Recently, my husband has been required to work out of town for weeks at a time. Although I'm thankful for steady employment and the opportunities that have come his way because of this assignment, I was nervous about what lengthy separation would do to our marriage, our friendship, and our kids. The past six months have been a difficult time for me physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Honestly, I've been a bit of a wreck. Through all of that, my husband has faithfully loved me, cared for me, sacrificed hugely to meet my needs, and shown me time and again what true love actually looks like in the corners of dark days. He's my best friend, and I wasn't thrilled about suddenly having to go it alone.
So in the face of this impending separation, I got busy. I worried. And worried some more. And sought counsel from dear friends and wise women. And took their advice and discussed my fears openly with my husband. And prayed. A LOT. And was finally blessed with the restful realization that if this is the situation I find myself in, God is here, too, and will enable and strengthen me to meet any and every need.
There have been many graces that made life easier to navigate. God has surrounded me with loving, giving people. Multiple friends have checked up on me, planned play dates, and offered encouragement. My dear, dear neighbor and friend brought me food, and fresh eggs from her own chickens, and helped me round up the garbage in my house so I wouldn't have to drag the can up the driveway in the dark. My in-laws invited the kids and I to come and stay for as long as we wanted to, and turned their patio into a play time paradise with a huge wading pool and custom made sand box. They prepared food for us, gave me moments to curl up and read a book, and provided love and affection on days when I could've been sitting at home, alone, killing a bag of potato chips while I binged on Netflix. The power of being present in someone's life should never be underestimated. Through the kindness of friends and family, God has proven Himself to be present every day.
Another blessing is that my kids have been wonderfully normal during their dads absence. They've played and fought and gotten taller. They've wailed for their dad during emotionally-charged pre-nap moments, partaking in a luxury I don't allow myself. They've learned to ham it up on FaceTime with him, but also to say "Hi!" and then walk away to play with a toy. They've shown me that it's possible to react to a major life change with resiliency and acceptance. The fact that they continue to fight and whine and drive me a bit batty has given me even more opportunity to trust God to provide the patience and love and wisdom I need every day with them. And He absolutely has.
The blessing that has caught me by surprise and fueled my wonder at God's goodness has been how well my husband and I have been able to communicate while he has been gone. Communicating effectively is an aspect of our marriage that has needed constant attention during our 9 years together. Any time we allowed our proximity to each other to become mundane, we began to take the other for granted and failed to communicate with purpose, respect, kindness, and joy. Now that we are separated by many miles and several time zones, I was afraid that distance would work the same evil as familiarity, and we wouldn't take the time to really share with each other. Happily, blessedly, our conversations have been open, honest, and joyful! By utilizing the many capabilities of smartphones, we have been able to continue sharing life. We've rejoiced over our sons second lost tooth, and shared in the worry that our daughter might have broken some bones in her hand after taking a hard fall outside. We've discussed spiritual things. We've encouraged each other in our efforts at our respective jobs. We've stayed up way too late (for me) on the phone, like a couple of high school kids with a crush on each other, just because it's nice to be in that moment together. Even from far away he has continued to be my biggest supporter and my best friend.
I wonder at my God, who cares so much about my family that He would not only allow this separation, but that He would use it for our good and His glory. Because contrary to all the things I feared it would be, and through all the times it has been difficult, this separation has been good. Good because of the kindness of others toward my family. Good because of the normalcy of my kids. Good because now I know that physical distance can't ever truly separate my husband and me. Good because I have seen daily confirmation that God is wise, and kind, and active in our lives. As much as I love my husband, as happy as I am that he will soon be home, I wouldn't trade these past few weeks without him for the goodness that God has shown, and the truth He has revealed. It's only through greater knowledge of God that I can ever truly love my husband and my kids. And so I am thankful for this separation, and all the good that God has accomplished through it. And that is the exact opposite of everything I expected.
-Ashley
Monday, June 27, 2016
Saturday, April 2, 2016
Because We Love this Land
Recently my husband and I watched the movie Promised Land (2012). We both enjoyed the story centering on the conflict between the residents of a small farming community and the employees of a large mining firm, seeking to purchase leases of the farms in order to harvest the natural gas pocketed beneath the beautiful but largely unprofitable fields. The story was educational and engaging, and the actors delivered relatable, likable characters who were caught between the drive to do their jobs and advance their careers, and their empathy with the farmers who struggled to remain faithful to something that, for them, was deep and good and true. Almost every farmer in the film was working his daddy's farm, which had been his granddaddy's, and so on, so far back until some of them didn't even hazard a guess at the number of years the land had been in the family. All they knew was, that land was theirs. An ennobling privilege, a terrible responsibility.
But my husband doesn't come from clay. He comes from hills that roll alongside a river in southeast Missouri, from acres of backyard studded with trees, from fields of his grandma's farm right next door where he walked every Sunday afternoon with his family, then went home to check for ticks. He comes from a close-knit, kissing, hugging family of aunts and uncles that lived on the land and from the land, and even if they moved away and made their lives on a ranch in Texas, or inside a church sanctuary in Florida, or anywhere else, they always came back to the land. Even after 16 years in Georgia, my in-laws still call that little town beside the river, home. You can't ever really leave the land.
But that all changed, very gradually, over years and years, as my husband began to lovingly and patiently give me the gift of the love of land. He began by showing me what it meant to care for our property, to take pride in the form and appearance of it. He mowed grass, he yanked out ugly bushes, he tamed an entire crazy grown-over woods in our backyard with his brute strength, determined will, and a machete. I think the little saplings might've started felling themselves when they saw him coming out on a Sunday afternoon, ready to work for a few hours. I mostly stayed inside to read a book and doze. Sometimes he would come and get me to show me his progress and tell me his plans. Sow some grass seed. Dig a firepit. Maybe add some benches. I'd nod and smile and encourage and go back inside.
This film raised all kinds of questions for me, and stirred up feelings that would never have crossed my heart or mind were I not married to my husband. You see, he comes from land.
Here in the South we are proud of our clay, even as we shake our heads over the stains that it leaves on our clothes, our shoes, our carpets, our skin. We dye t-shirts with it, and people buy them (probably mostly tourists. All we have to do is put a white undershirt in the washing machine with a pair of dirty jeans and Ta Da! Clay-dyed shirt for free.). We may hate it, but we're proud of it. That's one Southern brand of love of the land.
But my husband doesn't come from clay. He comes from hills that roll alongside a river in southeast Missouri, from acres of backyard studded with trees, from fields of his grandma's farm right next door where he walked every Sunday afternoon with his family, then went home to check for ticks. He comes from a close-knit, kissing, hugging family of aunts and uncles that lived on the land and from the land, and even if they moved away and made their lives on a ranch in Texas, or inside a church sanctuary in Florida, or anywhere else, they always came back to the land. Even after 16 years in Georgia, my in-laws still call that little town beside the river, home. You can't ever really leave the land.
I grew up differently. I mostly lived in a neighborhood, in a city, with a Wal-Mart close-by, not horses and cattle. I played outside and rode my bike and climbed trees and made mud burritos that I unfortunately sat on occasionally, but I didn't know land. I was ignorant enough that every year when my mom planted annuals, I felt sorry when they died, or maybe felt like she just hadn't been able to keep them alive. (No offense Mom.) I didn't even bother to ask her how long they were supposed to live. The greater shame is that I was privileged to be the granddaughter of the fairy godmother of plants, and I was still too dumb and disinterested to learn a little bit about turning over a shovel of dirt and watching something green and magical appear with the application of water and sunshine and hope.
But that all changed, very gradually, over years and years, as my husband began to lovingly and patiently give me the gift of the love of land. He began by showing me what it meant to care for our property, to take pride in the form and appearance of it. He mowed grass, he yanked out ugly bushes, he tamed an entire crazy grown-over woods in our backyard with his brute strength, determined will, and a machete. I think the little saplings might've started felling themselves when they saw him coming out on a Sunday afternoon, ready to work for a few hours. I mostly stayed inside to read a book and doze. Sometimes he would come and get me to show me his progress and tell me his plans. Sow some grass seed. Dig a firepit. Maybe add some benches. I'd nod and smile and encourage and go back inside.
After he got the woods beaten back far enough for his purposes, and dug a deep pit in the earth, and ringed it with homemade concrete bricks, he turned around and looked up the hill and started making things beautiful around the house. He transplanted a dogwood from the woods to the grass beside our patio, and tied it upright with wire to convince the poor thing is wasn't going to die. And it didn't. Then he dug a flower bed and filled it with roses and irises and lilies, and began to experiment with a few things like tomatoes and peppers and cilantro. And I think that's when I was converted, and fell into the love of things that are green, things that come from the land. Watching that dogwood stand up on its own, putting out six inches of new growth and a gorgeous coat of leaves, year after year, and seeing those iris leaves shoot up like a geyser from the ground, then those thick stalks with their buds like a purple cocoon, and finally that flower like a waterfall caught in time. Every day there was something new to marvel at. And I began to go outside just to see what had happened since the day before. To count the number of lily blooms that were sure to open the next day, to come as close as ever I have been to grabbing a rifle and shooting a deer when they came by in the dark hours and nipped all but two of those almost-blooms. I measured my son's height by how tall the iris blooms were, until our last year at that house, when he finally surpassed them. I won't ever forget that blonde boy in a t-shirt, diaper, and sandals, standing beside a blossom of Holland Sky. I could not get enough of watching things grow.
Then I started getting my hands dirty. I got down in those beds and learned the feel of dirt and clay and the smell of mulch, and scrubbed my hands at the end of the day, satisfied. I headed outside with my husband and stayed, working alongside, standing back to survey the progress, dreaming about and planning for the future. And I took my kids with me, because this was something too important to miss.
We've moved from that first house, where my husband helped me fall in love with the dirt. I still live in a neighborhood, in a city, with a Wal-Mart close-by. My neighbors do, however, have chickens, and the fresh eggs are delicious. My husband and I don't have much land, a little more than an acre. We are the first generation of our family to live on it, but we love it just the same, and every sunny evening and weekend you can usually find us outside, wreaking havoc on the existing overgrown underbrush, clearing the old to make way for the new. Already we've planted a spring bulb garden, fifteen blueberry bushes, and six trees. We make long-term plans, grateful for whatever amount of time the Lord gives us here, and for the beautiful things He makes to come forth from the earth. We do this, because we love this land.
-Ashley
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
Being Southern
I have two sisters-in-law, but with both of them I leave off the "in-law" part and let it be at "sister." Even with three sisters in my family, God knew I needed these other two to round things out nicely. Every single one occupies a specific location in my heart, reserved just for her. Nobody crowded anyone else out or butted in. They all just slipped right in where they belonged. They are each of them so beautiful, and loving, and generally wonderful in every way. I admire them, and wish I was more like them. I wish I was more courageous, like the youngest one, and tender-hearted, like the one I gained through marrying my husband. I wish I had the lion-heart of my oldest sister, and the great ability not to say too much, like the sister I gained when she married my brother. And the one closest to me in age, my first (and former) frenemy, I wish I had her kindness, which runs as deep as a well. And also her skill with power tools. She is our daddy's daughter, in so many good ways. I think I got mostly his feisty-ness, and his nose. I don't mind.
My sisters are all great gift-givers. They give of themselves, of their time, of their hearts, A well-timed text from one of them can help me straighten out a really rotten day, or at least my rotten attitude. And when special occasions come around they give lovely, thoughtful, sometimes hilarious gifts. One of my favorites was the set of dryer balls that look like hedgehogs. Quirky and practical!
Last Christmas one of my sisters gave me a nice, comfy long-sleeved t-shirt with a Bible verse printed on the back. I really like it. She was kind enough to buy it in a really pretty coral color, which complements my complexion, and makes me feel a little bit pretty on days when I give in to the fact that I am a stay-at-home mom doing laundry all day, with no need to be glamorous. Her gifts are usually like that. Like the cute chip clips with sassy sayings printed on them, or the delicously scented bar of soap from a soapery. All of my soap comes from Target. But she's sweet like that. She takes a mundane thing and makes it special.
This t-shirt is from a popular line of clothing that celebrates the dual desire for femininity and comfort, as well as the region of the country that I live in. Aren't t-shirts amazing, that they can do all of that? And I really love wearing this t-shirt. I wash it and hang it up to dry, instead of letting it roll around in the dryer with my socks, because I have arms as long as a gorilla and I hate it when my sleeves are too short. But this shirt. It's got me thinking, What does it really mean to be Southern?
Any person, no matter where they came from or where they live now, can wear a shirt with a location printed down the sleeve like a tattoo and pretend that it makes them belong there. But that just isn't true. I can wear a shirt that says "I Love NY" and all it means is that I probably got hustled by a street vendor. I wear this gifted shirt, and I love it, but it doesn't make me Southern. So what does?
Is it my accent, which waxes and wanes in intensity depending on my company? Put me on the phone with my nanny and I'll prove it to you. She has the most beautiful Southern accent, and anybody that speaks even remotely like her makes me feel comfortable and safe and homesick all at once. I hope I talk like that when I grow up.
Is it how I like my tea which, contrary to what I order most of the time, is thickly, richly sweet? My mom and grandmother are champion brewers and sweeteners of tea. I've drunk gallons of it, and still I want more. A true Sunday dinner of beef pot roast with carrots, potatoes, rolls, and gravy is not complete without sweet tea. Nor any other meal, except breakfast, for that matter. I wonder if tea could be considered a vegetable, since it is the product of leaves?
Or maybe it's the fact that I eat grits. And fried green tomatoes. On purpose. Or the fact that "y'all" is permanently lodged in my vocabulary, as well as plenty of other Frankenstein-ian creations of this Southern English language. But that's a whole n'other blog post.
I really don't know what makes me or anybody else Southern, other than being from here, mostly because I've never lived or spent much time outside of the South, so I don't even know what different looks like. Or sounds like. Or tastes like. We even fry the sushi here, y'all.
Southern, for me, is just being. It's going about my life, talking the way the words come out of my mouth, eating food the way it tastes good to me, and wishing I had sweet tea when I usually just drink water. Southern can't be commercialized or sold, no matter what that shirt says. Anybody can wear a shirt and be a faker. It takes a real Southerner to sit there at your grandmother's kitchen table with a glass of sweet tea that is mostly just sugar, talking about everybody you know and saying "Bless their heart" frequently enough to remind each other, and yourself, that you aren't really gossiping. You're just catching up with your grandma.
If that ain't Southern, I don't know what is.
My sisters are all great gift-givers. They give of themselves, of their time, of their hearts, A well-timed text from one of them can help me straighten out a really rotten day, or at least my rotten attitude. And when special occasions come around they give lovely, thoughtful, sometimes hilarious gifts. One of my favorites was the set of dryer balls that look like hedgehogs. Quirky and practical!
Last Christmas one of my sisters gave me a nice, comfy long-sleeved t-shirt with a Bible verse printed on the back. I really like it. She was kind enough to buy it in a really pretty coral color, which complements my complexion, and makes me feel a little bit pretty on days when I give in to the fact that I am a stay-at-home mom doing laundry all day, with no need to be glamorous. Her gifts are usually like that. Like the cute chip clips with sassy sayings printed on them, or the delicously scented bar of soap from a soapery. All of my soap comes from Target. But she's sweet like that. She takes a mundane thing and makes it special.
This t-shirt is from a popular line of clothing that celebrates the dual desire for femininity and comfort, as well as the region of the country that I live in. Aren't t-shirts amazing, that they can do all of that? And I really love wearing this t-shirt. I wash it and hang it up to dry, instead of letting it roll around in the dryer with my socks, because I have arms as long as a gorilla and I hate it when my sleeves are too short. But this shirt. It's got me thinking, What does it really mean to be Southern?
Any person, no matter where they came from or where they live now, can wear a shirt with a location printed down the sleeve like a tattoo and pretend that it makes them belong there. But that just isn't true. I can wear a shirt that says "I Love NY" and all it means is that I probably got hustled by a street vendor. I wear this gifted shirt, and I love it, but it doesn't make me Southern. So what does?
Is it my accent, which waxes and wanes in intensity depending on my company? Put me on the phone with my nanny and I'll prove it to you. She has the most beautiful Southern accent, and anybody that speaks even remotely like her makes me feel comfortable and safe and homesick all at once. I hope I talk like that when I grow up.
Is it how I like my tea which, contrary to what I order most of the time, is thickly, richly sweet? My mom and grandmother are champion brewers and sweeteners of tea. I've drunk gallons of it, and still I want more. A true Sunday dinner of beef pot roast with carrots, potatoes, rolls, and gravy is not complete without sweet tea. Nor any other meal, except breakfast, for that matter. I wonder if tea could be considered a vegetable, since it is the product of leaves?
Or maybe it's the fact that I eat grits. And fried green tomatoes. On purpose. Or the fact that "y'all" is permanently lodged in my vocabulary, as well as plenty of other Frankenstein-ian creations of this Southern English language. But that's a whole n'other blog post.
I really don't know what makes me or anybody else Southern, other than being from here, mostly because I've never lived or spent much time outside of the South, so I don't even know what different looks like. Or sounds like. Or tastes like. We even fry the sushi here, y'all.
Southern, for me, is just being. It's going about my life, talking the way the words come out of my mouth, eating food the way it tastes good to me, and wishing I had sweet tea when I usually just drink water. Southern can't be commercialized or sold, no matter what that shirt says. Anybody can wear a shirt and be a faker. It takes a real Southerner to sit there at your grandmother's kitchen table with a glass of sweet tea that is mostly just sugar, talking about everybody you know and saying "Bless their heart" frequently enough to remind each other, and yourself, that you aren't really gossiping. You're just catching up with your grandma.
If that ain't Southern, I don't know what is.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Hanging Up the Cape
I am supposed to be choosing photos for our 2015 memory book. I've even made myself a cup of hot tea to try and trick myself into believing this is going to be a fun process. It's not working. With hundreds (thousands?) of pictures to sort through, upload, then place creatively into a digital scrapbook, I just can't seem to find the part of me that actually wants to do it. I figure, if I get it done by December 31st of this year, I'm not too late. Ha!
Any good intentions I had regarding my photo project were completely derailed when I came across this picture:
This is a picture of my daughter wearing her brother's Superman jacket. This picture was taken in August of last year. Therefore, this picture is also a testimony that I am sometimes a freakishly paranoid mom. I think the wind might have been blowing. Hence, the jacket. And the hood. She's wearing his because she didn't seem to have anything that fit her. Duh, it's summer. No one wears a hood in summer.
I digress.
This picture changed my creative output from grudging photo project to overly-sentimentalized blog (fair warning!) in about 2 seconds, all because of the jacket.
This jacket has a long history in my son's relatively short lifetime. At least it feels like it does. He received the jacket in February of 2015, and wore it practically non-stop for days.
Here's one of the first photos of my son in his jacket:
Any good intentions I had regarding my photo project were completely derailed when I came across this picture:
This is a picture of my daughter wearing her brother's Superman jacket. This picture was taken in August of last year. Therefore, this picture is also a testimony that I am sometimes a freakishly paranoid mom. I think the wind might have been blowing. Hence, the jacket. And the hood. She's wearing his because she didn't seem to have anything that fit her. Duh, it's summer. No one wears a hood in summer.
I digress.
This picture changed my creative output from grudging photo project to overly-sentimentalized blog (fair warning!) in about 2 seconds, all because of the jacket.
This jacket has a long history in my son's relatively short lifetime. At least it feels like it does. He received the jacket in February of 2015, and wore it practically non-stop for days.
Here's one of the first photos of my son in his jacket:
In this picture he is doing his favorite thing in the world-playing outside and "helping" his dad work in the woods. Our previous home had a deep lot with an area of woods that my husband had cleared for a fire pit, as well as woods that weren't so tamed. My son loved all of it. Zip up his jacket, slide on his boots, arm him with a shovel, and he was ready for anything. For hours.
Naturally, the jacket elicited a lot of admiration and comments from the general public. Our son wasn't a huge fan of the attention. He just loved the jacket. But who can resist a cute little 4 year-old boy in superhero apparel? Apparently, not many people. So, he lived with the celebrity that came wrapped up in that bright red cape. It gave him a chance to develop his people skills, if nothing else.
My son and the jacket became pretty inseparable objects. He wanted to go play outside? On with the jacket. Target or Kroger run? Jacket. Cold in the house? Jacket. With the hood up. That kept up through all the cold months of early 2015, took a hiatus during the warm months (except for that windy day in August when his sister borrowed it for about a minute), then resumed as soon as cooler temperatures hit last fall.
And then one day, something happened.
No, the cape didn't rip, the zipper didn't break, the large "S" didn't begin to flake off. Nope. One day, suddenly, the jacket was too short. Not so short that it wouldn't make do in most situations (see those above which don't require leaving our property), but short enough that it was time to trade up to a bigger size. I discussed it with my son, then went shopping with his dad, and found.....absolutely not what I was looking for, AT ALL. I wanted that jacket, just one size bigger (wisdom says: buy two next time). Apparently February is a great time to clearance outerwear, which means I was left with one measly option. It works, in that it is the right size, and comes in colors that my son likes and I don't take issue with, but it just isn't magical. Not in the least. There's no cape. No charisma. The replacement jacket is gray with color blocking of darker gray and just a little bit of orange for crying out loud. It's like the jacket is scared of being seen in public and wants to blend in with the sidewalk.
My son doesn't blend in. Anywhere. He lives life loud, and fast, and chatty, and chatty, and more chatty. So I think he should have a jacket that reflects how fun and free-spirited and amazing he is.
This is ridiculous. I know.
And it's really not about the jacket. It's about the fact that my boy is now 5, and school is much closer on my horizon than it has ever been before. As in, looming. Ominously. And I am realizing that this precious time of his life is about to go the way of the Superman jacket. It's not going to fit any more. The way we've lived life up to this point is going to change and it will never, ever be the same. And when I type that, and when I think that, it feels like my heart is a piece of paper that someone just wadded up in their hand. Crushed.
Couldn't he stay 4 forever? Why can't the jacket fit just a little bit longer?
Tuesday, November 10, 2015
Longing
I'm homesick. And sad. I've been feeling vaguely unhappy as of late, and the feeling has slowly defined itself over the last couple of days, coalescing into clarity when I told my sister on the phone, "It feels like my house, but not my home." You see, I've packed all my belongings, unpacked most of them, changed my address, hung a few pictures on the walls, and scrubbed the showers, but my soul hasn't settled here yet. The part of me that likes to feel cozy, that likes to belong, is still floating around in limbo, looking for a place to perch.
We moved a month ago, and already we've lived some good life here. We've played with our kids, cut down some trees, entertained family and friends, hosted our small group from church. All the things that we did in our old home, plus some new things, we are doing here. But it just doesn't feel right yet. Maybe it's the lingering smell of......whatever that unpleasantness is. My cabinets smell funny, and Arm & Hammer can only do so much. There's a seemingly endless list of pesky little honey-do jobs that need to be done. There are three old toilets sitting in the garage, waiting to be hauled off (thankfully, they are no longer the three toilets sitting in my bathrooms. Husband for the win!). I've unpacked things and can't remember where I put them. I can't figure out where to hang my pictures (brilliant sister who helped with the living room collage, please come back!!).
Complain, complain, complain.
The way I feel right now reminds me of a story I read of a group of people who experienced incredible injustice and cruelty at the hand of a tyrannical megalomaniac.They had done nothing wrong to deserve this treatment, and they had no one and no where to turn for help. But someone knew of their plight, and because of an old promise made almost half a millennium before, they decided to save them. The process of their salvation was painful for everyone involved. It was also unspeakably terrifying, awesome, and powerful. Supernatural events brought the tyrant to his knees and the poor, oppressed people were allowed to leave their house of bondage to wander into the wilderness of freedom.
You've surely guessed by now that I'm talking about the children of Israel, God's chosen people that He freed from slavery in Egypt in order to take them to the Promised Land. Literally, a land He promised to them through their ancestors. You're also probably wondering what their story has to do with mine.
First let me say that my story is small, and insignificant, and puny when compared with the story of the Exodus. I've known this story for as long as I can remember but thanks to fantastic study material written by Jen Wilkin and the teaching of three godly, capable women, this story has gripped me and affected me in ways that it never has before. Those children of Israel have marched right out of my Bible and brought their weary, sandy selves into my living room. Those Egyptians have been hounding me, breathing threats of revenge and death down my neck, while the waves curled away from my toes. That Passover lamb has looked into my eyes the second before it's throat was cut, and I watched the life drain out of it. This isn't a small story. It's HUGE, in every possible way. My story isn't huge, but it's the one I live every day.
Even though the difference in magnitude between my story and the story of Israel's exodus from Egypt is so vast, I still find myself in that story every time I sit down to do my lesson for the week. I see my need to trust. Daily. No matter what. I see my need to obey. Daily. No matter what. I see my great God. Kind. Majestic. Powerful. Terrifying. Just. And this week, this day, I saw how I, just like Israel, was complaining instead of thanking, was nursing my discontent instead of counting my blessings.
You see, about a month after Israel left Egypt through the miraculous wonders that God wrought, they started complaining. "We're hungry. We're thirsty. We wish we had died in Egypt where they had meat pots and bread." I'm not so sure about the meat pots, but I totally identify with the bread. Even more than that I identify with the underlying emotion, and ultimately the underlying sin. By complaining about my circumstances I'm telling God that He isn't doing it right, that I don't like His plan for me and I want things done differently, preferably right away. I liked my old house that smelled nice and where I could find everything. Maybe I should just go back there and leave this smelly, disorganized soulless shell of an abode. But not really. Israel wanted a smooth transition from Egypt to Canaan. I want to instantly feel at home in this new-to-me house. We both want the same things. We want security, and we want it on our terms.
Thank God He doesn't operate that way. I'm His child, so I can always, without a doubt, know that He is working in my life in ways that will manifest and magnify His glory and will draw me into deeper relationship with Him by making me more like His most precious, perfect Son. He did the same with Israel, His chosen people. He took them through 40 years of uncomfortable and formative desert dwelling before they every set foot on promised ground. Who knows how long it's going to be, and all the things that God will do with me and for me before I feel at home in this house. Maybe I never will. Maybe this longing for earthly comfort isn't such a good thing. I can feather my nest here, but how long will that last? 20 years in this house? Another 50 or 60 years in this body? Nothing here is permanent. And so what I really truly want, and what I prayed for tonight, was that this longing I have for home will be transformed into a longing for heaven, my real home, my Promised Land.
In the end, it's all I really want.
-Ashley
We moved a month ago, and already we've lived some good life here. We've played with our kids, cut down some trees, entertained family and friends, hosted our small group from church. All the things that we did in our old home, plus some new things, we are doing here. But it just doesn't feel right yet. Maybe it's the lingering smell of......whatever that unpleasantness is. My cabinets smell funny, and Arm & Hammer can only do so much. There's a seemingly endless list of pesky little honey-do jobs that need to be done. There are three old toilets sitting in the garage, waiting to be hauled off (thankfully, they are no longer the three toilets sitting in my bathrooms. Husband for the win!). I've unpacked things and can't remember where I put them. I can't figure out where to hang my pictures (brilliant sister who helped with the living room collage, please come back!!).
Complain, complain, complain.
The way I feel right now reminds me of a story I read of a group of people who experienced incredible injustice and cruelty at the hand of a tyrannical megalomaniac.They had done nothing wrong to deserve this treatment, and they had no one and no where to turn for help. But someone knew of their plight, and because of an old promise made almost half a millennium before, they decided to save them. The process of their salvation was painful for everyone involved. It was also unspeakably terrifying, awesome, and powerful. Supernatural events brought the tyrant to his knees and the poor, oppressed people were allowed to leave their house of bondage to wander into the wilderness of freedom.
You've surely guessed by now that I'm talking about the children of Israel, God's chosen people that He freed from slavery in Egypt in order to take them to the Promised Land. Literally, a land He promised to them through their ancestors. You're also probably wondering what their story has to do with mine.
First let me say that my story is small, and insignificant, and puny when compared with the story of the Exodus. I've known this story for as long as I can remember but thanks to fantastic study material written by Jen Wilkin and the teaching of three godly, capable women, this story has gripped me and affected me in ways that it never has before. Those children of Israel have marched right out of my Bible and brought their weary, sandy selves into my living room. Those Egyptians have been hounding me, breathing threats of revenge and death down my neck, while the waves curled away from my toes. That Passover lamb has looked into my eyes the second before it's throat was cut, and I watched the life drain out of it. This isn't a small story. It's HUGE, in every possible way. My story isn't huge, but it's the one I live every day.
Even though the difference in magnitude between my story and the story of Israel's exodus from Egypt is so vast, I still find myself in that story every time I sit down to do my lesson for the week. I see my need to trust. Daily. No matter what. I see my need to obey. Daily. No matter what. I see my great God. Kind. Majestic. Powerful. Terrifying. Just. And this week, this day, I saw how I, just like Israel, was complaining instead of thanking, was nursing my discontent instead of counting my blessings.
You see, about a month after Israel left Egypt through the miraculous wonders that God wrought, they started complaining. "We're hungry. We're thirsty. We wish we had died in Egypt where they had meat pots and bread." I'm not so sure about the meat pots, but I totally identify with the bread. Even more than that I identify with the underlying emotion, and ultimately the underlying sin. By complaining about my circumstances I'm telling God that He isn't doing it right, that I don't like His plan for me and I want things done differently, preferably right away. I liked my old house that smelled nice and where I could find everything. Maybe I should just go back there and leave this smelly, disorganized soulless shell of an abode. But not really. Israel wanted a smooth transition from Egypt to Canaan. I want to instantly feel at home in this new-to-me house. We both want the same things. We want security, and we want it on our terms.
Thank God He doesn't operate that way. I'm His child, so I can always, without a doubt, know that He is working in my life in ways that will manifest and magnify His glory and will draw me into deeper relationship with Him by making me more like His most precious, perfect Son. He did the same with Israel, His chosen people. He took them through 40 years of uncomfortable and formative desert dwelling before they every set foot on promised ground. Who knows how long it's going to be, and all the things that God will do with me and for me before I feel at home in this house. Maybe I never will. Maybe this longing for earthly comfort isn't such a good thing. I can feather my nest here, but how long will that last? 20 years in this house? Another 50 or 60 years in this body? Nothing here is permanent. And so what I really truly want, and what I prayed for tonight, was that this longing I have for home will be transformed into a longing for heaven, my real home, my Promised Land.
In the end, it's all I really want.
-Ashley
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Useful Beauty
I've been thinking about beauty and functionality lately, particularly as it relates to my dishwasher. Yes, my dishwasher. We recently moved into a 25 year old house complete with the original appliances in the kitchen in all of their 1990 almond-colored glory. In addition to the fact that they looked old, decrepit, and dirty, they just weren't beautiful. So we opted to replace them with new ones (big surprise?). Although the appliances were old the granite countertops were new, so we chose a microwave, range, and dishwasher in stainless steel finished to a slate gray. Gorgeous. The range is a beast, complete with a 5th burner and cast iron griddle pan that weighs more than both my children combined. The microwave pops the perfect bag of popcorn. We're talking 4-5 unpopped kernels every time. (My husband and I are kind of popcorn snobs, and we also don't get out much. Unpopped kernels are big news around here.)
The dishwasher is an entirely different piece of machinery, with her own quirky little personality. For one thing, it sings a little song at the end of the wash cycle. It's a vast improvement over the foghorn-like tone of the buzzer on my dryer, but still a little....strange. But it's the interior where things get really funky. The top rack is much like what I had at my previous house, so no problems there. The utensil baskets hook onto the front exterior of both top and bottom racks, and because of their contour make it difficult to load a bunch of silverware, unless you use those weird grated basket lids. The bottom rack is another thing altogether. One side has racks at a normal height and spacing, but the other side the racks are spread so widely apart that only certain items can easily be loaded there. I'm all about getting the dishwasher as full as absolutely possible before running it, so these racks have really had me stumped.
Okay, I know. Funky dishwasher racks. First world problems. Believe me, I'm very thankful for the dishwasher. Very.
When we purchased the dishwasher we did so for two reasons. First, because we wanted a machine to clean our dishes for us, and we knew it could get the job done. Second, because it matched the other appliances, which looked good with the granite, and in turn made the entire kitchen more appealing. Useful and beautiful.
I realize now that I sacrificed some utility on the altar of beauty. If I had been hugely concerned about the ease of loading my dishes I would've opened the door of every available dishwasher and inspected the racks until I found the one that seemed most functional, regardless of the exterior color, button placements, handle options, etc. But I didn't. I chose the appliances to match the granite, and went with it.
Functionality, usefulness, and practicality are constantly fighting against attractiveness, beauty, loveliness. The more time I can invest in something, the lovelier it can be. For instance, take the posts I write. The creation of each post is a sacrifice of my time, and the reading of it is a sacrifice of yours, two facts that I take seriously. I don't have time to waste on this endeavor. If I'm going to write something, I want it to be good. So I wait until I have something to say, and then I work on how I say it for as long as it takes to make it good enough for me to feel like you might want to sacrifice some time to read it. And when you do, I truly appreciate it. When you leave comments about how you connected with what I wrote, I'm over the moon. Because that's when I know that the beauty I strove for in what I wrote met with usefulness in some small part in your life, and that makes both of our sacrifices completely worthwhile.
All of that being said, I am considering taking on a new endeavor, something crazy that I don't have much time for, which might not result in any beauty or practicality for anyone. I am thinking about joining the NaNoWriMo challenge next month.
If you've never heard of it, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month, which just so happens to be November. The challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel in the 30 days of the month. Doesn't sound too hard, until you start breaking it down. Let's see, 50,000 words in 30 days....that's roughly 1,667 words each day. Still doesn't sound too bad, right? And then you start doing it. And for a little while it goes beautifully, amazingly well. You are soaring along this current of words that come roaring out of your brain and gushing out through your fingers. The novel is writing itself and the exercise is pure fun. But then the doldrums set in. The story stalls, your characters get lost, and you have a permanent ache in your stomach as you try to figure out, "Where am I going with this?" The rest of the process is hard. It's work. You scrape your brain for every single one of those 1,667 words on some days, and you use little cheats like expanding all contractions just so you can meet that final word count. When it's done the relief in your bones is all you can feel, because your brain has permanently seized up in order to accomplish this feat.
For what?
No one is going to read that novel, no one is even going to know about that novel, unless you tell them, unless you offer it to them. There's no guarantee it's any good (for a novel written that quickly by an amateur, you can pretty much bet it won't be). So why go to all of that trouble? That strain? That work? When the product is mostly likely going to benefit no one, and certainly won't be beautiful.
Because some things are neither beautiful, nor functional. Some things just are. They are a self-contained effort that you do just because you want to, because even though it's painful and hard, it's also hugely rewarding. Maybe it's a selfish or foolish waste of time. That's for you to decide for yourself. For me, it's an excuse to indulge in something I love, which is writing just for the pure joy of playing with words, for shaping and being shaped by them. I guess it really is something beautiful after all.
It's time to stop playing with these words for now. My very beautiful daughter needs some practical attention from her mother.
The dishwasher is an entirely different piece of machinery, with her own quirky little personality. For one thing, it sings a little song at the end of the wash cycle. It's a vast improvement over the foghorn-like tone of the buzzer on my dryer, but still a little....strange. But it's the interior where things get really funky. The top rack is much like what I had at my previous house, so no problems there. The utensil baskets hook onto the front exterior of both top and bottom racks, and because of their contour make it difficult to load a bunch of silverware, unless you use those weird grated basket lids. The bottom rack is another thing altogether. One side has racks at a normal height and spacing, but the other side the racks are spread so widely apart that only certain items can easily be loaded there. I'm all about getting the dishwasher as full as absolutely possible before running it, so these racks have really had me stumped.
Okay, I know. Funky dishwasher racks. First world problems. Believe me, I'm very thankful for the dishwasher. Very.
When we purchased the dishwasher we did so for two reasons. First, because we wanted a machine to clean our dishes for us, and we knew it could get the job done. Second, because it matched the other appliances, which looked good with the granite, and in turn made the entire kitchen more appealing. Useful and beautiful.
I realize now that I sacrificed some utility on the altar of beauty. If I had been hugely concerned about the ease of loading my dishes I would've opened the door of every available dishwasher and inspected the racks until I found the one that seemed most functional, regardless of the exterior color, button placements, handle options, etc. But I didn't. I chose the appliances to match the granite, and went with it.
Functionality, usefulness, and practicality are constantly fighting against attractiveness, beauty, loveliness. The more time I can invest in something, the lovelier it can be. For instance, take the posts I write. The creation of each post is a sacrifice of my time, and the reading of it is a sacrifice of yours, two facts that I take seriously. I don't have time to waste on this endeavor. If I'm going to write something, I want it to be good. So I wait until I have something to say, and then I work on how I say it for as long as it takes to make it good enough for me to feel like you might want to sacrifice some time to read it. And when you do, I truly appreciate it. When you leave comments about how you connected with what I wrote, I'm over the moon. Because that's when I know that the beauty I strove for in what I wrote met with usefulness in some small part in your life, and that makes both of our sacrifices completely worthwhile.
All of that being said, I am considering taking on a new endeavor, something crazy that I don't have much time for, which might not result in any beauty or practicality for anyone. I am thinking about joining the NaNoWriMo challenge next month.
If you've never heard of it, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month, which just so happens to be November. The challenge is to write a 50,000 word novel in the 30 days of the month. Doesn't sound too hard, until you start breaking it down. Let's see, 50,000 words in 30 days....that's roughly 1,667 words each day. Still doesn't sound too bad, right? And then you start doing it. And for a little while it goes beautifully, amazingly well. You are soaring along this current of words that come roaring out of your brain and gushing out through your fingers. The novel is writing itself and the exercise is pure fun. But then the doldrums set in. The story stalls, your characters get lost, and you have a permanent ache in your stomach as you try to figure out, "Where am I going with this?" The rest of the process is hard. It's work. You scrape your brain for every single one of those 1,667 words on some days, and you use little cheats like expanding all contractions just so you can meet that final word count. When it's done the relief in your bones is all you can feel, because your brain has permanently seized up in order to accomplish this feat.
For what?
No one is going to read that novel, no one is even going to know about that novel, unless you tell them, unless you offer it to them. There's no guarantee it's any good (for a novel written that quickly by an amateur, you can pretty much bet it won't be). So why go to all of that trouble? That strain? That work? When the product is mostly likely going to benefit no one, and certainly won't be beautiful.
Because some things are neither beautiful, nor functional. Some things just are. They are a self-contained effort that you do just because you want to, because even though it's painful and hard, it's also hugely rewarding. Maybe it's a selfish or foolish waste of time. That's for you to decide for yourself. For me, it's an excuse to indulge in something I love, which is writing just for the pure joy of playing with words, for shaping and being shaped by them. I guess it really is something beautiful after all.
It's time to stop playing with these words for now. My very beautiful daughter needs some practical attention from her mother.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
What is that smell?
It's early Saturday evening. I'm sitting in a restaurant with my family, trying to juggle eating a rice bowl and coaxing my daughter to eat as well while she stands on my lap. I've not felt well all day, and that feeling of un-well-being is only compounded by the bodily and mental tiredness brought on by an afternoon of shopping with a 4 year old and 1 year old for diapers, toilet paper, and paint hardener (we are moving and need to dispose of our ridiculous number of leftover paint cans). This moment with my daughter standing on my lap, dropping bites of rice and chicken on me while crumpling a quesadilla in her chubby fist is not what I want to be doing. It's not where I want to be. I want to be looking pretty and riding alone with my husband on our way to a movie. Or shopping for something that I can't find in a home improvement store. Or just asleep. I just don't want to be Mommy right now. Because right now being Mommy is unpleasant and messy and just plain hard.
And then for some reason I lean toward my daughter and sniff her arm. Her smooth, pudgy, warm little arm. And that smell changes my entire demeanor. Her sweet baby smell disappeared a long time ago and was replaced by her own special scent of toddler. Her whole life is right there on her skin. Body wash and snacks and sheets and dirt and everything else. Her gorgeous little being is right there, right beside my face, and when I breathe it in I don't want to be anybody else doing anything else. Because how empty would my heart be without this little girl who is joyous and joyful, even with her occasional (okay, sometimes frequent) fits of temper and stubbornness? Who could I love as much as I love her handsome blue-eyed brother across the table, with his own amazing gifts and challenges and quirks? His charming absurdities and qualities that make him one of the most delightful people I know?
Knowing what I know now, and knowing who I know now, these precious little people, how could I really un-wish that for myself? Being in this moment is all I ever really wanted or planned for in my life. Okay, I didn't really plan on queso on my jeans and having to do a balancing act just to eat my dinner. But I also didn't plan on the intensity and depth of love I feel for these two. Because I didn't know. I couldn't know.
Kids have plenty of smells associated with them, most of which are unpleasant and unwelcome. But sometimes those smells are sweet and endearing, reminding parents why we wanted this in the first place, why we wake up everyday to it, why we would do it all over again. Sometimes, a smell can change a moment and save your day.
-Ashley
And then for some reason I lean toward my daughter and sniff her arm. Her smooth, pudgy, warm little arm. And that smell changes my entire demeanor. Her sweet baby smell disappeared a long time ago and was replaced by her own special scent of toddler. Her whole life is right there on her skin. Body wash and snacks and sheets and dirt and everything else. Her gorgeous little being is right there, right beside my face, and when I breathe it in I don't want to be anybody else doing anything else. Because how empty would my heart be without this little girl who is joyous and joyful, even with her occasional (okay, sometimes frequent) fits of temper and stubbornness? Who could I love as much as I love her handsome blue-eyed brother across the table, with his own amazing gifts and challenges and quirks? His charming absurdities and qualities that make him one of the most delightful people I know?
Knowing what I know now, and knowing who I know now, these precious little people, how could I really un-wish that for myself? Being in this moment is all I ever really wanted or planned for in my life. Okay, I didn't really plan on queso on my jeans and having to do a balancing act just to eat my dinner. But I also didn't plan on the intensity and depth of love I feel for these two. Because I didn't know. I couldn't know.
Kids have plenty of smells associated with them, most of which are unpleasant and unwelcome. But sometimes those smells are sweet and endearing, reminding parents why we wanted this in the first place, why we wake up everyday to it, why we would do it all over again. Sometimes, a smell can change a moment and save your day.
-Ashley
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