Please notice the backrest that we stole from her real chair and put on her mini-chair
Why yes, that is a fake mouse on her mouse pad.
Pranks are fun, getting pranked is fun. I hope you find some mischief this weekend and act like a child!
My Grandma is a hilarious and strong woman. She is the mother of eight children. That’s right folks, eight children! Ocho, Ocht, Octo, Huit! She loves sweets, food, and wine. She loves to travel and take her family with her on those adventures. She has the driest sense of humor. She is so generous and has an indescribable amount of patience. This is a piece of wisdom that my Grandma has shared with us. I can’t help but think the horse is a metaphor for life. Sometimes it stinks, sometimes it is breathtakingly gorgeous, sometimes it makes your eyes blurry and itchy, and it’s always powerful. I’m not sure how many of you have ever been on a horse when it’s ready to run. If you try and force your way without being in harmony with the horse, you’re in for a very…very bumpy ride.
We grew up going to my grandparent’s farm most weekends. I spent a lot of time on a horse. There was one day that I wanted to go on a nice trot around the ring and let’s just say “Mulligan” (the horse) wanted to go a bit faster. As much as I dug my heels into its sides or pulled on the reigns, that horse was going to run. I was fighting it tooth and nail. The next thing I know I’m looking at the errr...undercarriage of ole Mulligan and my head and upper body are flailing around as if I was at a KISS concert. Mulligan finally stops after an ample amount of dirt, leaves, and manure have filled every orifice on my body. I slowly plop down onto the ground trying to catch my breath.
There was nothing scary about the horse wanting to go faster, I would have been safe. I had galloped before. And I definitely wouldn’t have been coughing up hay for the next week. Life will go faster or go down a different path that you might be wanting. Hear Grandma’s words, “The best way to ride a horse is the way it is going.”
*Warning: not a male-friendly blog post*
I may or may not have reached a new level of scatter-brain on Tuesday. I had a lot on my mind and despite getting up early, having my coffee and some QT on the porch, getting dressed with plenty of time to spare… I forgot something.
I was walking across the parking lot to work and something felt different…off…. nonexistent. MY BRA! I FORGOT TO PUT MY BRA ON! MOTHER OF PEARL I FORGOT TO PUT MY BRA ON!
I was already late to work and had to leave right at 4 for a doctor’s appt so I knew I couldn’t run home and get it. I began thinking of all the ways I could construct a bra in the office: paperclips, duct tape, printer tape, you name it, I was trying to build-a-bra. (Parents-this is NOT the same fun game as build-a-bear)
So I walked around the office the rest of the day like an embarrassed 13-year old with her arms crossed across her chest. I was certain that no one would notice. Afterall, I’m not that well endowed. Well at around 1:30 I was taking the trash out and a dear coworker of mine decided to spark up a lovely conversation. Of course I was trying to maneuver the trash bag to hide my flippy-floppies while this coworker who will remain nameless (starts with an M and ends in -ary) says in front of a group of fellow workers, “Your boobs look saggy today.”
True Story. The end.
Excuse the camera work, all I had was my camera phone!
That's me!
A girlfriend and I were talking about how difficult it can be when you’re making a decision for your family. The difficult part is the communication and the infamous waiting process between you and your spouse. (I really wish I could have played scary music while you read waiting process).
Let’s just say that patience is a virtue I’m working towards… ok fine, daily. AM I PATIENT YET?! I digress, I heard the funniest thing the other day that my friend Andrea told me. We both almost bought a lifetime supply of Depends because we were laughing so hard we thought our bladders were conspiring against us. “Women are DSL while men are dial up.”
I’ll let you laugh a bit more.
I know, I’m sorry you can hear my cackling all the way from where you are.
It’s funny because it’s true! When I think I have the right answer for our decision or I have a desire on my heart, I’m ready to go! I’ve already made the list, planned the escape route, planned my outfit, and planned for spandex to wear during my escape route.
Meanwhile, hubby is taking his sweet time doing ridiculous things like praying about this said desire or decision. Hmmm.
I am a firm believer in communication in general, but especially between husband and wife. So, I of course, voiced my desire to sweet hubby. He listened. He heard me. He asked me to trust him.
24 Hours later…. I voice my desire to hubby again. He listened. He heard me. He asked me to trust him.
12 Hours later…. I thrice (is that a word?) voice my desire to hubby. He listened. He heard me. He gave me the stank eye and told me I needed to trust him.
I realized that while I say I’ll follow my hubby anywhere and I trust him completely, my actions were not a great depiction of my vow. I had to unclench my fists that I had tightened around my plan and my desires and let them go. I have to trust that he is leading our sweet, weird family consisting of a crazy woman and a hyper dog down the right path.
And let me tell you, a quick way to a miserable marriage is to think I can manipulate him into agreeing with me or that giving him the cold shoulder will make him agree with me. Of course I have never tried such terrible tactics, I’m just guessing. You believe me right?! Right!?
You are worth going out on a limb for.
It might be what we’ve grown up with. It may be the media. But the fact is, some of us have never thought about pursuing our dreams or we end up talking ourselves out of an adventure. I think it's because we’re scared we won’t be worth it. There is no age limit on happiness. There is no "too late". You were fearfully and wonderfully made. You are worth it. Start now.
I was having a conversation with a good friend the other day about the insecurity that weaseled its way in when we got married. Sometimes the insecurity may come in specific forms or just plain general self-loathing. However big or small, the power that insecurity has over our thoughts is ridiculous. (I tried to think of a more intelligent or sensitive word, but ridiculous is what you’re getting from me!)
I digress; this amazing friend of mine is gorgeous, talented, and married to a fabulous man. However, her insecurity made her doubt herself, her husband’s faithfulness, and even her purpose.
And the thing is, I’ve been there. I know Sam is so faithful, is solid in his faith walk and loves me so well. BUT catch me watching a horrible Lifetime movie and the next thing I know I’m wondering if Sam has been texting Angelina Jolie behind my back. Ridiculous? 100% yes. Real fear? Absolutely. Have you seen her in Tomb Raider?! Eat a doughnut woman!
I’ve been thinking about insecurity as a spouse and our fear that we will be betrayed.
And here is what has been stirring in my brain. I think Satan knows his game. He knows we have active imaginations and don’t want to believe that we’re worthy of a lifetime of loyalty and love. SO, this area is his playground. We give him a fast pass to the crazy circus inside our heads when we indulge these fears. There is a destructive part of our nature that almost takes pleasure in trying to imagine all the different ways that we’ll be betrayed. It’s like when you scratch a mosquito bite until it bleeds but it kind of feels good while you’re scratching the hell out of it.
Philippians 4:7- “And the peace of God which transcends all understanding will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
The more we root ourselves in that scripture, it becomes our truth. I even read in Timothy the other day that we have to practice Godliness- I forget that it’ll never come naturally.
Part of practicing Godliness is developing a plan when those thoughts creep in. It may be helpful to pray with your spouse as you experience these fears. I imagine it’s pretty powerful to have your spouse pray victory over you. That prayer automatically does a 180 degree ninja kick (I just made that up) to any fear or insecurity you are feeling.
.... I had soaked enough of the house in and was ready to tackle the rest of my to-do list. She asked if she could pray for me. As always I said yes. I remember when we first began meeting, I would pray with her. Only to realize it was because that is what I did with the women I met with. As progress was made, I asked her if she could be the one to pray for me. All I uttered was, "Amen." with my heart pleading the interpretation, "Let it be so." She prayed each week that my soul would begin acting as though it was broken and needed to be fixed. Each week, my heart broke and softened little by little.
I shook myself out of my dream-like retreat with an ache so real that it replaced any notion that my desire for a retreat was imaginary. I breathed in and sighed that even though that place did not exist for me except in the stitches of my imagination; perhaps one day, I can make that dream real for others.
Even if you only joined me in the retreat for this blog series, I hope to make this real for all of you one day.
...It is a two-story white house with a wrap-around porch. It has black shutters and reminds me of an old farm house. It has what seemed to be two dozen windows just inviting the sun's rays to come in to rejuvenate me. In the winter we meet inside. We always meet in her living room when it is too cold to sit on the porch. There are two big, brown leather chairs in front of the fire place. The walls were a soft green that looked as though the grass and the river had come together and splashed onto the walls. For some reason, even though it was inside, I still felt as open and free as I would if we were sitting outside. Perhaps that is why I never minded when it got cold. In the warmer months, we set up shop on the porch. The back porch is adorned with 3 different wind chimes, all playing their different songs as I sang mine each week. There are 4 white rocking chairs that showed the wear and tear of the generations of women that had sat in them before me. I always inspected the arms of the chairs wondering if the hands before me had clenched as hard as I found myself doing each week.
The house is on a bluff overlooking the river. With thousands of yards of grass leading my eyes to the river, I always felt safe in my rocking chair but with the slight eagerness to one day, have the spirit and wholeness to run as fast as I could through that grass down to the river. But for the time being, I sat on the porch with my counselor who forced me to take my time and not rush to the other side of my identity. The version of myself that I desired was waiting for me in the river but I needed to properly say goodbye to the broken version of myself first. Each week she guided me through those goodbyes. I felt I was picking petals off a flower, "I love you, I love you not. I love you, I love you not." There were parts of myself I was not sad to see go. The harder weeks were when I had to let go of the "petals" that I thought were keeping me safe. Those petals always seemed to fall a bit slower to the ground.
She knew I needed to sit on that porch and work through the mess and blurred maze I had created for myself before running down to the river. My heart had never thirsted for water so deeply...
......She had seen me for months now. She knew I didn't want to embrace the lack of control I had in my life, and I most certainly did not want to look it in the face. I wish she would have answered the question for me. But this counselor knew that I had to say it out loud. The counselors in the past either filled in the blanks for me or just nodded their head as I begged for boldness. This counselor knew I needed to answer the question, so without regard for time, without frustration from weeks of asking me the same question, without discomfort in silence, she asked me to think about it longer. She waited. I waited for her to cut me slack. She waited longer. “No.” I humbly and embarrassingly answered. I was expecting a list of homework assignments or a flood of questions about "why I felt that way and how do I feel..." She stopped rocking and affirmed me but without judgment, told me that I needed to write that question she had asked on something that I could look at the rest of the week. She told me that I needed to understand who I was dying to before I started dying all over the place without reason. She said it with the perfect balance of authority and mercy that it empowered me. We had gone over an hour, but she never scheduled someone after me. We walked around her property a little while debriefing everything we had talked about. We finally reached a point when I needed to go. When we reached my car, I felt embarrassed that I could not pay her. As she does every week, she reminds me that she meets with me as a service that is “on the house”. The only thing she is strict on is that I come each Wednesday. If I have to cancel, I don’t get to see her that week. I began to see this as wisely intentional because she knew that if it wasn’t set in stone, that I would replace it with #20 on my to-do list. I gave her one last hug and took a look at the house before I left. I tried to etch it into my memory so the feeling of freedom would last me until the next Wednesday.
.... She has not said a whole sentence yet, I thought to myself. She was silent. She was in tune with where I was in my life and the journey I was going on through my heart. I collapsed into my chair. We start rocking, sipping tea, and I begin to tell her how I tired I am. For the next 45 minutes or so, I have painted a picture of what my week looked like, explained everyone I met with, explained the things I had sacrificed, and how exhausted I was at not understanding a balance between giving myself to my community and knowing who I was without that self-appointed role.
Here is why I come back to this porch and this woman week after week. She looked at me and said quite compassionately but matter-of-factly, “Do you think you are noble for doing all of those things? Do you think you are noble for dying to yourself? Who are you dying to Martha?” I of course fired back that I’m dying to my calling and to Jesus. This woman knows when I have taught myself a truth that is in fact, not true. “Are you?” she asked. Again, the silence.
This is continued from my previous post about my own personal Sandals Resort that happens inside of my head:
On a Wednesday, when the week seems as though it should be over, I got into my car and drove over to my counselor’s house. This was no ordinary house. This was an old house she had bought years ago to be a safe place for burnt-out women to come and be refreshed. Her parents had passed and left her an inheritance for her to make her dream come true: having a private practice out in the country to serve the over-serving women. I admired the fact the house was in an indirect way, a gift to her. I suppose I just saw in her face the appreciation and respect because she did not feel as though she “owned” it. I drove down the long, gravel driveway lined with trees. It was just long enough for me to enjoy the butterflies in my stomach about sitting in that rocking chair on the porch and marinating on the hard questions she will ask me for the day. I finally reach the house, I get out and she is waiting for me on the porch. She has a giant smile across her face and a mug of hot Russian Tea waiting for me. She is around 55 years old. She has been married 20 years with 2 children that were getting close to my age. She loved dogs and there were two constantly at the house. They had become part of our counseling sessions. I enjoyed that she shared just enough about herself and her life experiences so that I could trust her and identify with her. But she never shared too much so that I would not feel as though the sessions were about her.
I tried to pace myself so I didn’t seem over-eager, but my face told it all. She had learned to understand when I needed her to listen and when I needed her to speak hard truth into my life. She knows today is a day she needs to do both. As a counselor, I tried to nail down her theory of choice, perhaps in order to have some sort of control in my sessions with her. But, I could never nail one down. She used an eclectic approach, combining different aspects from Rogerian to Behavioral, depending on what I needed that day. She greets me with a hug and we walk around the wrap-around porch to the back. The back porch overlooks the river. She calmly and confidently sits down her in rocking chair waiting for me to start talking. I wasn't sure I wanted the silence to end.
“Can it really only be Wednesday?” I asked myself. It was the longest week I had experienced in a long time. School was crashing down on me, the women I met with were all at hard crossroads, my job was pressuring me to fulfill a role I did not want to fill, and I had not sat down with my husband to have a real conversation in a week. I can’t believe it’s only Wednesday. I had gotten home from work, exhausted, and sat down on the couch to write. The minute I hit the couch, tears started pouring from my eyes. I felt as though I was in over my head. I felt ignored. I feared I was doomed for a life without self-exploration and care. The only thing I could think about was escaping to a place where someone would actually pour into me instead. The counselor wanted counseling. No, the counselor needed counseling. My mind began to dream about this place I could escape to. I looked in my wallet at my insurance card. “Does not cover mental health services” was written in red ink across the back. I was left alone to my dreaming once again. I took off my boots, pulled my legs up near my chest, pulled a blanket around my shoulders and began dreaming about my retreat.
