Having a bad day?  Here. This will help.  :)

Love and fast forward to 1:45,
H.

Lie #4,682

     One lie that the devil tells me is that if I stop worrying about things, that will mean I am not responsible.

Worrying= responsibility.

The falsehood of this statement is a hard concept for me.

Well, either way, his math is wrong.

      “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6-7).

     “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear. Life is more than food, and the body more than clothes. Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds! Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? Since you cannot do this very little thing, why do you worry about the rest?’” (Luke 12:22-26, NIV). (Also see Matthew 6:25-34)

Well, in that case- hooray.

Love,
  H.

                                                                                        photo source here and here. 

A post in which I try not to be ridiculous.

     I should probably tell you that I wrote this a few days ago.  Well, five days to be exact.  Who has the time to post things in a timely manner anyway, right?  Not this girl.  


Well, now is the time.  



     Today is a special day.  For today marks the five year anniversary of a strange and interesting accident involving hundreds of kids, a walking field trip, a van that couldn't stop, and me.  That's right.  Me.


     If you've got a large cup of coffee, and a comfy chair, you can read my story in it's entirety here.  However, if you don't have hours and hours of time on your hands to go scrolling through old blogs (I don't blame you), then I will tell you my version in the quickest way I know how.

     The spring of my first year of teaching, my school took a walking field trip to a nearby playhouse to see a production of The Jungle Book.  On the way home, we crossed the street that had been closed for the safety of the children.  As I crossed at the back of my line, I was hit by an oncoming van that had lost power in it's brakes.  I remember waking up to the most gorgeous blue sky and a massive headache.  I walked away with some cuts and bruises.  Physically, for the most part, I was fine, but mentally, I was cuh-razy.  It was a sad and interesting time.  I spent my summer making regular visits to see a counselor named Charlie who usually treated people with drug and alcohol addictions (and sometimes maniacal teachers).  **edit: I was NOT addicted to drugs or alcohol.  He took me on as a "special PTSD case" per a mutual friend's request.** :)   


Maybe someday, I will tell you about all the amazing things I learned and the silly thoughts I had while staring at the poster on his wall.  Someday, but not now.

     So, here we are, five years later and "normal" as ever.  I will probably have to take a valium every Halloween when we take our kids trick-or-treating...too much traffic... and there are other little "quirks" I've acquired along the way, but that is just life.  That is par for the course. (I love saying that).

      In no way am I comparing an accident to the death of a child, a failed marriage, or burying a spouse.  I don't think I can even begin to fathom that kind of pain BUT...

      It taught me that a trauma is a trauma no matter how seemingly large or small.  Trauma is the great equalizer; I found that I was able to relate to people who had been divorced, lost a child, been in accidents, had loved ones survive accidents, and that opened a new avenue to God.  It gave me an edge.  It made me a bit more raw.  It was like taking sand paper to my edges.  And somehow, it was good.  

     I was able to say, "I have so been there."  When you just know you have suffered a great loss, even if you can't identify exactly what is missing.  That is the worst.

I think this guy says it best.  

"Pain is pain.  Brokenness is brokenness."
Nick Vujicic

      So, I am tempted to get on here and tell you that we are having company and my house is messy and I am stressed out for silly reasons and feeling incredibly guilty for feeling such concerns, on this day of all days, no less.

But instead, I will try not to be ridiculous.

     Instead, I will tell you that I drove home with the windows down and admired how wonderfully our rhododendron is blooming.  I will tell you that I am trying to STOP simply staying alive.

     I am trying to LIVE.

     Sometimes, when the children are telling me stories, I find myself listening so closely, but feeling quite distracted.  I find myself sometimes-sort-of-scowling from all the work and the hard-ness and the listening and then my heart has to tell my brain to tell my mouth to smile.  It says, "Here is a child who is being kind and silly and good.  Smile."  And then later I think to myself, "What is that all about?"

     I feel such a pull.  Such a desire to live.  I think about Hawaii and the decision we have made to spend a little money and abandon all other obligations and just explore.  I do not want to live the kind of life where a sense of adventure and wonder is reserved for such occasions...for two week vacations to tropical islands. No siree.


I am trying to LIVE.  I am trying to LIVE and enjoy the process.

P.S. How much do you love this nose?

Grudges, Dresses, and Other Things That Don't Go Together

or,  A Letter to Amy.  

Hello. 

Come in. Sit down.  Have some coffee. 

      It has been a long time since I have done that.  Since I have pretended that we are pals and you are here for a chat and a warm cup of joe or a smoothie, whichever you prefer.  I kind of like it. 

     That's right, get comfy.  Get comfy because I am about to tell you a story.  It started as an email and then got too "post-ish" so it is ending as an entry by yours truly.  I hope you don't mind.  

     This is scary for me.  This is scary for me because I sometimes try to be a tad bit vague here (hard to believe, right?) and tonight I realize if you are clever enough and up-to-date-on-my-life-enough, you can find the bread crumbs.  You can trace the edges on the map of my life and use the ever-so-subtle details to figure out the exact name of the person and the situation I am referring to.  (sometimes I like ending my sentences in prepositions, cause I'm rebellious like that. I have also heard this is a common habit of people from Ohio.  Well then color me Scarlet. Color me Gray. Go Bucks).  

     However, this is the truth the way I see it.  It is my truth, and I think that probably all truth is God's truth.  So, here it is.  

I am having a hard time forgiving.  

I always thought that people who were "unforgiving"  looked like this: 

and I don't look like that. I look like this. 

       I like dogs and coffee and the color of a lemon when you cut it open and I work with tiny kids who sometimes say "th" instead of "s." Adorable.    

     I think that is such a work of the devil...trying to make us believe that we don't do All The Things Other People Do because we are different.  We are nice.  We like kittens.  We let old ladies check out in front of us at the grocery store.  

     Kind of like how some kids think that "strangers" look like old men with black capes and handlebar mustaches. 

When technically, the nice cashier at the supermarket is really a "stranger."  

But alas...sometimes we just let these things happen.   

And then we get really off topic.   

     Last week, I was having dinner with some friends and I heard a name come up out of nowhere and my stomach did this very strange roller-coaster-type-thing and then I wanted to throw up.  I wanted to throw up because years and years ago, the aforementioned person was not very nice to me.  Looking back, I now realize it was just a series of dumb choices on this person's part (and a few on my own).  The stab(bing) was not intentional, but I felt it nonetheless.  

      So there is an upcoming event.  And this other-human-being will be there.  And, after nearly 4 years (give or take), we will be breathing the same room's oxygen.  

Oh, geez.   

     And I decide, right then and there, that I am buying a new dress.  I am buying a new dress even if it costs me a gazillion dollars.  And while wearing said dress, I will pout and be grumpy and ignore this human being unless I am shooting "I am so much better than you" glances in his (or her) general direction.  So there.  Take that. 

     Did I mention that I am not an unforgiving person? I mean, you saw the pictures, right?  Did I mention that I love Jesus and hot pink ballet flats and the fact that A Baby Story makes me cry?  So, we're good, right?  I'm still "nice."  I'm still "Jesus-y."  

Right.  

Right...?  

     I go home and I vent loudly to Amy via email (cause you can be loud in an email, true?)  I say that I wish I was one of those "cool girls" who can say, "I have a great life, I'm over it.  I'm past it."  

     But, I'm not.  I am grumpy.  I feel yicky.  I have rehashed things I haven't thought of in years.  I have climbed out of this place of forgiveness and peace and taken up residence in the land of "People who need to stop complaining and get over it."    

And I remember a quote I read from Mother Teresa, "  

  People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered.  Forgive them anyway.

 If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you.  Be honest and sincere anyway.

Give the best you have, and it will never be enough.  Give your best anyway.

In the final analysis, it is between you and God.  It was never between you and them anyway.

*I encourage you to read the full version here.

And it rolls around in my head all day.  

And then I go to church, and I hear not one, but TWO lessons on forgiveness.  

God is an excellent teacher:

 Introduce/pretest/instruct/assess/intervene/reassess/hit you over the head if all else fails.  

     So, I sit on that for a few days.  And I start to compose an email and think about how, as Clarice Bean would say, my mind is a blanket.  

     I am the soil in April.  I need to let things seep in when it starts to rain.  I need to let things seep instead of always trying.to.get.everything.out.  

     And I think about how I wanted, so badly, to react like one of the "cool girls." But then I realize that being cool has nothing to do with it.  These girls have finally managed to forgive.  They have done what I have yet to do.  They have made the choice.  Because that's what it is, you know?  Forgiveness.  It is a choice.  

(unfortunately).  

     So I will go to this event and I will start making wiser choices instead of tricking myself into thinking that TIME will eventually throw me into forgiveness like a tiny, well-placed slingshot. I will do a lot of polite smiling and perhaps just a little bit of "grinning and baring it."  Tim and I will eat entirely too much cake, and he will dance in a way that makes me laugh (and blush).   I will kiss his cheeks and maybe he will dip me if I play my cards right.  Then we will go home and cuddle with the dogs.  And it will be just fine.  

It will be fine because in the final analysis,  it was never between me and this person, anyway. 

Love and no more grudges, 

H. 

*I don't want to be a jerk.  I didn't cite the cartoons.  This bothers me a bit b/c technically, it IS artwork.  If you find a source or REALLY want me to cite one, say "pretty please with a cherry on top," and consider it done.  ;)  

Catching Z's and Praying Prayers

Two nights ago, I dreamed about earthquakes and woke up in a panic.  


     I think the next 6 months will bring about a lot of change for us.  Not "moving-to-Luxemburg" kind of changes. Just changes.  Change is stressful.  Even the good kind.  In anticipation of said 'differentness' (it's not a word. don't try to look it up), Tim and I have started praying every night before we go to bed.  We get all cuddly and I touch his forearm gently.  He kisses my forehead and I remember when we first started dating and I used to approach him as if he was a map.  I used to, as Kent Nerburn would say, try to get to know his edges and the spaces he keeps in his life.  I think about how I need to start trying this again.  I think about how some edges will always be new.  We talk with half air and half our voices and we kiss, as if that is the stamp that will send our envelope of wishes and worries and promises to God.  


     This praying together thing...it is something we should have started year(s) ago.  We are making up for lost time, and every night I go to bed feeling safe and warm like I've just had an entire mug of hot chocolate, no matter what bad dreams I've had the night before.   



     In other news, I bought a memory foam pillow.  It is hard and squishy at the same time, and I think my neck is confused.   I wake up feeling like I am in college, crashing on people's floors again.  (And my neck tells me I am too old for this nonsense).  I am hoping that breaking in a new pillow, like most Important Things in life, just takes time.  I am keeping the receipt anyway.  

My best to you.  


Love, H.  

Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors.

There is lots to say but not the means to say it.  I feel like, ever since I got sick last week, things are still fuzzy.  I hope it gets better.  


When I was at my miserable-est (that's right.)  I decided that while I was sick, I was going to learn something.  Anything.  And I did.  


Sometimes, you have to ask for help.  I am terrible at this.  Asking for help is hard, as is delegating.  You have to admit that you are a tad bit helpless and that you simply can't do it on your own.  It is incredibly humbling and my pride is often heavier than a piano.  It is hard to move aside.  


With that being said, my mom came over and cleaned my house.  I sat on the couch and watched Dress My Nest while covered up with a blanket. She chatted away happily from the other room, and when she left, my bathroom sparkled, and I cried.  Tim was working like a dog. I was SICK as a dog. I was grateful for the help...and honestly still am.   


But the lesson was, unfortunately, short-lived. 


Last night, I came home and puttered around in the kitchen.  I gave Beezus some seeds and went back to the kitchen. After a few minutes, I noticed that he hadn't climbed out of his little hole to eat (and he always climbs out of his little hole).  


I took a closer look, and there he was, stiff and cold and 'sleeping' in his little nest.  


Beezus was dead.  


I cried my head off while Tim loudly played guitar in the other room.  I had no clue what to do with a dead mouse.  The crummy thing about being an adult is that when your pets die, there is no one there to flush/bury/dispose of them for you.  You have to be brave.  You have to do it yourself, and from my experience, you are a little worse off for it.  


I went through 1,000 different scenarios in my head, trying to find the most respectful/least traumatic way to 'bury' him without actually having to BURY him at 10:30 at night.  I decided to dump him, shavings and all, in a small gift bag and place him in the trash.  I worried that if I sat him outside, something would 'get him' which in hindsight, seems a bit silly.  I closed the trash can lid, and in a shaky voice, mustered the words, "I love ya' Beez."  and went inside.  I'm sure the neighbors think I'm crazy. 


Later, I had a conversation with Tim about it, and he said things like, "I could have helped you.  You have to tell me these things.  I could have been there."  


And I realized that when we DON'T let ourselves ask for help, we rob other people of the chance to be Jesus.  We rob them of the opportunity to bring us love and joy and comfort.  


I don't end up protecting myself.  I end up hurting even more in the long run.  


Yipes.  Good lessons are hard.  


So, this is Beezus.  He was a super fantastic guy who loved running and baked cheetos and dog food and had a crooked tail.  He taught me how to say the word, "Help," and I have to believe he is somewhere warm and happy and good surrounded by sunflower seeds and no cats.  

In other news, my car hit 100,000 miles, and I happened to look down EXACTLY as it happened.  Boo for technology as I accidentally took a "video" instead of a picture on my phone.  Rats-Rats-double rats. By the time I got it figured out, 100,001 miles didn't seem quite as picture-worthy.  


On the rest of the way to work, I thought about those 100,000 miles and had to smile.  Here's to 100,000 more.  


Well, per usual, you've been excellent readers.  As promised, here is a sight I spied in Kroger the other day.  A chicken bone on top of a danish.  It was one of those sights that is equally disturbing as it is intriguing.  Who would do such a thing?  And we wonder why we have super-bugs like MRSA and H1N1.  Gross double Gross-Gross.  

Feeling better and better everyday, even as we speak. :)   


Love, H.