That time we moved away

Today marks 20 years since my husband and I moved away from our home town. And, in what is certain to forever mark me as an old lady user of old-lady phrases, 20 years seems like yesterday.

We were 29 years old at the time and living in a 1918 fixer-upper bungalow on Main Street in our home town. I was pregnant with our first and only child. I took a corporate job in a big city that was over an hour away. The commute had gotten old and with a high-risk pregnancy and a baby on the way very soon, it was time to make a change. 

That change was a long time coming, as we'd talked about moving away back when we were dating. That fixer upper never actually got fixed up. Instead, it nearly bankrupted us. My boss at the time once told me: "You don't have a real job. Anyone can do what you do." That certainly inspired me to get a "real job" in the city to better support the baby on the way. My husband's career was at a standstill and he was up for a change. 

So we did it. The old house was sold and a new - as in, brand new - house purchased. It was half the house for twice the money, but the windows didn't rattle when the wind blew. My husband quickly nabbed a job in his field in our new town and we moved away from family, friends and all we'd known.

It was a good thing. It was the right thing.

But it was a hard thing, too.

Even though we didn't move far away, we were still away. Some were not especially supportive.  We didn't get a lot of regular visitors from home except for my very supportive in-laws and my best friend from childhood. The phone didn't ring too much.

But my husband and I were together and we forged ahead. We had new jobs, a new little house, a new city to explore, and new resources like the arts, daycare choices and healthcare facilities (important with a baby on the way). We were alone, but we were together.

And, best of all, we had a Target.

Our son was born less than a month later. We lived in our first community for four and half years and then relocated a county over (and closer to our hometown) into the house we've lived in now for more than 15 years. We're still part of the metro area, but live in a smaller, rural community. 

Our son attended excellent schools here. Now, at almost 20, he is studying engineering at a university in the city, has a very cool job at an engineering firm and lives in an apartment on campus. 

We've been blessed with wonderful friends who became family to us, a dear church community, and the opportunity for my husband and me to switch jobs and change careers as needed and desired.

It worked out. 

I love my home town. It is a quaint river town in a county surrounded by national forest. Some of my most favorite people in the world live there. But looking back 20 years later, I'm glad we listened to our hearts. I'm glad we took a chance and made a leap of faith. That leap of faith was truly a show of, not only trust in God, but also trust - faith - in us. 

It hasn't always been easy, but making a home together has been worth it. 

And it has been worth doing together.

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." - Jeremiah 29:11

Nice things

"The best things in life aren't things." - Art Buchwald

I love that quote.  I snapped the pic above at a department store and seriously considered purchasing that little plaque.

But I knew it'd just end up in pieces at some point. That's what happens to nice things at our house.

You see, I love the quote because it is universally true. And I love it because it is my truth.

It's heartening to know life's greatest gifts are not material in nature. Because the truth of the matter - my truth, at least - is we can't have things.

We just can't. Our house is where nice things come to die.

Truth:

That's not a dog bed. That's a sofa. And yet ...

This is just prior to a random leaping bolt that left everything on the table scattered on the floor.

Why yes, those are clean towels in that basket.

He's not a as camouflaged on that navy bedspread as he thinks he is.

Yes, she's on my vintage dish cabinet. Bonus points if you spotted all the dog food spilled on the floor.

That's a cat's ass where we eat our meals.

Lest you think I am picking on the furry members of the household exclusively, here are a few other examples:

Well, it's plastic to begin with,  so it's not even that nice, but it's also broken plastic that's been glued in place on the upper right. Repeatedly.

 Because we can't seem to grab it by any other spot than the exact place it has been broken before. Snap. Re-glue. Grab. Snap. Glue. Repeat. 

Time for mums anyway.

We have a designated spot for grassy, stained, smelly shoes. My front porch - where everyone can see them - is not that spot. And yet ... 

I could post dozens more pics of our grossness, clumsiness and general lack of regard for anything remotely nice. Suffice it to say, it gets real around here. I will spare you photo evidence.

Anyway ... I've mentioned my lack of concern for housekeeping perfection before. That hasn't changed. My house is still clean ... enough. Ish. Kinda.

Eh.

Anyway ... I'm talking about the materials things with which we surround ourselves. I am resigned to not having nice things. I don't even bother trying to obtain nice things. There is no pedigree in my home. I have an Ikea living room suite in sun-faded, cat-clawed slipcovers. My bedspread is a $27 deal from Target circa 2010. My kitchen countertops are laminate. Etc., etc., blah, blah, blah.

This is obviously not a home decor blog.

Maybe that's why I'm drawn to antiques and vintage pieces. I like the dinged, the dented, the cracked, the peeling, the ratty. There's comfort in knowing a piece of furniture has been used over time for holidays, parties and celebrations, as well as those quiet, every days. Use and wear = love and life.

And if my husband slams a vacuum cleaner into the legs of an end table, then there's no harm done to a precious piece because it's not precious anyway... it's just a piece of furniture. Stuff.

And having stuff is not the stuff of happiness.

[And yes, he vacuums. We all vacuum at our house.]

So I choose materials things that can be tossed, recycled, broken, beaten, dinged, scratched, stepped on, ripped, spilled on, wiped, shattered and generally abused because ... well, that's exactly what's going to happen under our roof.

We live here. Really live here.

My mom used to strive for a just-so look and would ultimately be disappointed that the perfection she sought would never last long. She would exclaim in utter exasperation (and with an extra-thick Southern drawl for dramatic effect), "I just can't have nothin' nice!"

She was right.

With pets, kids and spouses all dwelling under one roof - however fancy or humble that roof may be - life is going to happen. And life is messy.

The dog will greet you at the door in utter joy at your very arrival and knock whatever groceries you were trying to carry in all over the place with one exuberant swipe of the tail, causing a full gallon of milk to burst and splash every square inch of your kitchen. And you are going to miss the fact that some of that milk splashed on the rug. And it is going to smell reeeaaallly bad.

Your cat will snuggle next to you at night and leave a fuzzy outline on your bed sheets. And possibly a yacked-up hairball.

Kids playing video games will knock over cans of purple soda and stain your den carpet.

You and your husband will settle in for a Friday night movie on the couch. And tip a paper plate piled with pizza over on the cushion.

You will spill blue nail polish all over your bathroom counter when a cat dashes past you in hot pursuit of a moth.

... not that any of this has ever happened in my house ...

Ahem.

Yes, your home will be filled with family and friends and pets. Chaos will inevitably ensue in one form or another. It always does. Stuff will get in the way. No one will tip-toe around your nice things. You will eventually have to part with nice things because they don't last.

But you don't have to part with the love and laughter. The memory of a life that was well lived ... that's what's going to last, my friends.

And that?

Well, that's a pretty nice thing.

July flies by

I stared at my computer screen for the longest time this morning, searching for an answer, but still simply lost.

July 29.

That's the date that popped up on my Outlook calendar when I booted up. My old-school paper calendar, dangling off a crooked nail, confirmed it: yep, it's July 29.

Still, I was overwhelmed with confusion and denial. How could it actually be July 29th already?

This month has flown by.

It's been such a great July; I've really loved it. Yes, love ... even though it was in the summer.

I've made it pretty clear in the past that I am not a summer girl; I'm an autumn girl. Yet, this past month has been a delight, right up there with the best of Septembers. Even though I spent most of it sick. Even though it rained too much. Even though it was swamp-level humid. Even though my hair was shaggy and unruly.

Even with all that, it was full of good stuff.

We started the month with a beach vacation in Michigan, my favorite vacation destination.

27 years and counting ...

And then we celebrated the Fourth at home.

The garden gave.

Not to brag, but I'm pretty good at growing cukes. Just sayin' ...

The days were long and ended in glorious swirls of melted crayons.

We played games and feasted like kings on fried chicken and donated desserts at our church picnic.

We had some Christmas in July treats here at home, plus a double feature of Elf and Christmas Vacation.

Choc-dipped pretzels, fudge and mint choc chip cookies.

And school started today.

Maybe - just maybe - summer is finally winning me over.

Actually, that's not it.

It's so humid right now, when I step outside it feels like I just dressed myself in a warm, wet wool sweater that's been soaked in a sticky, flat Pepsi and locked in a plastic storage tote that's been stored in the hellish, fiery sun.

So, um, no. It's definitely not a love affair between summer and me.

But July 2015 ... it's been one heck of a fling.

Detours

I've been away from this space for a long time.

Too long.

That blur is morning dew streaking down my dirty windshield ... or is it a tear?

People - some I don't even actually know - have asked if I'm still doing the blog.

Yes.

Kinda.

But, yes.

The actual living of life sometimes gets in the way of writing about living life.

Since early spring, I've had to do, do, do -  this project, this deadline, this priority, this issue, this thing - and little time to write about the doing. I'm not one of those bloggers whose job it is to blog. I have a full-time paying gig that has nothing at all to do with this space and that, along with the rest of my life, has been the focus of my efforts and attention.

But I like it here and I'm glad to be back. Thanks for joining me. And thanks for missing me. I missed you, too.

Actually, I'm glad to be anywhere these days. It seems as though I've spent a lot of time trying to get places, but I keep hitting detours. Literally.

Sometimes, it's all I see.

My already-cumbersome daily commute has gotten a lot more tedious and, well, at times, crappy, as of the last few months. They are building a bridge and reworking all the roads around it, including the ones I take every day. And they're fixing an overpass bridge near my home. And closing part of the road I live on to lop off a couple of hills and widen the road.

All at once. All this summer. All the time.

A new interstate bridge rising out of the Ohio River and stretching toward shore to take its place alongside its established kin.

That's how they make a living - building and fixing things while the days are long. It's hard work and it's dangerous. I totally get that and respect it.

I am, after all, a lover of paved roads.

I am not, however, a lover of how my complexion looks in the soft glow of brake lights.

So for me, getting from Point A to Point B so I can make a living has often been a painful point in the day.

But when you really, really like where you work and love where you live, well, you make concessions. It's temporary, even though it feels like it's going to last forever.

Especially when your bladder is full and the gas tank is near empty.

Little orange bastard.

Still, it's ok.

Besides, life's like that. Sometimes, we speed along, zooming from one destination to another. Sometimes, we can just cruise by. Sometimes, we have to slow down.

Sometimes, we come to hard brake; a jarring stop.

Sometimes, we run on empty.

... and seriously need to wipe down the dashboard ...

Sometimes, we have to take an unplanned detour.

The important thing is to get back on course.

Because the road ahead - however winding or twisted - ultimately leads us home.

* Please note: most photos were taken through a dirty car windshield while at a complete stop, usually with the car in park. So, don't be a dumbass who takes pics while driving.

Sunday school lessons

I was cruising down the Interstate at a good clip, possibly above the posted speed limit, but I don't recall. What I do remember is how quickly the car appeared in my rear view.

At the first available opportunity, I signaled and changed lanes, allowing this speedster to pass. And he did, but only long enough to immediately jump in the right lane in front of me, causing me to suddenly hit the brakes to avoid slamming into him ... and every car behind me into each other like an accordion.

He paused for a moment, looked back at me in his rear-view mirror with a fleeting smirk, and then sped off, well above the speed limit, weaving in and out of traffic until I couldn't see him any more.

I did not know this person. I did not know his heart or his circumstance.

What I did know was that this was done on purpose and could have caused a terrible wreck.

I also know in the moment when he looked back at me with that smirk, he saw me display a vulgar hand gesture and mouth a not-suitable-for-publication sentiment to go along with it.

The next morning I told this story - and all the ways I got my response wrong in this situation - to the faith formation class I teach.

Yes, I teach faith formation ... what many of you would call Sunday school ... and yes, I told that class of 10th graders about the time I flipped off the jerk driver and called him a not-suitable-for-publication name.

Now, of course I realize my actions were not very Sunday school teacher-like. Where was the do-unto-others in that scenario? What sort of example am I for these impressionable youth in a church setting? 

I am a bad example.

And that's what I want them to see.

I swear. I lose my temper. I lack patience. I can be unkind. I can be thoughtless. I am petty. I hold a grudge. I have made terrible decisions.

I am human. Flawed. Sinful.

And yet, I am forgiven.

I learn and continue to learn. I make mistakes and recognize those mistakes. It is by grace that I am granted another chance, another opportunity to get it right. I try to remind the kids of that and hope they rise to the challenges of their teens and not lose faith - in themselves, others or God - along the way.

In addition to hearing about what a terrible person I can sometimes be and how they should try to avoid my bad example themselves, we've also covered the great stories of the Bible. We've talked about the history and practice of our faith. We've talked about challenges of school and life. We snack a lot.

This is the first time I've taught faith formation, and I do it alongside one of my dear friends. For my part, I'm not sure that I've imparted any real wisdom or depth of understanding on a group of kids who are mostly present because their parents get them up early on Sunday morning and make them go - my own son included; he's a 10th grader in my class. I get that they'd probably rather be elsewhere ... like Slumber Services at St. Mary of the Mattress.

It's ok.

I think teaching Sunday school has been more about educating me. It's taught me to be patient with talkative teens; to not take their inattentiveness personally. It has reminded me to share, not preach. It's forced me to study up on why we do what we do in our church and be prepared to explain it to inquiring minds. It's shown me how smart, concerned, gracious and genuinely caring kids can be.

Teaching Sunday school has also inspired me to strive to be a better version of myself. Even if I can sometimes be a bad example, I most certainly have it in me to be a good example, too.

And point the way toward an even better one.

"... Jesus told them, 'It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but the sinners.'" - Mark 2:17

Wishing you a blessed Holy week!

What it is

This is my cat.

This is also an outfit I had planned to wear - a pair of jeans and what is obviously a very comfy sweater, both of which are covered in cat.

It is what it is: a cat doing what a cat does.

Granted, cats can be assholes by nature. I could be mad at her snuggles. I could be inconvenienced at having to add the extra step of full-body lint roller to my morning routine. I could choose something else to wear at the last minute.

Or, I can just accept it for what it is (cat on clothes) and deal with what it is (roll it and wear it).

That's what I did, of course, when this happened a few weeks ago. I moved the cat, rolled the sweater and jeans, and went about my day. That's what it was - no big deal. It was amusing, actually, because I chose to see it that way.

It is what it is. I use that phrase a lot, especially in relation to relatively harmless scenarios like the one above. It's a phrase of acknowledgment and acceptance. It's not necessarily approval; in fact, it most often isn't. Still, when I find myself saying or thinking, it is what it is, I am choosing to tolerate imperfections (crabby people, for example) or situations that are less than ideal (asshole cats on my clothes, for instance).

Gosh, I've been saying it is what it is a lot lately. Too much.

I've been saying it in relation to a lot of things, a lot of aspects - personalities, requests, tasks, situations, obligations, all kinds of randomness.

Sometimes, there comes a point when it is what is is less about acceptance of a situation and more like resignation: What it is sucks and I am being taken advantage of, misunderstood, used, manipulated or otherwise mistreated in some way ... and I am expected to accept it because it will not change.

Here's the thing: Sometimes we have to decide if the what it is warrants the time, attention, loyalty and devotion being put into it.

I've been doing a lot of evaluating lately.

Sometimes it's worth it. Going back to my earlier example, I love my cat and accept that she can be a jerk who will sleep on my clothes.

Sometimes it's not. Negativity can be a poison, suffocating us until we break free and gasp fresh air.

We have choices. We have some measure of control over what we tolerate, perhaps more than we care to acknowledge. We can prune our lives much a like a gardener does weeds, extracting the aspects that stunt our growth and steal our nourishment. That may be what it is, but it's not for me ... and I will move on.

Sometimes it's hard to tell the weeds from the flowers. After all, a dandelion is a weed, but with one breath, it is a wish.

Obviously a dreamy stock photo. My world is covered in snow and ice right now.

And a terrible source of allergies.

But it is what it is.

So then we ask ourselves the tough question about weeds/wishes/sneezes or any other aspects of our lives: Acknowledging what it is, is it right for me? 

I don't offer answers, just this reminder that we all need guidance in discerning our best course of action: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference." -  from The Serenity Prayer.

Renewed and resolved

It's the new year and the world is flush with declarations of the gonna-dos ahead: gonna get healthy; gonna quit some terrible habit; gonna get a better job/house/car/partner; gonna get the finances in order.

Gonna do a lot of good things.

We're two weeks in the new year ... gonna keep that resolution? If you are a resolution maker, I wish you the best of luck.

I mentioned before that I don't usually make resolutions at the first of the year. I like to evaluate my life closer to my birthday in March.

Still, as we wrap up the celebration of Christ's arrival at Christmas, it does make sense to assess our lives. Christ brought with Him redemption. That second chance is the true gift of Christmas and one that should not go unappreciated.

I have to admit, my holiday season was hectic. I felt overwhelmed, overextended, overcommitted and, by the time Christmas arrived ... well, over it all.

It felt petty to have the blues when I know how very fortunate and truly blessed I am. But that's how I felt. It was my reality.

I also had the flu for the first time since 1996 and it was certainly not mood enhancing.

So, with New Year's Day, came renewed health (thanks, Tamiflu!) and a real desire to climb out of this unusual holiday funk.

We've just passed the darkest days of the year, and with each day, we step closer to greater light. Again, it makes sense to begin a new - or renewed - journey of self discovery as the days begin to slowly stretch longer. Those streaks of orange-pink-purple in the sky at 6:15 p.m. are a most welcome reminder that we need not remain in darkness for long.

I want to be ready to greet the light as it dawns with a renewed sense of hope and appreciation. Like all those yearly resolution-makers out there, I want to be a better version of me. The best way I know to do that is not by making a list of goals of questionable attainability, but by paring down.

I am resolved to listen.

That's right: listen.

Just listen.

Listen to God when He calls me.

Listen to what my heart tells me.

Listen to what others are telling me by their words or actions.

Too many times, I run on autopilot: do this, go here, be that, change this. I am pulled in a lot of different directions, trying to do a lot and be a lot for a lot of people. I get distracted and my priorities get jumbled. I lose myself.

I am resolved to be still. I will be quiet. I will listen.

My hope is to turn off autopilot and do, go, be, change - whatever is needed - with renewed focus and genuine intention.

So, how am I going to do this?

The only way I possibly can: prayer.

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths." - Proverbs 3:5-6