colby cheese

....walking in through the entry way and into the kitchen, I saw her. To my immediate right was a curious, little bathroom in light pinks. It smelled old and cool. The bathtub sat up higher than the floor and a small window was shaded by light curtains. Straight ahead was a table and a large woodstove. To my left, a counter that ran the length of the room, a sink placed in the middle of the expanse, cupboards above and below. The counter tops were filled with stuff, lots of it. Random and various things; newspapers and mail, kitchen items, and nick nack looking things. But the item I'd always zero in on was the old radio, quietly playing out old hymns.....KTIS in it's more traditional days. Across the room, a refrigerator reigned. And just beside, a door or entry way to a cellar. I didn't know what was beyond that door. It was always forbidden. Walking through the kitchen, we'd stumble across an upright piano, a tv that I don't think ever came on and various seating. The next room was a bedroom? It was odd, instead of a formal living area or parlor, it was converted into a bedroom of sorts. A double bed was pushed against the wall. Beyond this improvised room, a stair wall directed the visitor upwards. But I wasn't the right kind of visitor, because I was never invited up.

It was an oppressive, dismal place. Even with the hymns playing; perhaps they were pleading for hope, convening a message of hope...it didn't matter as it was always lost.

The central figure in with house was Grandma-on-the-farm. This name was to distinguish her from Grandma-in-town. Odd, now that I think of it. These names were informational only, not spoken about with love. No, never much affection was felt.

And so, Grandma-on-the-farm would hover over the sink, slowly pace toward the fridge, then return to the counter. She was petite and she was broad. Her face a study of hard living, depression living. Her eyes were a dark brown, almost like black, a dark black that would remind me of scary things like darkness and fear. Her hair, never styled, lay on her head in mop like appearance. She would reply, but never inquire. More of a scowl was accustomed to her expression than a smile. And when she would laugh, it was cackle-like, not melodic and welcoming. I'd nervously smile along.

I was young and fragile and overly sensitive as a child. My primary mission was to please others and this Grandma-on-the-farm I could not please. We must be quiet. We mustn't fidget. We were shown an occasional outdated and rusty toy to play with. We were invited into the living room, by the piano to play on the floor.

But always, when my siblings and I would visit, we were offered colby cheese.

abundance

I'm back to considering abundance. I consulted the dictionary. Extremely plentiful or over sufficient quantity or supply. Overflowing fullness. Affluence. Wealth. It sounds amazing. It sounds fun. And our pleasure center thrives, delights, and drowns in abundance.

I want God's abundance in my life, but having tasted human abundance, I wonder about capacity. Specifically, my capacity. In my extremist thinking, I want all of one thing. All of happiness. All of wealth. All of joy. I want all the easy, all of the fun, all of the blessing.

But the greatest stories are told with abundance and sacrifice. The greatest stories take the best and give it away. Sometimes recklessly, sometimes foolishly, sometimes painfully, but always willingly. And in the narrative of blessing and sacrifice, characters form integrity and quality.

My limited human capacity craves what it can't have. What God gives is balance. A little character building, sprinkles of adversity, a shower of blessing, a calm of peace, a dose of depravity. It's how I was built. How I was made. I can't have any one thing. No matter how good, that one good thing will spoil, corrupt, it will poison.

I am a child of the living King, I am a daughter, I am a princess. I serve someone far greater.

a·bun·dance

  [uh-buhn-duhns]

–noun

1.

an extremely plentiful or oversufficient quantity or supply:an abundance of grain.

2.

overflowing fullness: abundance of the heart.

3.

affluence; wealth: the enjoyment of abundance.

an itsy-bitsy-teeny-tiny-detail....

hmm....so I've been thinking lately about the beauty of one tiny detail. How a detail can bring more to the day, the event, the project, the task. Conversely, one detail can break the preverbal camel's back. Take the detail of writing thank you cards. It's boring, it requires time and effort, it needs an address and a stamp. If it's modeling this to a child, it takes arm wrestling to get the child to sit still, use their best handwriting, and to be thoughtful. A detail like writing thank you cards can stall me out, frustrate me, and even overwhelm me.

It's too much.

It's one more thing in a very long list of things to do.

So, my thinking has shifted.

What if I took the time to ENJOY the process?

What if I set time apart to thoughtfully respond to the kindness another has paid to me?

What if instead of a sense of dread, I feel delight?

Sometimes, often times, we forget...

Our worth.

Our power.

Our strength.

We say that this life is too much. Too much expectation, too much work, too many tasks. We say we can't control our choices, that our days are made up already, our schedules filled, our lives too full. This is a lie. We choose how we spend our time, we control our attitudes, we are more than we see.

So, enjoy one itsy-bitsy-teeny-tiny detail today.

Look at that task in a new way.

See it with fresh eyes.

Gain perspective.

You GET to do this.

You LIVE in FREEDOM.

You are in RELATIONSHIP.

You are LOVED.

the Choosing

the love story to me is so fascinating because there is a moment when the choosing takes place. maybe it happens in the first moment, or the twentieth moment, or the two thousandth moment. maybe it happens after months of agonizing, romanticizing, pursuing, and considering. maybe it happens after a brush with death, or with illness, or with loss. maybe it's a slowing dawning, a tender awakening, a silent warmth spreading within. regardless, the moment arrives, usually at the proposal.

the choosing is pivotal, it is historical.

the choosing is permanent, it is final.

the choosing is long-lasting and it is legacy creating.

the choosing is an indelible mark in time, a shift that cannot be reversed.

it's truly fascinating.

boy meets girl.

girl falls in love.

boy proposes.

boy and girl marry.

legacy begins.

consider these words,

"The Lord said to me,

I chose you before I gave you life,

and before you were born I selected you"

not by merit or by beauty, not by tragedy or brilliance, not be effort or humility, not by grace, or kindness, or hope, or faith, or strength, or talent, or skill, or tenacity.

You were chosen before you saw your self...sight unseen to your eye.

You were chosen before you accomplished and were awarded, before you sinned and before you failed.

You were chosen.

You were loved.

You are.

And that kind of choosing, though I struggle to fathom it's depth, is breathtaking.

consistent

Currently, I am consistently inconsistent.

It can be counted on that I will fly away from routine,

run from procedure,

buck any kind of stability,

ignore personal discipline,

and mock all who thrive in this state.

Consistency rains down on any parade,

it snuffs out any fire,

it doesn't take time to smell flowers,

drive a new way to work,

take the long way home.

Consistency expects sameness, hates changes,

demands a plan and expects perfect execution.

So, why is it that truly capable, successful, thriving leaders understand consistency?

And how do I get there without re-programming who I am?

the experience of pain

Teeth gritting,

Fist pumping pain;

Pain that is relentless, unimaginable, confusing, stunning, vivid.

This first experience of pain is like no other because there is no reference point, no reason and we are reasoning beings.

While we may not agree, with logic can come acceptance.

But pain for pain's sake is disturbing.

Laying on the couch, groaning, agitated, exhausted, my daughter struggles to sleep.

Willing and praying, hoping and begging the pain away, I can do no one thing to ease her burden.

If I could, I would take it from her. Remove her burden. Release her from the depths, the darkness of pain. But I can't. Helplessly, I watch.

And then, through tests and scans, doctor's assessment and diagnosis, a reason is found, but not solved; and the pain, while managed, will not disappear.

It's a first experience with pain.

Is it necessary? Needed? Required for full life-living?