In Honor of My Birthday

If we aren't very careful, I think it is very easy to live a topsy-turvey, life-upside-down kind of life, spending time on pursuits that don't matter at the sake of the things in our lives that do.

Perhaps I am just being philosophical because it is my birthday, but I have come to realize that the ability to waste your life is something that comes far too easily for most of us, while LIVING your life, the full, abundant life we are called to live, takes incredible effort.

I made  a list of the things that have wasted my life (and discarded it ceremoniously).  

These are the things that are worth living for:

My deep faith that challenges me, rescues me, protects me and sustains me;

My husband and children, who are the best part of me;

My family that loves me unconditionally, and 

My treasured friends (they know who they are, I don't have to name them) who have weathered life's storms alongside me and still call me friend.

In honor of my birthday, I say to you

LIVE YOUR LIFE TO THE FULLEST.  

All that to say, that is all.  Carry on.  

Filters

The girls were playing outside in the backyard the other day when all of the sudden, Shannay came barreling through the back door of the house yelling,  "MOM!!!!!  Nikki's digging in the dirt!!!!!!"

I was in the middle of cooking dinner, so I wiped my hands, tossed down the dish towel and headed out into the backyard to see exactly what was going on.



Sitting quietly in the corner was this sweet, little girl who was gleefully digging in the dirt.

Initially, I freaked out.  But before you judge me too harshly, you should know that I have OCD and the thought of anyone digging in the dirt would freak me out.  You should also know that last summer/spring/fall, Nikki consistently dug holes in the back yard and Mike consistently had to fill them up.  It was annoying.  So I felt justified in my anger.

Anyway, as I was about to launch into my "how many times do I have to tell you" lecture, she looked up at me and said, "Mama, don't be mad."

Oy.

I was mad.  About dirt.  About a child playing in the dirt.  Children should play in the dirt.  So, I said to myself,  "What in the world are you mad about?  She's 4. She wants to play in the dirt.  Calm down, Carol!"

I'm good at "Calm Down Carol" pep talks.

I smiled a smug little "Mother of the Year" smile, told her to enjoy the dirt, but not to put it in her hair, and I very calmly walked into the house.

As I walked past Shannay, she looked at me like I'd grown two heads.  She takes after me.  She likes things orderly.  And clean.  So, I stopped for a moment and got down on my knees and said, "Nikki needs to play in the dirt.  It helps her to be happy. Okay?"

She smiled at me, still somewhat confused, eyes bright with tears and lip quivering, and said, "Okay Mama."  She stood over Nikki for the next 10 minutes "supervising" the situation.

I tend to want to believe that people are doing things to make me mad (true confession) or to annoy me; but in reality, they are processing life through their set of filters.  Nikki thinks better when her hands are busy (well, really when her whole body is busy).  Shannay thinks better when things are routine and orderly.  I think better when I'm in charge.  (I may or may not have control issues.)

All that to say, recognizing that each of us are wired and created to process life differently, through different filters, is an important realization, and honestly, an important life skill.

Who Are You?

"I am a freelance writer."

Those words are rolling off of my tongue a little easier these days, but I still pause before I say them.

You see, I was something else for a lot of years, so my old answer is still the first answer on the tip of my tongue.  

And there is this annoying, awkward gap between the time it takes that answer to form itself on my tongue and the time it takes my heart to remind my brain that I am something different.

A gap that causes a very pregnant and sometimes awkward pause.

Also, saying you're a freelance "anything" sounds like what people say when they don't have a real job.  (Especially if I say it right after a very pregnant and awkward pause) :)

You know, 'cause in the back of my mind I'm saying, "I work from home in my jammies with a laptop."

But as I was praying this morning, and I was thinking about all of this, I realized that I keep saying I "am" this and I "was" that, as if I am somehow defined solely by my vocation.

I work as a freelance writer.  I used to work as a pastor.  Prior to that I worked as a teacher and prior to that a business executive.  But who I am at my core is the same.

I'm still Carol Jones.  Wife to Mike,  mother of four incredible kids and one god-given daughter-in-law, Jesus lover, daughter, friend, mentor, and child of the King.

I am neither a subtotal of my mistakes, nor am I solely defined by the work I do.  Those are pieces of me, certainly.  They add color and description to a beautiful tapestry that God is weaving.

All that to say, who are you?

The Life Cycle of a Scar

As I mentioned earlier, I have a scar on my arm.  It's not pretty.  But it's better than it was.

I remember seeing that scar the first day I took the bandage off my arm, 8 days post-op.  All the steri-strips had fallen off, and all that was left was a very exposed, very raw scar.  I couldn't cover it with long sleeves; it was painful to touch, to try to cover, so I pretty much stayed inside the house, content to be alone with my wound while it healed.

Within a few weeks, I could tell it was getting better, but still it was red and raw.  At least it was no longer painful to the touch, so I could put on a long sleeve shirt and go outside into the world.

As more time passed, I was still acutely aware of the scar, and at times, others were aware of it as well. But for the most part,  I no longer thought about it all the time.  Every now and then, I'd bump it, and it would hurt, and I would remember it was there.

It's still there.  Not yet healed, but not so raw.  Just . . . well . . . there.

I am assured by the folks that know these things, that someday my scar will be a tiny little line, a small reminder that I once had something bad happen to me.

I think that's the way of scars.  And the usefulness of them.  They are a small reminder that something bad once happened to us.  And that we survived.

All that to say, I guess I'll learn to love this scar I am presently carrying.  You know the one I mean.

Sometimes We Don't Want Logic, We Want Compassion

I recently had a follow-up appointment with my dermatologist about my "not, not cancer" spot on my arm.  When I had the procedure done, she told me that I would have a scar, but that the way she was going to sew it was going to leave a fairly minimal scar, one that she could even do some minor abrasion therapy to later on to render the scar virtually unnoticeable.

On the day I left my surgical appointment, I left with the idea that I would remove my bandage, see a minimal scar and a few months later at my follow up appointment, I'd go in and she'd do her magic on whatever was left.

That is categorically NOT what happened.

First off, when I removed my bandage I had a hideously red and very bumpy scar.  It actually looked like someone had sewn an angry, red, fuzzy caterpillar to my arm.  There was nothing minimal about that scar.  So, I called the doctor's office and got what is probably a very commonly relayed "Calm Down" speech.  I was assured that within 6-8 weeks I would be fine, my scar would be fine, the world would not end, and I could someday wear sleeveless shirts again.

Fast forward 6-8 weeks and that is categorically NOT what happened.  My scar was less red, but other than that, pretty much the same.  I decided not to panic this time and gave myself a pep talk.  (Not the Kid President kind of pep talk, but more like the "don't be ridiculous Carol, it's a scar, not an amputation, geesh!" kind of pep talk.)  I also decided not to call the doctor and get another lecture about calming down.

But every time someone would see my scar (I'm not even kidding here people!) they would say something like, "oh my" or they would suck their breath in sharply.  Clearly, a surprisingly ugly scar.

So, when I went in for my appointment, I was ready to take that dermatologist to task over that scar.  It wasn't at all what she told me I was going to get.  It was far, far worse.

I feel the need to tell you that my dermatologist is an incredibly sweet person.  Very soft-spoken.  Very sensitive in her bedside manner.  So when she said to me, "Mrs. Jones.  You're being superficial about this.  You have a small scar.  It's significantly better than death by cancer, which is what you could have experienced had we done nothing," I was somewhat taken back.

And I cried.  I mean like a baby, snotting, sobbing cried.  (So embarrassing.  I am an ugly crier, so there I sat with a red-splotched face and a hideous scar on my arm).  Ugly from head to . . . well . . . elbow.

I said, "I know you're right.  Of course you're right.  My logical mind can tell me you're right.  And then there's my illogical mind that just wants to be pretty."

All that to say, perspective is important.  Of course I understand I'd rather have a scar than cancer.  But sometimes hearing what you already know is still just hard to hear.  Sometimes, we just want a little compassion.  Sometimes, we just want someone to tell us it's all going to be okay.

Finding the Margins

When I was in college, I had this one professor who always allowed us to use a cheat sheet on test days. That policy, in and of itself, was not that unusual, as many professors had similar policies.  But where this professor differed was that he had no rules about our cheat sheet other than it all had to fit on the front side of one sheet of paper.

No rules about font size.

No rules about margins.

Simply, "However many words you can get on the front side of one piece of paper."

Like everyone else, I tried to type my entire study sheet on that piece of paper.  Every. Single. Word. I used size 6 font and set the margins as wide as I could.  And in whatever white space was left by my printer's inability to print that wide, I wrote by hand.  There was not one square inch of white space.  No discernible margin.

I noticed, though, that this didn't actually help me on test days.  There was too much on the page to be useful at all.  I couldn't find any of the information I needed because the words were all just crammed together on the page.

So I changed my strategy and actually studied for the test.  Then I put information on the sheet that I thought I might need during the test.  Around each piece of this information was space.  Lots and lots of space.  And because I had created margins around my information, it was easy to find what I was looking for.

I was thinking about this yesterday because I listened to a sermon from Andy Stanley called Breathing Room,  and it made me realize that sometimes too much is just too much.  Cramming everything into life that you think you need doesn't make your life better, it makes it busy.  And it makes it infinitely harder to find the things in your life that are actually beneficial.

All that to say, I'm going to begin today to find the margins of my life, create some white space, and enjoy the breathing room.

Forgiveness According to Yang

I was watching Grey's Anatomy (don't even think about judging me right now).  On the show this week, there was a scene where Dr. Christina Yang went in to talk to Dr. Derek Shepherd.

She said, "You need to forgive Owen.  You're holding a grudge."
Dr. Shepherd said, "I can't."
Dr. Yang said, "You need to."
Dr. Shepherd said, "It's hard."
Dr. Yang said, "I know.  Do it anyway."

And of course, he forgave him.

But life is not a TV drama.  That's not to say that life is not sometimes LIKE a TV drama.  But in real life, things like forgiveness don't often happen in the course of an hour, wedged in between short commercial breaks.

In real life, forgiveness is often a process, a process that takes days, weeks, months, sometimes even years.

In real life, forgiveness comes with conversation, tears, prayer, and much soul searching.

And though I am wise enough to know that Grey's Anatomy is not real life, I like Dr. Yang's thoughts on forgiveness; "I know it's hard.  Do it anyway."  Just do it.

Someone said to me once (I think it might have been one of my sons), "Can you see yourself forgiving them years from now?"  And when I said yes, they said, "Well then why not just forgive them now and save yourself the headache?"

The process of forgiveness might be a process, but the act of forgiveness comes in an instant.  I think sometimes we just need to speed up the process and just get to it.

All that to say, life may not be a TV drama, but that doesn't mean we can't learn from it.

The Facts of Life

Mike and I were at Chic-Fil-A yesterday with the girls.  It was miserably cold and rainy, so any outside playing was out of the question.  Finding an indoor play area becomes critical on days like this.  The mall area was overcrowded, and quite frankly, people do NOT watch their kids at that stupid place.  (The sign says "For kids 6 years old and younger" so the fact that it is overrun with older kids is a teeny weeny bit problematic for me.  I guess when my kids are 7, I might be thinking differently . . . but I digress).

So we went to Chick-Fil-A and enjoyed a nice, healthy salad and then let the girls play for a while.  Like most kids' play areas, though, there were some unattended kids in there just not being nice.

(As an aside, one of my FAVORITE things about Mike Jones is that he is the ENFORCER of the play area.  He's not gonna let any anyone get away with anything, and he ESPECIALLY is not going to let anyone be mean to his daughters!)

There were a couple of older boys, way beyond the height limit for the play area, being naughty and running over the little kids.  Someone went and got the boys' mom, and she came in to check things out.  She dropped a few expletives at her sons, at which point Mike Jones aka "The Enforcer" politely asked her to watch her language.  (I told you that he won't let anyone get away with anything!)

A couple of small girls came out of the play area and sat down near their mom.  They complained about the boys to their mom and one of them said, "They are mean.  They didn't like me."  I expected the mom to say, "I'm sorry that happened."  But instead she took that moment to teach some real life lessons.

She said, "Well, those boys shouldn't be mean, and they shouldn't even be in there.  But people don't always do what is right, and people are not always nice.  Sometimes you can only be responsible for yourself and do what you know is right."

The little girl said, "But Mommy, they didn't even like me."

The mom said, "That's okay.  They don't have to like you.  Everyone in life is not going to like you.  That's just life.  As you get older, you will discover many more people who don't like you.  But you will also have people in your life that love you, no matter what.  Those are your true friends."

She went on to say, "You will also see that there are people in life that you don't like.  You will have different personalities.  Maybe they will be loud and you are more of a quiet person.  Maybe they will be more into sports and you are more into reading.  There can be lots of reasons why a person doesn't "like" someone, but as long as you treat them like Jesus would want you to treat them, that's what matters."

The little girl looked at her mom.  You could tell she was really taking it all in.  And then she said, "Well, I was nice to those boys.  Even though they didn't like me.  But they hurt that little brown girl and her grandpa got really mad about that.  I don't think he liked them very much."

The mother looked over at me, a little chagrined at the girl's faux pas, and I laughed, assuring her that happens all the time (being mistaken for the grandparents).

Then the little girl said, "Can I have some ice cream?"

I love kids.  They make life so simple.  And they move on quickly.

All that to say, wouldn't it be awesome if all of life's lessons ended in ice cream?

All That to Say: Pinch Me

My grandmother used to make this cake that she first baked, cooled, frosted, the whole bit.  And then when it was all looking pretty, she'd dump it and crumble it!  Then she'd layer it with vanilla pudding and whipped cream mixed with cream cheese.  It was unbelievably good!

I remember the first time I saw her take a beautifully frosted cake and turn it upside down in a bowl.  I almost had a heart attack! But she assured me she was making something even better.  And she was right.

That's how I feel about my life right now. 

I felt very comfortable with the life I had.  I enjoyed my work, the people I worked with, my church, our friends, all of it.

And then all of that got turned upside down.  And I almost had a heart attack.  (Truth be told, I still have hard days every now and then).  There was no way that I could see the whole mess turning out okay.  But God assured me He had a better plan.

So here I am a couple months later, and I am just so amazed at everything.

Mike and I are in such a great place, marriage wise. Probably because we have more time for each other!  Maybe because our family order has returned to normal.  I don't know.  But it's awesome!

I'm writing.  For a living.  And I'm making very good money to work part-time.  From home, well technically from Starbucks.  I'm working with some people who are doing amazing work and for some reason feel like I have something to offer in the process. 

And every. single. day, I am home when my daughters get off the bus.  Every day.

And now we are getting to foster babies.  Because I'm available.  Last week we had a sweet little 4 month old boy.  And this week we are getting a 3 day old baby girl. 

All that to say, I feel like I have awakened to find that I am living the life I was created to live.  And it's pretty incredible.  Pinch me . . . yep, it's real.

Day 71: The Wondering Place

I remember learning to ride a bike because I was NINE YEARS OLD before I learned, which, by the way, was the same year I learned how to tie my shoes.  I really don't know why I was so old before I learned either of these milestones of childhood, but I think my memory is so vivid BECAUSE I was so old.

I didn't start off with training wheels.  I didn't get a push down the street from my daddy.  I just got on, fell off, got on, fell off, pedaled a few feet, fell off, etc., until eventually I was rolling down the street.

I remember how incredibly uncertain I felt, and even wondered if learning was even necessary.  But somehow, I knew it was.  I knew I had to conquer my fear of that bike or I would forever be stuck in fear, of everything.  Somehow, my fear of the world was wrapped up in that bike, and I had to ride.  The universe demanded it.  So I did it.

Despite the fear.  Despite the pain.  I rode.

And that's how I feel today.

I have worked full-time in a church or church related field for the last 17 years of my life, and part time for the last 25. 

And the thought of doing anything else is crippling at times.

People tell me my skills are transferable.  Someone even said to me, "Carol, you should consider working outside the church.  You could make some company a LOT of money."

Multiple people have said I should write full time.

But each morning, I wake up with a great big giant question mark over my head.  And I wonder, "God, what do you have for me now?"

I'm not writing this to say I have an answer.  I don't. 

But I know I can't stay here long, in this wondering place.  I've got to get on the bike and ride.  The universe demands it.  (Maybe that's an overstatement.) 

All that to say,  I know the Lord will speak to me in His time.  And maybe He'll tell me to write, or to work in a church, or to do something else I've never done before.  I just have to resist the urge to jump on my bike and careen down a hill!

Day 47: Crisis

When I think of the word, crisis, I tend to think of things of a global scale.  The hunger crisis.  An earthquake.  A flood. 

Or I think of personal tragedy.  The death of a child.  A terrible car accident.  Divorce.

Rarely do I think of small, seemingly insignificant events, that in the heat of the moment seem large, but in hindsight seem tiny and trivial.

For most of us, if we are lucky, we are never going to experience global crisis, or even incredibly serious personal tragedy.

So the crisis we know IS the day to day, seemingly insignificant trivial events.

But I would guess that strung together, it is the day to day crises that takes its toll on a family, a friendship, a marriage, a relationship.  They elevate our heart rate, our blood pressure, our cortisol levels, our adrenaline and our survival instincts.  Strung together, these small daily crises can become epic in our lives.

Enjoying the moments that are filled with laughter, therefore,  becomes all the more important. 

Cherishing the small victories,

laughing at our own mistakes and the mistakes of others,

and letting go of the stress of the crisis of the moment becomes critical.

All that to say, a rich, peaceful, abundant life will be filled with daily crisis.  It's what we do during the crisis and beyond that determines how epic the impact will be.  I find a big deep breath and the ability to laugh at myself keeps things small and in perspective. Usually. :)  And when that doesn't work, wine and chocolate help.

Day 36: Life Requires An Editorial Process

ed·it/ˈedit/  Verb - To correct, condense, arrange or otherwise modify for use

 

I've been looking through a lot of photographers' work recently, (one facebook click leads you to another one, which leads you to another one, which leads you to another one . . . you know how it happens!)

Anyway.

I've been looking through a lot of photographers' work recently, and I have discovered something important. What separates the good photographers from the great ones is their ability to edit. So many have incredibly good photographs, but their ability to edit is so poor that it almost ruins the photo altogether.

The point of a great photograph (in my non-professional photographic opinion) should be that it draws us into the moment.  It creates in us an ability to become a part of the moment.  The sights, the sounds, the scents, the emotions.  We, the observers, become accutely focused on what is important, central, the POINT of the photograph, so much so that it is as if we were behind the lens ourselves.

However in the poorly edited photographs, I observed the following three commonalities:

Photographs are often overblurred which seems forced and makes what should be the focal point of the photo a crisp and clear afterthought.  The eye is drawn more to what is blurred than what is left in focus.

Photographers "brands" sometimes become so distracting that I am left wondering if they or their subjects are the point of the photo.

Sometimes photos are so "creative" that it's hard to determine exactly what the photographer is saying at all. Creativity for creativity's sake is not creative.  It's almost the opposite of creative.  Often, incredibly beautiful moments are stolen by the need to make it "special."  Sometimes the moment is special all on its own.

(There are MANY more observations I could make, but these seemed the most glaring!)

I believe these observations about photography apply to life in general.

The ability to blur the unimportant things in life is critical.  But far too often I become so obsessed with the things I am trying to ignore, that I lose sight of the things that are the most important.

Just like a photographer's brand, when I, Me, Mine, becomes more important than anything else, I lose sight of pretty much everything else.

And lastly, incredibly beautiful moments are often stolen or ruined altogether by my need to try to make them special.  Sometimes the moments are, indeed, special all on their own.  The more I manipulate, adjust, worry over the moment, the less special it becomes.

Our ability to edit is key to turning good moments into great ones.  We must be able to ignore what isn't important, to keep our pride in check, and sometimes to just breathe in the moments of life that are breathtakenly beautiful on their own.

All that to say, life, like photography, requires an editorial process.  Just edit with caution.

Acutely Aware

I have suddenly become acutely aware that I am aging. Here are my signs:

I can't see. A few years ago, I had great eyesight! Now, I fear leaving the house without my glasses. I have a pair in my car for emergencies. I have a pair in my purse. I have a pair in my bathroom, by my bed, in the kitchen and at my desk. I cannot see menus in restaurants because they only provide me candlelight to see by! (That ticks me, just for the record . . . is that really necessary? And, the nicer the restaurant, the more dim the lighting, which is funny, because typically only older, less vision-enabled people are the ones who can afford to eat in them. TURN UP THE LIGHTS!)

I can't hear. Except in movies and in my son's car, and my husband snoring. Maybe it's because all of those are extremely loud (sorry babe, I still love you!). I used to be able to hear a pin drop. Now I can't hear much at all and find myself leaning in, which only makes people think I'm a great listener, because apparently great listeners "lean in." But probably, great listeners are just aging and can't hear as well. Whatever. I can't hear.

I can't sleep late. SEEEERRRIOUSLYYYYY. This is frustrating. It does not matter what time I go to bed. I cannot sleep late. I wake up at the crack of dawn. Even if I want to sleep late. Even if I have nothing to do the next day. I cannot sleep late. Oh, and also, I can't sleep thru the night. I wake up all night long. Often to go to the bathroom (sorry, TMI?), but even if I don't drink anything after a certain time, and whether or not I have caffeinated coffee, I can't sleep thru the night. Arrgh.

I can't remember things. My short term memory is shot. If someone gives me a phone number, it is sooooo taxing to my brain to hang on to those 7-10 digits for any length of time at all! My long term memory is great, which is why I can remember old stories, but because my short term memory is shot, I can't remember that I have told those stories 12 times!! I am giving you all permission to hold up two fingers as a sign to me that says "I've heard it CJ."

Oh and there are plenty of other not so pleasant signs of aging. As Solomon says in Ecclesiastes, "the doors on the street are shut" (giving reference to what he eats and what he expels . . . I know, way too much information!)

Ahhhhh, aging. But in my aging, there are things I can do that I couldn't do when I was in the summer of my life. I can laugh at my own mistakes. I don't take myself and others quite so seriously. I enjoy life more. I'm okay with not being perfect. I'm okay with not having a perfect body (some days), perfect kids, a perfect marriage, a perfect life. I'm okay with not being the sharpest crayon in the box. I'm okay with mixing my metaphors and my "sayings" (because I think the expression is the "brightest" crayon in the box . . . I never get those right.)

All that to say, I suppose aging is better than the alternative. But I sure wish I wasn't having to wear Mr. Tarbutton's glasses to be able to see to type this! (I couldn't find my own!)

Are There Rules?

I went out to eat tonight with a friend when a family of like 12 was seated. I actually think it was two or three families, celebrating a birthday, but there were a lot of kids. At the end of this long table, the end closest to where I was sitting, were two tiny, and very unhappy and loud kids. No, you don't get it. I mean LOUD kids. And their parents just kept on talking like their kids weren't screaming. I literally could not hear the sound of my own voice over the kids screaming. One of the little kids screamed and cried for so long, she threw up. Finally, the dad (I'm assuming) stood up and I thought "oh, great, he's going to take them outside." But instead he went outside and left the screaming, SCREAMING kids inside with their mom and the other people at the table.

Are there rules for screaming kids in restaurants? Should the restaurant management say or do something, or are those of us listening to the melee just forced to sit there, eat our food, or get up and leave?

Am I just getting old and have no patience for this kind of thing anymore? I love kids. I really do. Ask anyone. They'll tell you it's true. But SERIOUSLY, I was so annoyed at those parents.

All that to say, I have a headache and I guess I should have left way sooner than I did. What do you think?