new look, old fears

I'm standing at the edge of change here on this Monday morning. And I don't want to jump.

It has been in the works for a while now, these changes. The first was hurried along a few months ago when a new reader commented, asking if I was a scrapper (scrapbooker? scrapbook doer?) too. As you know, I am not. But from the looks of my blog layout, you would think otherwise.

Which is why change is coming. I'm not sure exactly when, as the Weblog Awards have interrupted my anticipated flow of the first change coming to be. (I think voting continues through today.) But don't be alarmed if one day you click to chat at the sky and discover a change. The sky will not have fallen, but the clouds may have cleared a bit. In other words, I'm gettin' a new layout, y'all. Stay tuned.

The second change is a bit more fuzzy. I am beginning to accept the fact that I am a writer. There is nothing more terrifying to discover, it turns out. Except maybe if I woke up with no teeth. That would be more terrifying. Still, I am stuck in a staring match with myself and my future. I'm winning. Fear is the perfect excuse not to act because, you know, I'm afraid.

And so I wait. Not the God kind of waiting where you don't want to wait but you know it is what's best for you and then you end up glad for the interim. Because even though I know the next step, I am instead sitting in the dark corner of comfortable, biting my nails, stuck between ignoring it and embracing it.

I know that is possible to jump in and be free. But I'm not quite there yet. So I wait for a grown up to tell me what to do. For a boss or a teacher or a parent to come, take me by the hand and give me instruction. But I also wait for the truth to feel true and for the fear to subside. I am beginning to think neither one is going to happen.

I suppose I'm just going to have to trust. I knew it would come to this.

on being important

In the sixth grade, I had to write an essay with the title When I Get Older. The first sentence went as follows: When I get older, I will look tan like my Grandma.
The essay continued in an equally ambitious manner: I won't die my hair. I will be short and small. I won't wear bell-bottoms but I hate it when Grandma's look 21, so I won't dress in fashion either.

For a page and a half I described all the things I would be when I got older. I would have lots of friends, I would host Christmas at my house, I would spoil my grandchildren.

The kicker though, was the final sentence of the essay. I will be important. That was the climax, right after I will work in an office - clearly the fastest way to importance.

Everybody wants to be important. We may not state it that way, as I did in the sixth grade. But everybody wants it, we just define it differently. I wonder what important looked like to me as a sixth grader?
If you are a Wemmick, importance belongs to whomever collects the most boxes and balls, as described in this book by Max Lucado.
I suppose as a kid, important had something to do with neon rubber bands in my braces and a tire swing in the backyard. As I grew up, if I made good grades, kept the peace and managed to get a boyfriend then I felt important.

As an adult, I often think about where I am finding my importance. Is it my role as a mother? My relationship with The Man? My college degree? Perhaps a better question is this: who gets to decide what makes someone important or not? How do we define worth?

Max Lucado suggests purpose and importance is defined by the inventor. If he invents the thing, then he gets to say how it works, what its for, why it was made. He's not the only one.

how we do birthdays

This happens every year. Just as I begin to settle into the Christmas season, my girls begin to plan their birthday. They were born shortly after Christmas (seven whole weeks before their actual due date thankyouverymuch). Had they come on time, we wouldn't be doing their birthday until the middle of February. Which would have been great because nothing big happens in February.

This year they will be five. They have already made their invitations and have been busy making plans for what will happen on their birthday. So far, it is a coloring, pajama, balloon, cooking party and there are 473 people on the guest list. And they want strawberry cake. With purple icing.

One thing I know they won't want is for us to focus on who they were as babies. Although it is fun for them to see baby pictures and to hear stories from their birth, for the most part they want to talk about all the things they can do now that they are five: like get skates and go to kindergarten and help mommy make dinner.

So we will celebrate them. We will celebrate the fact that, even though they were born too soon, they were healthy and whole and well. And they have become little ladies full of joy and innocence and excitement for life. We will celebrate who they are now.
As I've thought about the way we do birthdays, I've considered the unique way we celebrate the birthday of Jesus. We sing about his birthplace, his virgin mother, his swaddling clothes, the manger. On Christmas, we celebrate Jesus as a baby.

Maybe it's because it seems more manageable and less offensive to think of Him as a baby than to think of Him as a man. I can handle a baby. But a man who claimed to be the the Son of God, Savior of the world?

He entered the scene of humanity in this most humble of ways and he did so on purpose. Beautifully. Ironically. But Jesus as a baby isn't such a big deal unless you know him as a man and why he came as a baby in the first place. What depth of joy is available to those who are able to transition from celebrating Jesus, the tiny baby in the manger to Jesus, the redeemer of our hearts.

everyday unwrapped

I received the following email last week from my new friend, Tina. She captures the spirit of unwrapping the gift of our everyday moments beautifully. I couldn't wait to post her words with her gracious permission:

This week has been dragging. Too much at home time, not enough planned activities; too much monster mommy, not enough being present. But then I have moments like this: where I'm in my robe, armed with coffee, sitting at the kitchen table, teaching my children that Abraham was so obedient to God that he took his son up to a mountain to sacrifice him.

I get to explain to a three and four-year-old that in the end, Isaac lives and God provides. And we glue cotton balls onto rams that I printed off the computer and hang them on our Jesse tree. And I've worshipped. In my robe.

It's time to celebrate the moment: not what will be or what is to come. But what is real and true this day: the messy, the lovely, and the unexpected. Share a photo, a story, or anything that offers a glimpse into your own journey of discovering the gifts in the midst of the ordinary by linking up below. I look forward to the celebration!

(If you missed the introduction to this linky, check out last Monday's post.)

Edited: Please link directly to your Everyday Unwrapped post or it will be deleted from the links. If you don't know how to do that, email me: epfree1@gmail.com.

the power of your stories

So far, seventy-three of you have shared the story of where you were on September 11, 2001. I have read every word from the comments section of that post. There was an incredible range of perspectives represented in those comments. A fifth grade student thought a plane would fly into her house and kill her family. A pregnant mama dreamed for weeks that 9/11 would be the day her baby girl would be born. There was the wife of a United Airlines worker, the wife of a police officer for the LAPD and the wife of a soldier. One reader was even at the trade center just an hour before the first plane hit.

Then there were stories like this one, simply stating the facts of her life at that time that could have been true for any of us: "I ruined my car. We were having a baby. Something horrible was happening in our Country. I got stung by a bee." I encourage you to check out her entire post on Brambleberry Grace, as it is worth the read.

We were doing the regular, normal life stuff: nursing babies, putting on makeup, watching Barney, teaching a class, enjoying a family vacation...when one tragic event interrupted each life and brought us all to a collective halt.

Thank you for remembering and sharing your story with us. Each one is individually vital to the greater story of our country as a whole, even Anonymous who doesn't care and thinks we should leave it alone. I know you have a story. And it is important, too.

in whom I trust

I drove to work in much the same way I had every other morning: listening to Bob and Sheri on the radio. They were telling jokes and funny stories. It was 8:45. I got there early and sat in the parking lot of the college where I was working as a sign language interpreter. I had been married nearly 3 months.

They interrupted the laughter and informed the listening audience that it appeared as though a small plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center. I had never been to New York and didn't know what the World Trade Center was. I pictured a large, open air market on Wall Street similar to a farmer's market with money and stock instead of fruits and vegetables.

I got out of my car and walked to the library. Still early, I checked my email and casually looked at nbc.com to see about that plane. There was a small photo of the tower with billowing smoke. The librarian and I chatted about the accident. She was only vaguely interested.

Later that night, when all the world had heard and the sky above our country was eerily quiet, I distinctly remember the fear. I was thankful we didn't have children yet. This place was too terrible, too unpredictable. Life was too fragile. We were not safe.

I am intrigued to hear stories of where people were when they learned about the events of September 11, 2001. What were you doing when the world changed? Who were you with when our lives were so rudely interrupted? What were you thinking on the day in between Before and After?

The next day, I wrote out Psalm 91 in my journal. He is always my only hope, but that day I felt it. If you don't believe in God or if you believe in God but aren't sure about the Bible, then it won't really mean much to you. But to me, it was a lifeline. It still is.

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord,

"He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust."
Psalm 91:1-2

recipe for a good morning

One small vase of flowers.

One cardboard box.

One bowl of blueberries.

One princess vitamin.

One forty minute phone chat with my sister.

Finding joy in the simple things has come easy today.

she's looking for a name

All your ideas from my last post have me wishing I had a wet bar in every room of my house. Thanks for all your input and creative advice. I'll update you when I decide which great idea I'm going to choose. For now, I have a lot on my mind, but not much to say. Nothing is wrong but things are not quite right, either.

I haven't named my house yet. I thought it would come quickly once we moved in. But just like those boxes in the garage, she is slow to open herself up to us. It is taking more time to know her than I thought it would. And it has me grumpy.

We have ground bees in our yard. I know they have to go. The problem is, I just finished reading The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. I know all about the bees. And I feel so guilty for killing them.

I saw Mama Mia! in the theater and it was awesome. I had to grip my seat to keep from skipping down the dimly lit aisle with my hands waving in the air, singing "See that girl, watch that scene, dig in the dancing queen!"

These thoughts may seem disconnected to you. And in many ways, they are. But in my head, they all run together like a tri-colored ball of play-doh: Grumpy. Guilty. Glee.

My dad always tells me I need to lighten up. That sounds nice...to be light. I know he is right, that it is possible to live life lightly. These days, though, the layers of my existence are coming to the surface through little things like bees and songs in movies.

I'm sorry if this doesn't makes sense. I'm sorry to be clouding up your sunny Monday with crazy chats that don't connect. I'll try to have more of a point next post. In the meantime, if you feel as though you've seen enough house photos on my blog to get a feel for the name of my house, let me know. This silent treatment she's been giving me is getting old.

moving on

To all you fellow fans of So You Think You Can Dance who don't have dancing partners (aka. friends to watch the show with), I urge you to find some between now and next year. I had to watch the results show by myself last night. It was fabulous, but when judge Mary Murphy showed up on the dance floor in hot tamale red, I almost fell off the couch by myself and then continued to watch her dance through slightly parted fingers. All of that would have been much more exciting in a group.

In other news, I am headed to the beach in a few hours to help my friend Alisa photograph a wedding. A real wedding. We did her bridal portraits a few weeks ago. I look forward to the real thing.
How's that for a teaser? When I return I'll have to show you photos of her actual face, which is lovely. I sure hope this goes well.

last call for the hot tamale train

I am in mourning for the end of my only summer TV show.

I am a big fan of So You Think You Can Dance. I've watched since the beginning. A few years ago, I saw Snow from season 1 in NYC at Wicked on Broadway. She was in the audience and walked past me during intermission. I almost followed her but I was 7 weeks pregnant so the idea of celebrity stalking seemed to take too much energy (though I have stalked celebrities before). Not to mention the fact that I would have probably puked on her stilettos.

For the first 2 seasons, I was a closet watcher. Until last year when I hit the jack-pot and discovered a group of girls who actually got together and watched. Every week. With party food. And you know what else they did? They voted. They all pulled out their cell phones at the end, and voted for their favorite dancer. These chicks were serious.
So serious that we ended up going to the tour when it came to town. We made t-shirts and everything. By "everything" I mean we actually wore the t-shirts. And were gawked at by other tour goers straining to read our chests bedecked with iron on letters stating phrases from the show like "Welcome your Jidges!" and "Shut the front door."
Tonight they will announce the results of last nights voting, much of which took place right in Kendra's living room, as you can see if you look closely enough. So I'm kind of sad, in a surfacy sort of way. I love the show, the dancing, the personalities of the contestants. Mostly, though, I'm going to miss the weekly excuse to hang out with my dancing friends.

little ball, lots of smoke

We didn't watch fireworks this year. We stayed home and put the kids to bed on time. We did have some fun in the backyard with smoke bombs. They are small, cheap and unassuming. If you're looking for a pop or a bang, they are pretty useless. But for my preschoolers, they sure are entertaining. All they do is make lots and lots of smoke. Very environmentally conscious, we are.

Watching those smoke bombs light from a spark and then fog up the yard in a matter of seconds, it made me think about the crazy way our minds work sometimes. For example, the other day in a brief moment of four-year-old panic, one of my girls blurted out "I don't like these clothes, my face is wrong and I don't want to have that smile." Well, then.

My face is wrong? Are you kidding me? She's four. How can her face be wrong? Her face couldn't be more right. I thought of how dramatic she was being. How irrational. How ridiculous.

And how familiar. She sounded just like me. She was simply brave enough to say it out loud.

To be honest, sometimes I feel badly about myself just like she does. I feel insecure and listen to the voice in my head that says I'm not good enough or don't measure up. What starts like a spark in my mind quickly ignites and fogs up the truth. And the emotions burst forth from their familiar hiding place and run around aimlessly, untamed and unruly.

The truth is, the smoke bombs will go off. The sparks will come, the emotions will swing from high to low. That is normal, neutral even. The challenge comes in knowing what to do in the midst of the smoke, in remembering that my identity is secure in Christ even if my emotions imply otherwise. Even harder than believing that myself is teaching my little ones what it means to not allow those crazy emotions to rule the day.

So here's to an even keel Monday. May the smoke bombs be few and far between at your house. And if they happen to go off, as I'm sure they will, look on the bright side: at least they are colorful.

she speaks, she writes

There's nothing like paying for a sitter so that you can go to the Panera parking lot, eat lunch on your lap, contort your body to type on the keyboard that has mayonnaise all over the "w" and update your blog by mooching off their wi-fi. Not because you don't have internet access but because you have 3 kids.

There's also nothing like having people walk by your car, see you on the computer and think you are doing something important. But really you are just desperate for some time alone and for a place to speak it. Which I guess is important after all.

I know I could go inside. But there are people inside. So I sit here in my car with mayonnaise on my keyboard, thinking about why I write and those of you like me who write because you can, because you want to, because if you didn't, you would be denying a part of yourself.

And I think about blogging and how it is a place for those of us who love to write and kind of sometimes have something to say but don't have to have an agent or risk rejection to do it. And we can be the editor, publisher, AND the author and use all the run-on sentences that we want. And begin lots of fragment sentences with conjunctions.

It's all very egocentric, really.

I'm going to She Speaks tomorrow. It's a conference held by Proverbs 31 ministries to encourage and equip women who speak, who lead and who write.

I will be among those who write.

I signed up back in February and, like a raving mad lunatic, also signed up to be in a peer review group. That's when you bring something you've written and let other people read it while laughing and pointing and throwing rocks at you. Who would sign up for a peer review? Why am I subjecting myself to the madness?

Some of you I will see there, I know. I look forward to meeting you, as long as you kindly leave your rocks at home.

introducing Little Debbie

Let me be clear: I am no dessert snob. I have friends who are dessert snobs and the idea of eating chocolate that comes in cellophane is nothing short of an oxymoron. When it comes to sweets, I'm pretty impartial. Not to say that I always like the sweets I eat...just that almost anything will do when the craving hits.

Enter Little Debbie.

Our relationship goes way back to high school when my girlfriends and I would go to the beach first week. You know, the first week of summer. Does everyone call this first week?

These girlfriends and I called ourselves HCAEB (pronounced ha-KAY-ub), which was BEACH spelled backwards. The oh-so-cool thing was that it was also our initials: Heather, Catherine, Alica, Emily, Brandy. Why we didn't just call ourselves "beach" I'll never know. Granted, beach is kind of lame. But compared to what we settled on, well...I guess that's just 9th grade.

We would go grocery shopping right when we got there (or maybe right before we left home?) which was a good thing because if not, we would have had to go the whole week without cool ranch doritos, cherry coke and several boxes of Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls. I don't know which one of us started the Swiss Cake Roll obsession, but start it did. Since then I have ventured out into the other things Little Debbie had to offer: the fancy cakes, the zebra cakes, the fudge round.
This was the snack of choice I wrote about yesterday. Several of you commented that you didn't know what a fudge round is. Does this look familiar? Do you not know about Little Debbie? Is she not a nationwide friend? Maybe you've heard of the fudge round's mom, the oatmeal cream pie?

Anyone up for a snack cake?

looking for Stonehenge

A few years ago while working as a sign language interpreter at a local high school, I became friends with a math teacher whose name was Amanda. She was from England and had this spectacular accent that prompted students and teachers alike to constantly ask her to speak for us. She got a lot of Have you ever met the Queen? and Is Prince William as big a deal over there as he is over here? and stuff like that.

Sissy from Painting Love was Amanda's roommate, as we all worked at this high school together. When Amanda moved back to England, Sissy went to visit. And one of the things on their agenda was to visit Stonehenge, as Sissy had never been. Neither had Amanda.

I remember thinking What? You live in England and you've never been to Stonehenge? And it was strange to me that someone would live so close to something so cool and never go.

I unpacked my china today. It was wrapped in newspaper dating back to May of 2005. It has been boxed up since then. As I opened it, I thought about this post written by my sister a few days ago. So today, I unpacked it and threw away the box.

Because as strange as it is to me to live in England and not see Stonehenge, it is even worse to have nice china and keep it in a box. I know there are tons of other things like this that are right at my fingertips but I forget to notice them. Forget to enjoy them. I want to decide to notice, to purpose to look for the little stonehenges not yet visited that exist for me in my everyday life.

31

Some of you may have noticed that I had a birthday yesterday. Last year, I turned 30. I dreaded it while I was 29. Then, when the actual day came, I realized I kind of liked 30. Granted, there was that ginormous surprise party thrown on my behalf. That helped. But I also realized, as the days and weeks passed, that I finally sort of felt like a grown up. And I liked that.

This year has been different. I am sick, for one thing. And we are moving, for another. This one kind of crept upon me from behind while I was packing boxes and blowing my nose, tapped me on the shoulder and in a slightly annoyed voice said, "Hey. You're 31 now."

It seems like once you finally feel grown up, you should get to stop having birthdays. But they just keep coming. One after the other. Every single year. It isn't as fun as it used to be.

One thing that did come from this birthday was a visit from The Nester. She has a name, which I won't reveal, of course. It's funny though...The Nester has kind of grown on me. I call her that a lot now when we're together, especially when we're talking house. And we talk house a lot. She helped me pick this out.
That one is in our dining room. She thanked me for letting her help me pick out light fixtures, stating it was the most fun she's had all week. Or was it all month? The walls are svelte sage, for those of you who may wonder. We have six nights left until we move to the new old house. I think I'm ready. I still haven't shown you the kitchen. I inherited some nice cabinets that I wouldn't have chosen if it had been up to me. But we couldn't replace them. So we've done some other things to make it ours. I look forward to posting about that.

But first I have to go pack up my current kitchen. And count the days 'til my next birthday. Or not.

my estrogen-filled weekend

I went on the women's retreat with my church this weekend. It was crazy bad timing...one kid had pink eye, the man was to leave town right when I got back, we are moving in a week. You know. Life is happening. If I hadn't already paid for it, I may not have gone.

Besides that, I was asked to officially be the unofficial photographer for the weekend. Which is kind of obscure and intimidating. I'm not so crazy about taking photos of people I don't know and it just wouldn't be cool to have 200 pictures of the women in my small group. Who, by the way, were awesome.
Here they are, posing for a group photo. Women get crazy when we are together for a whole weekend at the beach with no men or children. Or laundry. As you can see, it was easy to get some good shots of this group. My concern was getting enough shots of the women I don't know.

One opportunity came Saturday afternoon while hanging on the beach with a friend. I noticed some women from our group that I hadn't gotten photos of yet.
They were relaxing, talking, bathing in the sun near us. I hated to do the whole Hey y'all! I know you don't really know me that well, but don't you want to pose for my camera in your bathing suits? I thought the best I would get would be a couple of half-hearted smiles and a lot of groaning.

This is what I got instead.
I've never seen women jump up so fast. They were like middle schoolers.
They not only posed, they ran to the water to give me fun, action shots. It was awesome. Then, they did this.
I don't think some of them have done a cartwheel in years. There were a couple more frames in the middle, but they aren't the most family friendly shots if you know what I mean.

I had to share these, as it has had me laughing for a couple of days now. I just love how, when we are removed from the everyday, we give ourselves permission to be ridiculous and silly.

the writing on the wall

This painting is hanging in my current kitchen. I bought it from The Nester at a yard sale a few years ago. She sells great stuff at yard sales. And yes, she makes me pay. I make her pay, too. Well, sort of. It usually goes something like this:

Sister 1: "Ooo, you're sellin' that?"
Sister 2: "Yeah, you want it?"
Sister 1: "Maybe...How much?"
Sister 2: "Oh, you can just have it."

It goes both ways like that. And then one sister tries to convince the other to just take it but the other sister insists on paying. What generally ends up happening is we trade stuff and no money is exchanged. Usually mom is in the mix somewhere, too. She's the worst at buying all our stuff at our yard sales. She never ends up making anything when the 3 of us do one together because she spends all her earnings on our junk. Then she apologizes a year later when she re-sells them at another yard sale.

I think the frame of this one has been painted several times which makes sense because that's just what my sister does. As I said before, I have had it for several years. But just a few days ago, noticed something I had never seen.
Well, I thought to myself, I wonder what Psalm 40:5 says? Though I'm sure this signature wouldn't mean much on Antiques Roadshow, I felt certain it would mean something to me. So I looked it up. And it was a sweet reminder to me that the Lord thinks of me...too many thoughts to count. I am on His mind.

And just like that, I remember again how the Creator of the Universe likes to reveal Himself through unlikely people and unlikely things...even a yard sale painting hanging in my kitchen.

i have just...

The Office spoiler alert...read at your own risk.

• eaten my weight in rocky road ice cream and oreos.
• teared up when Kevin got The Office parking spaces back.
• second (and third, and fourth) guessed my tile choice for our bathroom.
• clapped and pointed at the tv screen when Jim pulled out a ring.
• wondered if we have food for the girls school lunch tomorrow.
• realized I still haven't had a shower today.
• packed my entire living room in my head.
• spoiled Debbie's enjoyment of her TiVoed Office by not having a spoiler alert earlier.
• called myself an idiot.
  

a good word from a new friend

It feels a bit risky sometimes to share things that are real and vulnerable in this place. But here is one of the reasons why I do it:

I keep thinking that in 16 years I'll be able to rest. I squeeze in what I can here and there, but I'm like you--I feel there are things God wants so badly to tell me, and I just busy up my life to the point that I can't hear Him sometimes. Not because I'm not doing the things I should, but because "busy-ness" in general sometimes distracts us. I know what it feels like to live in remodeling and moving chaos, and can only promise that rest comes in its own time and own way. Maybe not as much as we feel we need, but sufficient for the day. Sleep. Read. Smile. Take in the joy of little moments and you'll come through it ok!

What a great word from my bloggy friend, Jennifer P. in response to my last post. Thanks Jennifer and to all you other girls, too...for relating with me in this familiar place of need and longing.

This weekend I purposed to take notice of the moments I could steal during the day to listen to my Father's voice. I have to be more creative to find those moments and they look so different now than they used to. But they are there, and I have found joy in the discovery. I'm still not giving up on my quest to have a silent retreat with yours truly, but it has been a relief to find small spaces for my soul to breathe even in the midst of everyday life.

have I failed to mention...?

Cute house, huh? I like the brick, the well manicured yard, the homey-ness of this house. It actually belongs to the man's brother and his wife from Spain (the man being my husband). Remember them?

They're so cute, just like their house. Wait, what's this...?

That's their house, through that window there. What window is that, you ask?

I'd know that ugly purple trim anywhere. Why, it's our new half-way painted master bedroom window. That's right, people. Of the many reasons why we bought this house, I have yet to mention one that is pretty major. It sits a mere house away from my brother and sister-in-law and their little girl. The twins can look out their bedroom window and see their cousins' bedroom window.

What memories they will make on our little cul-de-sac. We can't wait to get there.

And I promise, one day very soon I will stop talking about houses. Really, I will. In fact, my little corner of cyberspace will be changing things up in just a few days. I figured so many things are changing these days, why not shake it up here a bit as well? So stay tuned.