I woke up this morning with a song in my head. I guess I heard the song on the radio at some point yesterday and it stuck. It’s a perfectly fine song but it has one of those lyrics that will drive you crazy when you can’t stop singing it. I needed to drown out the noise, so what did I do? I added more noise by switching on Pandora. At least it would be a new song in my head.
After getting myself going with some Third Day oldies (I’m sure Mac and the gang would love to know that I now call some of their songs oldies) – I headed out the door with a new song in my heart. At least it was a song that wouldn’t drive me crazy if I sang it all day long.
Feeling a spring in my step despite the rain, and having a little extra time on my hands, I decided to stop in at my favorite local coffee shop for a mug of my favorite blend. This is the kind of coffee shop where artists and non-conformists hang out. There is no drive-thru window because no one is in a hurry. It’s a place to get your coffee to stay, and to sip slowly. If you have tattoos, dreadlocks, or have decided that showering is not for you, this is your kind of place. I don’t have a tattoo or dreadlocks, and I did shower, but yet I feel right at home here.
Sitting at a little side table, sipping a cup of joy, ready to write in my journal…then it happened. A song. A song from the past. It’s John Cougar Mellencamp singing “Jack and Diane.” This song is an actual oldie, although the coffee bar staff turned it up, and sang as if it was brand new.
I feel almost territorial for this song. It came out my senior year of high school. It was a song I sang loudly in my car every time it came on the radio. Long before iTunes, this song was on my play list. It was recorded on a cassette tape that I wore out pushing rewind to replay it every time it ended. The song brings back memories that seem as close as yesterday. Singing it in the car with my friends, my boyfriend, and alone- driving with the windows down, sunglasses on, volume loud enough to make it seem as if I actually sing in key.
Music does something to us physically. We snap our fingers, tap our feet, clap our hands, and when no one is looking, dance around our kitchens. Music has the power to illicit memories, lift our spirits, and make a theme for the mundane. (An old Jackson5 cd goes really well with cleaning the house)
Can this be because we are made for worship? If you are so inclined to use Google to look up whether or not we are created for worship, you will gather an array of theological opinions on the topic. Some say yes, and some (more) say no. Theologically I’m not sure if we’re made for singing, but I definitely think we are created to worship. I also believe that one of the components of worship is rooted in music. Why else would God have our hearts connect with music on so many levels?
I’m not one to wish I had been born in another place or time period, but there is something intriguing about how worshippers sang the Psalms as they walked to Jerusalem for holy festivals. Maybe like my coffee servers sang an oldie from my past today as if it were brand new, I can set my heart on singing the Psalms as if they are brand new.
I’m sure God will be just fine with me turning up the volume and singing off key. If a lyric is going to stick, make it a good one.
Psalm 104:33-34: “I will sing to the LORD all my life; I will sing praise to my God as long as I live. May my meditation be pleasing to him, as I rejoice in the LORD.”
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Debunking Luck
Yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day. Where else but America can a saint and former missionary be celebrated with beer, tales of pots of gold, fictional leprechauns, and wearing green? Our culture has an uncanny way of making virtually every holiday about eating and drinking.
The drinking and eating aside, I’m fascinated by the whole idea of “luck of the Irish.” I know there are people who actually put stock in the idea that everything that happens to and for them is just luck. Some call it dumb luck, and others say they’ve been “kissed with luck” or cursed. Either way, their existence is based on nothing but this idea of either being lucky or unlucky.
We’ve all known people personally or from afar that seem to have it all together, to get all the breaks, or that everything they touch turns to gold. Honestly, we’ve probably hated that person just a little bit. Unless you are that person, then you have no idea why you’re so despised.
We’ve also known people who seem to enjoy more than their share of hardships. We don’t envy these people and count ourselves “lucky” that we’re not them. The term “down on their luck” seems to be tattooed on the life stories of some folks.
I don’t believe in luck. I fall into the camp of good happens and bad happens-to everyone. Some seem to have more than one or the other but just like everything else, it’s seasonal. The pendulum swings and no one is impervious to where it tends to tilt for any given day, month, or year.
This is why Cinderella stories happen during basketball season, why athletes who have never been hurt get injured their senior year, why actors perfect for the part miss a line and lose a role, why tires get nails in them, and why tree branches fall on cars. Conversely, heads-up pennies don’t change our life. Broken mirrors don’t mean we’re doomed for the next seven years. Rubbing a rabbit’s foot, avoiding ladders, and staying away from black cats won’t insure a smooth path either.
We can’t avoid bad luck just like we can’t conger up good luck. Why? Luck is something we try to grasp and have just as easy a time as catching air. Luck doesn’t exist, but good and bad times certainly do.
Instead of finding solace in luck we can find peace in hope. God never promises us good times, but He does promise that He will work all things together in our lives for good.
Romans 8:28- “And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.”
As a side note…
Despite what the saying ‘luck of the Irish’ implies, it actually means the opposite. The Irish people have not had the greatest history of actually enjoying a lot of good. Because of famines, prejudices in their own country and in the early days of America, the term originally referred to their bad luck. Even John Lennon sang about it – “If you had the luck of the Irish/You'd be sorry and wish you were dead /You should have the luck of the Irish /And you'd wish you were English instead!”
I’m not wishing to be Irish or English and I don’t have to wish for that elusive good luck. I can, however, be content knowing that the Lord controls outcomes, and He doesn’t use luck.
The drinking and eating aside, I’m fascinated by the whole idea of “luck of the Irish.” I know there are people who actually put stock in the idea that everything that happens to and for them is just luck. Some call it dumb luck, and others say they’ve been “kissed with luck” or cursed. Either way, their existence is based on nothing but this idea of either being lucky or unlucky.
We’ve all known people personally or from afar that seem to have it all together, to get all the breaks, or that everything they touch turns to gold. Honestly, we’ve probably hated that person just a little bit. Unless you are that person, then you have no idea why you’re so despised.
We’ve also known people who seem to enjoy more than their share of hardships. We don’t envy these people and count ourselves “lucky” that we’re not them. The term “down on their luck” seems to be tattooed on the life stories of some folks.
I don’t believe in luck. I fall into the camp of good happens and bad happens-to everyone. Some seem to have more than one or the other but just like everything else, it’s seasonal. The pendulum swings and no one is impervious to where it tends to tilt for any given day, month, or year.
This is why Cinderella stories happen during basketball season, why athletes who have never been hurt get injured their senior year, why actors perfect for the part miss a line and lose a role, why tires get nails in them, and why tree branches fall on cars. Conversely, heads-up pennies don’t change our life. Broken mirrors don’t mean we’re doomed for the next seven years. Rubbing a rabbit’s foot, avoiding ladders, and staying away from black cats won’t insure a smooth path either.
We can’t avoid bad luck just like we can’t conger up good luck. Why? Luck is something we try to grasp and have just as easy a time as catching air. Luck doesn’t exist, but good and bad times certainly do.
Instead of finding solace in luck we can find peace in hope. God never promises us good times, but He does promise that He will work all things together in our lives for good.
Romans 8:28- “And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose.”
As a side note…
Despite what the saying ‘luck of the Irish’ implies, it actually means the opposite. The Irish people have not had the greatest history of actually enjoying a lot of good. Because of famines, prejudices in their own country and in the early days of America, the term originally referred to their bad luck. Even John Lennon sang about it – “If you had the luck of the Irish/You'd be sorry and wish you were dead /You should have the luck of the Irish /And you'd wish you were English instead!”
I’m not wishing to be Irish or English and I don’t have to wish for that elusive good luck. I can, however, be content knowing that the Lord controls outcomes, and He doesn’t use luck.
Monday, March 16, 2015
Spring Fever and Other Excuses
When I was a teacher we- meaning myself and my teammates- used to make excuses for every crazy day we had in our classrooms. There was a full moon last night, the kids had cookies at lunch, it was the day before or after Halloween, Christmas break is close, and my favorite - spring fever. At the time, these all seemed like valid excuses for our kids’ behavior being just a little out of whack.
I’m not sure whether or not they were valid, but I’m certain they were excuses. We didn’t allow them to get away with the misbehavior. There were still consequences, so I’m not sure what we were really accomplishing with the excuses. Maybe it was more about making ourselves feel better. (It couldn’t be that we were off our game on maintaining control so there must be a reason for the craziness.)
Looking back now, I’m more aware of how we shouldn’t have made excuses- for them or for ourselves. Really, is there any good excuse for misbehavior? Making the choice to misbehave is just that- a choice. There are no excuses. It’s not someone else’s fault. It’s not because of a full moon or too much sugar. There may be scientific validity to how those things affect us physically, but we still have a choice in whether or not to exhibit self-control.
I am a strong believer in personal responsibility, and have had to work hard to teach the concept to my children. Teaching our children to “own up” to their mistakes is one of the pillars of building character; character that lines up with Scripture.
That being said, I still find myself making excuses either verbally or internally. I make excuses for my kids all the time. M#1 runs out of money. He forgot to check the pending transactions on his bank app. Excuse. M#2 plays timidly in a soccer game. He just came off a 6week injury. Excuse. M#1 has his car towed or booted. He didn’t see the sign that said “no parking.” Excuse. M#2 doesn’t do well on a test. He was out of town all weekend and tired so he didn’t have time and energy to study. Excuse.
The biggest excuse I’ve made lately for one of my boys is more than an excuse, and also probably much more dangerous- it was justification. I have internally and verbally not only excused a slip, but justified why it wasn’t “that bad.”
M#2, while on a school trip, made the conscience decision to miss curfew. They were at Disney. The last night was extra Magic Hours, which meant the park would stay open until 2am for those staying in the resort. His group was staying on the resort so they could ride anything until the wee-hours. The problem- curfew was 12:30am. M#2 and his buddies decided to forget curfew and stay in the park. They left in waves to head back; two of them were 30 minutes late, three more were 60 minutes late, and the last two (mine being one of those) didn’t arrive back to the hotel until 2:45am. Take into account that the time changed that night, and they actually arrived at 3:45am.
Each boy took responsibility for their choice to ignore curfew. They took their punishment of serving Saturday school (4 hours of detention) like the young men they are becoming. All the while, they’ve excused or justified the behavior. Honestly, so have their parents- myself included.
We’ve all internally thought it or even said things like, “It could be worse- they weren’t out drinking or something.” “They’ve never been in trouble so we count ourselves lucky.” “The school shouldn’t make a big deal of this considering all the other things that go on!” “My son learned it honestly- we always stay the extra hours when we go to Disney.” “They couldn’t get on all the rides during the day. They had to stay late to ride everything.” And…even, “I’d have done the same thing. The school should’ve planned to let them stay later the last night.”
It wasn’t until one of the dads actually said what we all should’ve said that I realized just how badly I was justifying my son’s choice. He quickly pointed out, “They were wrong in the choice they made.” This dad was right. They knew the curfew time, and whether they agreed with it or not is irrelevant.
I’m not proud that my son broke curfew. I still don’t see it as a really big slip up, and I do count myself as very lucky and blessed to have a kid who- for the most part- makes wise decisions; however, I have no business justifying him disobeying authority.
Making excuses or justifying the bad choices- even small ones - can lead us into very dangerous territory. Disney trips, too much sugar, spring fever, full moons…there really are no good excuses. Part of facing the consequences of our choices means taking our punishment without (too much) complaining, but doesn't it also mean not making excuses for those choices?
2 Corinthians 5:10- “For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, that each one may receive what is due him for the things done while in the body, whether good or bad.”
I’m not sure whether or not they were valid, but I’m certain they were excuses. We didn’t allow them to get away with the misbehavior. There were still consequences, so I’m not sure what we were really accomplishing with the excuses. Maybe it was more about making ourselves feel better. (It couldn’t be that we were off our game on maintaining control so there must be a reason for the craziness.)
Looking back now, I’m more aware of how we shouldn’t have made excuses- for them or for ourselves. Really, is there any good excuse for misbehavior? Making the choice to misbehave is just that- a choice. There are no excuses. It’s not someone else’s fault. It’s not because of a full moon or too much sugar. There may be scientific validity to how those things affect us physically, but we still have a choice in whether or not to exhibit self-control.
I am a strong believer in personal responsibility, and have had to work hard to teach the concept to my children. Teaching our children to “own up” to their mistakes is one of the pillars of building character; character that lines up with Scripture.
That being said, I still find myself making excuses either verbally or internally. I make excuses for my kids all the time. M#1 runs out of money. He forgot to check the pending transactions on his bank app. Excuse. M#2 plays timidly in a soccer game. He just came off a 6week injury. Excuse. M#1 has his car towed or booted. He didn’t see the sign that said “no parking.” Excuse. M#2 doesn’t do well on a test. He was out of town all weekend and tired so he didn’t have time and energy to study. Excuse.
The biggest excuse I’ve made lately for one of my boys is more than an excuse, and also probably much more dangerous- it was justification. I have internally and verbally not only excused a slip, but justified why it wasn’t “that bad.”
M#2, while on a school trip, made the conscience decision to miss curfew. They were at Disney. The last night was extra Magic Hours, which meant the park would stay open until 2am for those staying in the resort. His group was staying on the resort so they could ride anything until the wee-hours. The problem- curfew was 12:30am. M#2 and his buddies decided to forget curfew and stay in the park. They left in waves to head back; two of them were 30 minutes late, three more were 60 minutes late, and the last two (mine being one of those) didn’t arrive back to the hotel until 2:45am. Take into account that the time changed that night, and they actually arrived at 3:45am.
Each boy took responsibility for their choice to ignore curfew. They took their punishment of serving Saturday school (4 hours of detention) like the young men they are becoming. All the while, they’ve excused or justified the behavior. Honestly, so have their parents- myself included.
We’ve all internally thought it or even said things like, “It could be worse- they weren’t out drinking or something.” “They’ve never been in trouble so we count ourselves lucky.” “The school shouldn’t make a big deal of this considering all the other things that go on!” “My son learned it honestly- we always stay the extra hours when we go to Disney.” “They couldn’t get on all the rides during the day. They had to stay late to ride everything.” And…even, “I’d have done the same thing. The school should’ve planned to let them stay later the last night.”
It wasn’t until one of the dads actually said what we all should’ve said that I realized just how badly I was justifying my son’s choice. He quickly pointed out, “They were wrong in the choice they made.” This dad was right. They knew the curfew time, and whether they agreed with it or not is irrelevant.
I’m not proud that my son broke curfew. I still don’t see it as a really big slip up, and I do count myself as very lucky and blessed to have a kid who- for the most part- makes wise decisions; however, I have no business justifying him disobeying authority.
Making excuses or justifying the bad choices- even small ones - can lead us into very dangerous territory. Disney trips, too much sugar, spring fever, full moons…there really are no good excuses. Part of facing the consequences of our choices means taking our punishment without (too much) complaining, but doesn't it also mean not making excuses for those choices?
2 Corinthians 5:10- “For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, that each one may receive what is due him for the things done while in the body, whether good or bad.”
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Law and Order vs. Grace and Disorder
There are two things you must know about me.
One, I love order. It makes my heart happy when things are neatly stashed away on a shelf or in a drawer. I am slightly more OCD than I’m willing to admit. I’m not a fringe comber, but I’m pretty close. I have been known to completely reorganize my pantry because one can of tuna doesn’t fit on the shelf with the other cans. My shoes are aligned perfectly on their shelves, the right one facing forward, the left the opposite. This is so I can see the front and back of each pair so as to make the perfect shoe selection each day. I don’t just love order, I’m obsessed.
Two, I love law shows. I am a serious “Law and Order” fanatic. Despite the fact that I’ve seen every episode more than once, I will watch L&O marathons without shame. If I believed in previous lives, then I was a lawyer like Jack McCoy. My obsession with law shows started as soon as I saw my first episode of Perry Mason. (Side note: If you don’t know who Perry Mason is, then you’re too young to read my blog) I am drawn to any show where a lawyer interrogates a witness until he breaks, and few things make me want to stand up and say “yes!” as much a compelling closing argument.
In life the love of such things as order and the law can be just that- loves. Loves, but not always realities. I’ve come to realize that my true reality is more a state of grace and disorder. I threw my mom hat into the grace and disorder ring this week, or better yet, it was snatched in for me.
M#1, still on his trip to NYC called me today. His calls are historically received for two distinct reasons. First- he misses home and just calls to “check in” or two- something is wrong. Being that he is on spring break with a group of friends, I was not surprised that today’s reason was the latter. He hadn’t looked closely enough at his bank account and overspent. He was facing an overdrawn checking account and four more days in NYC with no money.
Law would say that he made his bed and he would have to figure it out. Order would say that he practice what I taught him about balancing his checkbook to the penny. Reality said grace and disorder. I gave grace along with a loan as I put money in his account. The order of my day- or at least half an hour of it- was lost as I counselled him through his debacle and how to avoid the same mistake in the future. The debacle itself was a picture of disorder.
In my flesh, grace and disorder can cause frustration for sure. Then I allow the Lord to remind me that He too exists in much the same way. Without a doubt, He gives grace in abundance. I mess up over and over. His grace comes not as a loan but as a payment into my very soul. He forgives my blunders and washes away the debt I owe Him. He is a God of order, yet the world He created is the worst kind of disorder; a knot only He can untangle. I forget His instruction and warnings, making a mess of things, and yet He miraculously brings order to my life.
I love the law, but live by grace. I love order, but can’t manufacture it.
Romans 6:14- “For sin shall not be your master, because you are not under law, but under grace.”
That is a very compelling closing argument, and I say, “yes!”
One, I love order. It makes my heart happy when things are neatly stashed away on a shelf or in a drawer. I am slightly more OCD than I’m willing to admit. I’m not a fringe comber, but I’m pretty close. I have been known to completely reorganize my pantry because one can of tuna doesn’t fit on the shelf with the other cans. My shoes are aligned perfectly on their shelves, the right one facing forward, the left the opposite. This is so I can see the front and back of each pair so as to make the perfect shoe selection each day. I don’t just love order, I’m obsessed.
Two, I love law shows. I am a serious “Law and Order” fanatic. Despite the fact that I’ve seen every episode more than once, I will watch L&O marathons without shame. If I believed in previous lives, then I was a lawyer like Jack McCoy. My obsession with law shows started as soon as I saw my first episode of Perry Mason. (Side note: If you don’t know who Perry Mason is, then you’re too young to read my blog) I am drawn to any show where a lawyer interrogates a witness until he breaks, and few things make me want to stand up and say “yes!” as much a compelling closing argument.
In life the love of such things as order and the law can be just that- loves. Loves, but not always realities. I’ve come to realize that my true reality is more a state of grace and disorder. I threw my mom hat into the grace and disorder ring this week, or better yet, it was snatched in for me.
M#1, still on his trip to NYC called me today. His calls are historically received for two distinct reasons. First- he misses home and just calls to “check in” or two- something is wrong. Being that he is on spring break with a group of friends, I was not surprised that today’s reason was the latter. He hadn’t looked closely enough at his bank account and overspent. He was facing an overdrawn checking account and four more days in NYC with no money.
Law would say that he made his bed and he would have to figure it out. Order would say that he practice what I taught him about balancing his checkbook to the penny. Reality said grace and disorder. I gave grace along with a loan as I put money in his account. The order of my day- or at least half an hour of it- was lost as I counselled him through his debacle and how to avoid the same mistake in the future. The debacle itself was a picture of disorder.
In my flesh, grace and disorder can cause frustration for sure. Then I allow the Lord to remind me that He too exists in much the same way. Without a doubt, He gives grace in abundance. I mess up over and over. His grace comes not as a loan but as a payment into my very soul. He forgives my blunders and washes away the debt I owe Him. He is a God of order, yet the world He created is the worst kind of disorder; a knot only He can untangle. I forget His instruction and warnings, making a mess of things, and yet He miraculously brings order to my life.
I love the law, but live by grace. I love order, but can’t manufacture it.
Romans 6:14- “For sin shall not be your master, because you are not under law, but under grace.”
That is a very compelling closing argument, and I say, “yes!”
Monday, March 9, 2015
I don't know...
I long ago came to grips with the fact that I don’t know everything. I used to think my mom knew everything. Once I became a mom, I realized it was all a very elaborate ruse.
As a general rule I don’t spend a ton of time pondering the whys of life. I tend to lean more toward the camp of playing the cards you’re dealt and not asking a lot of questions. That being said, there are questions flying around in my head and churning in my heart.
One of M’s best friends lost a parent last weekend. He was a 52 year old who survived cancer, but then died of a massive heart attack instantly. There is no good time to lose someone you love, but the unfairness of this loss seemed to be exaggerated. One son in college, and the other just two months shy of graduating high school, he and his wife were readying themselves for a new season in their life together. The family just moved into a new home; a home built knowing the youngest would be leaving for college in the fall. Why…why now?
The part of me that trusts God and His timing knows the why doesn’t matter. Even knowing that doesn’t stop the questions-at least for now.
M broke his ankle almost 6 weeks ago and is still awaiting clearance to play soccer. In the same way a younger child would ask why the grass is green, my boy asked me why he wasn’t healed yet. He had prayed, he said. He had done all the prescribed exercises, he said. He had laid off sugar, taken in more calcium, and worn his boot faithfully, he said. Why…why not?
Like a song set on repeat, I answer my own questions more than his. I trust God so, again, the why doesn’t matter. And…again, knowing that doesn’t stop all of the questions, but this time it helps.
Kids in our city go hungry, teenage girls are sold in to prostitution, and babies are born with incurable diseases. Why….why…why?
Push the repeat button and finally peace is the song that plays.
As a general rule I don’t spend a ton of time pondering the whys of life. I tend to lean more toward the camp of playing the cards you’re dealt and not asking a lot of questions. That being said, there are questions flying around in my head and churning in my heart.
One of M’s best friends lost a parent last weekend. He was a 52 year old who survived cancer, but then died of a massive heart attack instantly. There is no good time to lose someone you love, but the unfairness of this loss seemed to be exaggerated. One son in college, and the other just two months shy of graduating high school, he and his wife were readying themselves for a new season in their life together. The family just moved into a new home; a home built knowing the youngest would be leaving for college in the fall. Why…why now?
The part of me that trusts God and His timing knows the why doesn’t matter. Even knowing that doesn’t stop the questions-at least for now.
M broke his ankle almost 6 weeks ago and is still awaiting clearance to play soccer. In the same way a younger child would ask why the grass is green, my boy asked me why he wasn’t healed yet. He had prayed, he said. He had done all the prescribed exercises, he said. He had laid off sugar, taken in more calcium, and worn his boot faithfully, he said. Why…why not?
Like a song set on repeat, I answer my own questions more than his. I trust God so, again, the why doesn’t matter. And…again, knowing that doesn’t stop all of the questions, but this time it helps.
Kids in our city go hungry, teenage girls are sold in to prostitution, and babies are born with incurable diseases. Why….why…why?
Push the repeat button and finally peace is the song that plays.
Saturday, March 7, 2015
Broadway, Disney, Mountains…more than geography
Being in three different states notwithstanding, my boys and I were on vacation this week.
Isn’t it funny how timing works out sometimes? M#1 was on spring break, M#2 was on his senior trip, and I, because the first two were occupied, got away for a girl’s weekend. We were all exactly where we wanted to be this week. I think, more than where we wanted to be, we were exactly where we were supposed to be. Today as I was driving home from a weekend of laughter and rest, I thought about where I was, and where my boys were at that very same moment.
M#1 – on spring break- had decided to leave the cold and gray city of Syracuse for the only slightly less cold and gray NYC. It is his sweet spot, where he feels most at home, and where he will (hopefully) do an internship this summer. He will eat great food, walk the streets of his favorite city, and try out his newly written comedy bits at some open mic nights.
M#2 – on his senior trip- was in warm and sunny Orlando at Disney World. This is his sweet spot, where he has not a care in the world, and where he will make more lasting memories with friends he’s had since first grade. He will stay up too late, run from park to park, and try to set a new personal best for how many attractions he can ride in a given day. (His current record is 32)
Reflecting on these same time/different location vacations, I realized where we each were was more significant than geography.
One son, independent for as long as I can remember, is still finding new ways to stretch his wings. His feet search for the next step in life almost before he has two feet planted on the current one. He is the best kind of dreamer; one with courage. He lives his life with the ideal that there is no lid in existence to hold down his dreams. If there were, he would figure out a way to pry it off. New York City is the place for such dreamers.
Another son, who hates change almost as much as he hates cynicism, is still trying to figure out what life after high school will look like. His heart thrives on shared quality time- preferably doing something fun and active. He is the best kind of friend; one that loves deeply. He lives his life on his terms, but only if that means he gets to live it with the ones he cares about. He is not quite ready to give up on the whimsical part of life. Disney is where whimsy lives, but cynicism can’t survive; a place where it’s okay to still be a kid even if you’re seventeen and 6’2”.
Two boys, two very different locations- more than geography. NYC matches the personality of one, while Disney matches the other. More than that, it’s a picture of what stage of life they are in. One is moving fast and dreaming big, while the other is okay to explore the fanciful parts of childhood just a little bit longer. My oldest wants to be in the memory of others because he’s done something big, while my youngest is satisfied to make memories.
As for me and my vacation…
It was absent of my boys, but right where I wanted and was supposed to be. There was rest and there was laughter. There was a glimpse of what life with an empty nest will feel like. I have steps to take, dreams to dream, and maybe even some whimsy still yet to discover myself.
The thought of my boys on opposite ends of the same coast makes me happy and it makes me cry. The comforting thing – for all of us- I was and am in the middle. I’m home, and it's more than just geography.
Isn’t it funny how timing works out sometimes? M#1 was on spring break, M#2 was on his senior trip, and I, because the first two were occupied, got away for a girl’s weekend. We were all exactly where we wanted to be this week. I think, more than where we wanted to be, we were exactly where we were supposed to be. Today as I was driving home from a weekend of laughter and rest, I thought about where I was, and where my boys were at that very same moment.
M#1 – on spring break- had decided to leave the cold and gray city of Syracuse for the only slightly less cold and gray NYC. It is his sweet spot, where he feels most at home, and where he will (hopefully) do an internship this summer. He will eat great food, walk the streets of his favorite city, and try out his newly written comedy bits at some open mic nights.
M#2 – on his senior trip- was in warm and sunny Orlando at Disney World. This is his sweet spot, where he has not a care in the world, and where he will make more lasting memories with friends he’s had since first grade. He will stay up too late, run from park to park, and try to set a new personal best for how many attractions he can ride in a given day. (His current record is 32)
Reflecting on these same time/different location vacations, I realized where we each were was more significant than geography.
One son, independent for as long as I can remember, is still finding new ways to stretch his wings. His feet search for the next step in life almost before he has two feet planted on the current one. He is the best kind of dreamer; one with courage. He lives his life with the ideal that there is no lid in existence to hold down his dreams. If there were, he would figure out a way to pry it off. New York City is the place for such dreamers.
Another son, who hates change almost as much as he hates cynicism, is still trying to figure out what life after high school will look like. His heart thrives on shared quality time- preferably doing something fun and active. He is the best kind of friend; one that loves deeply. He lives his life on his terms, but only if that means he gets to live it with the ones he cares about. He is not quite ready to give up on the whimsical part of life. Disney is where whimsy lives, but cynicism can’t survive; a place where it’s okay to still be a kid even if you’re seventeen and 6’2”.
Two boys, two very different locations- more than geography. NYC matches the personality of one, while Disney matches the other. More than that, it’s a picture of what stage of life they are in. One is moving fast and dreaming big, while the other is okay to explore the fanciful parts of childhood just a little bit longer. My oldest wants to be in the memory of others because he’s done something big, while my youngest is satisfied to make memories.
As for me and my vacation…
It was absent of my boys, but right where I wanted and was supposed to be. There was rest and there was laughter. There was a glimpse of what life with an empty nest will feel like. I have steps to take, dreams to dream, and maybe even some whimsy still yet to discover myself.
The thought of my boys on opposite ends of the same coast makes me happy and it makes me cry. The comforting thing – for all of us- I was and am in the middle. I’m home, and it's more than just geography.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Dates, Throw Downs, and Talking the Talk
I find more and more, day after day, how much I learn about being a child of God by being a parent. I often think about how God must feel about my misbehavior, disobedience, or lack of thankfulness when my own children exhibit such distasteful behavior.
Over the last two days I’ve been in a stew over one such “misbehavior” from my youngest. In the big scheme of things, what happened can’t really be called a misbehavior, but yet it made me angry, and honestly, hurt. I found out MJH went on a date…make that THREE dates- with the same girl- without telling his mom. Oh, the horror!
His friends who divulged this insider info were hysterical with laughter at the look on my son’s face when they realized he hadn’t told me. They probably found just as much humor in my reaction. I think my exact words were, “M and I are gonna have a throw down when you guys leave my house!”
As I said, in the big scheme of things, this wasn’t a big deal. I have a kid- a young man- who loves Jesus, his family, and his friends. He is a great student, he has a kind servant attitude, and he makes wise (as much as a 17 year old can be wise) decisions. He takes responsibility for his actions, and is just overall, a really great guy. So, why did this bother me so much?
Relationship. I was upset about what this omission in communication said about our relationship. He didn’t lie to me. He didn’t tell me he was one place when he was somewhere else. (This is one of the many downsides of being divorced- your kids can “do” things on the other parent’s weekend that you never know about) In the absence of lies, I was still upset; it was still a slap to our relationship. Did he not trust me?
I’m trying to get over it, but am obviously not yet since I’m writing about it. He’s apologized and told me his reasoning for not telling me. (He didn’t want me to make a big deal about it unless she became his girlfriend- which she is not) As I’m getting on with my life in the wake of such a crushing blow, I want to see this from God’s perspective.
I’ve now come to grips with the fact that God may have a bit of an issue with me in this area as well. I haven’t gone on any dates I didn’t tell Him about. It would be silly to think I could hide anything about my life from Him anyway.
What I have done- more times than I’d like to admit- is make decisions before talking to God. I’ve asked for advice from a friend before discussing it with the Lord. I’ve shared funny stories, joys, heartaches, and problems with my family or my friends, and never stopped to acknowledge that my Father may want to hear the news first. This isn’t to say that I don’t talk to the Lord. I do…A LOT; however, there are times that I don’t talk to Him first.
I was hurt by my son not finding it important enough…or not finding me important enough, to share his “news” with first. As a parent, that’s tough to swallow. I’m guessing God feels that little twinge in His heart at times too.
My response to that…I won’t tell you. I’m talking to Him instead.
Over the last two days I’ve been in a stew over one such “misbehavior” from my youngest. In the big scheme of things, what happened can’t really be called a misbehavior, but yet it made me angry, and honestly, hurt. I found out MJH went on a date…make that THREE dates- with the same girl- without telling his mom. Oh, the horror!
His friends who divulged this insider info were hysterical with laughter at the look on my son’s face when they realized he hadn’t told me. They probably found just as much humor in my reaction. I think my exact words were, “M and I are gonna have a throw down when you guys leave my house!”
As I said, in the big scheme of things, this wasn’t a big deal. I have a kid- a young man- who loves Jesus, his family, and his friends. He is a great student, he has a kind servant attitude, and he makes wise (as much as a 17 year old can be wise) decisions. He takes responsibility for his actions, and is just overall, a really great guy. So, why did this bother me so much?
Relationship. I was upset about what this omission in communication said about our relationship. He didn’t lie to me. He didn’t tell me he was one place when he was somewhere else. (This is one of the many downsides of being divorced- your kids can “do” things on the other parent’s weekend that you never know about) In the absence of lies, I was still upset; it was still a slap to our relationship. Did he not trust me?
I’m trying to get over it, but am obviously not yet since I’m writing about it. He’s apologized and told me his reasoning for not telling me. (He didn’t want me to make a big deal about it unless she became his girlfriend- which she is not) As I’m getting on with my life in the wake of such a crushing blow, I want to see this from God’s perspective.
I’ve now come to grips with the fact that God may have a bit of an issue with me in this area as well. I haven’t gone on any dates I didn’t tell Him about. It would be silly to think I could hide anything about my life from Him anyway.
What I have done- more times than I’d like to admit- is make decisions before talking to God. I’ve asked for advice from a friend before discussing it with the Lord. I’ve shared funny stories, joys, heartaches, and problems with my family or my friends, and never stopped to acknowledge that my Father may want to hear the news first. This isn’t to say that I don’t talk to the Lord. I do…A LOT; however, there are times that I don’t talk to Him first.
I was hurt by my son not finding it important enough…or not finding me important enough, to share his “news” with first. As a parent, that’s tough to swallow. I’m guessing God feels that little twinge in His heart at times too.
My response to that…I won’t tell you. I’m talking to Him instead.
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