too hurt.  But as I kept at it, I began to feel his love for these people, and it soothed me, I felt an honest love where only sadness had been before. I truly began to want their happiness. I eventually could see around myself and really see them.  I want to do more of that.  Not the ruffled relationship part, but the part where I listen to Heavenly Father’s counsel to love.

I guess if I had to get succinct with this all, I’d say it’s about listening to God. And others. And my own heart. Continue to open it, be vulnerable, be inclusive, give the benefit of the doubt, trust. Not exactly what the experts are touting these days, but like I care.  It’s listening when He says Be still and know I am God.  Internalize it.  Believe him. Trust him.  That he’s got this.  That he can orchestrate the details.  That I don’t have to worry about the how.

Listen. Be still. Settle. Calm down. Breathe. And breathe again. Don’t talk. Don’t form a response. Don’t fight it. Don’t wish this moment away. Don’t rush. Just listen.

The week after

Christmas in and of itself is a doozy.  December sends me tumbling.  Every single year.  No matter how I prepare and save and plan ahead.  It’s a washing machine of emotions and expectations that get jumbled together, churning over and over in my mind.  I normally end up crying in my room at some point.  I think because my everyday life is so easy and my good intentions for the month overwhelm me.  It kind of all comes to a head as we near the apex of the holiday season, and yet I’m getting better.  Just not fantastic—or even good—at it all yet.

This year’s December was a little unusual because our congregations got all shaken up, kind of like the B6 and I8 chips in those huge Bingo mixers.  When the dust settled, many of us ended up with new responsibilities that are uncomfortable and unsettling.  That’s just the nature of our church make up, inspired and brilliant.  But definitely humbling and a little scary.  I got an assignment I’ve always dreaded. Lots of us did. But we just go with it and trust that as we do our best, God will fill in for all our inadequacies. It’s just that it added a little more to an already full season.

I didn’t exactly cry about Christmas.  But Christmas morning I felt like it.  Woke up early.  Head already swimming with what I still had to do. Put out stocking stuffers. And the gifts. I was too exhausted on Christmas Eve to do anything of the sort. Put the butterscotch rolls in so the casseroles could go in after so we could eat warm food as soon as we were done with gifts.  I think next year I just want to have brunch.  They can eat their Lucky Charms for breakfast.  And I’ll linger in bed.  Warm next to Todd.  Till maybe 8.  It wasn’t that any of it was hard.  Not at all.  I love it all.  It’s just that I was tired. So tired.  In my body.  And in my mind.

It wasn’t till later that afternoon that I finally felt myself relax.

The next morning was another early one.  I mentally geared up for the shopping.  I told Andrew we’d be back in five hours.  I wasn’t wrong.  Later that afternoon I felt myself relax again.  To the tune of cheesy romantic Christmas movies.  Finally.

I think I’ve found the holiday sweet spot.  For me, it’s after Christmas and into the New Year.

I can still play my Christmas music.  My tree’s not going anywhere.  I’m home more so I can linger by its lights.  I love the garland made from the Christmas greetings we’ve gotten in the mail. I’m taking my naps again.  I’m reading my fluff magazines.  I’m breathing.  I can see my bedroom floor.  And I’ve cleaned the microwave and oven. Again.  I’m coming up for air.

I’m watching the movies I missed in earlier December.  I’m basking in the not-needing-to-go-anywhere phase of the season.  I’m missing out on the sales.  Oh well.  Too bad.  I’m slightly reviewing what I’d like to do differently next year.  I’ve thrown out all the uneaten treats.  I’m exercising again (after a week of sick and another of having boys sleeping in my workout space).

I love that people are still putting on their house Christmas lights.  That there’s pretty snow.  That we don’t have school.  That we still have New Year’s to celebrate.  Which is a little like the Fourth of July in December: not stressful in the least but a grand excuse to get together with friends, a late night with nothing on the agenda but eating and visiting and games.  Traditions to play out, expectations, of course.  But fondue? Nothing to fuss about, easy peasy.

Everyone asks How was your Christmas? I want to be sweet.  But you know me, I want to tell the truth.  I waffle.  But I have to admit sheepishly that I’m glad it’s over.  

But I’m so sad that it’s over.  I feel better now.  But I feel defeated.  That I can’t be completely joyful while it’s happening.  I regret that.  And don’t know entirely how to fix that.  But I came closer this year than many in the past.

I loved that we went to see the Bell Ringers in an old downtown church with our good friends.  I loved our kids’ school concerts.  I loved seeing the lights.  Our nightly Christmas stories.  The cards and pictures and letters.  The high school Christmas concert that none of our kids were in, just for fun.  I loved having my sister and mom. I loved the gatherings with friends. I love the coziness of lights and tree and decorations.  I loved the treats our friends brought us and having everyone home.  Spending the night in our cozy mountain town weaving in and out of decorated shops sipping cider.  Then slipping into shared beds watching tv till we fell asleep on each other.  I loved finding gifts for people and wrapping presents and sending packages across the miles.  I loved remembering families we used to live near as we’d address and stamp each envelope.  I loved the fires and hot chocolates. The small ways we provided a tiny bit of happiness for others and the myriad ways others brought joy into our home.

So it wasn’t a wash.  It was an excellent month.  A full month to be sure.  If I could have a Christmas wish, it might be to have either two of me or two Decembers.  Just to cover our bases a little better.  But it all works out.  We made some great memories and we laughed.  We enjoyed just being with friends and family.  We felt the nudge to be a little better, a little kinder, a little more generous, and we did what we felt we could.

What I love about the after-Christmas-time is that now we get to take all those feelings, those promptings, those good ideas and run with them.  Now that we’ve taken off our Santa hats, we can get to work.  Not in an obligatory way, but in a slower, more mindful, intentional way.  We can rekindle relationships we’ve led slide.  We can help organizations who are feeling an after-Christmas slump.  We can re-evaluate where we want to put our energies.  We’ve felt Christ’s love and seen his light played out in so many ways over the past few weeks, that now we get to sit with our cup of hot chocolate and ask ourselves what we’re going to do with it all.  I’m content.  Happy—so over the moon happy—with Christmas.  It’s my favorite time of the year.  But this is close.  As I bask in all that we were able to experience and feel, I want these feelings to linger, to propel me to action. Christmas has a magical way of elevating our thoughts and deeds.  And I know if we stay in touch with those feelings of the season, we can do some good throughout the rest of the year too. In quiet, meaningful, everyday-not-just-at-Christmas-ways. I love this time of year of reflection. A chance to assess what we want to do with everything we’ve just experienced. I like the lull, the downtime, the less intense glow of the holiday celebrations.  It’s more my speed. I guess that’s why to me the week after is almost as good as the ones before.

Starting the new year

Regrettably, I haven’t taken time to write out all the feelings of the past month in my journal.  But it’s a choice you have between watching the ocean and interrupting the moment to capture a picture of it.  I vacillate and have done both.  This month I’ve just tried to stay upright as the waves have coalesced.  But as I start another new year, I’m impressed with the candor and vulnerability my friends have shared in posts, highlighting what they want to change, what’s been off, and what they hope will be different this year.  They’ve invited friends and loved ones to join them and are in essence dismissing those who are negatively sapping joy from their lives. Intriguing. Refreshing, real, and heartfelt.  I feel the range of emotions from my vantage point as well, although as I’ve told you before, I hesitate to share too much.

But as we hang up our new calendar, as I look back on the year, like a lot of you, I can’t help but spend a minute to reflect on what went well and what I’d like to do better with this new year.

I still struggle with the basics.  I can’t get my act together enough to remember my morning prayer most days.  I wonder if any of our scripture reading makes a difference to our kids.  Or even myself.  I wonder if I’ll ever be able to eat fewer than 4 chocolate chip cookies at a time.  I wonder why I don’t have the self-discipline that so many of my friends have.  I wonder why I don’t care.  I can’t help but wonder where I went wrong on occasion.  I think I’ll forever worry about money.  I walk that tight-rope of teaching my kids everything I’ve learned from life and letting them figure it out for themselves. Why is that? I have so much passion for things that seem odd to most people.  And I feel dumb.  I wonder what talents I have that I should probably be figuring out.  Why do I like to write and what good is it to anyone? I wonder how to be a better friend.  Why can’t I seem to make time to read more, how hard can it be? I wonder how to serve, where, with who?  What’s my role as a mom to teenagers and young adults?

As I think about the goals I had last year, I’ll admit I didn’t even know what they were until I just went to peek.  And then I remembered.  We made some family ones.  Invite new friends over and keep up with our old ones.  Make the house pretty.  Plant a garden.  Disconnect from the computer.  Spend more time together as a family on Sundays.  We made some headway on the  house, had great times with friends, harvested a tiny garden, hung out in our pjs more on Sundays and still don’t have a clue how to handle our computer issues.

I made three.  Learn about revelation and get better at it.  Be more engaged with the kids.  Respond patiently and kindly (ie quit being so efficient and condescending—yikes).  I’m still unsure how God speaks to me, I don’t think the kids really need or want me to be super engaged (although I guess we’ve had some good talks), and as far as being kind and patient, lots of opportunities, plenty of fails, one or two good experiences.  I should totally just roll these all over to this year.

I guess the question for all of us really ought to be, are we in a better place this year than we were last year, have we learned some things? Are we trying to be more loving, are we letting people into our hearts, or are our walls stronger? Do we allow ourselves to be vulnerable and to take risks in order to get closer and form deeper relationships, or are we closing ourselves off more the older we get because we’re so sick of being hurt? Do we recognize that we do this? Do we acknowledge our mistakes quicker than we used to? Are we at least trying to see things from the other person’s perspective?  Are we more likely to give the benefit of the doubt?  Are we hugging our kids a little more than last year? Are we still in love, more in love? Are we a little softer, a little more gentle?  Are we more aware and less likely to judge? Are we letting Christ’s love compensate for where we lack?  Are we begging him to cover for where we are weak? And to help us with all of this?

I’m not making pages of goals in my journal like I used to as a teenager, and I honestly haven't even thought much about what I’ll work on this year.  I’m against writing down the easy things that are already second nature like flossing or exercising.  I’m also opposed to being unrealistic.  There’s no way I’m giving up bread or chocolate chip cookies.  But when I ask myself—and God—what I really need some help with, I know He will quietly give me ideas of what’s next. I just haven’t done that yet. So yes, I want to make a big quilt for my bare wall; it’s time I got back into that.  Optimistically I’d love to read for an hour a day.  And if I could make just any crazy wish, I’d wish for a wardrobe I love.  But I’m less concerned about that kind of stuff.  More than anything, I want my heart to be good.  And so while I always have a million ideas about ways I can improve, I’m going to continue listening to God, strengthening that line of communication.  Because if I can just hear what he has to tell me, I’ll know where to go next.