Waiting for the Force

Apparently May 4 has been declared by people who like science fiction and puns to be Star Wars Day.  May the 4th be with you.  Get it?  I know, fun right.

Since I married a Star Wars fan (I refuse to use the word geek since that word is reserved explicitly to describe how he feels about Twitter), I thought I would dedicate a post to all of you gals out there who married, or may someday marry, a Star Wars Fan.

Here are a few things I have learned.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia

 - When you have a son, he will not be allowed to play with his dad's Millennium Falcon no matter how much he begs.  You will have to explain even though daddy never plays with his ship, he doesn't share it. Then you will have to explain why sometimes daddy doesn't have to share his toys when your children are always required to share theirs.


 - It is not okay for your daughter to make daddy's Hans Solo doll drive the pink Barbie VW, even if the top is down.

- Hans Solo is an action figure, not a doll. 


 - Apparently, it is not spelled O B 1 Kanobe.


 - Hans Solo was sealed in carbonite, not frozen in wax.  Continually saying that he was frozen in wax will drive your spouse crazy, so I encourage you to do so.


 - Every man has a fantasy about Princess Leia in the metal bikini.  Every man.  This applies to gay men, blind men, and men who have never seen the movie.  


 - Even though the first three Star Wars movies are horrible, you are not allowed to make fun of them, because they are, in the end, part of the entire series and therefore sacred.


 - Every time the trilogy (or now all six movies) are re-released for any reason, no matter how insignificant, your husband will need a new copy. Even if he hasn't taken the last copy out of the shrink wrap. 


 - At some point in time your toddler will say that Yoda built the ark, and your husband will be okay with it.


- When you are deep in the throws of an argument with your husband, and he is silently and intently staring at you, he is trying to use the force.  (These are not the dirty socks you are looking for).


 - He will buy new Star Wars the Clone Wars toys "for your kids."  These he has to share, which makes him incredibly happy since he can never play with his "new in the box" collectables.


- He can not hold a light saber (or anything that resembles one) without making the vrznnmmmm noise.

- He is irritated at how I just spelled the noise a light saber makes and will spend the next few minutes trying to determine the correct spelling. 

- Every time he gets a microphone (real or plastic), he will put his mouth over it and say "Luke, I am your father."

- Every time one of the movies (especially the original trilogy) is on tv, he will reminisce about the first time he saw it in the theater and how amazing the special effects were.


- He will not find it amusing if you make fun of either of those things.


- At one point in his life he wanted to name his first son Lando.


- At about that same time he wanted to be a bounty hunter when he grew up.

- He can not remember his mom's birthday, but can name all of the characters (including the monsters and robots), from the original trilogy. He can also tell you what year each movie was released and who took him to go see them.

- Whenever a competition is in full swing (especially if there is a tall or bearded competitor), he will say, "Let the wookie win."

And lastly,
 - He will ask to walk down the aisle to a song from Star Wars at your wedding.  You will say no, because people don't do that, and then at the very next wedding you go to, the couple will walk out to the exact song he wanted.  He will never let you live this down.  Unless you name your next kid Lando. 


Did I miss anything? 


Happy Star Wars Day!  May the 4th be with you.

Waiting to hit my knees

Since today is the National Day of Prayer, it seems appropriate that I take time to jot down a few quick thoughts about prayer. Few and quick, because that is often how my prayer life goes. When I'm worried, I throw up a quick prayer for protection. When the bank account is close to zero, I throw up a quick prayer for provision. You get the idea.

I've joked that if I didn't eat, God would never hear from me.

Over the last few years my prayers have become more frequent. It certainly isn't that I'm more holy.  I've simply gotten more needy. Well, that probably isn't true either. I guess the real truth is that I've just realized how needy I am, and more importantly, that on my own, I can't meet all of those needs.

Any of you who haven't known me very long may not know (or believe) that I used to be an extremely independent, proud, and accomplished woman.  Not to brag, (well kind of to brag), I started in my field early (see last blog post for details), and quickly found success.  The work came easy to me, much like school always had. I won awards. People called me to ask my opinion. I was on my way up.  My marriage was the envy of my friends. Even house training our puppy came easily.

Looking back, even as I re-read what I just wrote, I attributed all of my success to, well, me. Sure, I might give God a shout out, along with my parents and my second-grade teacher, but I certainly didn't rely on him for my success. I didn't seek his counsel prior to making big life decisions (thankfully my parents and grandma frequently prayed I would choose a good spouse, because left to my own devices that would have been a disaster). But that is just how I lived. I knew what I was doing, and things generally went my way. There was really nothing to bring me to my knees.

Then I had a miscarriage. 

Then the difficult pregnancy of our first and second child.

Then the migraines started, which kicked off a string of health problems that compounded on each other until I finally had to resign from my job. 

For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like I was in control. That terrified me. And honestly I think it was that terror that brought me to my knees. If I couldn't control the situation around me, I needed to tell God exactly how He should control it. 

And so my prayer life went (and still frequently goes). I used God as a way to feel more in control. Sometimes the answers went my way (as in the case of our second child who tried to come at 20 weeks and miraculously stayed put for 15 more weeks).  Frequently, the answers have not gone my way, (as in God please take away this migraine and let me never have one again. Ever).

I'm learning (slowly) that my prayer life isn't really what it should be. And I'm not just talking about frequency.  I'm learning that my prayers should not be designed to tell God what He should do, but to ask Him to help me accept His will.  I think it is okay that it is a mixture of both. Even Jesus asked that this cup would be passed from him (my translation: if there is any other way to save the world, I would really like not to be beaten to a pulp and crucified). And then he prayed, but not my will but Yours be done.

It is the second part of that prayer I struggle with. To say I struggle with not being in control is so much of an understatement it is almost laughable.

And I am starting to understand this is why God continues to allow situations in my life over which I have no control. For me, it has been my health, but you may find different situations; the death of a parent, betrayal by friends, the loss of a job. It is in those moments, when we are afraid and have no control, that we hit our knees. Even people who don't believe in God will ask you to pray in a desperate situation, just in case.

And so I find myself on this Day of Prayer trying to balance my desires with God's will. Knowing that if my desires were granted (which would mean perfect health for me), I would likely go back to my former place of independence where seeking God's will wasn't part of my plan.

Believe me when I tell you that doesn't mean I want to stay sick. I also don't believe it means that God made me sick. I do believe he is using this time to teach me. One of those things he is teaching me is how to pray. How to listen. How to pray for others with the same intensity I pray for myself. To pray that my kids will also find amazing Godly spouses. To pray they will learn to pray without hitting rock bottom.

And to pray that once I learn these lessons, if control ever seems within my grasp again, I will resist the urge to stand up and grab it, and instead stay on my knees.

Waiting Tables

This week I had the privilege of spending time with one of my best friends. When we met, I was 20, and she had two girls, ages 4 and 2.  Today, one of her daughters is in college (somewhere were they whoop, so I hear) and her other will be in college soon.  And I have kids close the age hers were when we met.

Today, we realized, we are old. Actually, we realized our kids are old. We are timeless.

I consider her one my most trusted confidants and wise council. And I never would have met her if it wasn't for the only college class I took just for fun; a singing class my sophomore year at UNT.  D didn't go to UNT, she was, is, and will always be a Baylor Bear.

However, that class led me to see a flyer for the Off Broadway Restaurant. A week later I was a singing waitress in Dallas.

D had never heard of the place, much less eaten there.

But her boss did, once. We happened to be doing the worst show ever, and I only had one mediocre song, which is probably why only one table filled that night. They weren't even my table, but I wandered over (mostly out of boredom) and the following conversation occurred.

I kid you not, this is how it went.

"Do you go to school?"
"Yes sir, I'm getting my degree in communications."
"How would you like an internship?"
*shocked and awed* "Absolutely."
"Here is my card. My director of communications' name is on the back. Come in next week and tell her I hired you."
*now shock, awe, and disbelief "Thank you so much."

The next week I walked into her office decked out in my $23 suit from Ross. She had no idea who I was, if I had any skills, or if I was a complete moron. But her boss hired me, so she was stuck with me.

Over the next five years, she taught me so much. She taught me about PR, writing, graphic design, media relations (i.e. how never to make an enemy of Becky Oliver), and crisis management. But she also taught me about having a successful marriage, parenting, conflict resolution, putting family first, loving God, and how to get a baby to sleep through the night.

I wasn't married at the time, and kids were the farthest thing from my mind, but her stories and those lessons stayed with me. During my most frustrating parenting moments, I often pull one of her stories out of my memory file and think of how I used to laugh at how she stressed over whether her daughter's bow matched her shoes. Knowing that the things that stress me out today (like the boy child dumping four bottles of sprinkles all over the pantry floor), will be the funny stories tomorrow.

There are people I have known my entire life with whom I share no deep personal relationship.  And then there are those people that God specifically brings about via your singing waitress job that completely change the course of your life.

D is one of those people in my life. One of those rare individuals with whom I can be totally open and vunerable, because we know too much about each other to ever consider passing judgement on the other. We can go nine months without talking and as soon as we sit down (always over food) it is like no time was lost.

D isn't the only friend that came about through strange circumstances.  I can say the same for most of my closest friends. Plans went wrong, things didn't turn out like I wanted them to, and sometimes somethig literally blew up in my life, and somehow I ended up with an amazing person in my life who never would have showed up if things went according to my plan.

I'm sure there are people in your life like that. Maybe you ran into your future husband in the dairy section, even though he is lactose intolerant. Maybe you met your best friend on a misfit bowling team in the third grade.

It is these "chance" meetings, these precious friendships, that remind me that God sees the entire picture of our life, beginning to end. With that vision, He knows exactly who we need in our lives and the exact moment we need them to show up.

I have a lot of casual friends, but very few of what I consider deep, authentic friends. You know, the kind you don't have to vacuum for when they are coming over. The kind that know you are slightly neurotic but love you just the same. Scratch that, they love you because you are slightly neurotic.

You are Where You Wait

If the saying "you are what you eat" rings true, then by the end of the week I will resemble the Cadbury bunny.  But I've been pondering a different saying the last few days. 

"You are where you wait."

Since it takes a while for new sayings to catch on, I will provide a few illustrations.

•  Everyone waiting for the first pitch since the last pitch was thrown in October, are baseball fans. If they are smart, they are Rangers fans, but that is a different post.
• From the moment two lines show up on the little stick as she waits for ten months to hear the first cry of her new baby, a woman is pregnant.  
• Those long stressful months while they wait from the moment the question is popped  until they say "I do," that man and woman are defined by being engaged.  
• All of you who spent the last two years waiting to see what District 12 looked like on the big screen are Hunger Games fanatics.

I, myself, spend a tremendous amount of time waiting in actual waiting rooms.  Doctor's offices mostly, but sometimes I throw in an occasional ER or hospital stay for good measure.  I've often joked that if I could log the hours I spend in doctor's offices, I would be halfway to a medical degree. When I'm not in a waiting room, I find myself waiting for doctors or nurses to call with test results, waiting on the pharmacy to fill a prescription, or waiting on Web MD to self diagnose what all those doctors missed.  

So if I am where I wait, then I am sick.

And that is how I feel.  Even on days where I am not in physical pain, I still feel sick. Mostly because I know that tomorrow there is a good chance I won't be able to get out of bed, will discover the exciting side effects of some new medication, or will be in yet another waiting room.  As much as I try to enjoy the good days, I find myself waiting for the return of the bad days.

On Easter Sunday, our pastor preached the story of Lazarus.  I've heard the story dozens of times and probably read it a dozen more, but I hadn't thought about it in the context of this particular sermon.  Our pastor asserted that Jesus could have healed Lazarus.  Biblical precedents tell us he could have healed him long distance or he could have made the journey to his friend immediately instead of choosing to wait two days, in which time Lazarus died.  If we are throwing out options, he could have chosen not to let Lazarus get sick in the first place.  The scripture is clear that Jesus loved Lazarus.  But Jesus chose to let Lazarus die so that God could be glorified.  In this case He was glorified as a group of people watched a man who had been dead for four days walk out of the grave. 

He could have healed Lazarus, but God, our pastor asserted, had a better plan. 

Our pastor went on to say that if he were Lazarus, he would have chosen God's plan over immediate healing.  People get better all the time.  What they don't do, is walk out of the grave. The impact of raising a man from the dead, especially in front of the very people who were persecuting him, proved again that Jesus was the son of God, and indeed God himself.

I've been thinking a lot about that sermon this week.  When you have a chronic illness, or lose a job, or lose a loved one people often tell you "God has a better plan."  But in the moment when you are in the midst of crippling pain, the dept collector is at the door, or so grief stricken you can't get out of bed, those words often ring hollow. 

I don't think it is coincidental that when Jesus told them to move the stone from Lazarus' grave, his sister Martha said, “But, Lord, by this time there is a bad odor, for he has been there four days.”* 

I don't know about you, but I think waiting to see God's plan is a lot like those four days Lazarus spent in the grave;  it stinks.  It isn't that I don't believe God is big enough, powerful enough, or that he doesn't love me enough.  He has proved time and time again that He is and He does.

It still stinks. 

When we are waiting for the doctors to diagnose or treat us.  When they tell us there is nothing they can do. 

When we are living paycheck to paycheck.  When the paychecks stop.

When our marriage hits rock bottom.  When it falls apart completely.

It stinks. 

And in the middle of the stink, while we are waiting, it is hard to comprehend that our pain and suffering is part of God's plan. I am guessing that while he was sick Lazarus wasn't counting on Jesus raising him from the dead.  He knew Jesus could heal him, and if I were a betting man, I'd bet that is what he was hoping for. What he was praying for. The grief of his sisters is apparent in scripture, with both of them blaming Jesus for their brother's death.  Knowing that he could have healed Lazarus, that he loved Lazarus,  but still, he chose to let him die.

It's hard for us not to feel the same way as we wait.  Wondering if God is there.  If He understands the depth of our pain.  If He even cares.  Wondering why, if He is all powerful and all good, why, if he loves us that we are still sick, why our bank accounts are empty, why our husband walked out.

The truth is, I don't know.  I've spent a lot of time waiting and God has yet to let me in on His exact plan for my life. 

But I am trusting that there is one. And I am trusting that His plan is better than the plan I had for myself.

Because if I don't believe He has a better plan, then I'm just a girl stuck in a grave with no hope of walking out.

*John 11:38 - NIV version

Lessons from the Other Cross

On Easter, especially, we take time to reflect on the cross where Jesus died.  As I lay in a hospital bed last month, weeping in despair, I realized the lesson I needed to learn was actually from the other cross.

In Luke 23:40-43 we read, "But the other criminal rebuked him. “Don’t you fear God,” he said, “since you are under the same sentence?  We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, 'Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.'  Jesus answered him, 'Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.'”

It is a safe assumption that the two thieves in the Easter story were just that, thieves. One admitted as much. And although the “good thief" asked Jesus to remember him in his kingdom, it struck me that he didn't ask for Jesus to save him from his cross. No last minute appeal from death row,  just a cry for mercy. And it is mercy that Jesus granted him. Of course Jesus could have saved the thief from his earthly consequences.  Instead he promised eternal salvation.

So often I find myself on a cross my own making. I battle the sins that plague my human nature and lose more times than I win. The result of my sin frequently leads to deep suffering and sorrow,  feeling abandoned by God, hopeless, and ultimately in despair. It is at exactly this time that I must remember that while Jesus sometimes saves me from myself, there are consequences for my actions here on earth. That doesn't mean God has abandoned me, but instead that He loves me so much more. Instead of a quick fix to my temporal problems, He offers me eternal redemption.

This Easter, take a moment to focus not just on Christ's resurrection, but on the thief who rose with him to glory. Both died that day, but Christ's death overcame sin once for all. And in the end, that is the better story.

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY:  Earthly circumstances are small relative to the enormity of our salvation through Christ.


PRAYER: Heavenly Father, you love me with a love that is difficult for me to comprehend. A love that doesn’t remove me from my circumstances, but instead loves me regardless of my circumstances. Help me truly understand that the gift of your Son is better than sanctuary from any earthly pain, sorrow, or even discipline. When I struggle, help me remember the best part of the story, that someday I will be with you in paradise. Amen.

(Photo credit: fiftypercentchanceofrain)

Wiaiting to be Pursued

My best friend and I headed to Jr. Prom.

Some of you knew me in high school, so for me to blog 20 years later and say I was popular would definitely catch me in a lie.  As opposed to playing sports, I was in band.  In fact, I was the leader of the band, which one might think would earn me some cool points, but strangely works quite the opposite in high school.  However, among my circle of band, drama, and speech cohorts, I suppose I had some amount of popularity.  Looking back at scrapbooks and photo albums, it seems that I dated quite a few different guys.  If you knew me in high school you also know that may be somewhat of a lie.  I dated a lot.

It was the same in my first year of college, although attending one of the top music schools in the country, knowing how to wield a sax was more of a draw than a setback.  

What I can see now that I couldn't see so much at the time was the thing that I enjoyed so much about dating was that I was actively being pursued.  In fact, I dated people that I knew I had no future with just because I enjoyed the feeling of being wanted.  This was true from the boy who pursued my first kiss right up to the boy who followed me to my car every day after class in college and eventually pursued my hand in marriage.

Recently, I was going through one of those boxes, you know the kind you stuff with little what-nots from high school that you will never use again, but just like to have so you can prove to your kids that you actually know a little something about being 16.  I came across something that flooded me with memories of how good it felt to be pursued by someone who loved me unconditionally - even at 15, which believe me, defies all reason.  As I looked at it, I realized it was time to let it go.  Literally. Not just because I'm married and the only man that I should want to want me is the man I sleep with every night (who coincidentally is my husband).

But more-so because I realized I shouldn't find my worth from any man pursuing me, even the one I sleep with every night.


My worth should be settled solely on being pursued by the God who made the universe.  And His pursuit is relentless.  Even when I turn my back on Him, yell and scream at Him, or ignore Him completely, still He pursues.  I am worth something because He made me.  I am worth something because He is willing to pursue me to the ends of the earth, or the end of myself.  Like the parable in Luke 15 where the shepherd is willing to leave the 99 sheep to find the one who wandered, my God will never give up His pursuit.  And it is not because I'm perfect.  All of the boys who have ever pursued me, including my husband, will attest to that.   

It is because I am His child.


And so are you.

You may not know it yet. Or you may not believe it, but God is pursuing you.  And like a lovesick teenager, He won't stop until you notice Him.  Maybe in a sunrise. Maybe in a storm.  Maybe in the sparkle of your baby's eyes. Maybe not until you hit rock bottom and have no where else to look.  But once you notice Him, He will keep pursuing you to the ends of the earth, or the end of yourself.

And when you really let that set in, that the God who made the universe takes the time to chase little old you,  it doesn't matter if you give the high school letter jacket back to your first boyfriend.  It doesn't matter if your husband doesn't always look at you like he did when you were first dating.  It only matters that the One who rules the universe, who rises and sets the sun, who gave you breath, who is all powerful and all good . . . it matters that He knows you to the very core and despite that, He will never give up His pursuit.  He will never stop wanting you.

Now that's a love story I can live with.

Waiting for 7 a.m.

My week started great. A little girls' trip with my mom to not just one, but two outlet malls. No worries about calorie counts, just good food, conversation, and country music blaring on the radio.

On our way home we decided to stop at IKEA. Neither of us had even been, and since we didn't have the boys or kids with us, we figured we could just wander for a few hours. Which is exactly what we did. For those of you who have never been to an IKEA, it is like Pottery Barn, Garden Ridge, Lowes, Rooms to Go, and Crate and Barrel had a baby. And then that baby grew into a giant.  The highlight was a restaurant right in the middle of the store. Not only this, but they sold giant Swedish dark chocolate bars.

Of course I bought 3, which not only saved me $.50, but insured we had dessert and snacks for our journey home.

We devoured the first bar and I put the other two in my purse for safe keeping. At some point, probably when I was trying to find my keys in the endless abyss that is my purse, I moved the chocolate from my purse to my overnight bag.

This morning mom joined me at the grocery store, since our pb&j sandwiches no longer had the pb or the bread, so we were reduced to eating jelly straight out of the jar.

When we unloaded the car, I thought I would be a sweet mommy and let our ten year old beagle Rocky back in the house. We were leaving for a few hours, and as they say on Phineas and Ferb, he doesn't do much.

That is unless he sniffs out the chocolate bars in your overnight bag. Then he magically grows temporary thumbs with which he open the packages and eats both. Then he decides there may be other treats stashed around the house as well. This leads to pulling the coat rack off the wall, taking Anna's backpack and dragging it to her room, where, using his magic thumbs, he opens the zipper takes out her daily folder and opens it. Clearly he didn't think much of the spring break homework, because that is the first place he decided to throw up. 

While trying to calm a daughter who now has dog vomit in her homework folder, I step in the second pile. In bare feet. On the kitchen floor. Richie's dog (which is what I call him when I am angry) gets banished to the back yard where he howls, whines, whimpers, and I'm sure throws up more for two hours. At some point I have to let him in, because we have neighbors, and they aren't incredibly fond of a beagle bay that can be heard for five blocks. Once inside he immediately throws up on the carpet I just cleaned.

Bed time comes and I cover the bottom of my bed and the floor in my room with old towels and blankets, which I figure will be much easier to clean than carpet. But now, Richie's dog has decided he needs to go outside, urgently, every time I drift off to sleep which sums up about 17 times. Finally I give up and move to the couch, because it is closer to the back door. While waiting for him to come back in at around 4 a.m. I Google chocolate+dogs. You may already know this but all the top links have an equation something like this; chocolate+dogs=death. Death chances are increased when the chocolate is semi sweet (mine was) and European. I'm horrible at geography, but I'm guessing Swedish chocolate falls somewhere in that category.

So now I panic. Richie is on a mission trip in Spain (where they probably also sell lethal chocolate) and I'm sitting here on the couch praying that God won't let anything happen to our family's first baby while I anxiously await 7 a.m., the time our vet opens.

I already feel the tears of embarrassment welling in my eyes as I have to explain to the vet why my dog (who is allergic to everything, including dog food) just ate two jumbo sized IKEA dark chocolate bars.

I've literally been up all night, and I see no sense in trying to sleep for the next 31 minutes so I blog.

I have no profound wisdom from this post, and I realize, other than Anna being able to tell her teacher "the dog threw up on my homework" this post lacks the humor and wit I usually bring. But I just needed someone else out there to feel my pain, stupidity, and exhaustion, and if you read this far, I'm guessing you either love animals or me, so say a little prayer that Richie's dog and I both make it to 7 a.m. and that in some miraculous way, IKEA chocolate is beagle friendly.