The Twelve Days of CHRIS(t)mas

Before I met my husband, when I was just oohing and ahhing from afar, I prayed that God would give him the insight to be able to know me even better than I was able to communicate to him.  I prayed a lot, in fact, about this potential relationship, since it was so clearly not up to me whether or not it was going to happen (there was a girl he'd previously dated, he was still mending a broken heart, the timing just wasn't right, yada, yada, yada).  So I prayed.  And prayed.  I cried (because that's what we girls do).  But most of all, I trusted.  I trusted and waited, not always patiently, for the Lord to show me clarity.  As much as I wanted to date this guy, I did not want to do it if it wasn't part of a greater plan--I'd already tried my hand at young love, not very successfully, and I had no interest in trying force something that wasn't meant to be.

And so after ten long (!) months, he asked me out on a non-date.  And then he asked me to non-date him.  So we were a non-couple and it was oh so cute:)  And then after about a day and a half we realized that maybe we should just go ahead and date.  My prayer had been answered.  It was an incredible time--not just the culmination, but the whole journey.  As stinky as some of the waiting was, it was incredible to be in such close communion with God and to see His hand actively penning a narrative in my life.   Our succinct courtship was abundant in laughter, hopes and decision making.  It was fun.  It was like a roller coaster ride...exciting, a little crazy, but ultimately really good.  Even our disagreements seemed to be opportunities to better learn each others' personal nuances and communication style.  One of the things we discussed fairly early on was the meaning of our names and how accurately they reflected who we were, or who we longed to be.  Mine means "beloved."  An irony on many a day since feeling truly worthy is something that had been and continues to be a struggle.  His: Christ bearer.  Fitting, not only since when I met him he was leading a bible study (of crazy characters!) but because he earnestly and passionately sought to reflect Christ to others.  I loved this about him.  I loved that he was fearless, or at least willing to put his fear behind him, in order to speak truth and grace into people's lives.  I still love that about him.  I also get really frazzled and frustrated by it at times.  That prayer that I uttered fourteen plus years ago, the one where I asked for Chris to know me more intimately that I could imagine.  That one is a real doozy.

As our swift dating/engagement phase propelled us into the week before our wedding, my intended saw a side of me that few others have.  He saw me project anger, no rage is really more the word, like a whirling dervish.  He saw me claw and rear like a wild animal caged for the first time and unwilling to be subdued.  He was stunned and it would've been understandable if he'd bowed out.  Because at that point he was marrying a stranger.   I still don't know what happened to trip the switch, raise the curtain, or whatever metaphor you prefer.  My hunch is that it has something to do with that whole "I can't hide from you" feeling.  For the first time in my life I was going to be fully known by another individual, and that was terrifying.

We got married on 06.08.02 as planned.  I know we both hoped that my "meltdown" was indicative of the stress of a fast-paced relationship and the numerous changes that accompanied it.  But it wasn't and it still isn't.  My dervish costume is still a part of the wardrobe, unfortunately.  Instead of reeling out of control (at least that's how it feels),  I'd like to be able to dance in concert with those around me and, ultimately, with God.

It's been a long time since I've felt such a connectedness to Him.  And therefore a long time since I've realized that He is still actively penning the narrative of my life.   But that doesn't change the fact that He is.  Throughout it all, the Christ Bearer has remained by my side.  He continues to hold up the mirror and bid me look at the glorious reflection of all that I've been created to be, rather than the shell of a person that I usually perceive myself to be.  He bids me to hear and live in the Truth rather than succumb to lies that slither sneakily in and out like snakes.  Much of the time I reject his invitations.  Much of the time I resent them.  And so I pen this to bid myself to respond, not to him, but to the One he points me to.  And I pen a prayerful "wish list" much in the way that I did when I so wanted to date this guy with the Wilson's leather jacket and the perpetual need for a haircut.

1. That I would know His presence, His goodness, His purpose in my life.
2. That I would not fear nor trust in the "future."
3. That I would honor my husband in my thoughts, words and deeds.
4. That I would be a Christ bearer myself.

Merry Christmas, Toph.


On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a sparkly engagement ring.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me...two houses in the first two months of marriage

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me...3 lovely, loud, leggy ladies.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a love for beer, domestic and imported.

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a lesson in f-stops and shutter speeds.

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a lesson in how to drive a stick shift, at nine months pregnant, no less.

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...the need to never again invest in an electric blanket.

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...the role of "doggy mama" instead of "crazy cat lady."

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...an impartiality for bourbon, and the finer things that boys enjoy.

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a trip to the Homeland with the fam!

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me...a really amazing "dream house, meeting a litany of crazy requirements!

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...another anniversary, another promise to continue to be the Christ Bearer in my life.

Musings: David and Goliath

I have just read a tidbit of Malcolm Gladwell's David and Goliath. After finally parting ways with The Count of Monte Cristo, I found myself in a subtle state of mourning, not sure in what literary direction to head next…a bit reluctant to head back down the path of classical or contemporary fiction again, I started reading a preview of Gladwell's latest book.

My first (and only) introduction to his work was in reading The Tipping Point,

R-O-A-R

To say I'm not a Katy Perry fan is an understatement. I tend to find her lyrics cliché at best, offensive at worst. And the music isn't particularly inspiring. Anyone who knows me knows I don't speak the language of music. I have no rhythm and very little understanding of what goes into making music. But I do know when something is just downright bad! So when my girls asked me to listen to her single "Roar" my immediate relief had to do with the fact that I didn't have to censor anything. It's an upbeat girl power song…nothing new, but nothing bad.

 The video shows a timid Katy who relies on her macho companion for everything--to know what to say and what move to make. In short, she is the caricature of the helpless maiden. Once the Ken figure dies, however, Miss Katy finds herself alone in the jungle having to fend off fierce animals (I did mention this was a video and that it was a Katy Perry video--no further explanation needed for the dramatic flair). As you might guess from the title of the song, our protagonist experiences a transformation, and pretty soon she sings to let the world know that she and she alone is in charge of her world! Indeed she tames the lion with her voice (while wearing some nicely tailored animal skins, I might add). 

She is woman, hear her ROAR! And why shouldn't a girl be empowered to have her voice heard, right? It's a message I know very well intellectually, having grown up the daughter of a single mom for a good chunk of my youth, the alum of a progressive Ivy league school (we won't mention it was the last of its kind to go co-ed) and the mother of three future women. But I know lots of things intellectually (some days I doubt this!). That doesn't mean I "get" them. So after about the eighteenth time listening to the song, all four of us females singing, I got the eye of the tiger, a fighter/Dancing through the fire/'Cause I am a champion, and you're gonna hear me roar/Louder, louder than a lion/'Cause I am a champion, and you're gonna hear me roar! I realized that I really didn't get it.  To be blunt, the lyrics smacked me in the face like a wet rag.  What I routinely communicate to my girls is "shhhh!"  Literally, I spend a lot of time "shhhing" them.  They're loud.  They're talkative.  And they're a threesome  so it's rarely quiet in my airspace and sometimes "shhhing" is necessary.  But sometimes it's not.  Sometimes I need to enjoy the fact that they so intrinsically know they were created to ROAR and that nothing in this world has thus far squelched that in them…including me.  They push the limits, they challenge my husband and me when when they disagree with a decision, they get in trouble…they live life to the fullest and they are not afraid of what the future holds.  They are not me, the forty-some year old who has spent countless hours and countless dollars trying to find her voice.  But there's still plenty of time left and if I'm not deliberate, they will learn from me to whisper instead of roar.  So I am trying, trying, to pause and ask myself (in the midst of the chaos) if I really do need to "shhh" anyone at this particular moment.  

There's been a video circulating that shows girls responding to the request to "run like a girl" and, as might be expected they run in a half-serious manner, arms flailing.  How often do I reinforce the stereotype that I loathe: that girls are weaker or less legit in their very being (don't get me started on the lack of sensitivity displayed when people ask a pregnant woman the gender of her unborn child!)?  I think I do it quite a lot, whether by not respecting myself enough, my husband (I'm not sure where Katy stands, but ROAR to me does not equal man bashing), my kids?  Another blog I read recently dissected the comical scenario of a dad with the shotgun ready to defend his daughter from any unworthy suitor.  This mom challenged us to rethink that whole notion:

Instead of intimidating all your daughter’s potential suitors, raise a daughter who intimidates them just fine on her own. Because, you know what’s intimidating? Strength and dignity. Deep faith. Self-assuredness. Wisdom. Kindness. Humility. Industriousness. Those are the bricks that build the wall that withstands the advances of old Slouchy-Pants, whether you ever show up with your Winchester locked and loaded or not. The unsuitable suitor finds nothing more terrifying than a woman who knows her worth to God and to her family.


Wisdom taken from: http://jenwilkin.blogspot.com/2014/06/on-daughters-and-dating-how-to.html?spref=fb


What a crazy notion!  Raise our girls to intimidate their suitors!!!  Raise our daughters to know their worth and to flaunt it! Raise our daughters to ROAR!

As parents we are continually realizing that we learn as much, if not more, from our kids than we ever teach them.  I live with a proud bunch of lionesses and I could learn a thing or two from them.  I'm going to start by making sure all the car windows are rolled down when we sing that song.

From Listlessness to Restfulness

Summer is a season that I alternately yearn for and dread at the same time.  Why?  Because of it's vastness.  The confines of an overly-scheduled life give way to the expansiveness of sunny, sweaty summer days.  There are so many options and in the first few weeks the infiniteness of summer makes us all giddy.  No need to figure out what to do or plan an outing, there's plenty of time for that!

We spend too many hours in the sun, eat too much sugar, play too much--if that's possible-- and generally unwind from the previous 10 months.  Life is good.  Any parent knows that if your child/children are happy, then the odds are that you're happy too.  This summer has been good in that regard.  Oh sure, we've had the dramas of not wanting to go to camp, wanting to stay longer at camp, or whatever the daily topic may be, but overall, it's been a good summer for the young Ranks.  And therefore it's been a good one for the Missus.  Until a few days ago.

Malaise is the best way to describe what I feel--or what I don't feel.  Lest I get too philosophical too soon there are pragmatic reasons for my mental lethargy: ongoing insomnia, a more relaxed mentality that can border on laziness(!), lack of work day structure, and so on.  But malaise is not the same thing as depression, which I am not currently struggling with.  Malaise, to me, is that slow moving slug of a thing that enters my being so stealthily and sets up camp in my soul.

My initial reaction when I sense malaise creeping in is to prescribe my own antedate of busyness.  After all, the WORST thing a stay-at-home mom can be is unproductive.  It's downright uncivilized!  The problem is, I've never been a great "doer" (oh, sure, I get things done, but not to the domestic heights that my German foremothers  exemplified) so trying to ramp up my productivity when I feel motivated to do nothing typically results in a few piles moved and, if I'm lucky, a few loads of laundry completed.  Not a total waste, but definitely not a remedy for my malady.

A common sense solution to my problem of wanting to do nothing but needing to do something has been to catch up on my reading.  It's been a very practical option: I can take the kids to the pool and plop myself in a shaded corner to catch up on book club picks.  At least then I could say I'd done *something,* even if the house didn't reflect my efforts.  So last week, after finishing my easily digested adolescent novels I dug into The Count of Monte Cristo.  All 2000 pages of it.  I muttered a few choice thoughts about why we had to read a book this ginormous when they typical window of alone time lasts no more than 30 minutes, if I'm lucky.  Nonetheless, I got started.  In pure pragmatic fashion I decided to try and tackle 100 pages for the next 20 days.  Certainly that was doable.  After all, I was NOT going to have any excuse for not finishing it since it was summer vacation.  After about day one I found myself not wanting to put the book down.  Its been a long time since I've re-read one of the classics like Dumas' and I was struck at how matter-of-factly he diagnoses the human condition.   There's no justification for the villains acting villainous.  They are motivated by selfish greed, pure and simple.  Conversely, the righteous are motivated doing what is honorable and the thought of not doing so is comparable to death.   They are internally driven, whether towards right or wrong.  At this point in my reading The Count has begun exacting justice against his former tormentors and my curiosity is peaked to see if he will succumb to his anger or whether Dantes will reappear.

In the midst of my malaise I ask myself a similar question: will I give in to listlessness and dissatisfaction or will call myself to the better purpose of resting in the moment.  Purposeful resting is not something that comes easily.  Deliberately sitting and listening to the world and people around you instead of shouting at them to try and be heard is what I'm attempting.  Learning that sitting peacefully to reflect on what's ruminating in my heart does not equal laziness is a new-found freedom I'm trying to enjoy.  Transforming listlessness, or a directionless, sedentary state to a thoughtful, resting state is what I desire so that summer may be a time of blessed "re-set" and repose….

Asphalt

When I run, I spend a lot of time looking at the ground, at least at the beginning when I’m trying to coerce my body into some kind of rhythm and my mind into full acceptance of what I’ve committed to.  The ground is hard and unforgiving as my feet hit it.  It’s dull and grungy looking as I start my way up the first hill in my six-mile journey.  The black soaks up the heat of the sun and I’m convinced that contributes to my four footed companion’s enthusiastic gait.

Half way through the first song I begin to relax—relaxing, even during physical exertion, is my daily conquest in life—and soon my body starts to fall into a comfortable cadence.  My mind begins to wander, almost as if I’m in that pre-slumber groggy state where everything feels soft and not so severe as it had during waking hours.  I begin to let go of all the thoughts that have been swirling around in my head and focus on whichever one asserts itself most boldly.

Running, for me, is a time where I can actually get things organized in my head so that when I get home I am focused and ready to tackle the task at hand.  This is when I start to enjoy my self-imposed challenge.  Suddenly the possibilities seem endless—I can solve the problem that previously seemed overwhelming, I begin to let my mind wander and start envisioning not just enduring life, but embracing it. 

People aren’t kidding when they say that exercise keeps them sane.  That makes me chuckle to read that previous sentence because anyone who knew me before my thirties would have voted me least likely to exercise.  Ever.  It’s not that I was a complete couch potato.  Rather, I just never found exercise terribly inspiring.  The pay off wasn’t worth the effort to me.  It took me hitting my forties to realize that my inspiration wasn’t going to come from love of sport.  Rather, it was going to come from caring enough about myself to block out precious time just for me.  I’ll admit I’m quite pleased that my derriere is less gelatinous than it was and that I have the chutzpah to run for two hours non-stop.  But if running hadn’t given me breathing space, I wouldn’t have given it a second chance.

Atlanta is really hilly, which contributes to a lot of looking down when I have to reach inside myself to keep going.  There’s that asphalt again.  Just as unforgiving as it’s always been.  It’s my ongoing fear that I’ll trip and skin my knee during one of my jaunts.  Uh.  The prospect of asphalt mixing with scraped flesh makes my skin crawl as much today as it did when I was a kid.  In between gasps of air to get me through my ascent and paranoia about tripping, I notice sparkles emanating from the pavement.  Crazy.  Even ugly, utilitarian asphalt can project beauty in the right light.

This metaphor is not lost on my as I near the end of my circuit and head back into the neighborhood.  I see a lot of bleakness around me: people struggling with illnesses, with their marriages, with their jobs.  Sometimes just trying to please four different taste pallets at breakfast can make me want to go back to bed.  But there really are the shimmery parts to be found in all of it.  

I wish I could end my soliloquy right there.  It’s a nice, tidy way to wrap up some musings.  But it’s not reality for me.  Yet.  My next training phase is going to have to require a commitment to get my spirit to the level of endurance that my body has achieved.  I’d better start making a good, long play list.