About Last Night....

People ask me all the time if there is something I miss about my home state of Florida, and for the most part I’d have to say good thunderstorms. I know that sounds weird to some of you, but to me there is little better than just laying around listening to the rain and a good rumble from the sky. I love it, and I miss it here – our thunderstorms in East Tennessee are just, well, different. And they tend to enjoy showing up in the middle of the night. Take last night for example.

I knew the storms were coming before we went to bed, and that meant I also knew we could be in for a long night. You see, in my boys’ eyes thunderstorms are not peaceful or fun, but horrible moments of absolute panic-stricken terror. That is to say, they don’t like them. So I kind of slept with “one ear open”, listening for scared little voices calling my name in between heavenly drum rolls.

Somewhere around 2:30 I heard it. Muffled – as it would be – through two closed doors and over the sound of our “background noise” fan that runs all night – my oldest screaming at the top of his lungs: “Mama!!!! Moooooooom!!!!”

I bolted out of that bed faster than might be humanly possible, ripped open the bedroom door and ran across the hall perhaps without even touching the floor in an effort to reach my terrified child. What I saw next froze me in my steps.

Only an instant had passed since I had heard the scream that was so obviously the voice of this precious boy I have known for the past seven and a half years, and yet there he was: blissfully sound asleep, guarded by the steady, warm glow of his Knight light. It wasn’t him. Could I have mistaken Little Man’s voice for his brother’s? I had to check! As quickly and quietly as I could, I made my way to door number two, sure that I’d find a shaking, wide-eyed little boy.

And yet the scene was the same – no tears or pleas for help, only the sweet expression of a tired boy coupled with the soft sounds of slumber.

Confused, I crawled back in bed and tried to sort it out. If I hadn’t heard the boys, then what? Had I lost my mind?

Then it came again:

“Mom? Moooom!”

Now I was creeped out. Officially and totally creeped out. This wasn’t my kid! This child must be standing outside! Maybe even in my driveway! In the rain!

I sat up and strained to listen for more cries for help. My ears were tuned to someplace beyond my room – someplace outside and unimaginable, while a million different scenarios racing through my mind. Was he lost? He must be in just his pjs! How did he get outside?

I held my breath and listened intently. I could hear something, but I couldn’t make out quite what it was. Was it crying? Whining? What was that noise?

Suddenly a strange thought occurred to my rattled brain: maybe you’re listening too hard. Maybe it’s not where you think it is. So I reeled in my attention. I focused on the things right around me, the things that seemed too close to emanate a distant scream – the things that I had overlooked before in an effort to just skip to the point and meet the emergency at hand.

Things like my husband. My husband’s nose, to be exact.

It would seem that Mr. Roberts was a little congested last evening, which caused his nose to usher forth a whining, whistling sound when he exhaled. Once I tuned in to the sound of these “nose whistles”, I immediately noticed that about every third and fourth breath they sounded a lot like the muffled cries of a child. “Mom! Moooooom!!!”

Oh my word! You have no idea what a relief and simultaneous annoyance it was to discover this! The frightened, lost little boy standing in my driveway during a thunderstorm was safe at home, sleeping through the rumbles and rolls from the sky. My husband, on the other hand, was just about to wake up….

The night did go on to yield a very frightened extra roommate about half an hour after I had finally convinced myself that all was right with homeless children in my neighborhood, and that I could finally fall asleep. It was somewhere between getting kicked by little cold feet and trying not to fall off a bed that was obviously not made for three people that a strange realization washed over me: there was something to be learned from the night of the nose screams.

All at once I came to realize that I have been listening too hard for the voice of my Savior lately. I’ve been asking too many questions, analyzing too many things, worrying about way too much – all in the name of seeking “His will” for my life. But it suddenly occurred to me that in all that effort to search out something so far away – something so mysterious and scarily hidden – that I’ve completely missed the fact that the voice I want to hear is right here with me.

Jesus is closer to me than my own breath, and though His voice can be quieter even than the whistle of a nose, it’s right here within my reach. I’m the one who has made it out to be so far away, so unobtainable. All this time I’ve thought He was hiding – deliberately standing just around the next corner taunting me to find Him – but no. He’s right here with me, waiting for me to reel in the over-excited ears of my heart, to take a moment to calm down and really listen to the voice that has never stopped whispering my name during the storm.

I can’t wait to hear what He’s been trying to say.

I Think I Bought A Lamborghini

A little over a week ago, we went shopping. Shopping for what I thought was supposed to be a new oven and range. We went to all the requisite stores and heard all the commissioned sales pitches about what we should buy, and what we shouldn’t, and wand we really want, and what we won’t be happy with (isn’t it funny how a potential sale somehow turns otherwise strangers into experts on the level of happiness and wellbeing in your home?). And then we made a decision. One based purely on research and fact. Well, research and fact that told us there was a massive sale and this place had free delivery and haul-away, anyway.

Now let me back up and say that a month ago we weren’t in the market for a new oven. In fact, a month ago I could have listed a hundred other things in our lives that would have received $400 worth of attention well before an oven was even brought up as a potential candidate (not excluding a slew of Star Wars Legos for my husband, of course). But this funny little thing called the Super Bowl happened, and we invited the youth over to watch and feast. The watching wasn’t the problem. It was the feasting. Our oven wasn’t up to feasting that night apparently. In fact, it only allowed us about an hour and a half of feast prep before there was a pop and a flash and everything went cold.

For those of you familiar with the oven world, you already know that the pop and flash syndrome is not good. Not good at all. For the rest of us, a simple Google search of error code F1 tells us all we need to know about a little part called the “electronic oven control”. A little part that just so happens to cost about as much as a new range – before­ what it would cost to pay someone armed with more knowledge than what you can gain through YouTube videos to fix it (no offense, honey – that really was an awesome resource idea, but the dryer you “fixed” now makes a really funny noise and I’m pretty sure that fire extinguisher has now found a permanent new home by its side. Just sayin’.). So, in the market we were.

We started out assuming that we would wind up with another coil range. Primitive by the standards of some, I understand, but much closer to our price range than them modern contraptions. Then, of course, came that massive sale (at the place with the free delivery and haul away, did I mention that?). So we wound up with a nice, black, smooth-top range with a ton of fancy-looking buttons up top. That has to make it worth every penny of that sale price, right? Fancy buttons? I mean, come on!

What pushed our decision over the edge to go smooth over same-priced coil (I’m telling you, big sale), was the promise from salesmen and mother-in-law alike that the smooth top was infinitely easier to clean. Easier and clean in the same sentence? Sold! Now I know better for next time: When being told by a salesman how easy something is to clean, you’d better stop and ask them what kind of car they drive and how clean it is. Because I’m thinking it’s directly related.

I spend more time polishing, buffing and wiping down that stove top than I do tending to my children some days. I’m serious – this thing requires more attention and maintenance than both of our fish aquariums and our cat combined. It’s ridiculous.

Ok, maybe it’s just because the guy who delivered it scared me within an inch of my retail life by telling me that the slightest movement of any pan would scratch the surface – and a scratched burner is “completely ruined and useless” (not so, says the manual, by the way). Or maybe it’s because within 5 days of having the stove, I committed said offense and left a half-inch skid mark because I mindlessly slid a pan away from the edge. Who knows. All I know is that I’m completely paranoid about this stove top. I cover it with silicone cookie mats when it’s not in use in case it is mistaken for a countertop, and I’m currently looking for a covered fry pan with a non-offending bottom surface to replace the old one which is now indefinitely in time-out. I clean it each time it’s used, and practice my “wax-on, wax-off” moves at least every other day (Karate Kid, here I come!). It’s wearing on me.

You know, it’s nice to have something new, with all kinds of fancy buttons to push, but I’m starting to understand that people who drive Lamborghinis are probably ridden with all kinds of stress and anxiety issues that the rest of us who drive 20 year old Chevys will never know. Because who cares if a minivan gets scratched?

So maybe I should have settled for a more practical model – the Ford of coil ranges or something. I’m really second guessing the decision to go for the flashier build. But be it Ford or Lamborghini, let’s just hope that the stove I purchased at least likes Super Bowl parties.

And – for right now, anyway – I might appreciate it if it at least didn’t turn out to be a Toyota.

Thoughts of Thumbs and Lids

I’ve heard it said that the English language is one of the hardest – if not the hardest – in the world for someone to learn as a second language. I, for one, believe it. I mean, there are so many “exceptions to the rule” and weird things like homophones and homonyms that even those of us who were born in English-speaking countries can’t even seem to get it straight most of the time.

Take the word “depression” for instance. Other words like it that start with a “de” seem to imply that an action has been undone. Like my dehumidifier that takes the humidity out of the air. Or the video games that desensitize our kids to violence. But depressed certainly doesn’t fit that pattern, does it? In fact, it has quite the opposite meaning.

I wish I could say that depression meant that some kind of pressure was actually being removed from your shoulders, allowing you at last to stand up tall and proud and go about your life. If that were the case, these past couple of months would have been a breeze around here. But no. Sadly in this case the “de” at the beginning of this word has absolutely no meaning at all. The rest of the word hasn’t been wasted on me lately, though – I’ve felt every ounce of the “press” in my life.

The picture I get when I think of the word “depression” is kind a ridiculous one, I must admit. I think of those little bubbles on the plastic lids you get from fast food stores. You know the ones, right? The ones that say “Cola” or “DP” or Other”? For some reason when I think of the word “depression” I picture a giant thumb slowly pressing down and crushing one of those little bubbles until it flips inward, creating a perfectly opposite impression of the way it used to be. Get it? The bubble is now “depressed”. And, to boot, it has also made a “depression” in the lid. Ok, so maybe it’s not all that ridiculous.

That’s kind of where I’ve been the past few months. Wallowing in a caved-in, totally opposite impression of who I know myself to be. I haven’t thought like myself, acted like myself or even loved like myself. I’ve just been kind of numb – paralyzed in a sense by an unseen giant thumb pressing down upon my heart. It’s been pretty ugly.

Funny enough, I couldn’t even admit it at first. I just laid there, weakly flailing my arms like a bug pinned to a board trying to convince the world and myself that, “No, really….I’m ok….I’ve got this….” But, you know, eventually some things become just too obvious to ignore anymore. So I’m admitting it. My “other” beverage button has been pushed in on my lid for quite some time now – I am depressed.

Now before you go away from this blog thinking that I’ve been spending my days dressed in black flannel pjs and sleeping in the fetal position with a box of tissues by my side, it’s not like that. Depression doesn’t always have to be so, well, depressing. But it certainly hasn’t been fun either. Discouragement has been my constant companion, and I just haven’t felt like trying to do anything that used to bring me joy. Like writing, for one thing. It’s true, I haven’t written anything at all since that last post in October. Not like me.

Even when I’ve thought about writing, I’ve avoided posting because I knew it wouldn’t be very encouraging, and I don’t want to be a bummer to everyone. I’m pretty sure I’ve already been labeled a drama queen around here, and there was no reason in my mind to bore the rest of you with all of that. But I figured it was time to try and get back on this horse and ride – so a bummer or not, I had to just sit down and start pressing keys. I guess it’s more for me than anything, but I just had to something to try and kick-start myself.

So, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry if this post is a downer. They’ll get better eventually, and so will I! God has bigger plans for me than just sitting around feeling sorry for myself, and I’m looking forward to moving on with them. For now I’m just taking a few more moments to snuggle in His arms and confess my confusion and sadness. And – like the good Father He is – He will continue to hold me and comfort me until just the right time, when He’ll gently slide me off His knee, take my hand and suggest that we find something fun to do together. He’s such a good Dad, isn’t He?

I’ve got to run for now, but I hope this has been enough to kick-start me back into something good. Maybe I’ll see you back here again soon, huh?

I hope so!

Measuring With The Wrong Stick

Ok, so I know I’ve been absent for a while. I could give you all kinds of excuses about how we went on vacation for Fall Break, and how it rained for what seemed like a million days straight and I couldn’t get my head right, and how I’ve been distracted from just about everything by just about everything else (is that even technically possible?), but if you’re anything like my high school band director, you don’t want to hear any excuses. So, just in case you’re one of those who don’t like them: No excuses. I’ve been gone, and today I’m back.

I think I’m going through another one of those weird seasons in my life where I’m just not sure what to think about myself from day to day. I don’t know why I go through these cycles, but this latest one is particularly…well, personal. I don’t know, is it strange to take your own self-criticism too personally? Well, strange or not, that’s where I am.

It’s just that I’ve always been an achiever. For so long my life was measured in milestones and accomplishments, and then I began to live my life for something else. Suddenly the achievements didn’t matter so much. I began to realize that my GPA or class ranking really wasn’t the most important thing about me, and that my greatest attribute didn’t really have anything to do with me at all. Christ became the best part of me, and I let it rest in that. I knew that He must become more and I must become less.

So how is it that now, some 16 years later, I’ve once again returned to a place where I’m measuring my life with a sad ruler marked by other people’s accomplishments? Lately all I seem to be able to think about is the fact that I’m 31 and I haven’t even come close to “arriving” at the same place as other people my age. This one has a PhD, that one is a doctor. She has twins, is in ministry, and still has time to do all the things I’ve said I can’t do because I have children and am too busy with youth (and she does them very, very well). She’s written a book, he owns a business. I look at that, and I feel like I’m watching a ship sail away from the dock where I’m standing, knowing that everyone on board is headed for something I’m going to miss.

How dumb is that?

I mean, really?

And yet I let it get to me. I argue that I wish I just knew something – like really knew something on a very educated, expert level – that could actually help someone. After all, that’s the way I’m wired. I love to learn, and I love to help people. And right now, I feel like I’m doing neither of those things. I’ve backed off from working with youth (unintentionally), and I’m not studying a thing. It just makes me feel stagnant. And then it makes me feel sub-par on some level. And then I look right back to that ugly ruler filled with other people’s lives, and it makes me feel lost.

I had been marinating in these thoughts for a while, when I stood in my kitchen and looked out a rather dirty window the other day. It was then that things began ever so slightly to change.

You see, fall is in full swing here. I can’t believe that I grew up thinking my grandfather was nuts for driving all the way to Tennessee just to see “some dumb leaves”. Oh, had I known what I was missing, I believe I would have hitched a ride. I love fall. I love hillsides blazing with reds and oranges and yellows. I love the crispness in the air and the total change in atmosphere. I secretly even love football season (but DON’T tell my husband…). I love fall!

So the other day I took just a second to peek out my kitchen window and look at the mountain behind my house. This time of year that mountain is like something from a painting, with its dusky browns and bright patches of life-giving orange and red. But for some reason, that day it wasn’t quite as beautiful as it could have been. Something was muted about it, flat and not at all what I remembered that mountain looking like before. What could have possibly happened to an entire mountain in its annual prime to make it so boring and average?

It took me a second to figure it out, but I finally realized that the problem didn’t lie in the mountain at all. Instead, as I pulled my gaze back to something a little closer, I realized that my window had become horribly dirty. Spider webs clouded it from the outside, and something had obviously splashed against it from the inside, leaving a map of filmy white drips when it dried (I can probably thank a certain 4 year old for that, but I digress…).

Then it hit me. There wasn’t a thing wrong with that mountain – it’s still perfectly beautiful, just as God intended it to be. What was blemished was my point of view. I was instantly struck with the realization that my life is no different.

God doesn’t see me as sub-par, or lost, or stagnant or left behind. He sees me as perfectly beautiful, just as He intended. I may not be a medical doctor or using a master’s degree to counsel people with serious issues, but I’m who I am because this is the life God has for me. I’m the mom of two kids and the wife of one man, and the sound tech and taxi driver for the youth. I’m an occasional speaker and a wannabe writer, and child of the living and active God. I’m just what He created me to be in this season, and He isn’t done – I might not have even hit my “fall” yet. If I can’t see that, it’s because I’ve allowed something to cloud my point of view. It’s my eyes that aren’t measuring up, not my life.

So I’m vowing to do two things in my near future, and the first is to break that stupid ruler I’ve been using. I want to get back to a place where I’m really living like Jesus is the best part of me and that I don’t need anything else to make me whole. I realize it might take a little time to stop comparing, but I’ll get there eventually.

And the second thing I’m going to do?

Clean that nasty kitchen window.

Happy fall, y’all!