The Preciousness of Patience

Scrolling through my Facebook feed last night, I came across this beautiful sentiment:

And I thought, wow!  That is such a sweet and amazing gesture.

I also wished it would have been practiced at several of the weddings I attended throughout my time as a single mother (one of which, I now admit with chagrin, I straight up dove for the bouquet, basically colliding with and fighting for the bouquet with another bridesmaid.  I was proud of winning it at the time, though I banged up my knees, arms, and probably the other girl, a little).

This got me reflecting on patience.

That story to me is funny now that I am happily married.  It was also funny back then, I imagine, watching grown women battling for a bunch of flowers over some crazy superstition, which clearly has no merit (it was years after catching this supposed symbol of good luck before I finally tied the knot).

But it also struck a nerve with me, now, looking at this beautiful idea in comparison with the silly games we play at weddings (and I'm not knocking the game, really--I threw my own bouquet and enjoyed doing so--and my now-sister-in-law caught mine, so that was pretty cool!).  

It struck a nerve because I was so worried back then.  I knew while I was single that I would have to be patient, and yet, I was doing desperate stuff like tackling bridesmaids.

I used to pray for patience.  I'm reminded these days that I still need to.

Patience is an area of my life that constantly needs attention; I constantly require God's direction.  When I was with Rashieme in my early twenties, I was impatiently waiting for a proposal.  When our relationship fell apart, I impatiently struggled to adjust to single life, wondering if God had anyone for me.

It was when I stopped trying to force things to happen, took a step back, and finally decided to trust God--that was when what I wanted most of all came to fruition.  When we do allow patience--not complacency--to fill our lives, I have found that God often blesses us beyond our desires.  I thought Rashieme and I had broken our relationship so badly it was never going to be able to be repaired.  But as I prayed for a Godly man and focused on making myself into the woman I thought that sort of man would deserve to be with, God showed me that Rashieme was becoming exactly the kind of husband I'd always dreamed of.  I am fortunate enough to be married to the one I've loved since seventeen, despite all the ways I'd messed that relationship up before, when my priorities were selfish (not horrible, but definitely selfish).

I'm still growing.  I'm still selfish at times.  I still need more patience!

I have been struggling with patience in the area of my writing for several years.  I know God gave me this talent and desire for a reason, yet I have consistently run into dead ends on my journey to publication.  But I am choosing to believe that God's pauses are not "no"s.  They're just "not yet"s.  And in the meantime, I've tried to focus on what is within my control, getting back up and dusting myself off, and continuing to try, asking God to clarify how I can better honor Him and care for others in my quest.  This last part, I think, is the key.

My home is another area that requires patience.  My dad's property is the definition of one step forward and two steps back.  I get frustrated sometimes, because I knew my father would have known what to do, figured out how to prevent problems I'm currently trying to fix.  Living in over an acre of trees (it's like the lottery, guessing which one is going to fall next.  But unlike the lottery, odds are are pretty good that a tree is going to come crashing down) in a fifty-year-old home when you have little to no talent, time, or money to devote to the types of responsibilities this kind of property entails is, quite honestly, exhausting and frustrating.  But I'm making up my mind to try and do my best each day, and look to God for direction about what comes next.  I'm asking the Lord to help me be less materialistic, even as I ask Him to make a way for us to create a safe and beautiful home for our children.  And I try to worry about what is within my control, and minimize my complaining about what is not (and this is definitely an area I am still working on.  Just ask my husband, who gets the brunt of my complaints!).

I believe that God also uses the little stuff to teach patience, though.  I said this aloud to my daughter, yesterday, as we were preparing to go to Dunkin Donuts.  I love Dunkin, and I have the app (which, in my opinion, is less than amazing).  But I try to use the app every time we go, because I want my purchases to result in points, which can be redeemed for free coffee.

Yesterday, though I've done it hundreds of times before, the app was simply not letting me add more funds.  

I mean, if I went through the series of steps once, I probably did it a couple dozen times.  Hitting the same screens, typing in the same numbers, waiting...

And, nothing.

And then, randomly, on a last ditch attempt right outside the restaurant... 

It went through.

And I said to Kaliah-- "God does this stuff on purpose. He's testing me on these little annoying things, because I continue to fail."

I was half-joking, half serious.  Do I think God uses the little stuff to talk to us and get our attention?  Absolutely.  Do I wonder if the Great Almighty orchestrated a deliberate technological glitch in a Donut app to teach me patience?

I don't think God causes all things.  But I think He uses all things.

How do I know that I still need to learn how to better exercise patience in the little stuff?

Case in point--this was a couple months ago.  I call this story "The Great Fax Machine Debacle."

One day, I needed to request that an old doctor of mine fax some paperwork to a new doctor I was seeing.  Don't get me started on why they can't just email this crap by now--you can't tell me that secure servers that deliver information to someone's private password-protected inbox are less able to be infiltrated than random pieces of paper sitting in a fax machine's delivery tray.  But anyway, I digress.

Here is how I easily managed to complete the required documentation process in several simple steps:

1.  Look up old doctor's number on the internet.

2.  Call number.  Realize they are closed, even though it's only 3 o'clock.

3.  Repeat step one several days later.  Call and speak with a nice lady who tells you that before she can send info to the doctor, you have to fill out a form.  Ask her to email it; she says it needs to be faxed.

4.  While on the phone with said nice lady, email our heroic administrative goddess, asking her for our work fax number.  She answers within seconds, because she's awesome like that.

5.  Give woman on phone number.  Figure the ordeal is coming to a close.

6.  Run upstairs from your office to the office where the fax machine lives.  Successfully obtain paper that has been faxed.

7.  Fill out form.  Check document for return fax number and assume it is the number that has been printed on the edge of the paper during the faxing process.

8.  Get crash course in sending fax on this particular model from administrative goddess.  Jam paper several times.  Finally get fax sent.

9.  Go downstairs to leave for the day.  Gather up belongings in office and head for the door.

10.  Stop to answer the phone.  Find out you did not fax the return form back to the intended doctor's office, but rather, a random pharmacy whose number, during the fax process, was printed on the edge of the documents you received for no apparent reason.

11.  Ask kind pharmacist if he happens to know the correct fax number for said doctor.

12.  Learn that he does not.

13.  Call the doctor back.  This time, get referred to an answering service.

14.  Wait on hold until answering service picks up.  Tell answering service you need the fax number for the doctor.

15.  Obtain the fax number.  Write it down on a post-it.

16.  Go back upstairs with papers to be faxed and fax number.

17.  Drop post-it in hallway.  Realize you dropped post-it in hallway when an attentive colleague calls down the hallway after you, "You dropped this."

18.  Try to refrain from dissolving into hysterics as you imagine yourself ashamedly returning to administrative goddess's office to once again attempt the faxing process without the fax number.

19.  As you re-fax document, reflect on how what should have already been accomplished has, instead, taken you nineteen steps.  Jam paper several times before effectively sending the fax.  Imagine yourself flying into a rage and destroying the office, starting with hurling the fax machine across the room--but don't stop there.  Visualize yourself picking up and throwing multiple items (including but not limited to books, the desk phone, mail from office mail boxes, and the trash can) all over the room in a fit of fury.  It's a fantasy, so go ahead and imagine yourself toppling the bookcase and smashing the windows as well.

20.  Smile and say goodbye to the administrative goddess.

21.  Go home and enjoy the weekend.

22.  Return to work the following Monday and receive a voicemail from the new doctor's office, who claim that the old doctor's office did not send them your records, but instead, requested your records from the new doctor be sent to them (which makes zero sense, because you are not a current patient at the old doctor's, so why would they want your records--that you don't even have, because you are a NEW patient who has yet to even see the new doctor!).

23.  Call the old doctor's. Learn that you filled out the paperwork incorrectly, putting the new doctor's info in the old doctor's spot, and vice versa, hence explaining why the old doctor asked the new doctor for your records instead of providing the new doctor with your history.

24.  Ask politely to have records sent, rather than requested, explaining that you are no longer a patient with the old doctor, and have not been in twelve years.

25.  Learn that you must fill out paperwork again.

26.  Try not to cry.

27.  Explain that you struggled mightily with the fax machine last week and that you need the information sent before Wednesday.  Ask them to please just send what they need to via email.

28. Learn that, once again, email is not as secure as a piece of random paper.  Also learn that you have a thirty dollar balance that needs to be paid to your old doctor.

29.  Get transferred and pay balance via credit card after pleading with first person on the phone that you will re-fax everything.  Get her word that she will send documents now while you are preparing to re-fax.

30.  Realize you no longer have the fax number.

31.  Take a break from all this, because you have an actual job to do.  Go teach a class.

32.  Return to office and call old doctor.  Ask for and receive fax number.  Again.

33.  Re-fax documents and hope for best.

34.  Go to new doctor on Wednesday.  Learn that old doctor did not fax documents.

And, there you have it, folks.

Because I did not smile through these 34 steps.  Because I did not model Christianity through this process (though I also didn't cuss up a storm, which I think deserves at least some kudos).  Because I felt my hair turning grayer and imagined myself engaging in destruction of property.

Because of all these reasons, I know I still need more patience.

May your day today contain fewer aggravations than the aforementioned example.  But in the event that you are being tested, remember:  

We all are.

God uses the little stuff, too.

And I'm just trying to do everything with more patience and reflection than I would have yesterday.  The big stuff.  The little stuff.  The aggravations and celebrations.

All of it.

Have a Happy Tuesday.  May you find the wonder in this week, even if you're tested heavily, in matters large or small.

An Ode to Childhood Summers on the Delaware Coast

I know.  I haven't been writing.

I have nothing to say in my defense.

Except that I just found this story I wrote for my non-fiction class in college, and I kind of fell in love again.

I'm not sharing the whole thing, because I want to be selfish.  And maybe because my boss has inspired me to enter a short story contest (through which she herself got published this year!  Yay!), and the theme for next year's entries just happens to be The Beach.

I wrote what you're about to read in March of 2004.  It has three parts--the one I'm sharing is essentially an ode to childhood.  The second part considers the longing to return to said childhood.  The third shows an actual attempt to do just that.  And I'm thinking of adding a fourth section, because my whole view on childhood has really been enhanced by, um, having a child.

But for now, here's the first section.  I hope you enjoy.

I know I enjoyed writing it.

Waves

I.                    Crest—The portion of a wave displaced above the still water line; the highest point of the wave.

We used to call it “Washing Machine.”

Washing Machine—our very technical term for what happened when the angry gray waves tore our tiny bodies off our fluorescent purple and orange Moorey Boogie boards; slamming us beneath a crashing current, boards flailing about above us, snapping our skinny arms back by the sea-soaked black leashes, sand invading every possible crevice as we tumbled into human pretzel shapes tossed about by the immense power of exploding murky swells, and we came up sputtering and choking, blinking in the bright sun and staggering to our feet above the frothy white aftermath which fizzled around our ankles.

Washing Machine.

And we would gasp for air, and tilt our heads to the side, banging the fists not restrained by the body board leashes against our skulls, in an effort to pound the sand out of our ears.

“Did you see that?” I’d scream to my brothers and best friend Courtney, charging back into the waves.  The taste of salt was overpowering, and I loved it in a way I wouldn’t come to understand until much later in life.  I would gallantly battle to throw my small body past the roaring breaking point, fighting my way back to my fellow adventurers, still rubbing my eyes, or tugging at my bathing suit, or briefly examining and then dismissing the scarlet scraping above my things and knees inflicted by my contact with the furious ocean floor during the last Washing Machine.

Ah, to have millions of grains of sand coat the top of my scalp, clinging to my clumped wet hair, and to not care!  To have the sticky residue of salt water paint my entire sun-bronzed body, and to not want a shower!  To be thrown violently time and time again from the slippery beast that was my Moorey Boogie board, and worry not once about twisting an ankle, or breaking what would become, later in life, my waitressing wrist.

What a wonderful thing, to be young and in love with the ocean.

**After submitting this piece to my professor, Dr. Vince Puma's comments included the most inspiring compliment I've ever received from a teacher.  He wrote, "I expect to see your name in print someday."

It's taking me longer than I hoped, Dr. Puma...

But I am still trying.

True Tales of a Wacky Wedding Rehearsal...

Pop Quiz:

Which of the following happened during our wedding rehearsal?

A)  We locked the groom's mother out of his house without her keys or purse ten minutes before rehearsal began.
B)  The matron of honor got lost trying to find the ceremony venue.
C) The bride's phone died and the groom left his at the house, meaning the bride and groom had no idea how to get to the rehearsal dinner location, being as it was a restaurant (an amazing restaurant, by the way) located tucked away in the vast middle of nowhere known as Hurlock, Maryland.
D) The bridal party discovered they had no working electricity to try out music for the rehearsal, since it had not been turned on at their outdoor location.
E)  The bride's mother got stung by a bee on her foot as she returned to her seat after walking the bride down the aisle, prompting her to scream at the top of her lungs and kick off her shoe, sending it sailing across the park and smacking the boyfriend of the maid of honor.
F)  The bride's brother's girlfriend (who is allergic to bees) was also stung.
G) All of the above.

If you answered G, you're probably thinking, she's gotta be making some of this stuff up.  This doesn't happen in real life.

Well, if you're Jenny Meister...

it does.

So you would be correct in answering G.

But here's the thing:  the rehearsal was far from perfect, just as my fiancé and I are far from perfect.  But we are in this, no matter what.  So even if bees swarm our wedding (they sprayed), or the electricity doesn't come on (they promised it would) or I trip and go falling down the aisle (I hope I won't), or we drop the rings in the Choptank River (they're insured)...

I am still getting married tomorrow.

To the love of my life and my best friend.

The father of our daughter, our protector and provider.  The one who keeps me safe and tells me I am loved.

And at the end of the day, each other are all we really need.

Now having said that, it looks like God is blessing us with beautiful weather.  I pray all who are attending travel safe.  I pray that the catastrophic every day crazy that likes to follow me around chills out for a bit.

"This is going to sound like fiction" is my brand name.  It's the little catch phrase that describes my quirky, strange-but-I-swear-it's-true humor writing.

As I was relating the wedding rehearsal woes to a friend, she laughed, and said, "That's so Meister!"

Funnily enough, I'm even listed under her phone contacts as Meister.

But here's the thing:

As of tomorrow, I'll be a McFadden.

And while I'm sure the true tales of every day crazy will continue, what I really want for tomorrow is for the only crazy but true story to be of how much we love each other.

And no matter what else does or does not happen, I know that's what I'll remember.

Happy Wedding Eve, E'rrybody!!!

Rehearsal Dinner was a blast, even if rehearsal wasn't exactly what one would call smooth sailing...

Going to the chapel...

And we're... gonna get marrrrriiiiiieeeeeed.

Actually, we're headed to a state park.  It is my little girl, happy-ever-after, dream-come-true, knight-in-shining-armor fairy tale ending.

Except it's not--it's a beginning. 

We contemplated the courthouse.  But Rashieme said it before I would admit it:  "I'd feel like I never gave you the wedding that you wanted.... You want to get 'Disney-Princess-Married.'"

Now before we get all judgmental:  yes, it's true.  I want a special day.  I want the ending of every romantic comedy movie I've ever balled through and the happily ever after of fairy tales and Disney movies.  I've never claimed not to want that, even though I believe I am a strong and independent woman.

I don't need the wedding to be happy.  I already have everything I need.

But I want it.  I want just one perfect day where we can celebrate each other and our love.

And I do want to look beautiful.  I have the perfect dress.  The perfect colors.  The perfect place.

Most importantly, though, I have the perfect man.

He's not perfect in actuality, but then again, none of us are.

But he's perfect for me.

He makes me smile when I want to cry.  He listens when I need to vent.  He tells it to me like it is when I am unjustifiably angry or irritated.

He makes me laugh.  Every single day.

He is a wonderful father and will be an amazing husband.

Our road has definitely not been easy.  But by the grace of God, through the twists and turns and sometimes seemingly insurmountable mountaintops and darkest valleys, we have arrived on the other side.

And I am not naïve enough to believe that married life will be full of less ups and downs than were the fourteen years (FOURTEEN YEARS!!) leading up to it. 

But the difference, to me, is the commitment.  The knowing that we are in this for good.  That there is nothing I can't come to him with, and vice versa. 

So in two weeks we'll be saying, "I do."  "For better or for worse."  "Till death do us part."

And I believe that not even death can separate those whose love is founded in Christ Jesus.

So I want to thank my Rashieme, for standing by me through thick and thin, for letting me get a little Bridezilla from time to time, and for putting Kaliah and I first each day.  The last few months have been a challenge, with me hardly ever home.  He's not complained once.

I also want to thank our families and our friends for all their help and support as it turned out that magical fairy tale weddings don't just fall neatly in your lap, you have to actually plan them.  When you're not really a detail person (such as myself), the amount of work you have to do can come as somewhat of a shock.  I'm going to call this wedding a success if everybody shows up with clothes on.  And you know what?

It will all be okay.

Because most of all, I want to thank my God for bringing my soul mate back to me.  Big wedding or small, rain or shine, over budget or under... what matters the most is that we love each other, and for that?  I am eternally thankful to our creator, who imagined the moment that will occur two weeks from now (and all of the precious moments to follow) long before even I did.

Peas and carrots for life.

Dog Days of What Felt Like The Never-Ending-Winter

This is my dog, Sue Yung.

She is guilty of many offenses.  The most recent one being that, last night, whilst I was asleep, with the bedroom door wide open and mere steps away from where Rashieme was still awake playing video games in the living room, Sue Yung sternly approached my bed and "Arfed," in the discreet but serious way that meant I had better get up in the middle of the night before she peed in my bedroom.

She is going on to be nine years old in the near future.  She was my first child, in a way, because in the brilliance of the third trimester of my pregnancy, I decided it was the perfect time to add a furry friend to our family.  That didn't work out so well.  Sue Yung ended up staying with my mother for several years, but now, Rashieme and I have been awarded sole custody.

Mainly because she has a bad habit of lazily standing or laying exactly where she shouldn't, which isn't exactly convenient in Mom and Mommom's househould, primarily because Mommom now uses a walker which Sue Yung has been known to attack from time to time.  The snarling and snapping usually occurs when the walker intrudes on her personal standing or snoozing space, which, again, is always in a convenient location, such as in the middle of a narrow hallway, or blocking the only bathroom door, or perhaps directly in front of the stove or refrigerator at meal time.

Sue Yung is a Lhasa Apso Shitzu mix.

Rashieme claims she is "A Dog."

Sue Yung was named by Rashieme after the female character who gets kidnapped in the Rush Hour movies.  I don't know why, but sometimes I do wish Sue Yung would get kidnapped.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

So we are a very diverse family.  Rashieme is African-American, I am white, our daughter is bi-racial, and, apparently, our dog is Chinese.

We also own a smaller dog, Diva, who is, in a word, Terrified.

She is the sweetest, most timid, eager-to-please creature I have ever met.  She is spoiled rotten and well-trained.

But she walks around with a perpetual look of Terror on her face.

Also, as pictured below, she was involved in a torrid romance with Kasey, and it seemed not to matter to either of them that both are girls and Kasey is, in fact, a cat.

 

 

So this post was all about my pets.  Those of you who know me know that I am really not a pet person these days.  I love them, don't get me wrong, but in mothering and housekeeping and working and all the other -ings of my days, they just don't take a top priority in my life.

Luckily, Kaliah is the most compassionate, animal-loving, constantly pet-tending child there could ever be.  She still wants to be a veterinarian or an animal rescuer when she grows up (though I'm hoping, eventually, she'll move more towards, you know, doctor.  Or lawyer.).

Of course, her manners of tending and attention sometimes result in the animals flocking to Rashieme and I to be rescued from her loving care... but her intentions are good, I assure you.

So here's to the household pets that love us, adore us, amuse us, and befriend us.  Who on the frigid days of winter cuddle up to warm us.  Who on the dog days of summer lie inspiringly motionless, sprawled out across the living room floor.

They are sparkles of light in my life, though I'm not a particularly passionate pet owner.  I enjoy those quiet moments of contentment sitting with or coddling my furry friends, infrequent as they may be.  I recognize the difference they make in my household, and am happy that I can provide them with a home in which they are adored by my daughter.

And slightly more than tolerated by me.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

Valentines Day Blues?

I've always loved Valentines Day.  It never really bothered me when I was single (at least not too much, anyway), because I've found that whether or not you're in a relationship with a significant someone, hopefully there are plenty of other people worthy of celebration in your life to whom you can show your love and appreciation.

Mine went particularly well this year--my number one Valentine and I have been on and off for years (gulp, nearly fourteen!!), and this was our second one "back together." And while it was more family themed than passionately romantic, we had a lovely experience that included dinner out and chocolates for everyone, our eight-year-old daughter included.

I went to bed feeling very loved and blessed and thankful for the people God has given me to love.

And then, I woke up to rejection, getting a taste of what some of the poor, awkward middle-schoolers I chaperoned at yesterday's heart-plastered holiday dance go through on the daily.  Checking my email, I felt especially keenly why the bitter, lonely, or amused and disgruntled have decidedly declared yesterday "Singles Awareness Day":

I woke up to a form rejection from an agent, who was declining to represent the short story collection she'd requested to read in full a couple weeks ago.

Rejection is a part of the publishing game, so it's not especially disheartening.  Writing and reading are subjective, and what one person enjoys, another does not.  This one did hurt though, not just because it happened the morning after Valentines Day, but because the querying process had BEGUN on such a high note.

I'd only sent out five letters in search of an agent when I received a very positively worded (but probably form) request to read the rest of the manuscript.  It was the very first response I'd received, so I was at a 100% request rate (short lived as it was).  I was feeling quite excited and encouraged.

But, such is life.

So what, I was rejected the day after Valentines Day. (I won't give the exact details, but while the letter certainly wasn't cruel, it was also a far fetch from a kind declination, which are also blessings to an extent, because at least they tend to praise aspects of the work and give legitimate reasons for passing).

I can think of many other highlights (lowlights?) that both pertain to my writing and other endeavors in life.  I might not be the girl who gets dumped (by a boyfriend, not an agent) the day after Valentines Day, but I am  (or have been) all of the following:

• The girl who got dumped on her front step on the exact day I'd bought my prom dress.
• The girl who received yet another rejection letter from a submission of a full manuscript (this one on my most recently completed fiction novel) from an agent on her birthday.
• The girl who was very excited to receive a third place medal upon finishing her very first five mile race. (Come to find out, there were only three runners in my age group.  Fail.)
• The girl who, out of all drivers to collide with on the road at any given moment, managed to rear-end the superintendent of the school district I was employed with at the time.

Yes, I'm no stranger to rejection, bad luck, and crappy timing.

 But, I'm still a believer. 

I believe in love, and also believed it was out there before I'd experienced it.

I believe in putting in one hundred percent, even if you finish last.

I believe that good can come out of even the lousiest of situations.

I believe in the God who loves us all, who gave us a gift far greater than chocolate, flowers, or jewelry, in the salvation found in His one and only son, Jesus Christ.  And I believe in the talents and desires God has blessed me with and planted in my heart.

So I'll keep writing, because while the publishing industry isn't exactly fighting over me yet, I don't do what I do for them.

I do it for me, my God, my family, and my friends.

And if I happen to pick up some more fans along the way, that would be fabulous.

But whether you're being dumped at the prom, celebrating marital bliss at a 25th anniversary, or anywhere in between...  Whether your dream is on the verge of coming true, or you're not yet brave enough to whisper it out loud...

You have to own it.

You have to love yourself before you can love anyone else.  Seeking your own validation through someone else will always lead to heartbreak, if your happiness is dependent upon some definition of who you are through someone else's eyes.

I think writing is like that.  I see myself as a great writer.  I don't mean to brag about it.  Not everyone will agree, and not everyone should agree, because we all have different tastes as readers.  But I write what I love to read. Because my writing brings me joy, I believe my words have the power to reach others in the same way.  But even if they didn't, no audience or publisher or agent could ever convince me that I'm not a writer.

So for me, I just keep writing, taking the rejections in stride. 

I had to be happy with who I was, seeing myself the way God saw me, before I could ever really learn to be happy in a romantic relationship.  I am so thankful to God and my Rashieme, that we are very happily treasuring each other, in the adventure that is our day to day relationship.  But it didn't happen over night.  We each had much to realize on our own before God could bring us back together.

And though I'm currently single in the author-agent realm, I still see myself as the writer I think God created me to be, knowing that if no one else ever read another word I wrote, that would be okay.  So because of that, I believe, God will take care of the rest.  I think He will bring success in His own time.

And if He doesn't?

Well, I wrote some pretty cool stuff trying. 

So whatever your dreams and passions are, I hope you don't allow anyone else to fizzle them out.  I hope you love yourself, embrace your gifts, and most of all, I pray you know the God who blessed you with them.  No matter who is rejecting you, there is One who loved you so much, He declared His affections before you were even born.  He spoke you into motion, loving each detail about you, designing each and every detail to his exact specification and liking.

You are beautiful just the way you are.  Embrace your talents, love your life, and give it everything you've got.

Happy Valentines Day, everyone.  Or better yet:  Happy So-What-You-Were-Once-Rejected Day. 

Don't look back.  Just look up.

Wishing on a Wintry Wednesday...

My routine's all out of whack.  We haven't had a normal week of school in all of 2014.  There's a good chance that we won't leave the house for days.  And, yeah, once again... I'll probably be in school until almost July.

Winter blues?  Sort of.  But then, I look out the window and see this:

 

How can you not find it beautiful?

 

 

(I guess talk to me at the end of February.  If we get any more snowstorms, I might lose that reverent feeling.  But for now, I find it soothing.  Romantic.  Enchanting).

It also reminds me of The Winter Writing Retreat, an event hosted by The Eastern Shore Writing Project.  Sadly, ESWP is currently on hiatus.  And despite the winter timing, the retreats I attended never looked quite like this.  But sifting through my old blog the other day, I found a piece that I'd written upon return from the retreat and wanted to share.  The thoughts I recorded in this post eventually played an important role in my deciding to travel to Peru in the summer of 2011 as a missionary, so this piece has a truly special meaning to me.

It is dedicated to all of my friends and colleagues who miss ESWP.

I hope you enjoy.

Originally posted Monday, January 17, 2011.


                                                                            A Love Affair

This weekend, I experienced one of those once in a lifetime, luxuriously refreshing string of events that you might equate with an unlikely romantic fantasy or an unspoken, secret dream: in a beautiful oceanfront hotel, where I watched the sunrise over the sea, talked all hours into the night and early morning, enjoyed laughter from the depths of the soul, invigorating intellectual conversation, and plastic cups filled with cheap wine, I fell in love...

It wasn't a weekend getaway with a long lost lover (though that might have been nice, too). This weekend, during the Eastern Shore Writing Project's Winter Writing Retreat, I fell in love again with writing, with living, and with people. It was a love affair of different sorts.

I engaged in a whirlwind romance of the mind as my colleagues and I examined the power of words, allowing ourselves to express heartfelt sentiments about writing, teaching, and communicating. I wrote, I reflected, I read my words aloud. I laughed. I felt deeply my own pain and joy, and that of those around me, as we captured the little miracles of life and typed them into existence on our laptops, jotted them into permanence in patterend journals and tattered spiral notebooks. We came together in a way that is truly rare. I realized, once again, that writing is a bridge across cultures, years, gender, experience. I smiled and cried as I was touched by the words of those around me, and I was humbled as I watched my words fall meaningfully onto the ears of others.

I was swept off my feet spiritually, as well. In a place when I was more inspired than I have ever been by the common bonds uniting us, so many vastly different people, I reflected on what God has done for me, the incredible gift of salvation that I believe is found in Jesus Christ. I ran across the boardwalk at sunrise, watching the incredible display of glowing pink rays lighting up a still soft, star speckled sky, the cold ocean consistently lapping the shore below. I thought of how big my God was, yet how accessible He is, to all who seek him. I prayed for my new friends, and thanked God for the amazing blessings He has given me.

Of course, it's all very noble to claim that I had planned this spirtual rejuvenation in conjunction with my adamant need to exercise. Truth is, I had to force myself to run. Self, I began, you've gained at least five pounds if not more over the holidays. You embarassed yourself terribly at your last 5K. If you don't run at least once this weekend, I'm going to kick your own butt later.

So I exercised my resolve and woke up at 5:30 in the morning, as to not interfere with the precious writing time or the socialization to which I had quickly become addicted, having come together with some of the most interesting and fantastic people I had ever known. As I'm too cheap to pay for a gym membership, and too much of a pansy to be hardcore with my running in the icy month of January, I decided a run in the hotel's treadmill would be a special treat.

Down I went to the gym on the second floor, and yes, it's quite possible that I forgot my sweats and had to run in my pajama pants (don't worry. They're gray, and except for the penguins and surfboards across my derriere, I don't think anyone would have noticed anything suspicious about my attire). Luckily, I was the only lunatic in the gym at what I would have thought was an ungodly morning hour.

*Sidenote--I just had to google "butt synonym" to figure out how to spell derriere. True confessions of the randomness of my life.

So anyway, I attacked the treadmill, and it attacked me back. I've only resorted to indoor running a handful of times in my life, and when I checked my mileage after twenty-five minutes, a timeframe when during my normal efforts outside I would have been at close to three miles, I had managed to run just over two. Sweaty, hot, and disgusted by the stuffiness of my gym and my poor performance, I jumped off the treadmill and wandered out to the balcony to breathe in some fresh air.

To my delight, it wasn't a frigid, furious winter morning, as I assumed it would have been. The cold that greeted me was exactly what I needed to refocus my mind. I jogged down the stairs, having found the inspiration to finish what I'd started. I ran the final mile down the deserted Ocean City boardwalk, awed by the spectacular display of nature in the sunrise, convinced that God had chosen this moment to talk to me.

It was a beautiful experience.

The people I spent the weekend with: dear older friends and instant newer ones, too, were truly some of the most fascinating I've ever met. Many of us are teachers. Some of us are students. All of us are writers. Stacie, the single mom of four I invited from my church, one of my favorite friends I made last year, discovered that she is, in fact, a writer. My friend Greg, a college student and full-time construction worker, held his own and kept us in hysterics as he carried his weight as one third of our entire male population (the only time you'll be in the minority as a white male, we joked). His creative documentary on seagulls is both hilarious and a bit scary. Once he posts it online, I'll provide a link. Laura, who has easily done enough living in her short time on this planet to have lived fifteen people's lifetimes, told of her adventures in twenty-one countries, and her Deep Conversations with Random Strangers, a brilliant book idea that stems from her energy and fearlessness in meeting and connecting with new people. I heard sentences from her mouth that I would never anticipate hearing again, things like "So I was in Chicago, and it was after I'd won third place in the Amateur Ventriliquest Competition..." We practiced the art of Deep Conversations with Random Strangers, marching into The Atlantic Hotel in Berlin, demanding to know if this was in fact the hotel Richard Gere stayed in during the filming of Runaway Bride. The gracious owner, who was sidetracked by her duty to check in actual paying guests, handed us the key to Room #20, and up the stairs we went. Cynthia touched the bed Mr. Gere slept in; we all admired the toilet he peed in.

We finished the weekend out with Jody Kelly Wright, a local author and partner of a West Ocean City restaurant. She spoke beautifully, encouraging us all, inviting us to celebrate whatever successes it is that we have achieved, and to constantly challenge ourselves to take it to the next level, whatever that may be. Jody is living my dream. She has had one book published by a small press, and is now an agented author pursuing traditional publication for another of her novels. I think given her energy, dedication, and obvious talent, she is a definite name to watch. As I sat in that room with other aspiring authors, I thought back to that grueling run on the treadmill, and how the moment I stepped outside, I was free to really run. It suddenly became easier, because instead of running in place, I was actually going somewhere. I think so many of us run, run, run through our lives going nowhere, just as I was struggling and huffing away on that treadmill. Only in breaking loose and running in the fresh air, which we are so often afraid to do, because of the cold, because of the inconvenience, because of the unknown, because of the challenge, only when we venture outside, do we find we are finally able to run somewhere. I don't even know that where you go is the important thing... I just know it matters that you are moving in a direction of your choice, as opposed to staying still despite your best efforts.

As I thought about God and all his majesty, the gifts he gives us that we take for granted or get distracted from (the most sacred of which is the gift of His own son), I vowed to not run in place any longer. I vowed to pursue my dreams and those God has for me, and to not settle for running in place, to exhaust myself in a struggle to make it through without actually going anywhere. I want to live life to the fullest. As I returned to Salisbury for church in the evening, my pastor's words summed up my realizations of the weekend:

"It is never too late to be the person you were always meant to become."

Why wait another day? We are given so very few, and they are truly precious. I'm getting off the treadmill now.

Will you?

Why settle for an affair when you could be married?

Here's to living each day to the fullest.