All it took was one question. I wasn't prepared for it and even though it wasn't directed at me, I couldn't react. I just turned around and walked away. 'Quickly, find something else to think about. Grab that plate, ask Jeremiah if he needs something else to eat. Is there still pop left in that can?' Anything, think about anything but the answer to that question.
"Wait, don't you have two kids now?" she asked Lee.
"No, just Jeremiah."
A brief look of confusion flashed across her face before I escaped. I spent the rest of last night trying to regain my equilibrium, hoping the conversation would not return to that topic, hoping she would wait until we were gone from the party to get an answer to her curiousity.
It's been over a year and a half, the time spent doing my very best to move forward and I was suddenly back to crying myself to sleep, prayers mingled in the giant mess somewhere.
Today I'm surprised by my weakness, wishing it weren't so easy to cry, wondering if this will ever be over this side of heaven.
I feel tethered to the pain. The chain has lengthened these last 10 years, and sometimes I feel like it's not even there. But then a question, one innocent well-meaning question asked, and I find myself staring up at the sky, backside smarting from the unexpected flop as I've been yanked back. I'm crawling to my knees today, doing my best to clean up and start walking again.
It reminds me of one afternoon while Lee and I were waiting for the first birthmom to make her final decision about her baby. Incredibly emotionally strung we spent some time along the St. Croix river in Stillwater hoping that distraction would help ease some of our tension. Sitting along the cement retaining wall I held onto our dog's leash when suddenly he started running towards another dog throwing me off-balance. My grip was strong, but still I found myself falling into the water scraping my arms and legs against the cement on my way down. Lee's strong arms helped me out of the water and as I made it back to the grass I could only stare numbly at my scraped and bloodied skin. I was dripping wet and still bleeding as Lee gently secured me in the truck. I knew he was waiting. I was waiting, waiting for it all to collapse.
The scars from that day are gone, the pain only a memory. My season of waiting for resolution and healing didn't last long, and there was finally a day when the memory of that time didn't make me weep. The addition of Jeremiah brought tremendous healing for me-I remember that well. I'm trying to hold onto that as hope for right now.
I've spent years buffering myself against pain, toughening my "skin" against well-meant questions and comments and in the process created quite an untouchable shrine in my own heart. My very private place of pain that no one could really touch. But I am not impenetrable. My pain does not belong there, and most certainly does not belong held selfishly in my heart. So I will do with it what I feel God is asking me to do, offering it as my most sacred and vulnerable possession as a form of offering. Can pain be presented to God as an act of worship?
But it is what I will do, even if my hands are still bloody while I lift them upward.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
I've been staring at this jigsaw puzzle for what seems like hours- not sure where to put these pieces. I know they are part of the sky that backdrops dinosaurs meandering down a dusty path. I know where they belong, but they just don't fit together. It doesn't help that the pieces are not standard jigsaw shapes, but odd and nonsensical morphed ones that I would NEVER expect a 3-year-old to comprehend regardless of what the box says. So I'm stuck here, staring at this image slowly coming together and wondering how what I'm holding in my hands is going to work into the big picture.
It's a surprisingly accurate metaphor for my life right now. I have no idea where I fit, or where I'm supposed to be. I don't know where I'm going. I feel like I'm wasting time, wasting myself, staring at this "picture" where the pieces just don't fit together.
I realize that being in a state of limbo will never be a comfortable place for anyone, even those that like change, but I cannot seem to rid myself of the feeling that I'm supposed to be doing something. I do know where we're going- our move to Rochester is right around the corner, and maybe having a huge life change within grasp makes me feel restless.
My life is consumed with preparations for our move, with little time for anything else. My to-do list is scarily similar to a lazy-susan, just spinning around and around in my head until I can slowly clear things off. Lately my life has been balancing that with a 3-year-old boy that seems to be a walking protest to my unavailability. He doesn't understand that what I'm doing is for our ultimate benefit. He just knows that he's not getting from me what he wants.
He can't see the big picture.
Ugh..... He's kind of like me.
I wish I could say that I behave better than my son when his patience has expired, that I don't throw my own kind of tantrum and freak out when circumstances just don't seem to jive with what I'm wanting. I wish I could say that I've matured so much in my life and in my faith that I'm able to offer him great life lessons about trust, patience, and unselfishness. But I find that I still have a 3-year-old's heart when I'm holding the puzzle pieces in my hand, frustration growing, and all I hear is, "It's time to put that away- we're not finishing that right now."
So instead of trying to force the pieces together, (which is something I try all too often to do and usually ends up looking like a picasso-ish disaster because I just wanted the stupid thing done already so I could move on), I'm learning to let the empty spaces between them remind me of adventures not yet taken, answers yet to be given.
I'm learning that those spaces allow room for hope and possibilities to surprise me.
Who knows?
There just might be a whole panoramic view in between those two pieces of sky.
It's a surprisingly accurate metaphor for my life right now. I have no idea where I fit, or where I'm supposed to be. I don't know where I'm going. I feel like I'm wasting time, wasting myself, staring at this "picture" where the pieces just don't fit together.
I realize that being in a state of limbo will never be a comfortable place for anyone, even those that like change, but I cannot seem to rid myself of the feeling that I'm supposed to be doing something. I do know where we're going- our move to Rochester is right around the corner, and maybe having a huge life change within grasp makes me feel restless.
My life is consumed with preparations for our move, with little time for anything else. My to-do list is scarily similar to a lazy-susan, just spinning around and around in my head until I can slowly clear things off. Lately my life has been balancing that with a 3-year-old boy that seems to be a walking protest to my unavailability. He doesn't understand that what I'm doing is for our ultimate benefit. He just knows that he's not getting from me what he wants.
He can't see the big picture.
Ugh..... He's kind of like me.
I wish I could say that I behave better than my son when his patience has expired, that I don't throw my own kind of tantrum and freak out when circumstances just don't seem to jive with what I'm wanting. I wish I could say that I've matured so much in my life and in my faith that I'm able to offer him great life lessons about trust, patience, and unselfishness. But I find that I still have a 3-year-old's heart when I'm holding the puzzle pieces in my hand, frustration growing, and all I hear is, "It's time to put that away- we're not finishing that right now."
So instead of trying to force the pieces together, (which is something I try all too often to do and usually ends up looking like a picasso-ish disaster because I just wanted the stupid thing done already so I could move on), I'm learning to let the empty spaces between them remind me of adventures not yet taken, answers yet to be given.
I'm learning that those spaces allow room for hope and possibilities to surprise me.
Who knows?
There just might be a whole panoramic view in between those two pieces of sky.
Finding agates and burning quads
One Saturday afternoon a few weeks back we loaded the truck with our bikes and headed up the shore. Countless times before we've said we wanted to ride the paved path along the Lake Superior Hiking Trail and with Fall upon us, our chances for doing it were closing in fast.
It was gorgeous. The birch along the shoreline were in their color-changing prime. Curving in and out of the woods, mostly uphill the first half, our bikeride was exhilerating and exhausting. We stopped on a bridge just past Iona's Beach, and because of the wind, the water came crashing in along the cliff beneath us.
"Jeremiah, do you want to get out and look at the water?" I asked.
"No....I gonna see it from right here." His tentative expression told me he wasn't quite thrilled with the idea of peering over the edge of the railing. I understood, not being a huge fans of heights myself. But that day, the thrill of riding fast down hills and peering over high railings was irresistable. We made it to Split Rock Lighthouse a while later and while sitting on a bench in the sun ate pears so ripe and juicy our water bottles were unnecessary. We stopped along a beach on the way back and let Jeremiah throw rocks in the water for a while. He, after all, had merely been a spectator the entire afternoon, perched cozily in his bike trailer. Energy abounding he grabbed the closest stick and began exploring the rocks. Both Lee and I sat- our leg muscles burning and too wobbly to do much else.
"Look, Mommy- I found an agate! See the colors?" Jeremiah said as he held up a tiny speckled rock. It wasn't an agate, but I loved that he assumed my most treasured lakefront pastime.
It wasn't much longer that my legs finally regained enough strength to join Jeremiah in the search. And that's when I found it. Years upon years of sifting through lake rock and I hit the jackpot. The biggest, most beautiful agate I've ever found seemed to jump out at me. Lee was on the other end of the inlet as I casually made my way over to him, the rock BURNING a hole in my pocket! My nonchalance was ridiculous because Lee took one look at my eyes and knew I had trumped him once again. (You see, it's taken years, but I've finally convinced Lee that agate-hunting is irresistable but he thinks if he's going to spend that much time with his nose to the rocks that the payoff should be often and BIG!)
I'll spare you the details of my subtle, and sometimes not so subtle gloating and just say that it was as close to a perfect day as I could've hoped for. It's been a long time coming. As each day passes and I'm that much farther away from my dark and scary place I feel more and more like myself again. A different version of myself, stronger somehow and more sensitive, too, in other places- but me! I couldn't help revelling in the freedom as the wind whipped through my hair. Let me tell you this, though, my life is far from some emotional made-for-tv-movie where the main character stands on a cliff with the wind swirling her hair as the camera pans out and the credits start to roll. But that afternoon was pretty close- and you know what? I'll take those moments any chance I can.
It was gorgeous. The birch along the shoreline were in their color-changing prime. Curving in and out of the woods, mostly uphill the first half, our bikeride was exhilerating and exhausting. We stopped on a bridge just past Iona's Beach, and because of the wind, the water came crashing in along the cliff beneath us.
"Jeremiah, do you want to get out and look at the water?" I asked.
"No....I gonna see it from right here." His tentative expression told me he wasn't quite thrilled with the idea of peering over the edge of the railing. I understood, not being a huge fans of heights myself. But that day, the thrill of riding fast down hills and peering over high railings was irresistable. We made it to Split Rock Lighthouse a while later and while sitting on a bench in the sun ate pears so ripe and juicy our water bottles were unnecessary. We stopped along a beach on the way back and let Jeremiah throw rocks in the water for a while. He, after all, had merely been a spectator the entire afternoon, perched cozily in his bike trailer. Energy abounding he grabbed the closest stick and began exploring the rocks. Both Lee and I sat- our leg muscles burning and too wobbly to do much else.
"Look, Mommy- I found an agate! See the colors?" Jeremiah said as he held up a tiny speckled rock. It wasn't an agate, but I loved that he assumed my most treasured lakefront pastime.
It wasn't much longer that my legs finally regained enough strength to join Jeremiah in the search. And that's when I found it. Years upon years of sifting through lake rock and I hit the jackpot. The biggest, most beautiful agate I've ever found seemed to jump out at me. Lee was on the other end of the inlet as I casually made my way over to him, the rock BURNING a hole in my pocket! My nonchalance was ridiculous because Lee took one look at my eyes and knew I had trumped him once again. (You see, it's taken years, but I've finally convinced Lee that agate-hunting is irresistable but he thinks if he's going to spend that much time with his nose to the rocks that the payoff should be often and BIG!)
I'll spare you the details of my subtle, and sometimes not so subtle gloating and just say that it was as close to a perfect day as I could've hoped for. It's been a long time coming. As each day passes and I'm that much farther away from my dark and scary place I feel more and more like myself again. A different version of myself, stronger somehow and more sensitive, too, in other places- but me! I couldn't help revelling in the freedom as the wind whipped through my hair. Let me tell you this, though, my life is far from some emotional made-for-tv-movie where the main character stands on a cliff with the wind swirling her hair as the camera pans out and the credits start to roll. But that afternoon was pretty close- and you know what? I'll take those moments any chance I can.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Sometimes a fresh coat of pain does the trick~
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| (Previously a wine color) |
I needed something different.
Even with huge life change right around the corner and a new house in the mix of things, I still needed something to change right now. Especially since I feel like myself again. I just came out of a haze that has been the last few weeks, no thanks to the medication I was on, and can breathe. We decided to pause our treatments for a while- even perhaps until after our move to Rochester. While the last few bits of chemicals were working their way out of my body I reached the epitome of all craziness. Hysterical sobbing became my nightly ritual and by the third night I knew I wasn't going to swallow that crazy pill ever again. Ever.
 |
| (Previously yellow walls) |
I don't understand why these cysts keep recurring, and my normal tendency is to examine and analyze what they mean- what's God trying to tell me, what do I need to be doing differently- the whole lot. A friend asked me recently, "Tiffany, are you the type of person that analyzes everything or is a cyst sometimes just a cyst?"
Perhaps it's a literal "bump" in the road? An opportunity to rest instead of get worked up into the stressful hype that is infertility treatments? I needed this break- even though I fought against it for the first few weeks. I was ready to be done with it all, even if Lee wasn't. For the first time in 10 years we found ourselves in flip-flopped positions. But it wasn't long into our conversation that Lee spoke some kick-me-in-the-butt truth into my life.
Friday, August 20, 2010
When 10 years is actually like 15 minutes
If a day is like a thousand years and a thousand years are like a day, then the past 10 years of my life are as long as HALF of a sitcom on television (15 minutes) and 3,650,000 years. Somehow I can relate to both.
I was telling Lee the other day, "How is it that I can be dealing with the same stuff after all these years? Why is it I can't see more progress?" But I've also just blinked- and here we are. Married almost 11 years with an almost 3 year-old.
15 minutes isn't a whole lot of time for extreme makeovers- even the best make-up artist in Hollywood would have their hands tied. But 3,650,000 years? Honey, a whole lot can get done in that amount of time. Hindsight perspective would show progress, but on a very slow, incremental timeline. That's how I feel today, that as much as I've been willing to progress and desiring to move forward, I'm inching along through far-too-familiar poo.
I'm impatient. I'm tired. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't stop but I don't want to keep going. Ever have days/weeks/years like that? God's completely at work in our lives right now, but I'm so stuck today on what isn't happening that I'm struggling to adjust my focus to what's is happening right now.
We are moving to Rochester next year and are really excited about it. When the call came about it on Sunday evening I wondered if we would be able to get good news twice in one week, but round 2 of fertility treatments failed today and I'm not happy about it. I'm so frustrated that I can't even properly thank God for what He's doing about our move.
I should be better at this. This is where frustration moves from my circumstances to myself and no matter where I look there's disappointment. I'm not handling this like someone with 10 years of experience. I don't want to walk forward with this lingering over me, so I want to deal with it. Right now.
I have the next 3 hours before I go into the clinic and start the next round of treatments to let God absolutely do what no Hollywood make-up artist would ever even dream of being able to do.
I'm going to let him completely re-work my heart.
He's done it countless times before (plus the 120 times I HAVE been counting) and He will do it again.
Tried and true, Fernando Ortega's album, The Shadow Of Your Wings: Hymns and Sacred Songs is now playing on my computer as I continue to write. Ahhhhh........truth from scripture that I can sing along to.
He is patient. He does not tire. He never wavers. He remembers that in comparison to him I am like the grass that withers away in the sun, therefore has no expectations that I'm going to be perfect at this, or that after 10 years I should have this figured out to a science. Whether it's one day, 15 minutes, a thousand years or 3,650,000 years, it makes no difference to Him.
"So roll up your sleeves, put your mind in gear, be totally ready to receive the gift that's coming when Jesus arrives. Don't easily slip back into the grooves of evil, doing just what you feel like doing. You didn't know any better then; you do now. As obedient children, let yourselves be pulled into a way of life shaped by God's life, a life energetic and blazing with holiness. God said, "I am holy; you be holy." 1 Peter 1:13-16
I was telling Lee the other day, "How is it that I can be dealing with the same stuff after all these years? Why is it I can't see more progress?" But I've also just blinked- and here we are. Married almost 11 years with an almost 3 year-old.
15 minutes isn't a whole lot of time for extreme makeovers- even the best make-up artist in Hollywood would have their hands tied. But 3,650,000 years? Honey, a whole lot can get done in that amount of time. Hindsight perspective would show progress, but on a very slow, incremental timeline. That's how I feel today, that as much as I've been willing to progress and desiring to move forward, I'm inching along through far-too-familiar poo.
I'm impatient. I'm tired. I don't want to do this anymore. I can't stop but I don't want to keep going. Ever have days/weeks/years like that? God's completely at work in our lives right now, but I'm so stuck today on what isn't happening that I'm struggling to adjust my focus to what's is happening right now.
We are moving to Rochester next year and are really excited about it. When the call came about it on Sunday evening I wondered if we would be able to get good news twice in one week, but round 2 of fertility treatments failed today and I'm not happy about it. I'm so frustrated that I can't even properly thank God for what He's doing about our move.
I should be better at this. This is where frustration moves from my circumstances to myself and no matter where I look there's disappointment. I'm not handling this like someone with 10 years of experience. I don't want to walk forward with this lingering over me, so I want to deal with it. Right now.
I have the next 3 hours before I go into the clinic and start the next round of treatments to let God absolutely do what no Hollywood make-up artist would ever even dream of being able to do.
I'm going to let him completely re-work my heart.
He's done it countless times before (plus the 120 times I HAVE been counting) and He will do it again.
Tried and true, Fernando Ortega's album, The Shadow Of Your Wings: Hymns and Sacred Songs is now playing on my computer as I continue to write. Ahhhhh........truth from scripture that I can sing along to.
He is patient. He does not tire. He never wavers. He remembers that in comparison to him I am like the grass that withers away in the sun, therefore has no expectations that I'm going to be perfect at this, or that after 10 years I should have this figured out to a science. Whether it's one day, 15 minutes, a thousand years or 3,650,000 years, it makes no difference to Him.
"So roll up your sleeves, put your mind in gear, be totally ready to receive the gift that's coming when Jesus arrives. Don't easily slip back into the grooves of evil, doing just what you feel like doing. You didn't know any better then; you do now. As obedient children, let yourselves be pulled into a way of life shaped by God's life, a life energetic and blazing with holiness. God said, "I am holy; you be holy." 1 Peter 1:13-16
Monday, August 2, 2010
"Just remember, the mess you make is the mess you clean up," was my response to Jeremiah this morning when he asked if he could cut with scissors. We have this conversation every time. But no matter how many times I tell him, when he's finished there are small scraps of construction paper littering my dining room floor and his desire to clean up is nonexistent.
"Pretend to be a dump truck, Jeremiah! Scoop it up and DUUUMP it out."
"No I don't wanna do dat."
"Okay, well you don't have to pretend to be a dump truck but you still need to clean up your mess."
What came next in the conversation was an expression of his new-found sense of independence. I'll spare you the details, but it resulted in Jeremiah spending a little bit of time sitting on the step in a time-out. Being separated from our company is heartbreaking and it doesn't usually take but about 30 seconds before he is saying, "I'm ready to be a good listener, Mom!" I'm trying to recognize when the attitude in his heart has changed versus his attempt to exert control and say when his time out is over. It's hard.
Today marks 10 years of our infertility journey. I kind of hate the word "journey". It seems redundant and overused and boring. So 10 years into our infertility whatever-word-is-better-than-journey, I find myself facing a date that I NEVER thought I'd see and certaily hoped I wouldn't. I was ready for this 'whatever' to be over, hmmm, about 9 years and 7 months ago. But it's taken me every moment of the last 10 years to get to THIS place, where I can say that as difficult as it's been, it's also something I've been entrusted with.
I was talking to a friend earlier today and she asked me if, since our diagnosis, I struggled with bitterness toward God or other doctors because of how common my issue is and if I wondered why this wasn't discovered 10 years ago. Honestly, I spent all of maybe 5 minutes thinking about it after we first met with Dr. Corfman, because I could not think that and look at Jeremiah without realizing that if it had been discovered all those years ago, he would not be mine.
So when I think about the time I've spent walking in intense conversation with God, I realize what a privilege it all has been. Crazy? Perhaps. You should know by now that I'm not a pie-in-the-sky kind of gal but I can tell you this right now- I've spent far too much time trying to figure out what I needed to learn, or how I needed to change the condition of my heart (beneficial processes however) and not enough time accepting what I've been given, or been entrusted with. I want to walk through this "assignment" well-and not just for the purpose of getting to the other side, but because I want to honor the One who gave it to me.
I'll let him decide when it's over.
"Each of you should continue to live in whatever situation the Lord has placed you, and remain as you were when God first called you." (1 Corinthians 7:17 emphasis added)
"Pretend to be a dump truck, Jeremiah! Scoop it up and DUUUMP it out."
"No I don't wanna do dat."
"Okay, well you don't have to pretend to be a dump truck but you still need to clean up your mess."
What came next in the conversation was an expression of his new-found sense of independence. I'll spare you the details, but it resulted in Jeremiah spending a little bit of time sitting on the step in a time-out. Being separated from our company is heartbreaking and it doesn't usually take but about 30 seconds before he is saying, "I'm ready to be a good listener, Mom!" I'm trying to recognize when the attitude in his heart has changed versus his attempt to exert control and say when his time out is over. It's hard. I don't always get it right. Sometimes I make him wait the full 2 minutes, other times I respond immediately with our post time-out conversation. I want him to learn that just because we're ready for something to be over, even if our hearts are in the right place, it doesn't necessarily mean that it will be over.
Tell. Me. About. It.
Today marks 10 years of our infertility journey. I kind of hate the word "journey". It seems redundant and overused and boring. So 10 years into our infertility whatever-word-is-better-than-journey, I find myself facing a date that I NEVER thought I'd see and certaily hoped I wouldn't. I was ready for this 'whatever' to be over, hmmm, about 9 years and 7 months ago. But it's taken me every moment of the last 10 years to get to THIS place, where I can say that as difficult as it's been, it's also something I've been entrusted with.
I was talking to a friend earlier today and she asked me if, since our diagnosis, I struggled with bitterness toward God or other doctors because of how common my issue is and if I wondered why this wasn't discovered 10 years ago. Honestly, I spent all of maybe 5 minutes thinking about it after we first met with Dr. Corfman, because I could not think that and look at Jeremiah without realizing that if it had been discovered all those years ago, he would not be mine.
So when I think about the time I've spent walking in intense conversation with God, I realize what a privilege it all has been. Crazy? Perhaps. You should know by now that I'm not a pie-in-the-sky kind of gal but I can tell you this right now- I've spent far too much time trying to figure out what I needed to learn, or how I needed to change the condition of my heart (beneficial processes however) and not enough time accepting what I've been given, or been entrusted with. I want to walk through this "assignment" well-and not just for the purpose of getting to the other side, but because I want to honor the One who gave it to me.
I'll let him decide when it's over.
"Each of you should continue to live in whatever situation the Lord has placed you, and remain as you were when God first called you." (1 Corinthians 7:17 emphasis added)
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
When dreaming of teak pergolas...
The smell of this crisp northern Minnesota air is changing as the summer is progressing. Today it's raining and I can smell the promise of Fall. Big changes might be coming for us in the next few months, the biggest one obviously being a possible pregnancy. We also might begin the transfer process to another part of the state.
Though we don't even know if we'll be moving, I've already begun the list in my head of all the things I'll do differently in my life, my house, my garden. The list actually began shortly after we moved into this house when we realized how much space around us we actually NEED. I'm not talking, "Oh, we've got so much stuff that we need a bigger house." It's more like I-can't-look-out-any-window-of-my-house-without-looking-directly-into-my-neighbor's-living-room, kind of need for space. I can't stand it, and the idea of living on 30 wooded acres with a possible river running through the property just sends me into an ethereal daydream I don't want to leave.
It's hard to look at my life, my surroundings, and not think about all the ways that it could be better. No 100+ year-old paint chipping off of doorframes and floors that have needed to be resurfaced since 1995, but maybe a back deck framed in a Teak pergola woven with wisteria and paper lanterns. No more, "My back lawn isn't grass at all, it's just a dense ground-cover WEED," but maybe a rolling grassy lawn with a big maple tree in the middle where there's a swing and a treehouse with a collapsable ladder and a mounted telescope for late-night, mid-summer star gazing.
But I was challenged many years ago, when we first started our journey of 'why-isn't-what-I-want-happening-yet', by my mother who asked me what pain I'd like to have instead. Instead of complaining about the difficulites in my life, studying my discontent and basically telling God that He's not quite handling my life very well, that perhaps I should see my struggle in a different light.
Would I switch with someone else who was trudging through a different kind of pain? Like perhaps the family on the news who's son disappeared from school. His mom just hasn't been able to straighten the covers on her little boy's bed because he left it messy the last time she saw him- would I like to trade places with her?
So maybe the next time that my grief wants to swallow me whole, or when my relationships seem to be just a bit disappointing, or that roll of fat just WON'T go away, I'll remember that it's not about me- not about what I want and what's not happening for me- and I'll pull up my boostraps once again and gratefully walk forward. Even if it is just out into my weed infested, uneven, clay-packed backyard.
Though we don't even know if we'll be moving, I've already begun the list in my head of all the things I'll do differently in my life, my house, my garden. The list actually began shortly after we moved into this house when we realized how much space around us we actually NEED. I'm not talking, "Oh, we've got so much stuff that we need a bigger house." It's more like I-can't-look-out-any-window-of-my-house-without-looking-directly-into-my-neighbor's-living-room, kind of need for space. I can't stand it, and the idea of living on 30 wooded acres with a possible river running through the property just sends me into an ethereal daydream I don't want to leave.
It's hard to look at my life, my surroundings, and not think about all the ways that it could be better. No 100+ year-old paint chipping off of doorframes and floors that have needed to be resurfaced since 1995, but maybe a back deck framed in a Teak pergola woven with wisteria and paper lanterns. No more, "My back lawn isn't grass at all, it's just a dense ground-cover WEED," but maybe a rolling grassy lawn with a big maple tree in the middle where there's a swing and a treehouse with a collapsable ladder and a mounted telescope for late-night, mid-summer star gazing.
Doesn't that sound fantastic? I can get caught up in it so easily, we all can. "Keeping up with the Jones'", comparing our lives to others and what they have that we want, or even being motivated to work out harder because you'd like to have the abs of the girl on the Zumba video (guilty here of all counts, by the way).
But I was challenged many years ago, when we first started our journey of 'why-isn't-what-I-want-happening-yet', by my mother who asked me what pain I'd like to have instead. Instead of complaining about the difficulites in my life, studying my discontent and basically telling God that He's not quite handling my life very well, that perhaps I should see my struggle in a different light.
Would I switch with someone else who was trudging through a different kind of pain? Like perhaps the family on the news who's son disappeared from school. His mom just hasn't been able to straighten the covers on her little boy's bed because he left it messy the last time she saw him- would I like to trade places with her?
So maybe the next time that my grief wants to swallow me whole, or when my relationships seem to be just a bit disappointing, or that roll of fat just WON'T go away, I'll remember that it's not about me- not about what I want and what's not happening for me- and I'll pull up my boostraps once again and gratefully walk forward. Even if it is just out into my weed infested, uneven, clay-packed backyard.
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