Ten Things

A long time ago I attended a writer’s conference. The keynote speaker was a relatively unknown Christian writer who had an idea that he floated to us during one of his talks. Something about the rapture, the antichrist, and the end times.

Before Jerry Jenkins ever wrote the Left Behind series he had already written several books, including one that I bought at that conference called 12 Things I Want My Kids to Remember Forever. When he autographed my book I told him that the reason I was buying this book and not one of his 25 other books on the table was because the title of one chapter was “Women Work Harder than Men.”

Think about that for just a second.

I have loved that little book over the years. It’s the book I wish I could write for my own daughters. Because they are going to be leaving home really soon, and I have so much to tell them.

Anyway, when my Facebook friend, Jennifer, gave me a list of blog topic ideas, she asked me to write about the 5 or 10 things I want to be sure my girls leave the house knowing. I immediately thought of that Jerry Jenkins book and went to town.

I’ll tell you one thing, my list doesn’t have anything to do with sewing . It might have something to do with cooking. Or laundry—that’s pretty important.

But definitely not sewing.

I have to say that this was really hard. (Thanks, Jen.) How do you whittle down 18 years of training and teaching into a small list of 10 things? I mean, really, I could write a list of 100 things. But that might water down the significance of this little exercise just a bit.

So, here’s my list of 10 things I want my kids to remember before they leave home.

1. I have to say this first because it really is the most important thing: Know Jesus. Love Him with all your heart. Take Him with you wherever you go.

When you were little I always made you hold my hand when we crossed the street. When you got a little older you started to get embarrassed about that, and you shrugged me off. But very soon I won’t be there to hold your hand all the time. Hold on to His. And not just when you’re crossing the street. Hold on all the time.

2. Marry a man who loves Jesus more than he loves you. Because in doing that, he will love you best. After that, make sure your husband makes you laugh every day. Because, believe me, laughter can get you through some tough days.

3. Be kind to the outsider. We all know how it feels to be the person on the outside looking in, so try to include others. Bring people in. Be warm. Be welcoming. Be hospitable.

4. It’s not about you. Ever. I know this phrase has turned into a bit of a cliché, but it is so true. This life, this world, is so much bigger than you.

5. Debt is NOT your friend. It will suffocate you like a blanket and, once under that blanket, it’s really, really hard to get out from under it. Debt removes options from your life, and I want you to have options. Stay far, far away from the allure of debt, and the best way to do that is to live below your means.

6. Some stuff that people say matters really doesn’t matter at all. But then, there is some stuff that some people don’t care about that matters a lot. Life is often about having the right perspective.

7. Learn how to make a couple of dishes really well. Make them your signature dishes. That way, when you have company over you’ll have a recipe or two that you can make really well and you won’t have any disasters like the double-charred, hard-as-a-rock ribs I made for friends one time when your dad and I were first married.

8. Find a church and commit to it. This is your body, so do everything within your power to help make your body healthy and strong. Serve. Confront. Help. Unless there is heresy being preached, try to stick with it. You will be blessed so much if you do this.

9. Don’t complain. Now, I realize that I spend my fair share of time complaining about the weather, but I know I shouldn’t. There’s nothing I can do about the weather. But this is bigger than the weather. Nobody likes to be around a person who complains all the time. Instead of complaining, try to make the world a better place.

10. Finally, always remember that you are so special. Each one of you is so very gifted, and by that I don’t mean intellectually. Each one of you is so beautiful, inside and out. You love well. You give a lot. You are good friends. You have taught me so much. Never, ever forget how special you are because there will be some days when you won't feel special. You'll think that you have nothing to offer this world or the people in it. You'll wonder what you can do to make a difference. Believe me, just because you're here the world is a better place.

I know I said I’d give you ten things I want you to remember, but there’s one more thing. . . .

Never forget that I have loved you with more love than my heart can hold. It overflows. It spills over into everything I have done for you. And there’s more there. Always more. You are the work of my life, and I’m so very proud of what I’ve accomplished.

Love,
Mom

So how about you? What would you add to this list?

There Will Always Be Cozymel's

Yesterday was crazy. Which is why I haven't been around much.

But crazy in a good way.

Now, I truly don't like it . . . at all . . . very much . . . when people use their blogs to recap their days, so I won't do that here. Too much. Except to say that I made meals for three families yesterday--ours included--and stood on my feet cooking all day.

But it was fun because I knew the people I would be feeding would be blessed, plus I kind of enjoy standing on my feet all day. Not really.

And I also don't like it when people use their blogs to tell everyone what they had for dinner because, really, who cares? Unless there's a recipe I can use accompanying said useless information. But, here again, I have to break my own don't-ever-do-that rule and tell you what I cooked yesterday.

Here you go:

Three corn casseroles. Three green bean casseroles. Three loaves of Honey Whole Wheat bread that was just about the best thing I've EVER made. One pork roast with roasted potatoes. And I heated up one Beef Brisket that I had made on Saturday. Oh, and for dessert, Pumpkin Squares because they are oh-so-easy and, well, yum.

So by the time I finished all that cooking and running around delivering meals (while running kids hither and yon all afternoon) I was pretty tired. I almost (almost) didn't feel like eating dinner, but that warm bread was calling my name. And who can turn down brisket? Mmmmm.

But the best part of my day was ahead of me as a few friends and I had made arrangements to get together at Cozymel's. You know what Cozymel's does really well, don't you? (wink wink)

Our group turned out to be half as big as it was originally going to be--four of the eight of us begged off at the last minute, which was kind of disappointing. These are friends I don't see nearly as often as I used to, and I was really looking forward to getting caught up with them. Still, it was great to get together with the other three who showed up.

As we sat together, sipping some frozen yumminess, getting caught up with each others' lives and kids, we started reminiscing about how we all met.

"You and I met when our kids were in kindergarten together." They're sophomores in high school now.

"Oh, I met you when you moved here--your oldest daughter was in my son's first grade class!" They're seniors in high school now.

Three of us have seniors in high school. Three of us also have sophomores. We have been "Hawthorne Moms" for more years than I care to count, and even though some of us don't have kids at our wonderful elementary school anymore, we stil consider ourselves "Hawthorne Moms."

I also thought about the many twists and turns our lives have taken. All of us have been through some pretty hard things over the years, some much harder than others. I wondered what might be ahead for us.

But one thing I knew, as I sat there with my friends . . . whatever happens in the future, we'll be there for one another. Maybe we won't see each other as often as we'd like to, but we'll definitely make it a priority to get together a couple of times a year. We'll still be enjoying Margaritas together, sharing lots of laughs, reflecting on our kids' years at Hawthorne, and supporting one another through life's tough battles.

We'll always be "Hawthorne Moms," and there will always be Cozymel's.

Good Reads

Last week was such a great week filled with wonderful posts that made me cry, think, and laugh, that I thought I would share some of them with you.

Melanie is one of my regular reads. She is so funny on most days, but I was so glad she decided to "get political" this week. Be sure to read through the entire post (it's kind of long, but when did that ever bother me?) because the best part is at the end.

And speaking of politics . . . my high school friend, Linda, has started a blog of her own. Way to go, Linda! I'm stealing this one from her (she linked to it earlier this week), but it's so good I want you to read it too.

You all know I like the Stuff Christians Like blog. That Jon makes me laugh so hard, and yet his blog is filled with truth. This week he decided to "go big or go home" and raise some money for Samaritan's Purse to build a kindergarten in Vietnam. Check out this post and this one and this one to see what God did with his dream. It's amazing.

Finally, I saw this site highlighted on the news last week and had to check it out just because I love its name: "My Parents Were Awesome." It's the brainchild of a guy who realized that before they had kids, his parents were pretty darn cool. He asks people to send in pictures and memories of their parents. It's such a cute idea. Of course, my kids' parents were never cool, but we DID have a life before kids.

Happy reading!

Congratulations, Maggie!

I don't know what it is, but on Friday I tend to look back at my week, try to remember what I did, and think about what I've accomplished (which is usually not much). And I think about the best parts of my week.

This week's highlight, most certainly, would have been Maggie's all-school play--her first play ever--which was held on Tuesday and Thursday. Can I just say that I didn't know she had it in her? Oh my, that girl was funny!

What am I saying? I did know she had it in her. Ever since the time in third grade when her class had a substitute teacher and she spoke with a British accent for the first half of the day just to mess with the sub's head. Pretty much ever since then people have been telling me I should get her into acting.

The play was a little one-act called "The Mystery at Throckmiddlemorton Manor." It was perfect for a junior high school production because it was short and silly and involved a lot of different characters. Oh, and a girl-fight. Can't have a junior high play without a girl fight, can you?

All the kids did a great job, but the one I watched most closely was my little thespian. She played the part of a French maid. Yes, I know that every mother's deepest desire is to see her 6th grade daughter on stage in front of her entire school with overdone makeup and bright red lipstick in a French maid's costume. It was indeed a proud mommy-moment for me.

She even did the accent because, you know, the costume wasn't enough.

Seriously, though, somehow the costume crew was able to find a decent looking maid costume that actually went down to my daughter's ankles. So maybe, rather than being a French maid she was really a Puritan maid. Named Hester or something like that.

Doesn't matter. The way she played it, she was definitely of the French variety.

After last night's performance we went out for ice cream, just the two of us. We talked about her experience, how much fun it is to act, and how she longs to keep this going through high school. She's beginning to see herself in this new role, actress, and she's liking what she's seeing. Her dreams are beginning to take shape.

All this acting talk took me back about, oh, 30 years to my own high school experience. I was in a lot of plays and musicals in high school. That was my thing, and I loved it. I think I even dabbled in community theater for a while. And even though I never had a lead role (most people I went to high school with would probably say, "You were in plays? Which ones?"), I had racked up the most thespian points and won the "Best Thespian" award during our senior assembly.

So who knows what will happen with Maggie. She may never try out for another play (although after last night I seriously doubt that), and I would be O.K. with that. What I talked to her about last night was the satisfaction of finding something she loves to do and doing it with all her heart.

Really, there's nothing better.

Thankful Thursday

As I was waking up this morning, I could tell it was cold. Really cold. We've had some very nice days this week, so I'm not complaining about the weather. It is what it is (don't you hate that phrase?).

Anyway, I could tell it was cold, and then, in the fuzzy fogginess between sleep and waking, I heard that little click and then a whir and then a shoosh. The heat went on.

And in that brief moment between sleep and wakefulness I was thankful for heat.

And a comfy bed.

And a cozy chair.

And my favorite spot to sit.

For food in my pantry,

And good books to read.

I'm thankful for HOME.

Be sure to pop on over to Mary's today to read some more Thankful Thursday posts!

Wordless Wednesday

Thank you.

(I've never participated in Wordless Wednesday before ["wordless" just doesn't seem to describe me], but today I feel like I should.)

The REAL Difference Between North and South

So I went to the grocery store last night. No big deal, right? Except that I never go to the grocery store at night. It’s just too risky.

Risky in that I just might have forgotten to put on makeup that day.

Risky in that I might not have brushed my hair before I left the house or even looked in the mirror all day long for that matter.

Risky in that I might just have spilled dinner on my jeans and didn’t notice it until I got to the store.

Risky in that I might not realize that I’m wearing the girls’ high school sweatshirt that screams “Mom” all over it.

See what I mean? Risky.

So while I’m running through the store, grabbing things quickly and keeping my head down, I started to think about the time my sister from Dallas came to Chicago for Christmas. We needed to make a quick stop at the store, so she waited in the car while I ran in.

When I got back to the car my true Southern sis commented on how “bad” everyone looked. Apparently where she lives, no self-respecting housewife would be caught DEAD in the grocery store with no makeup, dirty jeans, and a high school sweatshirt.

As we were sitting in the car discussing this big, important, life-changing difference between the North and the South, a woman drifted out of the store wearing a sweat suit (matching, I might add) and tennis shoes. Without missing a beat, my sister said, “I mean, look at that woman. She could have at least put lipstick on before she went into the store.”

Heaven forbid the produce man see your naked lips.

So last night I really was thinking about my sister and how embarrassed she would have been to run into me at the store. I thought to myself that at least I didn’t look as bad as the woman I saw a couple of weeks ago . . . in the grocery store . . . with FOILS IN HER HAIR!!!

I think that might have been an all-time grocery store low.

Until, of course, tonight. When I’m standing in line behind a young dad with two adorable little girls who pointed at my sweatshirt and said, “Are you a WN mom?” And I suddenly recognize the guy as one of my husband’s former college students who has gorgeous children and an even more gorgeous wife. Who would probably never go to the grocery store dressed in dirty jeans and a sweatshirt. And who would always put on makeup and brush her hair before going out in public.

When I got home I told B what his student said to me about being a WN mom, and without missing a beat B said, “Then he probably isn’t a very good salesman. He should have asked you if you were a WN student.” Just one of the many reasons I love my husband.

But, really, there was just no mistaking me for a high school girl. She would have worn lipstick.

My Weekend Brush with Fame

One day last week, as October was coming to a close, our local weatherman said that we had had precisely two (yes, you read that right)--TWO--days of sunshine during the month of October.

No wonder I was getting a little cranky toward the end of the month.

So turning the calendar to November has been a blessed relief, let me tell you. Who'd have thought we'd have a near-70 degree day on Saturday?

I'll tell you two people who never thought Saturday would be so gorgeous: B and Abby. Because two months ago when they signed up to run in a 5K race that was going to be held on November 7, they both said, "Oooh, I bet it's going to be cold that day!"

And as their biggest cheerleader, I thought for sure I'd be wearing mittens and a scarf, maybe even a hat (although I'm really not a big hat person) while waiting for them to come through the finish line.

I guess God got a little mixed up about the weather because Saturday looked like what October 7 should have looked like and October 7 looked like what November 7 usually looks like. Still with me? Anyway, it was gorgeous. We were all happy.

Know what else made me happy? My little brush with fame. There we were, waiting for the race to start, when the crowd started whispering feverishly. Turns out that Julio from the current season of "The Biggest Loser" was there to run.

Good little blogger that I am, I whipped out my camera and got a couple of shots for you.

Don't judge poor Julio for yawning (or was he talking?)--it was still early.


But doesn't he look great?

And one more brush-with-fame bonus. Remember Jerry of the Jerry-and-Estella team from last season's "Biggest Loser" show? He was the one who won the $100,000 prize for losing the most weight at home.

Well, Jerry was there too.


Still going strong.

A tid-bit of trivia for you: Jerry lives about three blocks away from me. I've seen him and Estella walk past my house before (our whole house erupts with shrieks of excitement when they walk by--"Oh my gosh, there's Jerry and Estella!!"), but I've never met them. I think they're kind of busy these days.

So Saturday's race was a huge success. Gorgeous weather. Lots of money raised for our local homeless veteran's shelter. A severely sprained calf muscle.

Oh well, two out of three isn't bad.

I think a certain man in this house may be hobbling around for a few weeks.

It's Friday - Time for a List

I feel like I pretty much wrote my heart out earlier this week, so today I just need a list. Here are a few things I've noticed, heard, read, or thought about this week.

1. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get your dog used to a time change? Especially a labrador retreiver that eats at specific times every day. The specific time her stomach says she should eat has now become an hour earlier. And as it used to be, she would start to bug me (i.e. follow me at my heels) about an hour before her usual feeding time which means that now she starts following me around at 3:00 in the afternoon, thinking she needs to be fed at 4:00 when she doesn't actually get fed until 5. Boy, I hope she gets used to this soon.

2. I heard the best marriage advice on, of all places, "Barefoot Contessa" this week. In fact, I thought it was so good that I rewound the DVR and listened to it again. Ina was doing a show about her 40th wedding anniversary to her beloved, Jeffrey. I've watched her show enough to know that they have a very sweet love story, so I took notice when she started talking about marriage.

Here's what she said: "People always ask me the secret to a good marriage. I won't say to work at it, even though that's what I'm supposed to say. We just have a good time together. He wants me to be happy; I want him to be happy. It's as simple as that."

After 24 years of marriage myself, I'd have to say she's on to something. Yes, there are some other things I might add, but I love Ina's idea of putting the other person's happiness ahead of your own. If we strip away everything else, that's pretty much what marriage is all about.

3. I get the Proverbs 31 Daily Devotionals in my email box every morning, and one day this week, Lysa TerKeurst wrote about rejection and how much it stinks. It was really good, so if you've been experiencing some rejection and need some encouragement, click here.

4. Speaking of Proverbs 31 Ministries . . . I'm just a little excited to tell you that their November issue of P31 Woman magazine arrived a few days ago and yours truly had an article published in it. Even though I've been writing for years and have had a few small things published, I consider this my first "real" article to be published in a "real" magazine.

Unfortunately, P31 Woman is not available online, so you can't even read my article unless you're a subscriber. If you want to subscribe or even buy a single issue (wink wink), you can click here.

Looks like it's going to be a nice weekend in Chicagoland this weekend which will be a HUGE change from the past, oh, five weeks or so. So I'll be outside enjoying the weekend.

What will you be doing?

I'm Thankful for Spanakopita!

It's Thankful Thursday over at Mary's place today, and I'm joining in the fun.

Today I'm thankful for my neighborhood. I live in a typical suburban neighborhood, but what makes it so special is the people in it. Over the years our kids have walked to school together, played in the leaves together, and trick-or-treated together. The adults have parties together. But we also attend holiday programs together and help each other take out the leaf bags.

It's a fun place. At any given moment, I can walk down my street and find someone to talk to. And in an emergency, I know that pretty much all of my neighbors would be here in a heartbeat.

I love my neighborhood and can't imagine living anywhere else. Unless anywhere else was someplace warmer. *sigh*

Anyway, today some friends from my neighborhood got together to make Spanakopita.The lovely Irene who lives down the street was teaching us. This sweetheart is "Yia Yia" to all the neighborhood kids. Everyone knows her, and everyone loves her. And occasionally Yia Yia gives cooking lessons to some of us non-Greeks. Bless her heart.

Today we met at Amy's house. This is Amy. This picture is blurry and doesn't do her justice because she's beautiful and sweet and smart and the closest thing to a sister I have living here.

This is Johanna. Johanna is a nut and tons of fun to be with. She also rolls a mean spinach pie.

And this is Yia Yia. Like I said, we all love her.

So, basically, spanakopita is spinach pie. You can make it in a pan or you can make individual triangles like we did today.

As every Greek recipe does, you start with butter. Lots of butter.

You also need filling. You can find out how to make this if you check out the recipe below.

And, of course, phyllo dough. This is the Greek country style phyllo which, apparently, is a bit thicker than regular phyllo.

So you cut the phyllo into thirds, like Irene's hands are showing us below.

Take the strips, one at a time, and brush them liberally with butter. Did you catch that? I said liberally.

Put a spoonful of filling at one end of the strip of phyllo and then start working it into triangles. I'd try to explain how to do that, but it would probably turn into a dissertation, so I'll just let you look at the picture and figure it out for yourself. Or make it in a pan, which is probably easier.

We put the individual triangles into foil pans like this with waxed paper between the layers. Be sure to brush them with butter before you refrigerate or freeze them. Because we haven't used enough butter just yet.


I guess all you have to do after that is bake them and eat them. Which we did. This morning. And, boy, were they good. Mmmmmm.

You can try these too because Yia Yia shared her recipe with me. She even said I could share it with you. I've typed it out exactly as it was given to me (except that the comments in parentheses are mine) so go ahead and give Yia Yia a call if you can't figure it out. How could you not enjoy all this buttery goodness?

Thea Irene's Spinach Pie

Makes one pan (approx. 15x11)

Step #1: Melt butter - 2 sticks (Well, already there's a problem because today we used 4 sticks.)

Step #2: Trim 2 bags of spinach. Take off most of the stems. Wash spinach and place in a large bowl (tear it into small pieces). Make sure it is very dry. (This is a critical piece of information.)

Filling:
Step #3: Crumble 1 lb. of feta cheese (make sure it's good feta--Yia Yia does not like the flavorless domestic feta) and 12 oz. of cottage cheese (drained through a seive) into spinach. Add a pinch of mint and a pinch of parsley (we used about 1/2 bunch of fresh parsley) and 1 bunch of green onions sliced.

Step #4: Beat 6 eggs in small bowl and add this to spinach. Mix with hands until all spinach is coated. Add 1/4 cup Wesson oil and mix well. Add a handful of rice (yes, that's right--rice) and mix some more. (Yia Yia mixes with her hands.)

Step #5: Butter bottom and sides of pan

Step #6: Layer filo in pan. Butter each layer. Blanket it over sides so as all 4 sides are hanging over edges. First 4 sheets you do this and then 5th-10th sheets don't overhang, they get placed on the bottom of the pan only. Continue to layer filo, butter, filo, butter, filo, butter.

Step #7: Put filling over filo and spred out so it's all even. Make sure you get it in the corners. Sprinkle another handful of rice over the filling.

Step #8: Fold edges of filo over filling. Butter edges and layer remaining filo over spinach. Filo, butter, filo, butter and so on.

Step #9: Cut excess filo away from edges and tuck sides down to seal.

Step #10: Cut it into squares. Brush a little butter on the top.

Step #11: Bake at 350 for about 1 hour. The top should be golden brown. Start on the bottom rack and check in 1/2 hour. Rotate pan if necessary.

Step #12: Call an ambulance if you start having chest pains. (Just kidding--I threw that one in there for fun.)

Enjoy all that filo, butter, filo, butter, filo . . .

Bloggy Business

There's a lot of chatter out there. Blog chatter. About a certain blog conference that will be held in Nashville in February.

Seems like everywhere I turn in the blog world people are talking about whether or not they'll attend. And I'm getting the feeling that it's like junior high again--all the popular girls will be attending and all of us not-so-popular girls will be sitting on the sidelines watching.

Truth be told, I probably couldn't go anyway. My winter and spring are already getting filled up with various travel-related activities.

But here's what I'd like to talk about today: growing the blog.

If you're a blogger, I'd really like to hear from you about whether you've ever attended a blogging conference. If so, was it worth it? Why? If you've never attended a blogging conference, why not? What are your thoughts about blogging conferences?

If you're not a blogger, you can still help me out. Tell me what you think would help me grow my blog. And if you'd even go one step further by emailing one person who you think would enjoy reading my ramblings and sending them the link to my blog that would be completely amazing.

And finally, if you haven't noticed that little button off to the left that says "Follow" go find it and click on it. Followers make me very, very happy.

O.K., so now head on down to the place that says "comments" and talk to me.

An Anniversary - Part 3

This is it. I promise. The end.

Because, really, who wants to hear someone else’s sick stories? I don’t.

But thank you for indulging me.

Today I wanted to share probably the biggest lesson I learned through my hospitalization and recovery at home. Those of you who know me well probably already know what it is.

It’s no big news flash that I’m a pretty independent person. I’ve always been able to take care of myself and my family without too much trouble. I’ve been known to go to great lengths to NOT ask for help at times.

So what happens when an independent girl suddenly finds herself not able to do even the simplest things for herself? What happens when she suddenly needs the help of other people just to get through the day?

She learns to ask for help.

Well, sort of. I had to come to grips, first, with why I have a hard time asking for help, and what I realized is that it’s mostly my pride. Pretty simple. Pride.

Pride keeps me from opening up. Pride keeps me from accepting offers of help. And pride certainly keeps me from asking others for help.

But I found myself in the most humbling state of my life, and I quickly realized, while lying in that bed, that I was going to have to start asking for help. It’s not like people weren’t offering—they were. Like crazy. But I honestly couldn’t think of anything to ask people to do.

So like me.

So I started small. One day prior to the surgery I happened to take a good look in the mirror and realized that my eyebrows had gotten out of control. Girls, we all know how embarrassing it is to be headed toward unibrow status, so I asked my friend, Margery, if she would please get me a pair of tweezers. Can’t go into surgery with eyebrows you can braid now, can you?

Margery hopped to it and brought me a pair of tweezers. The most beautiful tweezers I’ve ever seen. It might as well have been a gold brick; I don’t think I’ve ever loved a gift so much before. I’m happy to report that I’m still using those tweezers, and I think of my sweet friend every time I use them.

Next came meals. It became clear pretty quickly that B wouldn’t be able to keep up with the three girls, his job, and visiting me in the hospital every night. Life was quickly getting out of control on the home front, so receiving help with meals took so much stress off of him. Friends from church rallied and brought meals for week which turned out to be a huge blessing, even after I got home from the hospital because I couldn’t do much of anything.

Once I finally got home I had to ask for more help. For the first few days I knew I couldn’t be alone, but B really had to go to work (he had missed quite a bit of work at this point), so I asked a few friends if they would just come sit with me while my girls were in school.

When I think of it, this was such a huge sacrifice on the part of my friends. I mean really, who wants to sit around doing nothing with their friend who can’t do anything? But God provided in such perfect ways exactly what I needed.

On my first day home, my friend Micah came to be with me. She’s a pretty high-energy girl, so she took a look around and started digging in. She noticed a huge (and I do mean huge) pile of ironing, so she set up shop in the kitchen and ironed all my clothes. Happily. With a smile on her face. While I lay on the couch and watched. I still remember the sweet time of talking with Micah and feeling blessed beyond belief.

My second day home was a little harder. I started having some memories of the surgery, and I did a lot of processing and crying that day. But once again God knew what I needed because he sent my dear friend, Cheryl, who is a counselor. She brought me a box of Kleenex and listened patiently while I processed. She made me feel like everything was going to be just fine.

Not only that, but Cheryl folded my laundry. Since I know how much my friend just loves doing laundry, this was going above and beyond the boundaries of friendship.

She also did this.

God must have known that I needed to laugh that day.

As if taking meals, asking for tweezers, and allowing my friends to touch my laundry weren’t humiliating enough, there was one more thing God used to humble me and to teach me that asking for help every now and then isn’t so terrible.

On my third day at home, two friends, Kim and Jymette, came by to spend the day. Such good friends they are, I actually let them do the unthinkable. . . . they cleaned out my refrigerator! We still laugh about the fuzzy carrots and the green sweet potatoes. Talk about embarrassing.

I guess my pride problem was pretty big because God used all of these experiences to humble me and to teach me that sometimes I just need to ask for help. It’s still not easy for me, but when absolutely necessary I will and do rely on the help of others.

But Cheryl is never getting near my laundry again.

An Anniversary - Part 2

Her name was Marge.

I never saw her face.

But I knew that she had blacked out behind the wheel and hit a tree which prompted the visit to the hospital which revealed that she was full of cancer. She didn’t have long to live.

Marge had never married, as far as I could tell, but she lived a rich life filled with loved ones. She had two sisters who rushed to her bedside and doted on her night and day. And a male friend named Jim who was a priest. One particular niece loved her very much and visited her often.

Others came to visit her too, parading past my bed. Staring at me. Wondering what kind I had. Wondering how long I had.

At first, their sympathetic stares confused me until I figured out that I was not just lying in a bed on any old floor of the hospital. This was Medical/Oncology, and the sounds emanating from down the hall proved it. Especially the middle-of-the-night sounds.

Traumatizing doesn’t even begin to describe my experience in that bed in that room on that wing of the hospital back in 2007.

For the first three days I shared a room with Marge, the faceless woman who was dearly loved and oh-so-scared. The only thing between us was a curtain and three feet of space.

I never saw her face.

I mentioned yesterday that my friend who worked at the hospital encouraged me to ask for a private room. And believe me, after three days of smelling the closeness of death in that room, I needed to get out. I needed a place where I could focus on getting well. A place where I wouldn’t have to explain that, no, I didn’t have cancer. I just needed to get well enough to have surgery.

It’s funny, though, that I felt guilty about leaving Marge. A woman I never really met. A woman I never really knew. A woman I never saw face-to-face.

I felt guilty. Because I knew I would get better. And I knew she would not.

I also knew that I had peace. I wasn’t sure she did. So for those three days I prayed for Marge. I prayed that she would know peace. That her last few days on earth would be joyful. That she would know Jesus in a very real way.

I woke up early on the morning I was to be moved—probably the anticipation, but more probably the nurses. We ate our breakfasts silently, Marge and I, and then I started reading my Bible, looking for any words that would bring me some comfort, some relief.

“Read to her, Shelly.” That nudge from God.

Oh no. Not me. First of all, I was not the kind of person who usually “heard” God’s voice and second, if I did sense God telling me to do something, I usually ran the other way.

“Read to her.”

I think I sat there with my Bible in my hand, dumbfounded. Dry mouthed. Incredulous because, really, God? I’m trying to focus on getting better here and you want me to minister to this woman?

“She’s dying.”

Well, yeah, there’s that. And I’m getting out of here, so she’ll never see me again. (You see how much I had to learn?)

“Just read to her.”

And so I said, through the curtain, “Marge? Are you O.K.?”

“I’m really scared.” I could tell she was crying.

“Do you mind if I read something to you, Marge?”

“No, I don’t mind. That would be nice,” she responded.

And so I read to her the words that I had opened to that morning. Psalm 34.

I will bless the LORD at all times;
his praise shall continually be in my mouth.
My soul makes its boast in the LORD;
let the humble hear and be glad.
Oh, magnify the LORD with me,
and let us exalt his name together!
I sought the LORD, and he answered me
and delivered me from all my fears.
Those who look to him are radiant,
and their faces shall never be ashamed.
This poor man cried, and the LORD heard him
and saved him out of all his troubles.
The angel of the LORD encamps
around those who fear him, and delivers them.

Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good!
Blessed is the man who takes refuge in him!
Oh, fear the LORD, you his saints,
for those who fear him have no lack!
The young lions suffer want and hunger;
but those who seek the LORD lack no good thing.

Come, O children, listen to me;
I will teach you the fear of the LORD.
What man is there who desires life
and loves many days, that he may see good?
Keep your tongue from evil
and your lips from speaking deceit.
Turn away from evil and do good;
seek peace and pursue it.

The eyes of the LORD are toward the righteous
and his ears toward their cry.
The face of the LORD is against those who do evil,
to cut off the memory of them from the earth.
When the righteous cry for help, the LORD hears
and delivers them out of all their troubles.
The LORD is near to the brokenhearted
and saves the crushed in spirit.

Many are the afflictions of the righteous,
but the LORD delivers him out of them all.
He keeps all his bones;
not one of them is broken.
Affliction will slay the wicked,
and those who hate the righteous will be condemned.
The LORD redeems the life of his servants;
none of those who take refuge in him will be condemned.

----

I went back and re-read the portions I have highlighted here, hoping that Marge would find some comfort in these words. She thanked me and told me that hearing that had helped.

I told her I would be praying for her.

That was it. No big revelation from God. No thunderbolts from Heaven. Just listening and obeying. And going way out of my comfort zone to bring comfort to someone else.

And right there, in that hospital room, as I ministered to a dying woman, God ministered to me.

An Anniversary - Part 1

This week is an anniversary of sorts. For me. And for my family.

Two years ago we all went through something that was hard. Really hard. And I’ve never written about it on my blog yet, so I thought this week might be a good time to do that.

Both to reflect and to celebrate.

Two years ago I went into the hospital and didn’t leave until 12 days later. Twelve days. Nobody stays in the hospital that long these days, so you have to know I wasn’t making it up, how sick I was. I mean, just this weekend I heard about a college football player who had his appendix removed ten days prior to the game he was playing in. Appendix out, now get back in the game! That’s the attitude these days. So to be in the hospital that long was significant. A significant illness and a significant disruption of all of our lives.

Now, let me just say that if you’re squeamish or easily bored by sick-talk, just leave me alone for a couple of days. Check back around Thursday. I won’t be offended.

Here’s what I thought I’d do: give you some background, tell you what I learned back then, and tell you how this has all impacted me still today. Three days. Can you handle it?

Some background.
About four years ago I got sick with flu-like symptoms (aren’t they always flu-like symptoms?). But I had pain in my abdomen that moved back and forth, back and forth. I ignored it for a few days until a friend said, “Shelly, that doesn’t sound like the flu. I think you should go to the doctor.”

Which I finally did and found out I had diverticulitis. Pretty common illness of the colon, but pretty uncomfortable if it becomes aggravated or infected, which it did in late October of 2007.

That fall, I knew things were bad so I finally went to the doctor in early November. From my doctor’s office I was ordered to the hospital for an MRI. “Head straight to the hospital. Do not stop at home. Do not pass Go!”

To make a long waiting room story short, my infection was so bad that I needed i.v. antibiotics. I figured they would give me antibiotics for a day and then send me home. All better. No big deal.

No such luck. I was admitted to the medical/oncology wing of the hospital where I shared a room with a desperately ill cancer patient (more on her tomorrow). I spent much of the first couple of days wavering between fear and despair, crying a lot, and praying like crazy. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen to me, but I knew that my roommate situation was not going to help me get better.

On my second day, I noticed a friend from church working at the nurse’s station just outside of my room. I caught her attention, and she came in to visit with me. My friend is a physical therapist at the hospital and was assigned to care for the woman in my room. She knew how bad the situation was there and encouraged me to seek a private room. This dear friend was such a breath of fresh air to me, she truly was an angel sent from God because, quite honestly, I was very naïve about the ways of the hospital. I had no idea I could ask to get moved into a private room. I had no idea that I would have to be so proactive about my own care.

Thankfully, on the third day, a room opened up for me, and that’s where I spent the rest of my time. Except for that one day, around day five, when they took me to surgery, made five pretty significant incisions (well, two were significant, three were small), and removed 18 inches of my colon. Other than that, I spent nine days in that bed, slipping in and out of consciousness and in intense pain. I don’t remember much about the days after the surgery, to be honest.

So that’s pretty much the background. Yes, this was hard on me, of course, but it was also very hard on my family. Imagine if the Mom in your house gets sick with the flu for a day or two. Things are disrupted. Meals don’t get cooked. The house kind of turns sour. People might miss appointments or music lessons.

This was the flu on steroids. Our entire family scrambled to keep things running at home. To get little girls to school. To get homework done.

And all the while, B had to keep going to work. Sometimes. And to make dinner. And to make sure the girls were doing O.K. I still don’t know all the details of what happened during those days while I was gone, but I know it was hard. On all of them.

Every morning, on his way to work, B would come visit me. And every evening, after dinner, all four of them would wander into my room, brightening up my otherwise dreary day. I could see the fear in their eyes, but I couldn’t do anything to alleviate that fear. All I could do was to hug them and tell them that I loved them and that I would be home as soon as I could.

Twelve days. A long time to be without a mom. A long time to be gone from my family. A long time to think and to learn big lessons.

Tomorrow I’ll share just a couple of the many lessons I learned through my experience, but for today I just want to rejoice in my healing and in the many ways God provided for our family during that time.

“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good. His love endures forever.” Psalm 118:1

Sugar, Sugar. Aw, Honey, Honey!

Seems like all of a sudden everyone's thoughts have turned to Thanksgiving. Forget that Halloween isn't even here yet; I've already had people asking me what we're doing for Thanksgiving.

And may I just now say that I don't know yet what we're doing for Thanksgiving. No plans. Yet. We don't have family nearby, so we often end up just doing something with the five of us. It always feels a little pathetic to not do something with family, but that's just the way it is.

We'll see family at Christmas.

Anyway, all this talk about Thanksgiving got me to thinking about a Thanksgiving many years ago when we did still have family in the area. B and I had been married a few years and were expecting our first baby. I still remember the mystery of being newly-pregnant and going through the holidays. We'd sit and dream of the next Christmas when we'd actually have a baby with us. Would it be a boy or a girl? (We didn't find out . . . the first time anyway.) What would our lives look like with a baby? (Good thing they don't tell you ahead of time.)

All that dreaming. And eating. Oh to be able to eat like I was pregnant again!

Who am I kidding? I put on 50 pounds with each kid. I ate like a horse and looked like one too.

But I digress. . . . That year we spent Thanksgiving with B's family. His mom would make the turkey dinner, and I was to bring the pies. I spent the day before Thanksgiving baking, what else? . . . pumpkin pies. And one pecan pie, too, because that's my personal favorite.

B's brothers were there, and I think my sister-in-law, Julie, was a part of the family by then too. We had a great day together, eating the feast that my mother-in-law had prepared and sleeping in front of the football games.

Sometime in the late afternoon we decided our turkey had finally moved over and made room for dessert, so I went to the kitchen, cut my pies, and proudly served the pieces with real whipped cream. B and I were the only ones to take the pecan pie--I guess his family is big on the pumpkin.

We all moved back into the living room to watch more football. I don't think the cushions even cooled before we plopped back down in front of the T.V. Don't you just love Thanksgiving?!

Shortly after we started eating our dessert, I noticed B's dad slowly get up and wander into the kitchen. A couple of minutes later he came back with a piece of pecan pie.

"Hungry, Dad?" we asked him.

"Oh, you know. It's Thanksgiving. You have to try a little of everything."

A couple of minutes later, B's brother got up and wandered to the kitchen too, coming back with a piece of pecan pie. Then his mom did the same.

To tell you the truth, I didn't think much about it. There was definitely something going on in the kitchen, but I figured they just loved my pie so much that they wanted more.

At the end of the day we started packing up to go home. As any good guest would do, I offered to leave some of my pie with my in-laws.

"Here," I offered, "why don't you keep a couple of pieces for your lunch tomorrow?"

"Oh no, you keep it." My mother-in-law practically pushed the half-full pie plate out the door with me.

Later, when we were alone in the car, I asked B if he had noticed all the going in and out of the kitchen during dessert. And didn't he think it was weird that his mom didn't want to keep any of the pie? There was no way we could eat all that was left over, and she was certainly not the type of person to waste anything. It just seemed odd that she would let all that delicious pumpkin pie go to waste.

Whatever. We just shrugged our shoulders and forgot about it.

Until the next day. B had to work, but I had the day off, so when it was time for lunch I thought I'd feed my baby a nutritious lunch of pumpkin pie. I've always been interested in nutrition that way.

I sliced myself a piece of pie and added whipped cream to the top because, you know, the baby needs her dairy. And I took my first bite of that perfect looking pie.

And quickly spat it into the sink.

That beautiful looking pumpkin pie was the absolutely worst thing I had ever tasted! In my pregnant state I may have been just a tad forgetful because I had left the sugar out of the pie. It was like eating pumpkin straight out of the can. Absolutely awful.

My mind quickly went back to the day before as each member of B's family had quietly gotten up from eating their pie and taken it to the kitchen, returning with a piece of pecan pie. And how they didn't want to keep any of the leftovers. It all made sense now. They had been too polite to tell my that my pie tasted like hooey. They simply tossed it out and exchanged it for something a little better.

I immediately picked up the phone and called B at work to tell him what I had done. And then I called my in-laws to apologize and to ask them why they didn't tell me about it at Thanksgiving dinner. They just laughed and said they didn't want me to feel bad, but also added that there was no way they were going to keep any of that pie!

The sugarless pumpkin pie has gone down in family lore. We still, to this day, laugh about that awful pie. And I can't look at a piece of pumpkin pie without chuckling at my big mistake.

So, spill it. Have you ever had a holiday disaster? Or a pregnancy-induced disaster? I want to know.

Evandalism

So last night we're sitting around the dinner table, enjoying leisurely conversation, when my neighbor calls to tell me that she has been "evandalized."

"What do you mean?" I innocently asked.

"Well," she explained, "I had a plain old pumpkin sitting on my front porch. Yesterday someone stole it, but today they put it back. You just have to come and see it."

And so I ran over, camera in hand, to find this:



Only in Wheaton, my friends. Only in Wheaton . . .

Travel Tuesday - Acting Like a Tourist in Your Own Hometown

I feel like I know “my city” pretty well. I grew up in the Chicago area, lived within 60 miles of the city my entire life, and went to college in the suburbs, where I now live. I even spent two and a half years commuting to the city for grad school.

When B and I were in college, we spent many a Saturday evening in the city. We’d pack my car with friends and head downtown, park at Moody Bible Institute (what could be safer?), and basically just walk around with no particular destination. Poor college students that we were, we’d usually have about five bucks in our pockets. If we had a little more, we’d splurge on pizza, but if we were short on cash we’d head to a place on Rush Street called Bagel Nosh where we could get a “special” for 75 cents. The special Bagel Nosh was basically a bagel with butter and cinnamon sugar, but it tasted like the food of the gods to us.

Then we grew up, got married, had kids. Life got filled with kid activities and life-in-general. Nowadays we rarely go downtown, which is sad to me. I love the city so much.

A couple of weekends ago my sister came into town. Now, usually when she comes to visit (which isn’t that often . . . ahem) we do the usual Chicago thing—shopping.

Don’t get me wrong, I love to shop with my sister; we have a lot of fun together and we have similar tastes. And I can’t think of a better place to shop than Michigan Avenue—it’s probably one of the best shopping streets in the entire world.But the two days prior to our downtown day were pretty much spent shopping, so we decided to try something we hadn’t done before.

We decided to play tourist.

I’ve been a tourist in lots of cities around the world. I’ve taken bus trips and boat trips and walking tours and bike tours. And each one has been fun, memorable, and interesting.

I know, I know. Some people think taking touristy tours are the ultimate in cheesy. And they might be right. But I can’t think of a better way to cover a lot of ground and learn something along the way than to take a tour of some sort.

So my sister and I decided to take a tour. I had done a little research ahead of time, so I knew where to go, what time the tour would leave, and even which train to take. Believe me, it always pays to do your research.

That morning we threw on sweaters, jeans, and tennis shoes knowing that in doing so we would probably get laughed out of Nordstrom. That was O.K. We weren’t headed to Nordstrom this time.

On that particular Saturday, we were going to take a little ride.

But not on one of these.



Or on one of these.



Although those would have been fun too.

This time we were going to ride bikes. Our family had such a great time on our bike tour of Washington D.C. this summer that I thought it might be fun to do a similar thing right here in Chicago.



(Oh my goodness, look at those shoes! Could they be any more white?!)

The tour was amazing and so was our tour guide, Jarod. He won my heart from the moment we met when he told me he had just graduated from Loyola with a degree in English. My kind of guy.

Our tour was the Bike and Roll Neighborhoods Tour. We started out at the bike center in Millennium Park, right next to the beautiful Pritzker Pavillion.



Our first stop was Navy Pier. If you really want to feel like a tourist in Chicago, head straight to Navy Pier. Do not pass the Shedd Aquarium. Do not stop off at Wrigley Field. Just go straight to Navy Pier, the mecca of Chicago tourism. All we did there was pick up some more riders and then we were off.

Our tour rode straight up the beautiful lakefront, stopping for a second at North Avenue Beach for a photo op.



Then we headed inland through some neighborhoods—the Gold Coast where we saw an early Frank Lloyd Wright home.



Then through Old Town.



And into Lincoln Park, briefly stopping at the zoo, but not taking the time to walk around because it was getting much too cold.

After a couple of hours of riding, we headed back down the lakefront to Navy Pier and then to our original starting point at Millennium Park.

We really wanted to stop somewhere for dinner before we headed back to the suburbs, but did I mention that my sister and I were wearing tennis shoes? I mean, hello?! This is a sophisticated city and our bright, white shoes were really sticking out like sore thumbs.



Major fashion faux pas.

We ended up catching the next train home and eating out here where people don’t care quite as much about the color of your shoes. Still, we made sure we kept our feet hidden under the table.

I have issues, I know.

So, aside from the shoe thing, the day was great. I even learned a thing or two about the city I love so much. And even though it was cold and my poor southern sister was probably freezing her little patooty off, we had a lot of fun.

Next time you’re looking for something different to do when friends or family come to town, do a little research and act like a tourist in your own hometown.

The Secret to Raising Girls "These Days"

Remember that Facebook status in which I was begging for topics? Well, one of my friends wrote a long list of things she’d like to see me write about, and since I know she’s a faithful reader I thought I’d oblige as much as I can. Today I’m choosing her suggestion to write about thoughts on raising girls “these days.” (She put the quotation marks in there, not me.)

Since I have three daughters she must see me as somewhat of an expert on girls. I’m not sure about that—I don’t think there will ever be an expert on girls in this lifetime—but I’ll give you my take on how I look at raising them.

I’m guessing what my friend meant by “these days” is the day we live in. A day filled with uncertainty, a heightened sense of fear, and, of course, sexuality confronting them at every turn. A day of materialism and greed. A day of self-centeredness. A day lacking in moral courage.

O.K., looking at that list, I’m done in. There is no hope. The day in which we live is the worst possible day. Come quickly, Lord Jesus!

You know what? Some days I can feel like that. I can feel like the world in which my girls are going to live really is the worst possible world. I can feel like my grandchildren have absolutely no future whatsoever because they won’t have any Social Security. I can look at it all swirling around me and want to go hide under the covers for a while because I feel like I don’t have any answers. The problems are just too big.

But then I realize that other generations must have felt the same way. Other generations faced a long and terrible war with many, many more fatalities than we are seeing today. Other generations saw greed. Other generations saw immorality.

And the parents of those generations did exactly what we are doing today. They put one foot in front of the other and continued on.

But what about raising girls specifically? What about the challenge of raising daughters in a confused generation? A generation that tells them that they can have it all without explaining that “all” comes with a cost. A generation that tells them that investing in the lives of others is not a worthy calling—surely there must be more. A generation that tells them that they should not really rely on another and that they should maintain their independence at any cost.

How do I raise girls in this atmosphere?

And to bring it home even more, girls “these days” are still girls. They are still mean to one another. They are still catty. They still lie to one another. And, oh boy, do they still get their feelings hurt!

All of the icky girl stuff that went on when we were teenagers and pre-teens still goes on today. It gets wearisome sometimes, believe me.

So looking at the world my girls will soon be entering, I have to ask myself, how do I prepare them? What can I possibly give them that will help them maneuver life’s tricky obstacles?

The answer: I can’t. I can’t give them anything in and of myself. In my own understanding and estimation, there is nothing at all that I can offer my daughters that will make their future any better than mine.

But Jesus.

The only thing I know about the future is that it is in the hands of a loving God who has given us everything we need in Christ Jesus. And the only thing I know to tell my girls is that the most fulfilling, most honest, most fruitful life they will ever have is a life lived hand-in-hand with Jesus.

This weekend I was reminded yet again that none of us is guaranteed a tomorrow. In some sense, looking at the state of the world today, that might be a blessed relief. But when a young life is snuffed out in a random accident, as happened to the 19 year old daughter of some friends this weekend, you have to ask, “What really is most important? What really makes a life successful? What really matters?”

And to those questions I would have to tell my daughters that their future will only be secure in Jesus. Nothing else makes life meaningful. Nothing else fulfills.

Nothing else really matters.

Give me a call, we'll go trick or treating together

I was reminded this week about why I dislike Halloween so much.

As if I needed another reason to dislike Halloween. This from the woman who calls herself the Halloween Grinch.

Anyway, my big revelation this week was all about the Halloween drama. About a month before Halloween, kids start asking, "Who are you going trick or treating with?" A month! A month is a long time in kiddom, folks. And once you commit, you're stuck. But if you don't commit, you're out.

It's a fine and trickly line they walk, let me tell you.

But I digress . . .

Let me use my own experiences as an example of what I'm sort of talking about. See, I grew up on a farm and trick or treating from a farm can be either A) time-consuming, B) embarrassing, or C) exhausting. All three, if you were me.

See, when I was very young, trick or treating meant packing us little kids into the car and driving to some of our neighbors' houses. Of course, our neighbors were all old farmers and their wives made homemade popcorn balls instead of giving out the Baby Ruths, so that was a bummer unto itself. Plus I had to go with my mom, so . . . another bummer. In the end, your little treat sack had about three pieces of candy in it for all the effort, and by the time you had driven around to get these three gross lucious, homemade treats it was dark and you were tired.

See what I mean?

And talk about embarrassing. One year, I distinctly remember dressing up as a cowgirl with a snazzy costume complete with a swirly skirt, cowboy boots, a lasso, and a mask. I looked amazing. But that night, as it so often does in October, the weather had taken quite a turn, so my mom made me wear my winter coat OVER MY COSTUME. Are you kidding me, Mom? I was so mad, I don't think I even got out of the car that year.

I lived for junior high when I could go to town and walk around trick or treating with my friends. But the problems were manifold with that.

My first problem was finding some friends who lived in town AND who would ask me to join their group trick or treating. I always felt like a third wheel, like I just didn't belong with them since they had all been trick or treating on their own for so long and I just wasn't as refined in the area of house to house sales, if you will.

The second problem I encountered was actually hinting enough to get someone to even ask me to go with them. Junior high kids are clueless. They just don't notice if someone doesn't have anyone else to hang out with on Halloween. It's like they just don't even care if someone is on their own.

(Not that I have any Halloween baggage or anything.)

And that's where the drama begins. Finding the right group is one thing. Getting someone to notice you is another altogether.

For some reason, it seems like Halloween conjures up all kinds of likes-me-likes-me-not stuff, especially with girls. It brings with it the stigma of the "right" costume, the "most fun" friends, the "coolest" treat bag. And the stigma of not getting asked at all, leaving you with the very real possibility of driving around in the car with Mom and Dad and wearing your winter coat over your costume.

Not that we'd know anything about all that around here this week. . . .

How about you? What's your Halloween baggage?

Changing Seasons

The other day on Facebook, I threw out this status update: “Need blog topics. Go!” Surprisingly, I got several great suggestions. Thanks to my friends who helped me with this. Now I have lots of fodder for future posts.

One friend suggested I write about the change of seasons, and at first, I wasn’t sure what to do with that. After all, that could be a really short post:

“We live in a place where the seasons change. Fast. As they say, ‘if you don’t like the weather today, stick around for tomorrow—it’s sure to change.’”

Or, I thought, I could take the tact that we really only have two seasons around here—winter and less winter. But that would turn into a whiney, complaining kind of post, which I really try to avoid . . . unless I’m talking about the weather.

But this morning, as I was catching up with a friend whom I haven’t seen in a very long time, I got to thinking about seasons of life. And, boy, do those change just as quickly as the weather!

One year ago I was a little over-committed. O.K., a lot overcommitted. As in over-my-head-committed. I was chairing two large committees, leading a small group at church, teaching Sunday school, and I don’t even remember what else. Truly, I approached the fall with trepidation, not quite sure how I was going to make it through the year with all those commitments.

It was all good stuff, but it made me feel a little sick to my stomach to be that busy.

But this year, several of my commitments have fallen away. I finished up the two large committees and I took a year off from teaching Sunday school. I’m still leading a small group, but that is the only big commitment I have right now.

I gotta say, it feels weird.

This morning, as I listened to my friend who is in much the same place I was last year and the year before that—much too busy and overcommitted—I wondered how it happened so fast that my situation changed. And I realized that I’m in a different season. She has kids in three schools with no drivers--yet; I have kids in two schools, and the older two drive themselves to school every day. My youngest is three years older than my friend’s youngest. That makes a huge difference. This morning my friend was dashing off to a little play at the elementary school. I don’t have to do that school-day stuff anymore.

Just as much as being overly-busy was hard, this new season of less commitment is hard too. It feels like I’m waiting for something. It feels like I’m in an in-between place right now that doesn’t feel completely comfortable, but doesn’t feel completely terrible either.

I am definitely looking for and praying about what’s next—I know my life won’t be quiet forever. But this new season takes some getting used to. It’s a season of not being so much on call as I used to be. It’s a season of reflection. It’s a season of rest. And it’s a season of waiting.

Next year will bring yet another season . . . the season of one less child in my home.

And when I think about that, I realize that seasons of life change just as quickly as the seasons of the year.