Monday, April 27, 2015

Mac and cheese theology

Remember the Bible story about Elijah where he was running from Jezebel, hiding in a cave, when all of the sudden he hears a voice tell him,
 “Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.”
So Elijah goes and he waits. A wind comes and shatters the rocks, but no God. An earthquake shows up, but no God. Fire, but no God. Finally, comes a whisper and in that whisper, who shows up, but God.

My whole life I've thought that this story meant that if I wanted to hear God I needed to be quiet. I needed to "Be still and know that He is God." I needed to stop waiting for God to send me a billboard and be content for a still small voice to nudge my spirit.

I think maybe I got it wrong.

Because today, I'm pretty sure God spoke to me through mac and cheese.

I know what you're thinking. How good was that mac and cheese? Let me stop you right there, it was pretty amazing, but the fact that I poured two entire bags of shredded cheese into one pan of melty goodness did not cause the spiritual awaking.

Like Elijah, my last few weeks have been a mix of running for my life and hiding in a cave. It seems odd that in this day and age one can do both, but the fact that I work from home actually uniquely suits me for such a task.

My friends and frequent readers know that my health is a;ways somewhat of an enigma, but my body decided to kick its defiance into high gear three weeks ago with what we thought was the stomach flu, until ten days and ten pounds later when I still couldn't keep food down. My doctor was sure it was my gallbladder and sent me for an immediate sonogram. Gallbladders are irritating, but seem to be a somewhat useless and easy to fix, so I wasn't worried. A sonogram, MRI, and what I can only describe as a two hour long CAT scan where I got to watch 60 pictures of most of my organs, have all showed that my gallbladder is a-okay. Unfortunately, I'm still having all the symptoms that every doctor, nurse, and man on the street are sure indicate that my gallbladder is not a-okay.

We are among the fortunate that have health insurance, and I feel extremely blessed to be in this group. And once we reach that $7500 deductible, I am sure they will practically be giving away things like sonograms, MRI's and two hour CAT scans.  But right up until that $7500 deductible, they are a bit pricey.

Oh yeah, this week, I leave the comfort of a monthly paycheck.

At the beginning of the year, God was nudging me to cut back on work, spend more time with my family, and finish my book (coming soon, pre-order yours today! Just kidding mom, you can't order it yet, please don't try). I wasn't ready to give up the security of a monthly paycheck. God and I had a heart to heart, and as happens very frequently with these talks, God didn't speak as loudly or convincingly as I did, and I won. He should definitely consider using the earthquake, although I'm sure I could have found a way to argue against that as well.

Fast-forward to this week, last paycheck on the way, handing my credit card over for a new $300 medical bill every two days, still in pain, and praying that the food I eat doesn't come right back up and every meal.

Replace the word "cave" with "bedroom" and "Jezebel" with "reality" and I'm pretty much a modern day Elijah who is running from reality and hiding in my queen size bed.

At times like this, the good Christian in me knows that I should open up my Bible and seek God's face. I should crank up the praise and worship and get in my prayer closet on my knees. But I'm sad and I'm hungry and nauseous (I don't even know how this is possible, but it has been my constant state of being for the last three weeks), and I think I might fall over if I stand up from a kneeling position because of low blood sugar. Plus, and I can't state this enough, I really don't want to and watching Netflix is so much easier. I convince myself that if he had the option, Elijah probably would have watched Netflix to distract himself from being hunted by a crazy murderous queen.

After church yesterday, I crawl into bed with my husband and put my head on his shoulder.  We are both weary from our last month. And it isn't just this month. We've buried three grandparents and two family friends this year and we recently received more news that is devastating to our family. I rest my head on his chest and both of us sigh with the understanding that we need a break from our lives. Just a little while.

I hear the alert on my phone that tells me I have a text message. I pick it up and it is the bank telling me that a $224 charge from Costco has cleared. I contemplate not telling Richie, because even though neither one of us wants to admit it, finances are stressing us out. While my phone is in my hand, I check my email, which I have been trying not to do on Sundays.

But there it is.An e-mail from God.  His name isn't in the subject line nor is he listed as the sender. It is an offer to consult on a project from a colleague. Nothing big. Not a steady gig. Certainly nothing to replace the paycheck I am losing.

I put my phone down and tears stream down my face, which these days in our house is not a good sign. Richie was instantly concerned, so I explain that God had just sent me an email.

"We are going to be fine," I tell him.  "I've been so concerned about finances. I know that stopping this job is absolutely the right thing to do and that God is going to provide. He does every single time, but every time we've paid a medical bill, I've just freaked out. And then, all the sudden, right when I needed it, God sent this email, and I knew that everything was going to be okay."

Yep, this is the actual pan of mac and cheese!
Fast forward to ten o'clock this morning when, for the first time in a month, I am hungry.  I know that doesn't sound like a big deal, but when you haven't been able to eat and every kind of food, even chocolate cake, makes you sick, trust me, it is a big deal. And at ten in the morning, I can think of nothing except my grandma's mac and cheese. So at ten o' clock in the morning I make a giant pan of mac and cheese and proceeded to eat a big old bowl of it. And for the first time in a month, I don't get sick.


One of the people we lost last year was my best friend's husband. She continues to amaze me by how much she places her faith in God in a million ways every day. Some days when she is having doubts I remind her that God didn't bring her this far to let her fail.

Today, God reminded me of that. And I swear to you He whispered it right through that mac and cheese.

He didn't bring me to the top of this mountain to push me off. He brought me here to show me the sun. So even though it is rainy and dreary outside, tonight I am going to eat another big old bowl of mac and cheese and I am going to soak in the sun.

I invite you to do the same. Because caves are okay, but mac and cheese is way better.

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Probably the best sandwich related career advice I've given my kids

Most nights before bed the kids and I watch Wheel of Fortune. I consider this to be quality time as Wheel of Fortune contains all of the components of an educational activity; spelling, critical thinking skills, and the perils of excessive wheel spinning which often lead to bankruptcy. But tonight, Wheel of Fortune surpassed even my expectations as it presented me with a teachable moment that could quite possibly change the course of my children's lives. 

During a commercial featuring someone dressed as a sandwich, I looked at my daughter and said, "That's why you go to college -- so you never have to be the guy who dresses up as a sandwich."

My very wise ten-year old daughter replied, "I can't even dream why someone would want to be the guy who dresses up as a sandwich.  I'm going to college." 

It would have been easy to end the conversation there, but that isn't the kind of parent I am. I'm the parent who goes deeper. I'm the mom who is intentional. Remember, I'm the one having Wheel of Fortune time with my kids.

"Anna, you can be anything you dream. Unless your dream is to be the guy who dresses up as a sandwich. Then it's time to get a new dream."

That's the point when my son walked in the room. He had been brushing his teeth, you know, because it was a commercial break and he didn't want to miss any quality Wheel of Fortune time. How was he supposed to know that life changing conversations were happening during the two minutes (okay, minute and a half . . . okay, who are we kidding, 45 seconds) that he was fighting gingivitis? Thankfully, his big sister, understanding the gravity of the wisdom I had just imparted unto her, laid it out for him.

"Ryan, you can be anything you dream. Unless your dream is to be the guy who dresses up as a sandwich. Then it's time to get a new dream." 

 "What? I want to be the guy who dresses up like a sandwich! How do I do that? Cool!"

I would like to say that his enthusiasm for dressing up like meat and bread is because he is six, but the truth is, my children are just different people. Really different. Anna is always going to dream of high achievement and the fastest way to get there by following all the rules and Ryan is going to dream of ninjas and light sabers and who would win in a ninja verses light saber battle.  

So as a firm believer that college is a better career path than life as a PB&J, how does a parent encourage their children to follow their dreams while still pushing them to be all they can be (I apologize to the Army for the copyright infringement)?

To answer this, I don't have to look any farther than my own mom. 

One of the first things I ever remember my mom telling me went like this: "You are going to grow up, graduate high school, go to college, graduate from college, fall in love, get married, and have a baby. In that order."  

It seems my son takes after me in the dreaming category.  I didn't really ever dream of college.  I dreamed of being a country singer, Ms. America, a hairdresser, and the first woman President of the United States -- in no particular order. 

Even though my mom was determined for me to go to college, she never discouraged any of those dreams. When I wanted to sing, she encouraged me to sing in the choir at school and at church. She let me cut the hair of every Barbie I owned. She didn't ever put me in pageants, although in hindsight, I probably need to thank her instead of fault her for that.

But she kept pushing college. She and my dad told me they would pay my way wherever I wanted to go and that I should pursue a degree in whatever interested me. It didn't matter to my mother what my degree was in, only that I had one. When I was 17 and wanted to be a hairdresser, my mom calmly told me that if I graduated from college and still wanted to be a hairdresser, she would be my first customer. And I believe she would have been.

This belief was confirmed when after six years my brother graduated college with not one, but two degrees, and then decided he wouldn't use either of them. Instead he took a year off to be an actor, something which he never studied. He was completely broke, and my mom was completely dumbfounded, but still my parents drove from Montana to Texas to watch him every chance they got and bragged about him in their Christmas letters. Oh, I'm sure my dad got an earful from my mom at night, but to us, she was nothing but supportive. And eventually, my brother gave up being an actor and found his calling teaching music and theater using his degrees.

Ironically, my brother was the child who always knew exactly what he wanted to do. Growing up, he was the one with the clear dream, much like my daughter. And me, the child who didn't want to go to college? I started using my degree before I even finished. I got an internship at 20 and have been in the same career for 19 years. And I have loved every minute of it. 

So what was the secret? My mom didn't diminish my childhood dreams. She never told me they were silly or that I was silly for having them. But when she sent me to college, she expanded my capacity to dream bigger, and when I did, I found what I was really meant to do, and for that I'm ever in her debt. Although the first woman president is still on the table.

It's a tricky business, parenting. Especially when you have kids with big dreams and even more when those big dreams don't match yours. If my mother taught me anything it's that you have to let your kids be who they are and follow their dreams, unless their dream is to be the guy who dresses up like the sandwich. Then it's time to get a new dream. 

Monday, December 8, 2014

Waiting . . . .

Today kind of sucked.  I really wanted to write something more poetic or even just more thoughtful, but I don't have it in me. In fact, I kind of feel like curling up in my p.j's and having a good cry.  And maybe some ice cream.

But advent is stopping me.

Until yesterday, I didn't really know what advent was.  Apparently, it is waiting with candles. Oh, and for someone to show up.  It is waiting with candles, and in the Christian tradition, for Christ to show up.  More specifically, it is the four weeks before Christmas where you wait, and light a candle each week, and, as I learned yesterday, read long passages about how sometimes, the waiting sucks.

I grew up in church, if you know anything about me you know this is not a "I went to church on Sundays" kind of sentence.  This is a "I was in church more than I was in my kitchen" kind of sentence.  I grew up in church.  But I don't ever remember celebrating advent.  We've been at our current church for 12 years.  I don't ever remember celebrating advent, until this year.

I'm 38. That's a lot of years of not ever celebrating something.

Apparently until exactly when I needed it.

If you talk to my mother, she may disagree that I didn't need a lesson in waiting before now.  I'm not, by nature, a patient person.  In fact, I am extremely impatient.  I frequently open the microwave when there are only 3 seconds left.  I have always unwrapped my presents before Christmas morning and then carefully re-wrapped them and placed them back under the tree (although I place the fault for this squarely on my mother for putting the presents under the tree before Christmas). I finish my husband's sentences, because I always know what he is going to say, and I rarely have time to straighten all of my hair, so there is always one little section that is still curly.

But the place I have been most impatient in my life has been my health.  In fact, my health issues were the reason behind this blog.  I coined The Waiting Room title after spending hundreds of hours in literal waiting rooms and thousands more in metaphorical ones.

My health issues have been random, to say the least, over the past decade, including several surgeries and more than one diagnosis that included the words, "Well, I've never actually seen this happen on a real person before . . ." But the most frequent and debilitating issue that has plagued me is chronic migraines.

My dad and brother both get migraines, and since they are genetic, it isn't unthinkable that I would get them as well, but I had never had one until after I stopped nursing Anna. During my first migraine, I made Richie call my dad, because I was sure it was an aneurysm and I would going to die right then.  I had never felt such intense pain, and I recently gave birth. In the ten years since then, I would estimate I've spent well over 2,200 days with migraines (I just actually did the math and it is depressing).

I know your first instinct here is going to be to send a comment that is something to the effect of, "I have migraines and I've tried XX" or "I have a friend who has migraines and she tried XX and it worked great for her."  I promise you that I've tried it all.  I've eaten and not eaten everything.  I've tried prescription and herbal.  I've done chiropractic and even acupuncture (yep, needles in the face). If there is a medicine on the market, I have taken it, shot it in my veins, snorted it (yep), or rubbed it into my feet.

I don't tell you this to make you feel sorry for me.  In fact, even though I still get them a few times a week, they are actually better now than then have been in years. Even so, I am impatient.  Every time I read a verse or hear a sermon about how God heals, I wonder why I am still sick.  I can't help but ask God why my time in the wilderness is so long. What else could I possibly have to learn here?  I know I should be thankful because there are so many people who are so much worse off than me. I should have so many days where I count my thousands and thousands of blessings instead of focusing on this trial.

But today, was not one of those days.

Today, my precious little boy had his first migraine.  And today my heart is broken.  Because as many times as I have prayed for my own healing, I have also prayed that this cup would be spared from my children. And I cannot stand the thought of him bearing this burden.

So tonight, as I was pondering drowning my sorrows ice cream and p.j.'s, I thought about advent. About waiting with expectation for Christ.  And I thought about yesterday's sermon.  How we were reminded that even in the midst of waiting we could find joy.  Because our joy is not found in our emotional state, it is found in who God is.  

And so even though today, I am devastated, God is still on the throne.  He is still good.  He is still faithful.  He is still wise.  He is still powerful. He is still in control. And He is coming.

And that is why tomorrow will be better.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Waiting for the third day of school

I love back to school time. Always have. I'm a total nerd that way. When I was a kid I would spend an hour in the school supply aisle searching for the perfect black pen. I grew up in a generation before a 75 bullet list dictated whether we put college or wide ruled paper in our Trapper Keeper. And it wouldn't have mattered if I had a list or not, because even at age seven I knew better than to write with a blue pen.

So while some people have chosen to complain endlessly or skip social media altogether rather than be bombarded with first day of school pictures this week, my inner nerd is rejoicing.

This is the one time of year that everyone not only talks about school, but is excited about it.  For one glorious day, people unite in their genuine and visible support of education.

My Facebook feed lit up with adorable pictures of kids holding creative signs written on chalkboards with their grade-level and teacher's names.  High school seniors posed holding their first day of kindergarten picture. Teens posed in front of the same tree where they had stood each year to show their growth.  The creativity was endless!

Being in public relations, you would think my creativity extends to these types of situations. It absolutely does not. My kids' back to school pictures are taken holding a piece of white copy paper I grabbed from the printer and drew on with a Sharpie.  I did draw a somewhat decorative border, so I should probably get bonus points for that.  Also, I put them in front of a tree every year.  Unfortunately, since it is a crepe myrtle tree, it gets cut down every year, making it completely useless for tracking growth.

With pictures complete, I, like so many other parents, drove the kids to school and walked them to their classes. And at the end of the day we sat down and debriefed about every detail of their day.  After a home cooked dinner, and a mountain of district and campus paperwork, I bragged about their amazing day on Facebook, we said our prayers, and prepared to do it all again.

I went to bed Monday night with the hopes that this year would be amazing. The Facebook pictures and back to school pep talks and parody songs had once again filled me with the optimism that only a new school year provide.  I was prepared to be a better mom this year. To limit screen time to an hour a day.  To volunteer more.  To make a healthy breakfast every morning.  To complete homework before it was due.  To make healthy lunches in the shape of cartoon characters.

And I was on track too. Until yesterday morning, which, if you are keeping track, was exactly the second day of school.  The kids had been awake for about 90 seconds and I was just heating up breakfast when I heard our daughter yell, "Mommy, the toilet is overflowing!"

I'm sure there have been times when we could have had a conversation with our children about how many times to attempt to flush a clogged toilet, and the best times to have that conversation would have been anytime except at 6:37 a.m. on the second day of school.  The very day when I woke up confident that Tuesday would be as smooth as Monday had been, kids smiling and laughing as we all sat down and ate a healthy and balanced breakfast. Based on the amount of water on the bathroom floor, we have never had this conversation and I am guessing our daughter flushed the toilet at least six times, leaving us standing in two inches of toilet water.

Richie plunged, and we sucked up water as the kids ate their somewhat less healthy pancakes on a stick and I tried to calmly explain why you need to call mommy or daddy after one flush, before the water goes everywhere.

As calm as I tried to be, the flooded bathroom set the tone for the rest of the morning, from battles over the new toothbrush that spins and how long you actually have to brush your teeth and if you have to use toothpaste (a conversation I would have preferred any other time than while mopping the newly dried flooded bathroom floor) to the last minute lunch that didn't get packed thanks to the flooded bathroom, as I literally pushed the children out the door, my heart sank.  One day.  We made it one day before it all fell apart.  It wasn't going to be our super year after all.  It was just going to be another year of mid-night trips to Walgreens to buy poster board for a project we just found out was due in 8 hours, peanut butter and jelly for dinner, and me mumbling in frustration under my breath because the kids can't find their shoes and we are running 15 minutes late.

But then something happened.  My kids came home at 3 o'clock and told me about their day, and as they did, their eyes lit up with that back to school glow that I had just a day before.  As I listened to my daughter tell me about the science experiment her class was doing tomorrow, and my son tell me about his new kindergarten buddy, the disappointment of the morning started to fade and I realized I had the power to help keep this momentum going or to stop it dead in its tracks.

I had the power.

And so do you.

Believe me, I get it.  The third day of school is not as exciting as the first day, and the 30th is not as exciting as the third.  It's tough. Managing work and a family and a marriage is draining, and single parents, I don't even know how you are still standing at the end of the day with all that you are juggling! And the farther we get into the school year, the more difficult it becomes. Homework gets harder, extracurricular activities require more time, there are tests to take, bullies and boyfriends to contend with and it feels like Thanksgiving break is never going to get here. That new school year feeling fades and you are left to navigate all these realities, and sometimes that means standing in two inches of toilet water.

So take this momentum that you have right now, today, and let's push forward together.  Let's keep posting pictures of our kids doing great things at their schools, be it public schools, private schools, or home schools.  Let's encourage our kids and encourage each other.  Let's give teachers and administrators our undying support and gratitude, not just on the first day and the last day, but every single day in between. Let's get involved and stay involved in our kids' education, by volunteering in our schools and by working with our kids at home.

This week, right here, right now, this is as good as the feeling gets for education.  Let's keep it going, no matter how deep the water gets.

Monday, August 18, 2014

The motherhood dizzy spin

I've been thinking for a while about how to best describe motherhood. Here's what I've come up with.

My analogy of motherhood is that game you play between innings at minor league baseball games which I have learned is called Dizzy Bat. Essentially two people put their heads on a bat,spin around ten times and then try to run to first base as fast as they can; you are totally disoriented, you look like a drunken monkey, who is also uncoordinated and unable to perform even the simplest tasks, and there is a 90% or better chance you will fall flat on your face.

At least that has been my experience.

So why do it? Well, also similar to Dizzy Bat, we are hopeful that if we win the race, there will be a prize waiting for us at the finish line. Only in the game of motherhood, instead of a Bob's Chicken Shaker t-shirt, we are hoping to win a productive citizen who at adulthood calls, texts, or holograms us at least once a week (by the time our kids are grown, Richie is sure the Star Wars technology will be available), gives us a grandchild or two, and picks out a nice home for us when the time comes.

The problem is, that between the time you put your head down on the bat and start spinning (which I guess in this analogy would be conception), and the time you get to first base (which ironically has nothing to do with conception in this particular analogy), no one is handing out report cards on how well you are completing the motherhood task.

Well, except for everyone.

Similar to the screaming fans in a baseball stadium, as soon as you announce you are having a baby, everyone you know, and a surprising amount of people you have never met, begin chiming in on exactly how you should raise said baby.  We got advice on everything from breastfeeding to discipline strategies, feeding and sleeping schedules, when babies should wear hats (all the time, even in August in Texas -- this advice came from Richie's grandmother and was followed exactly due to my deep desire to stay on her good side, because there are some people whose good side you should always stay on).  As our daughter got older, we got advice on if and when we should have another baby, which when you think about it is both odd and kind of awesome in a creepy way, since essentially what this boils down to is people telling you to have unprotected sex, which is exactly the opposite of what everyone in your life has been telling you right up to the point where you start talking about having babies.

Like every new parent, we were overwhelmed, exhausted, and terrified that would make a mistake that would irrevocably scar our baby for life, like painting the nursery the wrong color or listen to AC/DC instead of Baby Einstein. So when people gave us advice, we listened. We read books. We scoured the Internet. We subscribed to magazines. We took classes.

Here's the problem with the onslaught of advice. For every expert that told us to let the baby cry it out there was another one that told us to rock the baby until she was 3.  For every person that told us to introduce carrots first, another person told us our baby would never eat carrots if we didn't introduce pears first. Use a pacifier. The pacifier is Satan's tool of death. Do not use under any circumstance. Public school's are the only way to go. The only thing worse than pacifiers are public schools.

As if being sleep and shower deprived while living on a steady diet of cold chicken nuggets and Baby Einstein for six month isn't enough to make a person crazy.

You would think it would get easier as our kids got older but my kids are 10 and six now and the advice hasn't slowed down, it has just changed topics.  Now people tell us which middle school our daughter should attend and more importantly which she should by all means not attend and how much Minecraft is appropriate in one day. Could our daughter be lactose intolerant? Should we do the HPV vaccine? How many kids do you invite to a kindergarten birthday party? What do you do when someone is bullying your kid? Really, more Minecraft?

Spin, spin, spin.

The thing about being a mom is just when you get one stage figured out, it's over. I got really good at mothering a six month old just in time for my daughter to be a year old.  Right when I mastered parenting toddlers, I didn't have one any more.  And on and on it goes.  And no way God would send me two children that had anything in common except their eye color and last name.  If I had sat down and programmed the DNA for my children they could not have looked more alike and been more different, meaning none of the mad parenting skills we mastered on that race we've started with our daughter are the least bit useful on the second go around with our son. That would make me look less drunken monkey and more like I have some clue what's going on. What's the fun in that?

But the real problem with all the advice we got is this, even though there are a million experts out there, none of them are experts in raising our child.  

Once we figured that out, it gave us the freedom to take the advice that worked for our children, pass on the advice that didn't, and raise our kids the best way that we knew how.  Don't get me wrong, I don't do it perfectly.  This system requires a lot of trial and error and I still second guess my parenting choices more often than not (read: Every. Single. Time.). But understanding that my children are a unique blend of my husband and I and a dash of something that is completely their own, and that God has called Richie and I to be their parents for a reason has given us the freedom to listen politely whenever people give us advice, and then to walk away, discuss it together, and decide what works best for our children without guilt, (except for the hats on newborns. This is a non-negotiable).

So to all of you moms who are scurrying to first base, in a blur of gold fish, crayons, diapers, and that two day old sippy cup you are praying doesn't have milk in it, swirling by you in a dizzy spin, hear me when I say, you are doing an awesome job.  That child in there, you know the one -- looks just a little bit like you when she wrinkles her nose or when he raises his eyebrow -- that child is going to be just fine.  This stage he is going through right now, not sleeping, not eating, not talking, talking all the time, hitting, biting, being bullied, not reading yet, hates school, hates his sister, hates daycare, loves daycare which breaks your heart because you just went back to work, you are going to figure it out and no sooner will you master it than it will be over.  You are the very best person for this job, no matter what any book, blog post, other mom, your mom,  well meaning friend, or expert says, because you are the expert on your child.

Trust me when I tell you this, because I may not be an "expert", but I have spun right next to you
Me and my beauties!
and will likely trip over my own feet and fall spectacularly ungracefully into you sometime along this journey, so I know what I'm talking about here.  More importantly, trust yourself, because you have taken a spin around the bat and are running this crazy race in a world full of spectators. And mommy, if they are sitting in the seats yelling at you, they ain't got the courage, the strength, and the all out awesomeness to be out there doing the Dizzy Bat race with your baby. 

Because the thing about motherhood is, even though you may have a face full of dirt when you get there, there will be a pretty beautiful prize waiting for you at the finish line.

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

What's in a name

"Your people will be my people and your God my God." ~ Ruth 1:16

Growing up I wasn't fond of my middle name. Truth be told, I hated it.  I went to elementary school in the 80's, well before Biblical names became trendy. Also, my brother was fond of equating the name with the sound of a dog barking, or the sound of throwing up.  Or the sound of a dog throwing up.

Starting somewhere around fifth-grade until high school graduation, I denied having a middle name at all.

My birth certificate contradicted me.

It clearly states that my name is Kristen Ruth Walker.

I come from a family of strong, stubborn, passionate women and Ruth Huddleston is no exception. 

She raised six kids one of whom she had to bury far too young, something a mother should never have to do. 

She was thankful for what the Lord blessed her with, even during those times when it seemed she had very little to be thankful for. 

She could fry anything and she did. 

When you came to her house, you never left hungry and God help you if you wore your hat at the dinner table. 

She loved Jesus and would tell you so unashamedly and frequently. 

She loved her family. And there were a lot of them to love. She loved them even when they hurt each other, and even when they hurt her. 

When you argued with her, you should probably prepare to be wrong, even when you were pretty sure you were right. 

She prayed for people she knew and for people she would never meet this side of heaven. She believed God would answer. Every time.  

Grandma Ruth went home to be with Jesus today. 

I couldn’t be more proud to share her name.

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

What if our New Year's resolutions didn't suck?

On Sunday night our community group got met for the first time in 2014. As most people tend to do when congregating for the first time since the ball dropped, our conversation turned to goals and resolutions for the upcoming 365days -- make that 353.

Our group is made up of married couples ranging in age from mid-20's to mid-50's. Some have kids, some don't. Some have been married for decades, some only months. So you would think our New Year's resolutions would be as varied as the people in the room.

But they weren't.

Everyone said they needed to eat better, exercise more, and lose weight.

Before you start throwing statistics at me that 99% of the country is obese and 97% of us need to eat less bacon and exercise more, let me just stop you right there and agree. Healthy eating is a good thing. Exercising is a good thing.  Bacon is a good thing and no amount of research is going to change my mind on that.

Photo Courtesy of  Laurel Fan
But hear me out.  In addition to Sunday night's meeting, I've hung out with no less than four other women since the New Year started (yeah, I have friends!  Okay, mostly they are relatives,) who have said exactly the same thing.  They need to lose weight.

And I'm right there with them.  In fact, I have a line of supplements on my counter right now that I started for that exact purpose.  And I can tell myself it is because my cholesterol is creeping higher than I'd like, but if I'm honest it is because my thighs are creeping wider than I'd like.

There's nothing wrong with wanting to lose some weight.  Nothing at all.  Nothing wrong with looking in the mirror and saying, "Dang, that's one sexy woman!"  But here's the thing, sitting in that community group on Sunday and hanging out with my family and friends these last couple of weeks,  all I have seen are a group of incredibly beautiful women.  The irony being that the only woman I ever see that I think needs to lose weight is me.  And I'd bet that every other woman in the room feels exactly the same way.

I have a nine year old daughter. Somehow she got a recessive gene for long skinny legs, so right now I have to cinch her pants as tight as I can.  But someday she might hit an awkward stage where she hates her body. Who knows, she might hate being tall and skinny (imagine that!). How can I possibly tell her she should love her body no matter what when she constantly hears me telling myself how much I hate mine?  

I think maybe our New Year's resolution to lose weight doesn't suck because we are eating rice cakes while everyone else is eating brownies.

I think it sucks because we are trying to lose weight to feel good about ourselves when what we really want to resolve is to feel good about ourselves no matter how much we weigh.