Writing About Writing

It’s not that you guys…my cheerful little group of readers…aren’t enough to keep me fulfilled and happy.  It’s not that.  I have fun writing for you.  I really, really do.

You make lively comments.

You stwoke my widdle writer’s ego.

You never gripe too much when I don’t write for a month and/or put something out there that’s only half-assed.

You’re a great group, and I love you.

But…

Lately (like for the past 20 years), I’ve been wondering if I might have what it takes to be a working, paid writer.  Maybe not THE American Idol of writers but, you know, someone who can earn decent, sustainable income over time.

Wondering.  Wondering.  Mm. Mm. Mm.

This makes me more than a little fretty, of course.  Mostly when I’m actually watching American Idol.  All that internal confusion and inflated ego coupled with low self esteem hits just a little too close to home for my Writer Me.

Especially when I connect the dots to some of those really, really bad BAD singers who don’t make it past the first audition.  They are so mortally wounded and morally outraged (because no one can see how great they are), that they are forced to start flipping everybody the bird and yelling the F-word all over the place.  They’re flabbergasted, I guess, because the judges disagree with what their families and friends have told them all these years…that they are great, wonderful, and practically perfect in every way.

Kinda like my family and friends telling me what a great writer I am.

That close circle of people who love (or are scared) of those Idol wannabes seem to be more interested in making them feel good (or keeping them calm) than telling them the truth.  They think the lie is the most loving thing.

Unless, of course…those loving liars are tone deaf and can’t tell the difference between music and not music.  Very possible.  Especially if the connection is genetic.

But you have to wonder why no one ever stepped forward and said, “Holy Schmoly, Girlfriend, you sound just like when I stepped on my parrot’s tail.”

There’s pretty much no hope for a really, truly not-a-singer to become a really, truly famous singer (not counting Britney Spears).  The raw material just isn’t there.  Voice lessons won’t make one bit of difference.  You know it.  I know it.  Mom and Dad and Cousin Natalie know it.  The only one who doesn’t seem to know it is The Parrot Stepper-Onner.

But then…there are others.  The ones who are just awkward and marginal, not horrifying.  The ones who do seem to have the raw material.  I think, That person might have had a chance if he/she had just had a little support and put in the time and hard work.

Those Idol kids share the dream, but only some of them understand how much work and courage and sacrifice and outside help it takes. Even then, it’s a crap shoot.  There are people who work hard their whole lives and still don’t get their dreams.

I’m thinking, if the dream is the only goal, time to rethink the dream.

Most of us who love the arts won’t be rich.  We won’t be famous.  But it doesn’t matter much.  We have to sing or paint or dance or play the piano or write.  Just doing it is good enough.  Making a living and helping others along the way is better.  But requires a LOT more work.

And is way different than wanting only to be famous or rich.

My biggest hurdle has always been to stop the negative head trip that happens as soon as I set myself to write professionally.  Because as soon as I decide to go for it…The Chorus (in my head) pipes up and tell me I should know by now that I don’t have what it takes.  Never did, never will.

I joined The Chorus in college when one of my professors told me that I would never make a living as a writer, so I better drop out of English and get a teaching degree.

Just like that, I changed my major and dropped out of school a year later.

Even now…even after all these years of arguing with The Chorus, I have such a hard time not buying into the bs.  Learning to believe in myself…to trust myself to do what I’m called to do and not wuss out…used to seem like the impossible dream.

Even my old Weight Watcher leader saw the problem.  Can you imagine?  My Weight Watcher leader!  She did me the favor of telling me the truth about myself.  She said that I would never achieve my goals until I learned how to love and believe in myself.

My reaction at the time was:  I…am…totally…screwed.

I’ve been a Christian a long time, circling this same old mountain over and over again…and I still don’t have the answer to the riddle:

How does a person learn to believe in herself?

It’s a rare thing, but you do see it.  People who decide to change their minds and start to believe in the possibilities in themselves.  They begin to focus and transform themselves…learning from their mistakes as they go.

Like a slow-motion miracle.

For me, it’s a God thing.  At the risk of sounding a little dopey – writing feels like a calling.   For the benefit of whom or why?  Not a clue.

Can I learn to believe in myself?

Again, not a clue.  Maybe I’m just supposed to just do it without that luxury.

All I know is that when I pray and ask what I’m supposed to do, the answer always seems to be:  Write.

So…with Tom’s blessing albeit a slightly confused one…seeing as how I can’t say exactly when the money is going to start trickling flooding in…I’m moving in the direction of being a working, paid writer.

I’m setting the bar LOW at this point.  No Great American Novel.  No A-List Blogger in 12 Months or Less.

Slow and Steady.

When I aim low (read:  set realistic goals), I’m less likely to get overwhelmed and freaked out.

God likes it when I aim low.

When I aim too high, I tend to freeze, stare blankly at the ground until my eyes cross, then limp off in search of stale pizza and a new episode of The Millionaire Matchmaker.

Don’t watch it.  It is BAD.

Coming To

I’m starting to come to.

Really.

Finally.

I am.

After this tough year…well, tough couple of years…it’s such a gift to feel like I’m actually able to inhale and exhale after holding my breath too long.

Except for the walking better part (which I have to say is HUGE), not a lot of things have changed.  A lot of stuff still sucks.  A lot of stuff still doesn’t.

What has shifted is my ‘tude.

It’s a good thing.  A very good thing, Martha.

Here’s a newsflash…I am less angst-ridden and crazy when I spend more time on God’s will and less time on mine.

Like I’ve never heard/learned/forgotten/relearned/heard/forgotten THIS lesson before.

But even when I’m doing my best to do it God’s way…maybe especially when I’m doing that…I still have those pesky expectations…

Like the expectation that I will mostly feel safe and good, as will all the people that I love.

That Tom will have a job, as will all of the people that I love.

That I’ll be able to walk, as will…

You get the idea.

That this winter won’t last for freakin’ ever.

That I can make a new friend or two (apparently without ever leaving my house).

That I can keep on ditching Weight Watcher meetings and lose EXTRA weight.

That I can keep a blog going…because I have so much to say that is helpful, useful, and funny.

[To blog or not to blog.  THAT is the question.  To which I have answered a definitive “Uh.  Um. Yeah.  Maybe…when I feel like it.”]

Anyway.

A really big part of going through all this stuff has been trying to deal…not only with the struggle with the different situations…but even more…even worse…with the fear that began creeping into my bones…that fear of what’s coming next….which has probably been more spiritually and emotionally devastating…and kept me stuck longer…than the actual pain of living through the junk.

Jesus was always saying “Fear not.”  It’s in the scripture, like 50,000 times.  That’s because the disciples, people hanging around, etc., were just as big at being wussy wimps as I am.  They wanted to know what was next.  What was going to be required…so maybe they could prepare themselves.

Not too much to ask, right?  Jesus did, after all, know what was coming up.

So, he told them some stuff, but most of it, they didn’t understand.  What they did get, they mostly just whined and argued about.

So, there you go.

What I know in my knower…and have FINALLY started to reconnect with…is that if I just focus on this day and do God’s will to my best ability, I will have what I need to deal with tomorrow, if and when it comes.

Challenges come and go.  Fear too.  Sometimes we do well.  Sometimes not.  But…the longer we stand, peering into the unknown darkness, the murkier everything looks…even what is right here…right in front of us…waiting to be experienced and done today.

This hour.  This minute.  This is where the focus is.

With God’s help…

This we can handle.

****

I heard something the other day that made me think (a little).  Somebody (not a clue who…email forward?  The Millionaire Matchmaker?  Jack Bauer?) said that part of our problem as people is that we think of ourselves as a body with a spirit.  When, in fact, what we really are is a spirit with a body.  Pretty important distinction when you’re looking at the big picture…and shopping in the Big Girls Store.

****

I told a friend the other day that my experience w/turning things over to God is a lot like that story about the guy hanging off the cliff praying for God’s help.   You know the one  where God sends all these different rescuers to get the guy down, including finally dropping a rope down from a helicopter.  The guy falls off the cliff, of course, and dies.  He hits heaven and wants to know why God didn’t help him.

I can so relate to that story.  The main exception being that, in my case, it’s more like God just seems to drop me a Care package of raw materials to make the rope.

Which is probably good, because no way would I go swinging through the universe hanging off the bottom of a helicopter.

Unless I was in a mood.

Settling Down and Settling In

Settling down and settling in.

Thinking about those two this morning. 

Thinking about how hard it is to sit down and write with all the undone and unknowns swirling in my wee widdle brain. 

I heard that phrase again yesterday from a writer who said something to the effect that he didn’t know what he was really thinking until he settled down to write. 

Amen and pass the plate on that one.

But how do you settle down when sitting down to think/write just seems to make your problem of jangly thinking/living/being more apparent?

Hnh.

Problem. 

The more chaotic things are here…the less I’m home…the more projects in process I have…the more times I have to pick up and travel…come home…unpack and start again…the more excruciating it feels to try to settle down and settle in to write. 

Isn’t life supposed to get simpler as we get older?   Can I ever remember a time when life DID seem settled? 

Semi-routine maybe.  Never what I would call settled.

Burp.

Could be that I’m losing my ability to filter the chaos of 21^st Century chatter from that which I need to fully focus.

Focus. 

There’s a word right up there with God in its utter inscrutability.

I was thinking it was just me, until I went to church with Kate on Sunday. 

Valley Church.  Good speaker who talked a lot about courage that comes from God.  This guy’s day job is financial advisor, so he knows maybe more than the rest of us, the angst and anxiety of this past year.  It was a good sermon…had me looking up King Hezekiah in 2Kings this morning, which is no small coup for any preacher.

He opened his talk with this question:  “How many here are glad that 2009 is over?”

There was a rumble and resounding “I am!” across the hall. 

I blinked at the people around me.  Huh?  You mean OTHER people are having a tough time besides moi? 

He went on to say that Iowa lost 40,000 jobs this year.

40,000 in our shoes.  Maybe even worse shoes than ours.

Huh?

40,000 people for whom focus has now changed – and that’s not counting their wives and husbands and kids and parents.

Tough year.

He went on to read scripture and share personal stories about how our courage and confidence come from God.  That God is above and beyond all these circumstances. 

Fresh spring air.

That speaker started to change my focus. 

Here’s my biggest takeaway from his sermon:  When things start tanking, instead of asking ourselves…How long will this pain LAST?  Maybe we can start asking ourselves…How long will I have this particular opportunity to reach out to people who need God now like never before?  Because it’s in the tough times that people are most open to the gospel.

Nice.

****

This morning, I started thinking about this brand new 2010 and some of the things I’m grateful for:

Here…in no particular order:

Tom and I are still chugging along.  31 years, now.  It’s pretty much a miracle. 

After all the holiday hoopla, I’m only 2 pounds up from my all-time low weight (on Weight Watchers – you know – this time) and still down almost 25 from my all time high.  I am totally breaking new ground here.

Living in Waukee.  It’s pretty good being close…but not too close…to the kids.  

Restaurant coupons.

Brett Favre.

The Farm – Tom and I both love it – for very, very different reasons. 

Hope…finally…for a normal gait after foot surgery.

Restaurants with great, big, fat salad bars (Ruby Tuesday – you GO, girl!)

Our 401k  is mostly back.

Living exactly 1 mile from Fareway Foods.

The brand new YMCA, not much more than spitting distance (if you’re a really good spitter)…72,000 square feet of workout bliss.

I have people in my life who love me.  Some even like me.  Ditto and back atcha.

The next season of American Idol starts January 12^th – 2 hour premiere – I get to laugh hysterically at dorky people singing badly.  My guiltiest pleasure (not really).

There’s more…but that’s good for now.

Happy New Year.

My New BFF

Yesterday, I was at Wells Fargo doin’ some bi-ness. 

A nice teller, about my age or so – you know, youngish – commented on my hair color being gorgeous – which I thought – holy schmoly – she must be reading my mind. 

Except that I’d just been standing there waiting my turn in line (a skill I’m trying to develop since we moved to The City) thinking… Man, this hair on my head is so ugly.  It has gotten out-of-control brassy.  I wonder what color I should change to?

 ‘Course, my new best friend ended all that nonsense with one comment.

And sparked a spirited dialogue with another youngish woman (who had gone completely gray – that gorgeous, sparkly silver we all want – you know – in another 30 years or so) and was telling me and my new best friend that her hairdresser had said her hair was starting to go darker again.  Which led Lady Silver Hair to conclude that it was her recently dearly departed husband who had given her gray hair in the first place.

Hnh.

In the next 2 or 3 minutes…the time it took for my new best friend to walk me to the safety deposit vault and sign me in (so I could put in the title to the F-250 – paid in full – Yeah, Baby!)…I found out that her husband had been let go from JC Penney last spring…after 34 years…exactly 4 months before he was eligible for full retirement. 

Like in Tom’s case…Penneys didn’t terminate him…they terminated his position. 

A couple of months later, her husband had a stroke…she said from the stress of the whole thing. 

Her story got me counting my blessings again…which I’ve been having a hard time doing lately.  

I’ve been struggling.  Re-thinking and re-planning.  Restructuring.  Back to our old budgeting days.  Watching some of our balances go the wrong way.  Trying to stay Christian while I put numbers to betrayal.  It’s a lot of work.

Staying in the truth about money and resources has not been pretty.  My mood swings back and forth between my Eeyore self and that first screaming woman who gets killed in every catastrophe movie you’ve ever seen.   

Anywho.

Now is a little like going back to the gym after slacking off for a few weeks.  Everything about this new budget creaks and hurts, but I know I can do it.  I just have to practice the old skills until I’m on my game again.  It starts with getting into the truth about what’s going out and what’s coming in.  I’ve done most of that crappy work…for now anyway.

But I digress…

The real lesson was…and I’m pretty sure this was one of those God’s lips to my ears deals – is that there are worse things than losing your job.  Losing your job and losing your husband is much, much worse. 

Well, unless you’re Lady Silver Hair.

All of which got me thinking…

Wonder if my new BFF can get me a job?

Some Things I’ve Learned

A few of these are a repeat of a piece I wrote a little over a year ago.  Which I didn’t realize until about a minute ago.  But, HEY anything worth saying is worth saying 2 or 3 times.

 1)  Wanting and getting are WAY more fun than having (to take care of). 

 2)  Here’s a crazy thought:   Work on my life instead of everybody else’s. 

 3)  Pay attention, but don’t micro analyze.

 4)  I need to do what  I love sometimes…even if nobody else wants to do it with me or pays me one red cent. 

 5)  Music can change my mood…for good or bad…faster than almost anything.

 6)  I know how to be rich and poor.  Both are stressful.

 7)  Rich and poor are very subjective terms.

 8)  Sometimes girlfriends are helpful.  Sometimes not so much.

 9)  Helping others helps me more.

10)  Everything and everyone eventually break – when I accept that, I do better.

11)  God isn’t necessarily mad-sad-happy-glad just because I am. 

12)  Don’t force HAPPY all the time.  It’s distracting and I usually miss something important.

13)  Something good usually comes from depression…IF I let God sift out the crap.

14)  The fatter I am, the less social.

15)  The harder I am on myself, the harder I am on everybody else…especially Tom.

16)  Humility doesn’t come easy.

17)  Just ‘cause I don’t have all my oars in the water, don’t mean I ain’t in the boat. 

*****

A few days ago: 

We’re sitting on the couch watching TV. 

Cherie says:   “This is not good.  I keep trying to use the remote control to make a phone call.”

Tom says:  “Yeah, I do that  too, but I only get the operator.”

Hurry Up and Wait

Up and at ‘em.  Got my coffee, fresh and hot.  Got my achy foot elevated, more or less.  It’s quiet in the house except for hammering on the new house going up across the field.  Kitty’s harassing me, trying to sneaky, sneak onto her favorite spot (lying across my forearms and the keyboard).  Like I’m not going to notice that. 

I was just telling Tom a few days ago that one of the biggest changes about being infirm is that I can only do one thing at a time.  No brushing my teeth AND blow drying my hair.  No putting away clean dishes and decluttering countertops at the same time.  When I take a shower, I’m focused.  Present.  I have to be, or I risk throwing out my good knee or falling flat on my face.  Either one could mean paramedics and/or Tom seeing me naked…which…well, I think I’d rather be dead. 

Yeah, pretty sure I would.

One-thing-at-a-time is not how I normally roll.  Probably not you, either.  We multi-task our brains out and bitch (or brag) about it incessantly.  It’s the way of the world.  So many things to see.  Even more things to do.  We wanna see it all, taste it all, do it all.  

See-it-Taste-it-Do-it Junkies.

This past month…being forced to slow down to a crawl and do just that one needed thing?  To really and truly consider the consequences before I take that deliberate step in that particular direction?  Brutal.

When Mom was here she said that she thought my surgery was turning out to be a very good thing for me and Tom.  She was trying to comfort me at the time. 

I was out of my head with the frustration of not even being able to carry a glass of water or pick up a Kleenex off the floor…choking back an overwhelming desire to micro-manage my bedroom clutter AND my husband…coming face to face with my almost total dependence on other people, for the first time in my adult life.  Learning to let go and let Tom take care of me.  To suffer watching him slow his own pace of life for me, and only me.  To wait for me and wait on me. 

Waiting for and waiting on. 

Time slows.  Awareness changes.  Focus shifts.  There is this moment now and what must be done with it.  The possibilities.  The limitations. 

I see it most clearly in the lives of old servants like my grandma.  She spent her life waiting on others.  Cooking.  Cleaning.  Welcoming.  Listening.  Loving.  Later, she spent her life waiting for others to come.  Especially those of us who remembered how she would cook, clean, welcome, listen, love.  Sitting with her…remembering…we waited for her and on her, as she had us.

Very much at odds with this age of perpetual motion to go, do, earn, compete, exceed, boast. 

When we are forced to wait…to sit quietly…say in traffic…the common reaction is Get out of my WAY!!  Can’t you see I’m busy here?  This is one important life waiting to happen and you’re slowing it down!  Since we are so very important, we think, we shouldn’t have to wait…for people or traffic or circumstances…maybe even God.

I remember evenings…many, many years ago…when I would wait for the stars to come out.  I’d count each one as it appeared, until I lost track and then I would just look and drift until I was filled up with the wonder of All That Up There.   I can still feel and smell those summer nights.  God was in the air around me.

We’re losing our way.  We can’t even articulate it…that desire for drifting…for living in The Truth about ourselves and our teeny, tiny place in the universe…of just waiting for what God brings along next…without feeling uneasy.  It seems so passive.  Lazy.  Guilty.

We are a capitalist society.  Product is everything.

??   !!!

The value placed on being fully present…for our one and only life on Earth…is disappearing.  It is literally being programmed out of our society.  

We’re exchanging it for goods and services, ego and ambition.  Wealth.  Possessions.  Centering ourselves in financial or social or political or religious issues.   Many times, it’s just easier to justify our self-righteous feelings that we are extremely important, productive people (as long as everyone stays out of our way, of course) than bucking the system.  It’s easier to ignore…than strain to hear…that small, still voice deep inside that speaks about a better way…

I’m not saying that our work isn’t important.  There is so much today that’s worth working and fighting for.  BUT…finding harmony between supporting ourselves with fiscal responsibility AND loving God with our whole hearts AND others as ourselves?  Seeking God with an open heart?  It’s not Either/Or.  It’s All of the Above.  Blending these things together…that creates the beautiful music…the harmonies and melodies of a life well-lived.   

It’s more art than science…this Life Well-Lived.   Less about finding The Formula.  More about  losing The Attitude.  More about those first and last thoughts of the day.  How willing we are to chip away at the unnecessary stone and edit out the extra blab.  

So much more about what we let go…than how furiously we hold on.

*****

“What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?”

Handicap Honky Tonk

A couple of days ago I heard myself tell a sweet, little old lady that this has been one helluva year.

Hearing this surprised me a little.  Not only that I could say something so crude as “helluva”  to someone 30 years my senior…but also to have something that sounded so old and crotchety and negative pop out of my mouth.

But…no shizzle…It HAS been a helluva year.

Losing my mother-in-law to Alzheimer’s.  Tom’s polymyalgia.  Moving into a new house right in the middle of all that (I’m not complaining, I’m just saying…buying and moving across state after 27 years in the same old house when your husband can’t stay awake for more than 30 minutes at a time and feels like crap the rest of the time is a thousand kinds of work and worry I never anticipated…even on my worst kvetching days.)  Still…a year later…trying to get work done on the old house to get it ready for the market (what market?).  The sad debacle of our saggy 401K.  Tom losing his job out of the blue.  Totally restructuring the business part of the farm.  Poring, poring, poring over the numbers to figure out how everyone gets paid.  And on top of everything else…hopping and hobbling around with increasing pain in my foot and leg…bad enough that I finally had to bite the bullet and go to the doctor…who orders an MRI and sends me to a podiatrist/surgeon who gives me the good news and the bad news.  Torn tendon caused by flat foot…which needs sewing and synthetic graft and maybe sawing through my heel so this will never – ever – EVER happen again.  So that, after I’m all healed – in about 18 months or so – I’ll even be able to run marathons.  Which is mighty intriguing, since I’ve never been able to run them before.

Anyway.

So…as my dwindling fan base has noticed…I’ve been blogless in Waukee.  And, of all my tales of woe…this is one of the most daunting for me as ME…that I can’t bring myself to write.  I fell in love with writing when I was 17…almost 40 years ago…and have never been too far from the pen since.  I’ve pretty much always been as full of words as I am full of  a few other things.   

Writing…good, bad, indifferent…is a God-given thing for me.  It helps me connect with The Light.  I start out writing…spinning and crazy.  I keep writing through it and something better starts to emerge from the shadows.  I begin to remember the positive…that it’s not, in fact, ALWAYS All About Me.  If I’m lucky, I actually remember gratitude and hope and what a great opportunity I’ve been given to live and experience and write about the human condition.  Writing is a little mystical for me that way…when I will allow it.  Working at being honest and fresh…it connects me to God and myself and other people.  When I collaborate and cooperate with God, it’s a pretty good gift to me.  Sometimes for others.  And, hopefully, even for God himself.

But lately?  Not so much. 

I used to write funny…which is my favorite…and why I started blogging in the first place.  Writing humor is HARD and I needed lots of practice (which I found out when I did my best writing for a little piece to send to Reader’s Digest…Humor in Something or Other… it came out stilted and dopey, despite hours of sweating and pencil biting).  Humor takes time and effort…it takes me awhile to get there…even though I think I’m freaking hilarious off the cuff…apparently, there’s a fine a line between cheesy and funny.  It’s WAY harder than it looks.  I can start writing at 6:30 a.m. and just be finishing up at 2 or 3 in the afternoon.  Which leaves me with a writing hangover and causes me to quickly eat copious amounts of chocolate bran muffins (I’m on Weight Watchers now) and slug down frosty glasses of Diet Mug Root Beer until I’m feeling all better…or fall over sideways on the couch in a carb coma. 

But lately?  I just haven’t been able to get there…you know, to the place BEFORE the carb coma…

The only writing I seem to get done is my increasingly whiney and repetitious journal and maybe sending off a note in an occasional, tardy greeting card – and it feels more like penance and punishment than anything else.

All that to say…sorry, sorry.  Sorry.  But what’s a girl to do? 

There’s a line in the Book of Job that goes something like:  “That which I feared has come upon me.”  One of my biggest fears has been that I would lose my ability to walk.  Which would, in no time flat, morph me into a candidate for the Clinic Out East for the Super Morbidly Obese.  I’d be the ginormous red-head, facing into the corner, whispering into my cell phone my order to Pizza Hut; then crouch-walking my wheelchair to the front door at 11 p.m. for my Extra Large Super Supreme (easy on the green peppers).

In case you’re interested…and especially if you haven’t pissed God off recently…I would love it if you would pray for me and my right foot.  We are going to surgery next Monday.  Apparently, we’re going to be on crutches for 4 weeks; then in one of those big honkin’ boot things for another 4. 

Tom Bell will be cooking for me.  His signature meal (“signature” meaning “only”) is venison steak, microwave baked potatoes and canned cream-style corn.

No driving for 8 weeks – try to wrap your brain around that one. 

I’m telling this all to my internist yesterday…who laughs and said, “Oh, like driving Miss Daisy!” 

Bing!  Bing!  Bing!  Light bulb over my head…I say, “Hey, can I get one of those handicap permits?”  Voila!  I have one for the next 12 weeks…so for any of you who covet handicap parking…who will actually pray for me and haven’t pissed off God recently…come visit me in a few weeks and we’ll go honky tonkin’.

You drive.

Christianity 101 – for bi-polar, OCD, post modern, perfectionist, Jesus types

Here’s a scripture I found this morning when I was putzing around in some old emails:

 

We know that we have come to know him if we obey his commands. 

The man who says, “I know him,” but does not do what he commands is a liar, and the truth is not in him. 

But if anyone obeys his word, God’s love is truly made complete in him.

This is how we know we are in him:  Whoever claims to live in him must walk as Jesus did.     I John 2:3-6

 

I LOVE John.  I’m pretty sure (today) that he’s my favorite Bible writer.  Maybe it’s because he’s always juxtaposing opposites:  light and dark, truth and lies, life and death, love and hate…love those juxtapositions of contrasts.

Contrasts R Us.

Anyway.

We all know what we mean when we say we know someone.  But the Greek word for to know here in this scripture means more.  It translates:  to be aware of, be sure, understand.  

John is talking about a distinct kind of knowledge of God.  Something much more than a casual acquaintance.  And look how many times he puts know in these lines. 

“We know that we have come to know him if we obey his commands.”    In other words, we understand that we will be aware of, be sure of, understand  God IF we obey him.

“The man who says ‘I know him,’ but does not do what he commands is a liar…”    So…if we say we are aware of, sure of, understand  God, but don’t obey him? We’re big fat liars. 

Ouch.

“This is how we know we are in him…[we] must walk as Jesus did.”   

Pretty tall order.

Obviously, this isn’t referring to things like head knowledge or theories about God.  Not some God-in-the-Abstract or God-in-Principle.  Or…oh, yeah, uh huh, I know God…he’s up there,  all right…The-Creative-Mind-Divine-Intelligence-Creator-of-the-Universe-Big-Guy-Upstairs.   

Instead, John wants us to understand that this obeying and knowing promises actual intimacy, a particular brand of closeness with God.  A promise that we can hook up closely to all that’s good and light-filled.  Compassion.  Mercy.  Humor.  Love. 

The other day I was talking to one of the kids about relationships and how hard they are (for me, anyway) because they require so much focus and commitment and time and maybe even trying to see something from someone else’s perspective. (Crap!)  I thought back to a few years ago when I was finishing up my degree and was just so overwhelmed with the commitment of studying and keeping house and raising kids.  I don’t know if my marriage would have withstood the pressure if Tom and I hadn’t committed to spending every Friday night together…(I was taking the equivalent of 17 hours per semester and it was THE one and only night a week that I didn’t study).  We made time for each other – not that those dates were always spectacular examples of marital bliss, sometimes (not always, thank goodness) we were just making a date to argue about bills or the kids or the latest unfinished home repair project.  But the point is that we were carving out time from two crazy schedules because we valued our relationship.  That sacrifice of time and focus kept “us” alive. 

As I’m sharing this with the kid, I’m thinking, why don’t I do more of this with the Lord?  I can go weeks at home without reading my Bible or praying much more than the “How are You?  I’m fine. Please help everybody in the world.  Amen.”  kind of prayer.  It doesn’t take much of that before life seems overwhelming and arbitrary and full of work and woe, and I’m caught in a stinky pit of self pity and fear and confusion.  

For me, knowing God means that I should somehow get to know him well enough to be aware of, be sure, understand  what he means to me and what I mean to him.  And what he would like for me to do. 

Easier said than done. 

God’s a complicated guy and not always that forthcoming, so it’s probably going to take longer than I think it should to know him and his will for me. 

I’m a complicated girl and not always that forthcoming either, so it’s probably going to take longer than God thinks it should for me to be willing to obey.

And it seems to be that our willingness to obey may actually be the precursor to our finding out what God is inviting us to do. 

Sheesh. 

A good start for me is Sunday morning.  My butt in the pew.  It’s the absolute minimum. 

I think this is because my short-term memory sucks radically.  I have pretty much totally forgotten a “Love Thy Neighbor” sermon by Tuesday afternoon.  Especially after being snipped at by an automated voice that wants me to properly pronounce fluticasone propionate over the phone before it will tell me how much this prescription will cost.  Swearing at robot voices is an exercise in futility, not to mention the opposite of Loving Everybody.  (Or is it?  Does that voice count…because there is no BODY…so, you tell me.)

Hanging out with people who hang out with Jesus helps immensely…especially if they love me and I can trust them. 

Reading the Bible helps too…but it’s better for me to do more than just read it…like meditating on it, rolling it around on my tongue, flapping at other people about it, writing about it. 

It’s way better when I let go of the   A + B + C = Spiritual Giant   formulas in lieu of opening (and re-opening) my heart and mind to the fact that I pretty much need to be saved over and over, every single day.  Which, there again…you tell me if that sounds easy.

Then comes the effort to recognize AND try to live in The Truth….which takes a STINKING amount of work…even under the best of circumstances.

I do a LOT better when I don’t get freaked out by the fact that everything good…everything God in my life…is basically a process of renewing my commitment to him over and over and over and over again.  

For a perfectionist, enough is never enough.  Others think that God should be grateful for any bit or portion of attention they bestow upon him. 

Me?  I go back and forth.  I’m not proud of it.  I’m just saying.

It’s the lament of all us bi-polar OCD, post modern, perfectionist Jesus types – self diagnosed or otherwise.  But…we do what we can.

The pay off (thank GOD there’s a payoff) is that, for those of us who don’t wimp out, we DO start to know God better, to feel him close by us.  And, then, this kind of mystical thing happens – that day when obedience to God doesn’t sound so huge and scary and/or boring and/or overwhelming and/or insane.  It starts to sound exciting and a little jazzy. 

And shakin’ it up is all about excitin’ and jazzy.

Schizos

 We’re having a tough time retiring, Tom and I.  We don’t know how to do it. 

At least when the kids were coming we had 9 months to prepare ourselves before a fat baby plopped in our laps.  Ditto when they flew the nest.

Not this time.

This retirement crap is trying to make schizophrenic cowards of us.   

We’re scared. 

Then we’re not.  

We fret about next month, next year, next decade.  

Then we don’t. 

It’s like being on a swing set.  We look at what might be ahead and we decide ok; let’s just get on the swing, do the work and go forward.  We pump, pump, pump our little legs…then throw back our heads and straighten out and start to coast, swinging back and forth.  Swing, swing, swing, swing…faith, faith, faith…FEAR, FEAR, FEAR.  Pray, pray, pray, pray…and then just as we settle back onto the faith side, a big mean giant comes up from behind, gives us 5 big pushes on the back and we’re hurtling through the air again.

So far, thank God, our anxiety attacks haven’t come at the same time.  That way the one who has some shreds of faith at that moment can pray for the one who is freaking out and vice versa.  If we were both flipping out at the same time, it could be a bloody mess, emotionally and spiritually.

Okay.  One more thing to worry about.

Years ago, Tom and I did marriage counseling.  Interesting process.  We learned some things about ourselves and each other.  Like what we do and don’t expect of our relationship and life in general.  How we do and don’t communicate those things very well.  Which things are deal breakers and which things are just totally freaking annoying about each other.  And how  it’s a very good thing to be able to distinguish between the two.  

One thing that I didn’t realize about myself until then is that I have this obsessive need to know what’s coming up…I need scheduling like most people need toilet paper.  I don’t necessarily have to stick to the plan perfectly, but I NEED A PLAN.  

Bad analogy, but you get the idea.

I have been known to spend hours and hours on The Plan, especially when things are unsettled.  Apparently, according to our counselor, this came from deep-seated fears that I would be lost and/or left…which had to do with abandonment issues from my dad.

Whatever.

But, even all these years later, it’s still true of me that I have a relentless desire to know what’s ahead so I can try to get ready.  So I can make a plan.  Flight or fight.  The first half of my life it was flight.  Since I’ve had Tom and the kids, I mostly stay and fight…which is a good thing since hopefully the kids won’t be in counseling down the road with Mommy abandonment issues.  (No guarantees with that stuff, though.  Kids can surprise you.)

The Truth is trying to come back home to rest in my heart that I don’t have exclusive movie rights to The Plan.  I get some input, but by and large, the plan is God’s.  He’s the writer, director AND producer.  I’m just an actor.  And not one of the leads either.  It’s occurring to me as I write this, that I must be just an extra…which smacks in the face my own drama and self absorption and abundant willingness to write, direct and produce it all myself. 

I wanna control it all by knowing it all.  Too bad I rarely know as much as I think I do.

This used to be (is still) one of my favorite scriptures:  “In his heart, a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps.”   I had pretty much forgotten those words before I started writing this piece.

For a girl who loves to plan her course and has seen those plans go pretty crazy from time to time, that scripture is a heart holder.  A touchstone to come back to when I stumble off the path.  I held onto it for many years…very good years of knowing who I was and who I wasn’t. 

Somewhere…in the daily drama of life’s STUFF coming at me (<- see that?  I didn’t write “life’s SHIT” – I must be getting better :)), I forgot What’s What…and got out of practice of letting God direct my steps in lieu of thinking my security comes with accomplishing MY PLAN. 

No wonder I feel so freaking crazy all the time.

Misc blab

I love trash pickup day.  It’s almost exactly like Sunday…it starts a brand new week with no mistakes (yet).  No matter how messy Life has gotten by Thursday, come Friday morning, it’s all tucked neatly at the curb, waiting for my favorite public servant to come and clear it all away.

 

Now that I’m a recycler, I love Trash Day AND Me. 

 

The only problem is that just when I think I have ALL my garbage safely out to the curb, I start finding random scraps of paper (scribbled Wal-mart lists, half used Puffs I save for “later”) and my OCD has me making trips back and forth to the curb like a little ant.

 

This is how I get my exercise…going back and forth to the curb until the very last minute.  Friday is my official exercise day.

 

 

*******

 

I keep it pretty much on the down low, but I’m a total maverick in a middle-aged housewife’s body. 

 

Sometimes?  When I’m feeling that restless, you-can’t-tell-me-what-to-do mood?  I wear a black bra under a cream-colored sweater. On my over-the-top days, I wear white underpants at the same time. 

 

‘Course, I never leave the house that way.  You can’t convince me that paramedics ignore that kind of stuff.  I don’t want to die at the hands of a prissy-chotic paramedic…should I have a head-on collision and my bra and underpants don’t match.

 

********

 

God help me if the road to hell is paved with good intentions.   If it is, I am totally screwed.

 

********

 

Speaking of good intentions, I know that exercise helps your brain, but…and this is mostly the truth…I can’t remember to exercise.

 

*******

 

We’re heading down to the farm for turkey season this afternoon.  I need to do some spring cleaning and pamper the boys a little.  Should be back sometime next week. 

 

I just found out there’s rain in the forecast this weekend.

 

Try to imagine Yourself as the only woman in a travel trailer with 3 gassy hunters and it’s raining the whole time.  You should feel sorry for me and pray.

 

Note to self:  Buy candles.