During my quiet time this morning for some reason the thoughts that kept popping into my head were all about things that I would love to have a chance to do at some point in my lifetime. So, I decided to make a list in hopes of getting them out of my head to make space for other more pressing matters.
1. Run a marathon. Why I want to do this is hard to say. I hate to run, have never been good at it. But, for many years now I have had a desire to really challenge myself to get out of my comfort zone and take on a task that requires discipline, perseverance and courage. Ideally I would like to do this one with someone else who is also not a runner.
2. Go on a missions trip. Preferably overseas to a third world country. This one has been on my heart for a very long time. It may be very pretentious and American of me, but I truly want to see with my own eyes the need that exists in the world. I want my heart to be changed and my perspective shaken.
3. Write a book. Even a children's book, whatever. I just want to write something.
4. Visit Jerusalem.
I can't think of a 5th thing otherwise I would call this my top 5.
How about you? What's in your top 5?
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Nights Around the Fire
There is something about fire that draws people into intimacy. I know that is kind of a weird thing to write, but it is something I have experienced twice now over the last month.
Several weeks ago during a visit with my family, my siblings and I spent two long evenings gathered around a fire pit talking, laughing, crying, praying and arguing in the way only the six of us can. There was just something magical about gathering around a fire, watching the flames leap and dance while pouring our souls out to each other. Somehow the darkness that surrounded us, broken only by the fire we circled, provided a safe place to unburden myself, to be honest and open as though there was nothing else I needed to worry about except the intensity of the flames that warmed me and the company of the people I loved the most around me.
This week, after a difficult day, I suggested my hubby and I have a candle lit dinner after the munchkin was in bed. Once the house was quiet, I cooked up a quick meal, turned off all the lights in the house and we ate a cozy dinner at our dining room table with only the pale flicker of candle light. I don't know if it was the candles that I have to thank for that evening, but the conversation that flowed between us was deep and rich and exactly what we needed as a couple. We talked about our relationship, family and God, but instead of settling for the surface interactions that mark our day to day communication, we were able to really dig into each others mind and heart and find that deeper level of openness and connection that can be so elusive in our daily routine.
As I have reflected back on these moments that have been so meaningful to me, I really think, as funny as it may sound, that coming together around fire be it bonfire or candle light, creates an atmosphere of ease and intimacy that allows people to say things they might not have felt comfortable or safe enough to say in broad daylight. Around a fire with everyone's gaze directed at the flames and just enough shadow on your face to make you feel protected, you can expose your heart just a little more, you can be truthful about who you are even in the dark places and you can allow yourself to share an intimate moment with those around you in a way you might not have been able to do without the help of the flames.
Several weeks ago during a visit with my family, my siblings and I spent two long evenings gathered around a fire pit talking, laughing, crying, praying and arguing in the way only the six of us can. There was just something magical about gathering around a fire, watching the flames leap and dance while pouring our souls out to each other. Somehow the darkness that surrounded us, broken only by the fire we circled, provided a safe place to unburden myself, to be honest and open as though there was nothing else I needed to worry about except the intensity of the flames that warmed me and the company of the people I loved the most around me.
This week, after a difficult day, I suggested my hubby and I have a candle lit dinner after the munchkin was in bed. Once the house was quiet, I cooked up a quick meal, turned off all the lights in the house and we ate a cozy dinner at our dining room table with only the pale flicker of candle light. I don't know if it was the candles that I have to thank for that evening, but the conversation that flowed between us was deep and rich and exactly what we needed as a couple. We talked about our relationship, family and God, but instead of settling for the surface interactions that mark our day to day communication, we were able to really dig into each others mind and heart and find that deeper level of openness and connection that can be so elusive in our daily routine.
As I have reflected back on these moments that have been so meaningful to me, I really think, as funny as it may sound, that coming together around fire be it bonfire or candle light, creates an atmosphere of ease and intimacy that allows people to say things they might not have felt comfortable or safe enough to say in broad daylight. Around a fire with everyone's gaze directed at the flames and just enough shadow on your face to make you feel protected, you can expose your heart just a little more, you can be truthful about who you are even in the dark places and you can allow yourself to share an intimate moment with those around you in a way you might not have been able to do without the help of the flames.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Crisis
Crisis comes. It is a fact of life. Our lives are full of seasons, and when we are in the midst of a season it is hard to imagine life being any other way. My past few years have been a season of relative ease and happiness, but this week has marked a new season in my life, and I see that this will be a season of change, heartache and growth.
Today I am focusing on being thankful for what is good and intact in my life; my husband, my son, my amazing group of friends that rally around me, my family. Last week in the midst of a crisis I traveled to be with my family, four sisters, one brother and my parents. It was a busy, noisy, crazy few days full of tears and laughter, hope and brokenness sometimes all at once. There were meals together at crowded tables, conversations by the campfire that alternated from supportive to combative, endless trips back and forth between houses and restaurants, and at the end of the weekend I found myself tired and emotionally exhausted. But, as I traveled home I recognized the healing that can take place just by spending time with the people you love, who love you for who you are even though they know all the messy things about you.
Yes, crisis comes, but that does not mean that life is destroyed or that hope is lost. My husband is a daily reminder of how I am blessed, my son smiles at me and I feel hope again, my sister calls me and I am overwhelmed by the strength of our bond through difficult times. And above all I am learning to trust God. In the most challenging, heartbreaking way, I am reminded of the only thing I can place my hope on that will never fail, whatever crisis may come.
Today I am focusing on being thankful for what is good and intact in my life; my husband, my son, my amazing group of friends that rally around me, my family. Last week in the midst of a crisis I traveled to be with my family, four sisters, one brother and my parents. It was a busy, noisy, crazy few days full of tears and laughter, hope and brokenness sometimes all at once. There were meals together at crowded tables, conversations by the campfire that alternated from supportive to combative, endless trips back and forth between houses and restaurants, and at the end of the weekend I found myself tired and emotionally exhausted. But, as I traveled home I recognized the healing that can take place just by spending time with the people you love, who love you for who you are even though they know all the messy things about you.
Yes, crisis comes, but that does not mean that life is destroyed or that hope is lost. My husband is a daily reminder of how I am blessed, my son smiles at me and I feel hope again, my sister calls me and I am overwhelmed by the strength of our bond through difficult times. And above all I am learning to trust God. In the most challenging, heartbreaking way, I am reminded of the only thing I can place my hope on that will never fail, whatever crisis may come.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The Act
I have never been one of those people who believed in living a balanced life. In fact I truly believe that my life at it's best is unbalanced and that the thing that inspire me should be what gets the biggest share of my time and attention. In the years leading up to the birth of my son, my entire life was focused on my husband in the most unbalanced way possible. I did two things; worked hard at my job and then came home and poured my time, energy and passion into our marriage. I am so grateful for those years.
But now I find myself working outside the home two days a week, spending every other second mothering my little one, struggling to squeeze in time for God and my marriage while also yearning to engage in the pursuits that I am passionate about and that feed the part of me that is just me. This equation has resulted in frustration as well as a tendency to never really be engaged in what I am doing because all the while I am thinking about the other things that I need or want to get done. I recognized this week that I am searching for balance, a balance that I don't even believe in and have never cared to have before.
Prior to the arrival of the baby, being unbalanced was ok because I got to choose how I wanted to unbalance my life. But now, that choice is no longer mine. Everything in my life has become skewed towards the baby. I give the best part of my time, energy, love and attention to my munchkin, and so I find myself in a situation where I suddenly want to tip the scales back in the direction I want them to go, to have some control over what my existence looks like and to rescue some of my time and energy for those things I loved long before my days were turned upside down.
Having the desire to re-balance my life has been a positive thing, causing me to take a critical look at the flow of my days and what is indispensable to me outside of the hours I give to raising my child. I have carved out a small amount of time alone for myself, and my husband and I have set aside a few nights a week to be a couple again and to laugh and connect the way we used to in our unbalanced years. While I have no illusions that doing these things has tipped the scale in my favor, I acknowledge how much easier it is to give when there is also time to hold onto a part of myself too.
At the end of the day, I absolutely do want my life to be unbalanced. I do want my son to monopolize me for this season, which I know will pass so very quickly, leaving me with too much time on my empty hands. So for now I give my time and attention to him, while in the same breath I am learning to be mindful to preserve those things that are also of value, those things that make up who I am outside of motherhood, and which I will need once I can again unbalance my life in whatever way I choose.
But now I find myself working outside the home two days a week, spending every other second mothering my little one, struggling to squeeze in time for God and my marriage while also yearning to engage in the pursuits that I am passionate about and that feed the part of me that is just me. This equation has resulted in frustration as well as a tendency to never really be engaged in what I am doing because all the while I am thinking about the other things that I need or want to get done. I recognized this week that I am searching for balance, a balance that I don't even believe in and have never cared to have before.
Prior to the arrival of the baby, being unbalanced was ok because I got to choose how I wanted to unbalance my life. But now, that choice is no longer mine. Everything in my life has become skewed towards the baby. I give the best part of my time, energy, love and attention to my munchkin, and so I find myself in a situation where I suddenly want to tip the scales back in the direction I want them to go, to have some control over what my existence looks like and to rescue some of my time and energy for those things I loved long before my days were turned upside down.
Having the desire to re-balance my life has been a positive thing, causing me to take a critical look at the flow of my days and what is indispensable to me outside of the hours I give to raising my child. I have carved out a small amount of time alone for myself, and my husband and I have set aside a few nights a week to be a couple again and to laugh and connect the way we used to in our unbalanced years. While I have no illusions that doing these things has tipped the scale in my favor, I acknowledge how much easier it is to give when there is also time to hold onto a part of myself too.
At the end of the day, I absolutely do want my life to be unbalanced. I do want my son to monopolize me for this season, which I know will pass so very quickly, leaving me with too much time on my empty hands. So for now I give my time and attention to him, while in the same breath I am learning to be mindful to preserve those things that are also of value, those things that make up who I am outside of motherhood, and which I will need once I can again unbalance my life in whatever way I choose.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Open Doors
I have been searching for a sense of home for a long time now. After my husband and I got married 6 years ago we moved to big city Chicago several hours from where our parents lived in small town USA. Since our move up here we have lived in two different apartments and one house and none of these places has ever felt like home to me. Whether because we have always rented and never owned, or because I haven't lived in a room with anything but white walls for many years now, or the fact that all our family lives other places, I have always struggled to find that sense of belonging in Chicago.
I always thought the reason I did not feel connected to Chicago was because my family was not here with me. Over the years plans to move closer to family have come and gone, with each attempt fizzling out for a myriad of reasons that always leave me wondering "what are we still doing here?" I often feel as though the universe is playing some kind of joke on me because every time we resolve to make the move, we somehow become more entrenched in Chicago, this place that we try so desperately to leave.
Most recently I have begun to have this sneaking suspicion that Chicago is our home at least for now whether I like it or not, so I have made efforts to create an atmosphere of "hominess." I tried redecorating, I talked and talked about painting at least one wall, we have had numerous conversations about actually buying a house, and I have used all the mental imagery possible to imagine a life settled here. Meanwhile, in the midst of my valiant efforts to trick myself into feeling at home, something else happened, gradually and without any intention on my part. Our friends invaded our home.
Matt and I have never been very big on having people over or hosting pretty much anything. I would definitely call myself an anxious host, who stresses over every small detail and spends every gathering wondering if everyone is having a good time, getting enough to eat, is there enough light for everyone to see, and on and on to insanity. However, since the munchkin was born we began hosting our weekly small group, and what started out as a convenient set up turned out to be something much more. While initially I was so timid and awkward when having people over, it seems the more often I open the doors to my home the more often I want to.
I think hospitality might be contagious, not necessarily to other people, but definitely to yourself, kind of like that cold you keep getting over and over, all winter long. Opening the doors to your home opens up a part of yourself too, and that is at first scary and vulnerable and intimidating, but the more you choose to open your door, the wider open you yourself become, and I have found as I become more open that I have connected with others in ways I never expected. I love that my friends don't knock when they come to our house, that they know which cabinet my glasses are in and they help themselves, that our living room has been the scene of so many meaningful conversations that have challenged and stretched me.
While I still hope that someday soon we will find ourselves living in a place surrounded by our family, for now I am learning to be content with the surrogate family God has blessed us with here. And with each gathering of our friends I am finding that our house, which we do not own and which will likely be white walled to the day we leave, has become a home, not because of the things I have done to it, but instead because of the people I have welcomed into it.
I always thought the reason I did not feel connected to Chicago was because my family was not here with me. Over the years plans to move closer to family have come and gone, with each attempt fizzling out for a myriad of reasons that always leave me wondering "what are we still doing here?" I often feel as though the universe is playing some kind of joke on me because every time we resolve to make the move, we somehow become more entrenched in Chicago, this place that we try so desperately to leave.
Most recently I have begun to have this sneaking suspicion that Chicago is our home at least for now whether I like it or not, so I have made efforts to create an atmosphere of "hominess." I tried redecorating, I talked and talked about painting at least one wall, we have had numerous conversations about actually buying a house, and I have used all the mental imagery possible to imagine a life settled here. Meanwhile, in the midst of my valiant efforts to trick myself into feeling at home, something else happened, gradually and without any intention on my part. Our friends invaded our home.
Matt and I have never been very big on having people over or hosting pretty much anything. I would definitely call myself an anxious host, who stresses over every small detail and spends every gathering wondering if everyone is having a good time, getting enough to eat, is there enough light for everyone to see, and on and on to insanity. However, since the munchkin was born we began hosting our weekly small group, and what started out as a convenient set up turned out to be something much more. While initially I was so timid and awkward when having people over, it seems the more often I open the doors to my home the more often I want to.
I think hospitality might be contagious, not necessarily to other people, but definitely to yourself, kind of like that cold you keep getting over and over, all winter long. Opening the doors to your home opens up a part of yourself too, and that is at first scary and vulnerable and intimidating, but the more you choose to open your door, the wider open you yourself become, and I have found as I become more open that I have connected with others in ways I never expected. I love that my friends don't knock when they come to our house, that they know which cabinet my glasses are in and they help themselves, that our living room has been the scene of so many meaningful conversations that have challenged and stretched me.
While I still hope that someday soon we will find ourselves living in a place surrounded by our family, for now I am learning to be content with the surrogate family God has blessed us with here. And with each gathering of our friends I am finding that our house, which we do not own and which will likely be white walled to the day we leave, has become a home, not because of the things I have done to it, but instead because of the people I have welcomed into it.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Woven
You know those moments in life when you are stopped in your tracks and forced to acknowledge your life's connection to someone else? I had one of those moments while doing laundry. This may sound silly, but I was reminded of doing an almost identical load of laundry about 1 year ago, when I was nearing the end of my pregnancy and preparing the nursery for our little one. It was so exciting to do that first load of baby items, and to fold each outfit while dreaming of the tiny body that would fill it, wear it out, grow in it and then grow right out of it. So many of the items had people attached to them. People who had generously gifted tiny onsies, or teddy bear hats, or duck towels. In particular I remember folding up a Winnie the Pooh blanket that one of my patients had given me.
This patient was someone I had known for a very long time, since the beginning of her cancer journey. Her type of cancer was aggressive and difficult to treat. We visited every time she came for treatments even though she had no nutritional problems and was handling the chemo like a champ. We would talk briefly about how she was doing with her cancer and then the rest of our time would be spent discussing her job, her kids, her husband and her life in general. She just liked to connect with me on a personal level, a fact which I respected given the uncertainty of her situation and the distance she traveled, usually alone, to receive treatments.
When I became pregnant she was overjoyed for me. We spent lots of time talking about the baby and my preparations, how I was feeling and coping. She shared stories with me from her own pregnancies and offered friendly advice and wisdom. A few weeks prior to my delivery she came for her treatment bearing gifts for my little one: two Winnie the Pooh Blankets and some hooded baby towels. I was touched, mostly by the obvious joy giving the gift brought to her.
When I returned from maternity leave, my schedule was shortened and our paths did not cross for several months. My co-workers informed me that she continued to ask about me at every visit and they shared baby pictures with her, which she was thrilled with. About 2 months ago, her file came across my desk and I had this feeling that I should call her to say hi, but it was a busy day and I put if off for the next week. Three days later she passed away.
Yesterday I pulled one of the Winnie the Pooh blankets out of the dryer as I have done countless times before, but for some reason this day was different, and the sight of the blanket filled me with memories and sorrow for this beautiful woman that was so eager to give, and with whom I did not get to speak one last time. I would have told her how blessed I am at having had her in my life, how brave she was for fighting as hard as she could, how I will tell my little one about her when I snuggle him into the blanket and hug him as close as I can. Every time I see that blanket I think of her and I am reminded of all the beautiful ways in which I am connected to those around me, like an intricate web that is woven throughout my life. I am reminded to always say the important things, the big things, the little things, to those I care about and to never wait for a time when life is less busy to appreciate all that I am blessed with.
Annette, I am happy to have called you friend. You are missed.
This patient was someone I had known for a very long time, since the beginning of her cancer journey. Her type of cancer was aggressive and difficult to treat. We visited every time she came for treatments even though she had no nutritional problems and was handling the chemo like a champ. We would talk briefly about how she was doing with her cancer and then the rest of our time would be spent discussing her job, her kids, her husband and her life in general. She just liked to connect with me on a personal level, a fact which I respected given the uncertainty of her situation and the distance she traveled, usually alone, to receive treatments.
When I became pregnant she was overjoyed for me. We spent lots of time talking about the baby and my preparations, how I was feeling and coping. She shared stories with me from her own pregnancies and offered friendly advice and wisdom. A few weeks prior to my delivery she came for her treatment bearing gifts for my little one: two Winnie the Pooh Blankets and some hooded baby towels. I was touched, mostly by the obvious joy giving the gift brought to her.
When I returned from maternity leave, my schedule was shortened and our paths did not cross for several months. My co-workers informed me that she continued to ask about me at every visit and they shared baby pictures with her, which she was thrilled with. About 2 months ago, her file came across my desk and I had this feeling that I should call her to say hi, but it was a busy day and I put if off for the next week. Three days later she passed away.
Yesterday I pulled one of the Winnie the Pooh blankets out of the dryer as I have done countless times before, but for some reason this day was different, and the sight of the blanket filled me with memories and sorrow for this beautiful woman that was so eager to give, and with whom I did not get to speak one last time. I would have told her how blessed I am at having had her in my life, how brave she was for fighting as hard as she could, how I will tell my little one about her when I snuggle him into the blanket and hug him as close as I can. Every time I see that blanket I think of her and I am reminded of all the beautiful ways in which I am connected to those around me, like an intricate web that is woven throughout my life. I am reminded to always say the important things, the big things, the little things, to those I care about and to never wait for a time when life is less busy to appreciate all that I am blessed with.
Annette, I am happy to have called you friend. You are missed.
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