the mini-resolution

Confession is good for the soul. That said, I have a confession to make.

I am not a New Year's resolution maker.

(Gasp!) Is the world still standing?

First, and I say this in the kindest way, most of the time I see people (myself included) set all kinds of well intentioned resolutions on January first, and then plummet into a pit of defeat less than a month later because they just couldn't quite keep it all together. Real life caves in and smashes the hopes and dreams of the resolution.

Secondly, there is so much pressure and expectation placed on ourselves to achieve and succeed at our goals that we either become a slave to our resolutions, or we simply quit.

Now, before you jump to conclusions and assume that I am a complete slacker, let me add a little clarity.

I'm not anti-goal setting. And I'm not really anti-resolution making. In fact, I tend to set goals for myself throughout the year, as needed. For instance, before the beginning of the school year I usually set a few personal goals for myself, as well as for my family. If something in my life feels out of whack at any point in the year, I try to address it and make the proper changes. While I don't typically make any type of formal January first commitment, I'm not entirely without purpose.

But this year I decided to try something different, and here is why: There are things that I would really like to implement into my life (disciplines, habits, new challenges), but when I looked at the list as a whole I suddenly became paralyzed. I can't conquer it all at once. Then my sister gave me a brilliant suggestion of setting a goal for each month - the mini-resolution. Instead of trying to cut out sugar, exercise everyday, journal everyday, go vegan, cut out meat etc., etc. all at once, the goal is to choose one thing to work on each month.

And here's the long-term benefit of the mini-resolution...what we resolve to do in January, we will be more likely to continue doing in February, March, April...all year long. It takes doing something 20 times (or 20 days) to create a new habit. After having mastered one goal over the course of one month, the hope is that this will have become a new way of living. Achievable goals. It's really about taking that big list of New Year's resolutions and breaking them up into 12 bite size resolutions, with the hope and expectation that these new habits will be a new way of living.

Here we are, approximately mid-way through January. If you are like me, and not a hard core resolution maker, it is not too late to set some mini-resolutions. They don't even have to be earth shattering. Trust me. Every season of life brings on its share of limitations and possibilities. If it makes you feel better, one of my goals for 2017 was to fold and put the laundry away the same day I actually did the laundry. Believe me, this was a necessary and challenging goal.

As you make your monthly resolutions, remember to take it one day at a time. Maybe start with asking God for guidance. Seek him first, and then set your plans. We can do this!

Commit to the Lord whatever you do, and he will establish your plans.

Proverbs 16:3

On The Lips!

Sitting at my aunt's dining room table, enjoying the company of family and good food, we were suddenly jolted from our adult conversation by shrieks and squeals coming from above.  Five little second cousins, and one baby cousin who was trying to take a power nap, were getting their wild things on.  We heard a lot of giggling, a few thuds here and there, and several unidentified sounds.  The baby's mom came to his rescue and reported to the rest of us what she witnessed amongst the chaos.  There was one little girl cousin puckering up her lips, one little boy cousin awaiting his doom, while three little girl cousins jumped wildly on an air mattress chanting, "On the lips! On the lips!"  Before Sydney could plant a nice, big smooch on her poor cousin James' cheek, the grown ups intervened, capturing the whole thing on video.  (Lord, have mercy!) We are a close family, but...well...not that close.

All silliness aside, it was truly amazing to me how quickly my children bonded with my cousins' children.  James and Sydney were babies the last time we were together, and since that time, we've added a few family members.  Without skipping a beat, our children fell in love (not the romantic kind of love) instantaneously.  They played their hearts out every day in the ocean's waves and couldn't wait to see each other the next day.  For almost two weeks, they were inseperable.

Saying goodbye was emotional and bittersweet.  Buckets of tears were shed by all the little ones (and the big ones too...saying goodbye is hard no matter how old you are).  I hate parting ways with those I dearly love, but I am grateful that when we go our separate ways, there is a deep longing in all of us for the next time we will see each other again.  And I am grateful that we have inadvertantly passed that down to our children.

James was Sydney's first real crush.  They bonded - on their boogie boards, riding waves, and sharing his goggles - the stuff that real romance is made of.  This summer will hold a fond memory for both of them, and as they grow older, they will realize how blessed they are to be family.

When I start to feel the twinge of sadness that missing my family brings, I only have to remember, "On the lips!  On the lips!" and a smile is quick to cross my face.  As my cousin's wife remarked, "There are places in the south where marrying a second cousin is perfectly normal...but we are not from those parts."

Amen to that.

Back In The Saddle Again

We made it home.  Always a miracle, to say the least.  Aside from one suitcase and one car seat still MIA, six flight delays, one missed flight, a water spill, one potty accident, and finally making it home at one in the morning, all five Slater bodies are well and accounted for.  

The last words out of my mouth as our weary, travelling heads hit the pillows this morning were, "Dear God, please don't let the kids get up before 10am!" 

They were up at 6:30.

I've spent the first three hours of my first morning home paying bills, going through hundreds of e-mails, digging through our cupboards and fridge for breakfast foods that are still edible after two weeks away, and chugging down coffee like water. 

My suitcase is still packed.  Can I just head to the airport and hop on the first plane back to North Carolina?  I called my mom this morning, and they were at the beach.  Post vacation depression has officially set in.  All five of us have shed rivers of tears.  I miss my family back East, Sydney is mourning the end of her first summer crush, and wouldn't you know it...Portland is gray and drizzly.  Really.  Can I please get back on a plane now?  I'm not kidding.

Vacation is over.  That's the reality.  I'm slowly working my way back into the saddle again.  Being away, and being unplugged, gave me thousands of minutes to think, process, and reevaluate my life.  Walks on the beach, conversations with my family, and much empty time has given me a fresh perspective that I believe I lacked before.  My core values have not changed, but there are changes to the way I live them out that I want to make. 

One of the changes will be to unplug more frequently.  Amazingly, I had no withdrawals or negative side effects from little internet access.  On the contrary, I found myself liberated and peaceful.  I need more of that. 

And so, I'm going to wrap up my first post-vacation blog post, and get to work on unpacking my suitcase.  There's a high probability that tears will be shed in the process.   If you think about it...pray for me! :)

And have no fear...I've got a lot of stuff in this head of mine to share with you!  Little by little, it will all leak out.

Four In A Row

We've had four days in a row of sunshine, blue skies, and heat.  Pinch me.  I think I must be dreaming.  I don't want to get my hopes up too high, but summer, quite possibly, has made its entrance out here in the Northwest.  I'm afraid to visit weather dot com for fear that rain will be in the 10 day forecast.  I'd rather live in ignorance and believe that warm days are here for the long haul.  

I'm in a skipping, jumping, life-is-wonderful kind of mood too!  Sunshine is good for the soul.  It burns off the dark, cloudy days and turns the doldrums into a far, distant memory.  Yes.  I'm high on vitamin D this morning.  Can't you tell?

In honor of our four days in a row of beautiful, sunny, summertime kind of weather, I quickly jotted down a few of my favorite summertime must-haves.  Feel free to add any of your own summer favorites to my list too.

Summer is...

• Sunshine
• Swimming
• Sunscreen SPF 50 (or more appropriately, Sun-paste - that stuff really works!)
• Strawberry Shortcake
• Sleeping in
• Starbucks Frappuccinos
• Sundresses and flip flops
• Sitting outside under the shade of a tree
• Summer reads
• Salads with fresh fruits and veggies

Have I forgotten anything?

Because I don't want to miss out on any bit of this very beautiful day, I'm going to wrap this up and get off of my computer.  The tree outside my window, reflecting gold and yellow beams of sunlight from its leaves, keeps beckoning me to come outside and play.

And so...I'm off to soak in another beautiful summer day!

Psalm 118:24

This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it!

Dear Dad...

Dear Dad,  

When I reflect upon all the different kinds of dads out there in this huge and busy world, I always end up coming to the same conclusion: I have, hands down, the best dad.  There is no contest.

You took me on our first Daddy/daughter date on my fifth birthday...and I remember it well today.  We sat at a table by a wall at Bishop's Family Buffet, and I wore my green velvet Christmas dress.  I felt like such a little lady.  You asked me questions about my life, my thoughts, my hopes, and my five-year-old dreams.  I knew I was precious to you then.

As I grew older, and drove you insane throughout my teenage years, you were a constant source of wisdom and guidance to me.  You came to every violin recital, cheered (loudly and emphatically) at every one of my basketball games (which I know had to be painful to watch seeing that I do not have one athletic bone in this body of mine), attended plays, choir concerts (that lasted for hours), and counseled me through many ups and downs, and believed in me when I didn't believe in myself.  I remember how sad you would get when summer or Christmas or spring break was over, because you genuinely loved hanging out with me and Jen.

In high school, you took time to take me for coffee, ask me about my life, and listened to my hopes and seventeen-year-old dreams.  I knew I was precious to you then.

My early adult years were not such a sweet time for me.  I wrestled with transitions, depression, and burn-out.  When I hit bottom, and it was an ugly one, you saw something beautiful in me.  You supported, encouraged, listened, and prayed.  You sacrificed so much because we, your family, were more important than ministry success or achievement.  You truly exemplified what it means to lay down your life for your family.  What a treasure that was...is...to me.  When I was at my lowest, you and mom came and spent time with me, you held me, you cried with me, and you listened to my twenty-three-year-old hopes and dreams.  I knew I was precious to you then.

The older I get, the more I realize that the kind of father I have is a very rare kind of man.  I still call you just to hear to say, "Amy, it's all going to work out."  I still smile when I open up an e-mail from you, knowing that it probably took quite some time to hammer it out with your two index fingers. :)  I still covet your prayers, respect your insights, and appreciate your valuable words of wisdom. 

And that we can go out for coffee, sit and talk for hours about  life, thoughts, hopes, and my thirty-six-year-old dreams, reminds me that I am, and will always be, precious to you.

Thank you, Dad. 

I love you!

Good Thoughts

Before the invention of the electric washing machine, it would take a woman six hours to do one load of laundry.  Six hours.  One load.  (Air-dry time, pressing, and folding not included.)  

This little factoid just reminded me of a load of towels I washed yesterday.  They are still in the machine.  I will have to run them again, and hopefully, remember to transfer them to the dryer this time.  From start to finish, this could take an hour-and-a-half.  And I want to whine about it.  I want to pout and throw up my hands in surrender because there is so much laundry to do.  All of the time.  Piles and piles of it.

When I was younger, I was certain that I had been born in the wrong era.  I should have been a prairie girl, or a 1920's flapper, right out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, or part of the Greatest Generation (for sure).  Now that I am older and maybe just a teeny bit wiser, I am convinced that "Laura Ingles Wilder" I am not.  I love my electric washing machine (I love electricity in general).  I love my cell phone and high-speed internet.  I love going to movies, online banking, blue jeans, and my grind & brew coffee maker (hallelujah for my coffee maker!).  I am so appreciative of the modern conveniences I get to enjoy (and fully embrace) on a daily basis.  God made no mistake when he brought this life into the world in 1973.

Sometimes I get restless and critical, worried and depressed when I look at the world I live in.  I can easily get caught up in all the "bad" out there.  Yet, I kind of get the impression that God is still present in all this chaos.  He's still moving, working, blessing, and redeeming.  He even had the forethought and grace to make sure that the electric washing machine was a standard home appliance for a gal like me.

That the sun so graciously decided to poke its head out of the clouds for a brief moment this morning could quite possibly be the inspiration for this random stream of thought.  Or maybe I just needed to pull myself up out of negativity and remind myself that it could always be worse.  I could have been born in a time when bathrooms were outhouses and mornings were spent milking cows, baking bread, and feeding the chickens. 

Wherever the inspiration came from...I'm just plain thankful today.  And that's all I've got to say.

LOST

A true sign that you have crossed the line from avid fan to obsessed fan is when you wake up at 5:45am thinking about the show you watched the night before.  So it was with me this morning.  I tossed and turned throughout the short night with thoughts of the LOST series finale running through my mind.  Questions still remain unanswered.  Theories are still percolating among the die hards.  The first word out of my mouth as the ending credits rolled, "What?"  Nothing much has changed since the first episode of the series.  So, as I sit here this morning, veering away from my typical post style, I feel compelled to share my final thoughts on the finale of LOST.  Sit back, scrutinize, and then feel free to add your own comment at the end. The Losties (as we have come to know them) were a group of lost souls.  Flying together on Oceanic 815, there was not a free soul among them.  Each led a broken life...inhabiting a body of flesh and bones, but lost deep inside.  The one thing they sought out from this life was the one thing that seemed to elude them: redemption.

And then the crash.

What seemed to be the worst thing in the world that could have happened to them was the one thing that brought healing to their lives.  An answer to their unspoken prayers.  Alone in the real world, drawn together, bound together, strong together in the Lost world.  As the island spoke to each one individually, and specifically, we observed inner transformation.  Slow, painful, and sometimes deadly, the work of the island was not so much to discover what it was, but to discover who they were.

In the end, throughout their alternate lives, as they reawakened so to speak, we saw freedom and joy, not terror and fear.  On the island, there was a great deal of horror, yet the memories they reflect upon are the joys of what they island gave to them.

Sun and Jin - redemption in their relationship...and a baby.

Sawyer - freedom from the past and freedom to love.

Hurley - anointed to lead.

Sayid - atonement for his past, a chance to start anew.

Charlie and Claire - souls destined to be together.

Desmond - the constant that drew them all together both on the island and off the island.

Ben - forgiveness...but still incomplete (he has so much to reckon with).

Locke - freedom from the constraints that bound him.  I love what he said to Jack post-surgery and after his reawakening: "I hope someone does for you what you have done for me."  Redemption.

Kate - the burden of a life set against her, lifted as she learned to love sacrificially and selflessly.

Jack - redemption.  His entire life was spent saving everyone around him, longing to be set free from himself.  And so it was, in the very last scene, that he could let go.  He found what he spent his whole life looking for...freedom and redemption.

A part of me wishes that more of my questions could be answered.  What happened to Richard Alpert?  What was the Dharma Initiative all about?  What about Ellie and Miles and Daniel and Charlotte and Walt and the polar bears and Room 23???  Perhaps these issues were not addressed because they were only peripheral characters and symbols set around the more significant part of the story-  that being the characters themselves.  Their hope for freedom from the distorted lives they were living, and their search for redemption.

They were lost before they crashed on the island.  The island found them...and they finally found themselves.

Not to over-spiritualize LOST, but isn't it the hard, painful, and almost deadly seasons of our lives that bring us full circle into the grace and redemption of God?  The Losties had to strive for over half the duration of the series to get off the island, but it was the island that actually healed them.  We fight our island circumstances because they are painful, dark, and overwhelming.  But it is through them that God sets us free, redeems us, and allows us to let go.

Hmmm...just a few thoughts.  What do you think?

The Cool People

I think I moved a few rungs up the ladder of coolness after my family gave me a pair of Uggs for my birthday.  They are divine (as far as a winter foot accessory goes), and I feel slightly glamorous each time I slip them on my feet.  Although, I can’t seem to fight the compulsion to explain that I did not buy them myself (because the thought of paying almost $200 for a pair anything knocks the wind out of me), but they were a gift. 

The only glitch I encountered was figuring out how to wear my brand new, gray Classic Cardy Uggs.  I don’t trust my judgment on matters like these, and the first few times I walked them out the door, I wore them exactly as they came in the box.  I didn’t want to take any chances.  Then, one morning I thought I would be daring, and started playing around with the buttons, thinking perhaps I would wear them straight up the leg instead of folded down around the ankle.  Of course, I had an audience of three – Sydney, Brooklyn and Jackson – who were quick to give me their input and fashion expertise.  “Down!  Wear them down, Mommy!  They look much better down.”  They seemed to agree on one thing for certain, I should wear my Cardy Uggs folded down.  I crinkled my nose, tilted my head and followed their advice (daring, I know).

Later that day I was having dinner with friends, one of which who also received the Classic Cardy Uggs recently as a gift.  Hers were folded down (sigh of relief coming from me).  She is probably on the top of my list of friends with amazing taste and a flair for fashion.  I went ahead and asked her for some Ugg mentoring.  What I learned from this brief coaching moment was that only dorks wear their Cardy Uggs all the way up the calf.  The cool people (and I gotta be cool) wear them with two buttons clasped and folded down (another sigh, and a quick kudos to my girls who saved me from being a dork earlier that morning). 

Thank you to my parents and my sister for my warm, cozy and fashionable Uggs, and to my children for making sure I wore them the way the cool people do.  Where on earth would I be without my family? 

Oh.  I know. 

Uggless and, most definitely, uncool.

Auld Lang Syne

This girl doesn’t make New Year’s resolutions.  I think I stopped making lists like that ten or so years ago.  Not that there’s anything wrong with New Year’s resolutions, but I have found them to be ineffective for me personally.  Rather, before the New Year begins I take a look back at the year passing, make an objective assessment of how much I’ve grown and any areas that I can see need to be strengthened (as objective as one can be when looking at one’s self, mind you).  Then I look ahead.  Leaving the past behind, I shift my focus towards the future with high hopes and renewed faith of what I believe God can and will do in my life through the course of the New Year.  

This past year, as I wrote a few weeks ago, was somewhat of an unexceptional year.  However, God was still present in it, and I believe will use even the mundane for His glory.  This coming year I look forward to what God has in store.  Whether it be the miracle I’ve been waiting for, or simply the steadiness of His hand in every situation I encounter over the next twelve months.  Above all I expect to look back a year from now and once again see God’s goodness, His providence and His grace. 

So, as the modern translation of “Auld Lang Syne” goes, I will embrace the New Year with a toast to days and times gone by and look ahead with great expectation to the days and times to come. 

And I pray your New Year be blessed too!

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

-Scottish Poem written by Robert Burns in 1788

Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree

Very few things make me want to get up and make a fool out of myself like Amy Grant’s CD Home For Christmas.  Bought in 1992 (yes, you read that correctly – nineteen ninety-two), this CD is probably considered a Christmas heirloom these days.  My college roommate and I played it continuously throughout the holiday season of our freshman year.  We rocked out to “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree”, transforming our hair picks into guitars.  We were the original guitar heroes.  Then, of course, our eyes wet and throats choked up with tears, we would sit on the floor, in our dimly-lit dorm room and listen to the song “Breath of Heaven”.  To this day, when I listen to that song, (hands down the most played tune I own on CD) I can’t help but laugh and cry at the same time.  I laugh as I recall our deep thoughts and musings through tears on how anointed that musical composition was.  I cry because I still believe it is one of the most anointed songs I’ve ever heard.  

Christmas isn’t Christmas until I’ve rocked around the Christmas tree at least a dozen times (pick in hand) and bawled my eyes out to Breath of Heaven just the same.  I honestly hate doing it alone.  It was way more fun with my college roomie.  Maybe it’s time to pass on my pick and fabulous dance moves to my children, although I suspect I may be scaring them a little bit when I get all jiggy with it.  Oh, well.

I’m so thankful to Amy, my college roommate - who is still one of my dearest and most cherished friends ever – for e-mailing me yesterday just to say hi and share this memory with me.  College just didn’t realize our coolness and the awesome dance moves we created in our cramped up shoebox of a dorm room.  We were way ahead of our time.  I’m thankful for my lifelong friend, lifelong memories, Amy Grant, and the fact that I’m still limber enough to pull off a good ol’ “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree” jig.

Christmas is all about giving, and today I’m remembering the gift of laughter my friend Amy has always been quick to give to me.  She inspires me to smile when I want to cry, dance when I want to pout and give when I want to hold on.  I wish I could wrap up a dozen gingerbread lattes, Bath and Body Works soaps and lotions, and thirty minute deep tissue massages and send them all to you, but that won’t happen (for obvious reasons).  Instead I’m just going to share a little laughter (hopefully), and a quick run down memory lane.  Maybe it will inspire you to do the same – to share a laugh or two with some friends (me included…that would be nice!).  Or, perhaps you’re just dying to rock around the Christmas tree.  Believe me, it’s catchy and it’s fun (just don’t rock out so hard that you knock your tree down).

In any case, I’m going to head downstairs now, pop in my Home For Christmas CD, turn up the volume, grab a kid or two, and start rockin’ out.

"Rockin' around the Christmas tree.  Have a happy holiday.  Everyone dancing merrily in the new old fashioned way!"

(Music and Lyrics by Johnny Marks - 1958)

Easy Button

I need an easy button.   

Running errands yesterday on less than a quarter tank of gas, calculating how much cash I have to spend, how much I’ve spent, how many more gifts I need to buy, how can I make due with what I’ve got, and can I make it to the cheap gas station before the “low fuel” light starts blinking, I secretly wished I could press a button and everything would end up working out perfectly…easily.

Then, last night when my six-year-old decided she couldn’t sleep and woke up her siblings right around the time I was getting ready to crawl into bed myself, I thought how nice it would be to have an easy button right about now.  Instead of a bedtime battle, screaming and tears there would be sugarplum fairies prancing and dancing my daughter to sleep. 

Just this morning as I was trying to get out the door for a Christmas brunch, Jackson insisted on wearing his new mittens.  I couldn’t find them (I only bought them yesterday!), and ended up rummaging through the winter accessories basket in the coat closet.  Scarves, hats and mismatched glove sets were strewn all over the floor.  Irritated, I started looking for an easy button hiding in the knitted mess. 

It didn’t stop there.  Pulling Jackson’s mittens on to his little hands proved more difficult than expected.  He couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of separating his thumb from the rest of his fingers thus culminating all his frustration into one gigantic outburst as I worked feverishly to find his lost thumbs: “Jackson, give me your thumb.  Put your thumb here.  Stop fighting me.  Do you really want to wear these mittens?  Then you need to cooperate with me.”  Ugh.  Easy button?

Errands before the brunch, errands after the brunch (I seem to be running errands a lot these days), I figured I deserved a little “me” time when we got home.  Jackson screamed when I put him down for a nap (press “easy” now), Brooklyn followed me downstairs playing twenty questions (or something of that nature), and I realized that having time for myself was probably not going to happen. 

Then, BAM, I hit my own easy button; something internal, I really can’t explain it.  Suddenly I was inspired to start our Christmas baking.  Donning our aprons and Christmas music blaring, Brooklyn became my sous chef as we measured, mixed, stirred and rolled out the most scrumptious of holiday treats.  I can still smell the peppermint from our candy cane cookies – a family favorite. 

In that brief span of time - baking with Brooklyn, then taste testing our yummy confections – being a mom became as easy and sweet as our holiday candy fudge bars.  The stress I was feeling rolled right off my back, and when Jackson woke up I felt like a brand new mommy. 

With one click of the easy button I was armed and ready to search for Jackson’s “Lightning McQueen” car (that he loses multiple times a day), help Brooklyn “type” an e-mail on the computer, clean out my fridge and freezer, tidy up the kitchen and sweep the floors.  All before 4:30pm.  Easily completed so that I could have a few minutes to write this post for my blog. 

I may not have discovered a tangible easy button, but I learned a lesson far more valuable.  It is actually one I tried to teach to Sydney this morning before she left for school.  It’s all about the attitude.  We don’t always have control over our circumstances and the junk that comes at us day in and day out, but we do have control over how we look at life.  If we think we’re going to have a bad day, then we probably will (the world out there is merciless and will no doubt gladly contribute to the badness).  However, if we change our perspective, even just a little bit, it can be the catalyst for an absolutely amazing afternoon – as I learned so well today.

Time In The Bustle Of Christmas

Dashing through the store

With my cart leading the way

'Or the aisles I go

Laughing all the way!

Here and there I dart

Searching for a steal

Oh what fun it is to shop

And find the perfect deal.

Oh...Jingle bells

Jingle bells

Jingle all the way!

'Tis the season for crazy drivers, holiday deals, gift wrapping, cookie baking, carols, parties, gifts, cards, hustling and bustling through the all of the holiday festivities.  As much as I have wanted to sit at the computer and focus on deep thoughts and life lessons, the busyness of the season pulls me away...continuously.  Instead of pouring out my heart in a post, I am pouring over online discounts and free shipping specials in order to tick a few more items off of my Christmas list.

I've been working on a series for the past several months, but have become slightly distracted.  One of the posts in this series is about simplifying my time...my priorities.  I realize that the holidays are one of those seasons in the year when the pace of life picks up, but only lasts for a short period of time.  The next few weeks for us are jam-packed with concerts, shows and church activities.  I must confess, I do love it.  Sadly, a few things tend to get neglected:  my house, for one, and basic routine tasks and chores.  It's not the end of the world that my house is not completely put together and orderly.  I can handle that.  However, one thing that cannot fall by the wayside for me is my quiet time with the Lord.  As I was re-reading the post that I hope to soon publish I realized that when life gets busy, and my time no longer belongs to me, there remains one thing that I can't let go of: quiet time.  Time with God.  Time to pray.  Time to reflect.  Time to thank.  Time to sit in the presence of God and allow Him to strengthen me, lead me and guide me through the hustle and bustle of the Christmas season.

When all is said and done, Christmas is about Jesus anyway.  There's really no point in all of the festivities if my mind and heart aren't centered in Him to begin with.

So if I seem a little distant, and the posts aren't as regular, just know that I am fully engaging in the spirit of Christmas.  

And I truly hope and pray that you are too. 

Smashing Pumpkins

When pumpkins start popping up at local farms and grocery stores I get giddy anticipating our annual visit to the pumpkin patch.  I visualize what our front porch will look like with a big fat splash of fiery pumpkin orange.  Ultimately, this image triggers a memory of a pumpkin I had in college.  My one moment of Bible school rebellion all started with a pumpkin. 

Friday nights were not big “going out” nights for me in college.  My phone wasn’t ringing off the hook with eager suitors.  Guys weren’t lining up outside my dorm room anxiously waiting to spend a couple of hours in my presence.  I was not a man magnet.  I was a man repellent.  Friday nights for me consisted of hanging out with other girls, late night Perkin’s coffee, and long heart-to-heart talks of life and love. 

That is until a pumpkin rolled in to our lives.  I really don’t remember how we acquired the giant squash, but eventually it ended up on the floor of the dorm room surrounded by a bunch of girls desperate for a little excitement.   It has been a few years and honestly don’t remember whose bright idea it was, but some genius decided we should toss the giant orange fruit right out the window.  We all agreed this would be fun (I feel so sorry for my college self – we must have been really bored and really hard up for good entertainment).

We managed to get the pumpkin up to the windowsill, and after confirming that there were no pedestrians in the vicinity of our target (because they were all out on dates), we launched our pumpkin missile to the ground…splat.  Eyes bulging from their sockets in sheer disbelief that we had actually thrown the pumpkin out of our three-story window, nervous laughter slowly filled the open space in the room.  We were really living on the edge now.  Being the hardened Bible school rebels that we were, we were so incredibly riddled with guilt for having committed such a crime that we quickly threw our shoes on and headed down the stairs and out the door to clean up our sticky, gooey pumpkin-y mess. 

No one witnessed our one moment of rebellion.  Our dreams of becoming notorious were smashed the moment our pumpkin hit cold, damp ground.  Friday nights resumed as usual: boring, uneventful and filled with the unspoken longings of love and adventure with a teeny tiny dash of defiance to show the tougher side of us. 

Ultimately, some did find love and left our little tribe of lovelorn co-eds.  Some stumbled into adventures and travels that swept them completely off their feet.  And some spent the following years discovering and uncovering who they were meant to be…and eventually found something greater than they expected. 

I’ve since hung up my Bible school rebellion days, and now the only smashing pumpkins I’m aware of are the ones I listen to on my iPod.  

Yes. Pumpkins.  They truly make me smile.

Quotable

I love quotes.   

When I was in high school I would often daydream of perhaps being quoted someday.  Surrounded by notebooks and journals stuffed with poems, thoughts and long, hand-written emotional expressions, I would imagine one day someone discovering this treasure trove of language genius, and then quoting me.  In fact, armed with my pen and stacks of paper, I would brainstorm – working tirelessly to come up with a quote that would turn the world on its ear.  Here’s what my seventeen-year-old brain concocted (are you ready for this?):

“No one can judge that which comes from within.”

Hmmm…now that’s deep. 

Along with this excogitated thought I found a letter I had written to whomever was lucky enough to find my precious quote.  The first line of the letter is priceless:

“I just want you to know I am not an emotionally disturbed person.”

Interesting.  I find this highly disturbing!  If that line were any indication on the quality and depth of my high school writing career, it would appear my writings were of a somewhat dark nature.  To this day, my “quotes” remain unquoted.  Shocking, I know.

The question then, do I still dream of being quoted?  Well, these days I get quoted all the time, although I can’t say they are my most noteworthy words.  Still, when I hear Sydney exclaim, “Are you kidding me?” to her younger siblings, or when Jackson declares, “Hey, I’m working here!” when I pull him off of the computer keyboard.  Or even when Brooklyn, exasperated, lets out a huge sigh and says, “I’m getting so tired of this!” I think to myself, “Didn’t I just say that?”  Yeah, I’m getting quoted all the time.  When I hear words of impatience and irritation spilling from the mouths of my three innocent sponges, I feel like someone is twisting a knife in my stomach and reminding me of how often I fall short in the parenting department.  I would much rather catch someone repeating one of my more sweet and spiritually profound phrases, or in this day and age, be “re-tweeted” on Twitter for something pithy I posted.  Instead, my shortcomings and misquotes get played and re-played on a daily basis for my listening “pleasure”. 

I guess the moral of this story would be “Oh be careful little mouth what you say!”  It’s not so much about the words we throw around in the company of adults that get us into trouble, but the remarks we make in the presence of little people who are always eager to steal a quote or two from their unsuspecting parents.  To my three offspring, I am the most quotable person they know!

Psalm 19:14

May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.

I’ve got such a long way to go!

Off The Wagon

When Mama's sick life comes to a screeching halt.   

Three weeks ago I decided it was time for Jackson to say "bye, bye" to diapers and "hello" to the big boy potty.  We bought him super cool pull-ups and made any venture to the bathroom a reason for a full-blown party, treats included.  He was catching on pretty well to this new routine, and would even give a good, hearty "Yay Mommy" when I put my tinkle in the potty too.  There were plenty of accidents, but consistency is key, and I was consistently sticking his little bottom on his little potty seat every ten minutes (while consistently cleaning up all of his accidents too).

Then I had surgery.  My mother-in-law watched all three kids for us the whole week I was out of commission.  We sent the beloved potty chair to Mimi and Papa's house, along with a heap of well wishes.  Mimi did her best, and I'm just grateful that she was willing and gracious enough to take our three monkeys for a whole week.  But, I'm not sure how much progress in the potty training was made.  It was pretty much hit or miss.  However, Mimi bought Jackson a package of Lightning McQueen pull-ups which have become his most prized possession.  It would be even better if he prized them so much that he wouldn't keep doing his business in them.  One could only hope.

With the kids home, and Jackson full-speed-ahead into potty training boot-camp, I thought for sure we were going to get this thing taken care of once and for all.  Five days into it I got the flu.  It knocked me flat on my back for four days straight.  Production came to a halt and life stood still. 

While Joel was at work I laid on the couch and ran back-to-back episodes of Dora The Explorer for Jackson.  Fortunately the girls are old enough to entertain themselves, and spent hours playing with their dolls upstairs.  The kids' lunches consisted of a few pieces of cheese in between slices of bread, and snacks - though promised - never materialized.  When Jackson napped, I went back to bed.  Then yesterday afternoon, when my strength was finally coming back to me, I heard my son in his husky, two-year-old, baritone voice announce, "Hey Mama!  I got water in my pants!"  It was at that point that I realized our potty training effort had been flushed down the commode.  We really fell off the wagon.

And that is not the only thing that suffered while I was sick: memory verses for school/church weren't memorized, the house hasn't been cleaned, there is no food in the fridge, laundry is piling up (although to my husband's credit, he did a little laundry on Saturday and has made quite a few trips to the Safeway down the street for soup and crackers...for me), and my blog has sat seemingly abandoned for over a week.  I can't begin to tell you how much all of these combined really bum me out.  I feel like I've been negligent!

It would be so easy to beat myself up (even though I couldn't help being sick).  But the thing about falling of the wagon is that you don't have to stay on the ground in a helpless heap.  You can stand up, dust yourself off and get right back on again.  I realize that with Jackson and his potty training we are going to have to start back at square one.  That's how it is sometimes, when you fall off the wagon.  Whatever your goal may be, and whatever roadblock you may be facing, just remember to take it a step at a time.  And if you do fall off the wagon, don't forget to climb back on, and keep moving forward.

I know it's not much, but that's all I've got for now!

My Nose Job

I had nary a care in the world until it was pointed out to me in the sixth grade that my profile was the same as that of a large Greek man.  Then it was again reiterated to me in high school when I was called “Parrot Nose Hayburn” (this didn’t go over so well for the other person, by the way – don’t mess with my nose).  My ninth grade art teacher told me that I had a very distinguished profile.  Seriously though, “distinguished” is not a compliment to a fourteen-year-old girl!  She would much rather hear words like “cute”, “feminine” or “adorable”.  Needless to say, I do believe my body issues began in sixth grade when, for the first time, the harsh reality that my physical flaws could be pointed out and made fun of hit me square between the eyes…or should I say in the appendage sticking out from between my eyes!  

I have had a love/hate relationship with this schnoz ever since.  By the time I reached adulthood, I had nit-picked nearly every square inch of my body and dreamed of a day when I could afford a nose job.  However, once in my twenties, I came to grips with the fact that this was the honker God gave me, it was time to make reconciliation with it, and that rhinoplasty wasn’t going to be in my future anytime soon.  Eventually, I forgot about the big beak protruding out from the middle of my face and turned my focus on accentuating the positives.

That is, until I was diagnosed with nasal polyps.  This darn snout just had to find a new way to give me grief!  In fact, I also discovered that I have a deviated septum.  Lovely.  Thus, the reason I snore, too.  (Attractive…I know.) 

Tomorrow I am headed to the hospital for nasal polyp surgery.  I’m finally getting the nose job I always dreamed of!  Although, I can’t say that I’m going to emerge from under the gauze with a brand new, adorable ski-slope nose (like the cute girl in my ninth grade class who’s profile I would have died for).  I guess I could always hint to the doctor that a little nip-tuck would be completely a-okay with me (wink, wink).   We wouldn’t have to tell anyone…our little secret, if you know what I mean…

Of course, that’s not going to happen.  What will happen is that I am going to be able to breathe again, smell again, sleep again (sans snoring, or so we hope), have more energy and overall feel like myself again for the first time in a long time.  My nose will still have the same shape, the same size, and my profile will still haunt me in pictures.  But hey, why change now?  I’ve lived thirty-some years with this trunk of a nose, and I’ve been able to function quite exceptionally at that (aside from this polyp issue).

And so, I’m off.  I’ll be away for a week, and I look forward to reporting all the wonderful results when once my distinguished nose and I are back in working order.

Strike A Pose

Once upon a time I was a model.  Try as you might to find a picture of me hidden in the pages of an outdated fashion magazine or in a pile of resume head-shots, you will only end up disappointed (perhaps) and confused.  Stating, “I was a model” is using the term “model” very loosely.  In fact, the two words “I” and “model” don’t even belong in the same sentence together.  Let me try and say this again:  (A-hem) Once upon a time I wanted to be a model.  

The time I’m referring to was my ninth grade year of high school.  My sister and I got our hands on a copy of Seventeen Magazine – this, in and of itself is incredible for two reasons:  First, we lived in Kenya, and Seventeen Magazine just didn’t float around our neck of the woods.  And second, even if Seventeen Magazine was available at the local grocery store check out lane, our parents would never buy it for us.  I’m still scratching my head as to how we managed to commandeer such a publication, but we did, and boy, were we inspired.  We studied each page with awe and intrigue.  I think what made the greatest impression on my teenage self-image was how the sixteen-year-old girls posing and articulating to the mag their “I-was-sitting-in-an-airport-terminal-and-this-modeling-agent-came-over-to-me-and-handed-me-their-card-and-the-rest-is-history” type stories, looked nothing of sixteen years but more like twenty-five.  Leaving an insecure, mascara challenged, fifteen-year-old feeling really discouraged and downright ugly.  Their lives were storybook as were their peaches and cream complexions and long tousled locks.  Every page held the unattainable dream of teenage beauty.  (No wonder my parents didn’t want those magazines in our home!)

So what did my sister and I decide to do?  We came up with the genius idea of taking our own modeling shots and perhaps shipping them to Seventeen Magazine, or any agency with the mailing address: New York, New York.  Oh yes…inspired we were (and not too bright either).

We spent days on our little project:  Choosing our outfits, preparing backdrops and themes that would coordinate with our various clothing ensembles, planning our make-up and hairstyles for each shot, and all while listening to cassette tapes of our favorite bands.  We gleaned much inspiration from songs like Chicago’s “Hard Habit To Break” and “You’re The Inspiration”. 

It was truly a magical and sisterly bonding time.  Yet, once the pictures were taken, developed, and scrutinized, we came to the sobering conclusion that our modeling dreams would never be realized.  First, our complexions were far from peaches and cream.  Our hair was way too damaged from perms and overexposure to the sun.  Our figures, while thin, weren’t nearly womanly enough to catch the eye of the adolescent boys at school, let alone a modeling agent.  Even though we never verbalized our insecurities over the many flaws and imperfections we beheld in those rudimentary pictures, there was a mutual agreement that the likes of Seventeen Magazine and New York, New York would never be receiving our package in the mail.

Instead, the photos were sealed in an envelope marked “Please Do Not Open – EVER”, placed in a storage box and forgotten.  That is, until about two years ago.  I was rummaging through a bunch of my old high school paraphernalia and couldn’t believe my eyes when I discovered the old “modeling portfolios” of Amy and Jennifer.  I disregarded the strict instructions “Please Do Not Open – EVER” and tore open the envelope as quickly as my fingers could move.  As I flipped through the photographs recalling, to the detail, every memory of our modeling venture, I picked up the phone and called my sister on the other side of the country.  We laughed.  We cried.  We laughed again, and cried some more.  Once again bonding and wishing desperately we could share this moment in the same room rather than via phone call. 

 

After hanging up and wiping the tears from my eyes and nose, I looked through the pile of pictures one last time.  Smiling, an uncontrollable reflex when looking at snaps like these, I thought about the fifteen-year-old girl staring back at me in the shot.  Wow.  She was actually kind of cute – dorky and without an ounce of “cool” in her DNA – but cute just the same.  For a moment I felt sad that the girl I was twenty years ago couldn’t see what I saw as a grown woman and mother of two girls of my own.  I longed to tell her that Seventeen Magazine and all those abnormally beautiful faces weren’t the scale by which she should measure her own beauty.  The beauty that God was cultivating in her far surpassed flawless skin and shiny smooth hair.  The beauty she should be chasing after wouldn’t be found in magazines and make-up.  Eventually, I think it finally hit home with her, and her passion for modeling was traded in for a passion of a different kind.  I hope I’m the woman I aspired to become when I was fifteen years old – a model of a woman with a heart after God.

I’m still in progress – working on a different modeling portfolio these days.  As my youth slips away little by little with each year that creeps by, I pray I grow more and more beautiful on the inside.  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I believe that goes for both physical and internal.  My husband thinks I’m hot when I’m dressed up, hair done just right and make-up meticulously applied, and equally, when I roll out of bed first thing in the morning.  (Others may not be as forgiving when my hair is a mess and my breath is not so lovely.)  In the same way, when God beholds me in our secret times and not-so-secret-times, I want Him to find me beautiful.  I want my life to reflect Him and bring glory to Him whether I’m sitting in my big red overstuffed chair at five-thirty in the morning, or hanging out with a bunch of girlfriends.  It is far greater a challenge to achieve a beautiful spirit these days than it is a beautiful face.  However, the beauty that comes from within is a beauty that lasts forever – a beauty that lives eternal.

Proverbs 31:30

Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;  But a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

 By the way, when my girls saw these pictures they asked me what was wrong with me and why I was "acting" so weird.  I couldn't even convince a six-year-old and a four-year-old that I was a model!  Go figure.

It's 'Go' Time

The countdown is on.  School starts in (a little over) a week, and I can already feel a slight shift taking place; not just in our home, but in the weather too.  I find myself waking up to a familiar autumn chill and, if I could actually smell, the scent of transition lingering in the cool morning air.  Yes, something fresh, something new, something exciting and wonderful is soon to begin.  Yet, rather than jumping up and down like a high school cheerleader, I pause instead - thinking and processing the wide scope of change that is on its way.  

For those that know me, it’s no secret that I’ve been chomping at the bit for the past three weeks, eagerly anticipating the first day of school.  In fact, if school could have resumed on August first, I would have been completely comfortable with that option.  (I already spent an entire blog post on my issues with the end of summer vacation, so I’m not going to go down that road again.)  Suffice it to say, as our home is slowly swelling from the influx of new school clothes, school supplies, backpacks and lists, the reality of our upcoming transition is becoming more and more an actuality to me, and I’m growing – believe it or not – slightly apprehensive as September ninth draws closer and closer.

To be frank, over the past (almost) three months I’ve been lazy.  I’ve done a few things scattered whimsically over the slow summer weeks, but by and large I’ve been a big bump on a log.  I’ve been staying up way too late, sleeping in, reading books for fun, staying in my jammies until noon some most days and playing on the computer much, much longer than my “allotted” time.  I’ve spent so much of my summer bucking the security of my regular routine, that laziness has quickly become equally as comfortable and second nature to me.  So, you can see why I might be looking ahead at the start of school with uneasiness.  I’m sincerely concerned that if I don’t get my act together over the next week, there could be some not-so-delightful ramifications for Mommy.

Joel and I were actually discussing this very thing the other night.  He, too, feels motivated to make some personal changes, and the kick off for fall feels like an appropriate time to do so.  We are embarking upon a new school year, a clean new slate, a new football season (Go Fighting Irish) and a fresh opportunity to reinstate order and self-discipline into our lives.  So, how do we plan to do this?  How will we corral our quasi-feral herd that has run wild and free in the sweet rays of succulent sunshine? What will be our strategy in turning a lazy summer home into a ship shape vessel prepared to set sail on a fresh, new course?  Since I am all about routines, schedules and organization, I have come up with a pretty darn good plan.  Uneasiness is giving way to confidence and motivation, and I think the kids have even caught a whiff of my take-charge vibe. 

It’s ‘GO’ time at my house starting today Monday.  We’re going to take September by the horns and ride into the new school year with confidence, determination and a full eight hours of sleep on our side. 

(Pause.)

(Sigh.)

Wish me luck!  (I think I’m gonna need it!)

Wonder Woman

At the tender age of six I received my first pair of “Underoos”.  They were Wonder Woman.  When I donned this remarkable underwear ensemble, I felt powerful and unstoppable.  My little sister, too, received a matching pair.  Together we were a force to be reckoned with.  We would run around the house, wearing only our Wonder Woman Underoos and armfuls of our mom’s bracelets dangling from our tiny wrists (bullet reflectors, or something of that nature), thwarting off the powers of evil.   

In my six-year-old mind, I couldn’t think of a better role model than Wonder Woman.  (That girl could pull off a mean twirl.)  And as I would take a brief moment to consider my reflection in the mirror - clad in underoos, bracelets, and long dark hair - I knew I made for the perfect Wonder Woman double.  Yet my little sister, Jennifer, with her strawberry blonde locks and fair complexion - a dead ringer for Little Orphan Annie - insisted she was Wonder Woman, and I was Wonder Woman’s sister.  Time and time again I would cave in to her demands and play the part of the superhero’s sibling, perplexed at how any of it made sense to her.  Deep down in my heart, though, in that space that my strong-willed sister couldn’t control, I knew I was the real Wonder Woman.

Thirty-some years later, I find myself channeling my inner-Wonder Woman.  When my house is hiding under a heap of dirty clothes and miscellaneous toys, I close my eyes and imagine myself twirling three times and miraculously being transformed into Super Mom.  I’ve tried that, you know.  I’ve tried the twirling thing, and it only left me dizzy, still wearing my blueberry stained khaki shorts, stretched out tee and ponytail.  (So much for my super powers.)  Instead, I feel like Bat Woman – a nickname I earned my junior year of high school.

We were camping out in the rural village of Rumuruti (in Kenya).  It was close to bedtime, and I needed to use the “facilities” (in Swahili, that translates to the “choo”).  My best friend and I, flashlights guiding our way, walked over to the choo, and I went inside.  I squatted.  Suddenly I felt something brush across my toosh.  I was startled, to say the least.  I jumped up and out of the choo in one swift movement.  My friend opened the door, peered inside, and with the dim light from the flashlight surveyed the scene of the incident.  We could find nothing to explain the tooshy brush, and so I figured it was most likely a moth or some “bug” that rear-ended me on its way out of the hole in the ground.  I went back inside to finish my “business”.  Before I was completely settled, this same “thing” slapped me, no less, on the bottom, and from the corner of my eye I watched a terrified bat fly up and out the top of the choo.  This time, I believe I screamed, and so did my friend.  From that day on, I was called “Bat Woman”.

Bat Woman is powerless.  Wonder Woman is all about power and control.  I much prefer to carry myself in Wonder Woman fashion, and not the “slap-on-the-toosh” Bat Woman.  These days I don’t have my Doctor Dobbins’ “Strong-Willed” poster child sister calling the shots in my life.  These days, well into my thirties, I am free to let my inner Wonder Woman out, and set her free.  The condition of my home, my appearance, the boundaries for my children, are all within my control.  While there are days when I feel I’m making no headway whatsoever in any of these areas (having one of many Bat Woman days), I know that I have the power to either correct the problem or act helpless and distressed.  Today, my friends, Wonder Woman is at the helm, steering the way of this massive ship called the Slater Home.  I’m taking control, one little step at a time. 

Now, if only I could rustle up good pair of adult sized Wonder Woman Underoos!

High-Strangeness

I learned a new term the other night watching ABC’s “The Outsiders”.  It is called, “High Strangeness”.  This term is used to describe those individuals who have been abducted by aliens, or “Close Encounters Of The Third Kind”.  If you are starting to hear the soundtrack of the X-Files playing in your mind, have no fear; this information had the same effect on me too.   

Alien abduction has to be one of the most terrifying thoughts to me.  Aliens in general pretty much give me the willies, especially after watching M. Night Shyamalan’s “Signs”.  And to think that this small group of people – those of “High Strangeness” - have actually lived through the experience and can share it with all of us simply boggles the mind.  If I were an alien and was commissioned to come to Earth, abduct humans, run tests, and experiments on their bodies, I’m not sure I’d want to leave any evidence of my existence behind.  I mean, if aliens are such intelligent life forms, certainly they’ve seen “Independence Day”, and they know how powerful we humans can be once provoked (spoken like a true skeptic).

Silly as it sounds, there are those out there that buy into this.  They truly believe they have been poked and prodded by otherworldly beings.  They live ostracized by the public because of their wacky beliefs and predictable testimonies.  More than the good laugh this “provocative” news story gave me, it also made me feel kind of sad for these men and women.  Whether it be an out-of-control active imagination or series of delusions, these people are living a very lonely and isolated existence.  I want to shake them and say, “Yes, the truth IS out there!  But you’re not going to find it in a camcorder shot of a blinking light in the sky.”  I wish I could convince them that they will indeed find the truth when they get their heads out of the clouds and start dealing with the gigantic void in their lives that they’ve been filling with garbage. 

One woman in this story shared that there has been something deep down in her heart that has always known, and been searching for, a higher power or intelligence.  Then she had her “alien encounter”, and now she believes she has found that intelligent life form she innately knew existed.  I wanted to stand up and scream at the television set.  “Did you know we all share this innate longing to find a higher power?  This is actually a God-given intuition we have drawing us to find God.”  Unfortunately, there are so many that fall for a counterfeit “god”, and walk in blindness to the truth.  As much as I want to chalk all those of “High Strangeness” up as a bunch of crazies, conviction tells me that they are sadly deceived.  As a follower of Christ, I am commissioned to be a light in the darkness.  My prayer is that, while I really do believe much of the alien hullabaloo to be whacky and ridiculous, I would still be a light, shining brightly on the path of truth.  I may never get the opportunity to talk, listen and share with these misguided individuals, but for those around me, I hope my light never dims.  I pray that I may shine brighter and higher than any bobbing UFO zipping through this vast universe.