Tag Archives: control

Life is Full of Misconceptions

On Life, On Writing, , , , , ,
the yellow brick road
the yellow brick road

Misconception #1: My parents are perfect and life is fair.

Misconception #2: My parents don’t know anything and life is way unfair.

Misconception #3: I will be a perfect parent.

Misconception #4: (After having a child) Misconception #2 was way off. Life is indeed unfair but perhaps my parents knew a great deal more than I was willing to give them credit for during the throws of teenage hormonal imbalance.

Misconception #5: Having a literary agent guarantees publication.

I have taken a sort of unannounced sabbatical from blogging over the past few weeks. Granted, there has been a great deal of change in our lives recently but the lack of posts has had more to do with my confrontation of misconception #5.

Perhaps I should be embarrassed to admit such ignorance. But seeing as this isn’t the worst of my naiveté, it seems safe to share. Deep down inside, I honestly believed that once I secured an agent, I would become a published author. And I thought I was being reasonable. I waited for months. It seems to me that if another human can take shape and form in the void in ten months, an editor can pick my book for publication in less time.

Oh wait, I think I just discovered Misconception #6: The editing process is timely.

Anyway, I received another rejection yesterday. “We like your writing, blah, blah, blah, but the story is too dark.” The story happens to be about PTSD. And yes, it’s dark. I lived it. I remember.

In the face of yet another rejection I had to finally confront misconception #5. And let me just say that this blog is in no way a slight against my agent. She didn’t write the dark story that no one wants. She’s just doing her job. (nothing but love, K)

So my first book may not make it down the golden road of publication. (Misconception #7: The road to publication is paved in gold.) But maybe there’s another story in me.

I wonder if I have confused my misconceptions as failure. If I believed that I would be published and then I wasn’t, isn’t that a reflection of my ability? Yeah, it has felt like failure. They don’t like my story, they don’t like me, I’m not really a writer…spiral, spiral, spiral.

“Pilot to co-pilot, I smell smoke.”

And so I stopped writing. Or blogging. (Which is kind of like fast food writing.)

But just as I learned to overcome the misconceptions I had regarding parenting, maybe it’s time I grew up in the writing world too. Having an agent doesn’t mean I’m necessarily closer to publication. I think maybe it means that God knows I wouldn’t or couldn’t do this without a cheerleader. Which annihilates another misconception.

Misconception # who’s keeping track: I am super woman and can do anything and I don’t need anyone’s help.

How about you? Do you suffer under the delusions of misconceptions?

Two Sides

On Life, , , , , , , , ,

The two faces of theater.

At some point or other, we all experience change. But change wears many masks. Like the two faces of the theatre.

Comedy and tragedy.

There’s the category we call good. Falling in love. Winning the lottery. And then there’s the bad. Sickness. Losing money in the stock market. We grow up believing that the two are juxtaposed to each other. One can cause spontaneous fits of laughter and good cheer. But seldom does the side we call “bad” cause bursts of the giggles.

Comedy and tragedy.

Two sides to the coin we call life. There are good days and there are bad days. And I for one, have learned not to cheat tragedy out of it’s just rewards. When I’m down, I feel it only right to be very much down.

I can remember the stereotype super hero who laughs in the face of danger. So what does it look like to laugh in the face of tragedy? It sounds a bit sacrilegious.

But I have experienced such irreverence. Only a few days ago, my mother-in-law had a stroke. And in the midst of a high-stress, potentially tragic moment, laughter could be heard emanating through the thin veil of her ICU cubicle. And on more than one occasion.

Comedy meets tragedy.

At first I thought it just a coping mechanism. And perhaps that’s part of it. But as I watched and listened, I realized it was deeper than that. A room full of people, who love each other, did what came naturally. The conversation did not change because of the surroundings.

And as the days unfolded, the jokes kept coming. The doctor came in to check and asked my mother-in-law to open her eyes. She had been very groggy and dizzy and didn’t want to. The first time she ignored the request. The second time he asked she responded, “I’m paying a lot of money for this.” And the room broke out in chuckles.

Laugher didn’t change the circumstance. She still had a stroke. But in the last few days I have learned a valuable lesson. The greatest tragedy is the loss of levity. Having a stroke isn’t funny. But the ability to find some small piece of humor in the midst of calamity makes the darkness feel not so oppressive. It’s like taking the reins of a run-away horse.

We cannot control our circumstances but we can control how we respond.

And maybe it comes down to Mary Poppins.

A little bit of sugar  helps the medicine go down. 

 

 

 

Thanksgiving Memory

On Law Enforcement, , , , , ,

“Are you ready?” He smiled at me as I climbed in and he shut the door.

“Uh-huh!” I glanced at him so that he wouldn’t see the terror in my eyes. Calm down! He’s not taking you to jail.

And he pulled the patrol car out of the driveway.

“I’m probably not going to write any tickets today. It’s Thanksgiving.”

My terror turned to disappointment. Reinforcing an underlying belief that I thought myself crazy. Apparently, I felt someone should go to jail. Just not me. A shining humanitarian moment.

“Oh. Okay.” Attempting to mask my neurosis.

He pointed the car toward his beat. That stretch of road that he was assigned to cover for the day. He parked on the shoulder of the freeway. Giving himself a view. And then he started a conversation.

It was challenging to follow. An unfamiliar female voice kept chanting all manner of numbers and letters and random words. She vied for attention but he continued to talk. Zebra and Mary and King. What is she trying to say?

“Um, feel free to stop and listen.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m listening.”

To who? Her or me?

But the conversation continued. My senses were a bit maxed but I tried to hang in there. Nodding where appropriate and still trying to act natural. The profuse sweating of my hands distracted me from the issue of what position to put them in.

“Darn it.” And the conversation stopped. He started the car and pulled out.

Remember Clark Kent? He would duck into a phone booth? (Remember phone booths?) Anyway, he would rip the front of his shirt and in seconds be transformed from journalist to superhero. I’ve seen something similar. David went from normal conversation to police officer in a fraction of a second.

I sat rigid in the passenger seat as he pursued an SUV barreling down the freeway. Lights flashing. An electricity charged the air. The conversation was gone. He was focused. Alert. And I was no longer a companion. I was a spectator.

I watched in amazement at this man I thought I knew. His composure and calm was mind boggling as he confronted the unknown. I became acutely aware of my lack. My lack of knowledge. My lack of authority. My lack of courage.

What would I do if the driver shot him right in front of me? Could I ever marry a man whose job required him to put himself in such a precarious position?

And then an amazing thing happened. I saw it. The razor sharp edge of the thin blue line. Sending him off to work meant endangering a part of my soul. He had my heart.

There would always be a part of him that I could not follow. I could give him my heart but I could never control where he took it. Or the possible dangerous positions he would put it in. That was just going to be part of the deal.

That was over fourteen years ago. (Difficult to believe based on the above photo. That’s not really me by the way and that’s not the really the car. Just in case there is any confusion.) My first and I think only ride along. A lot has changed since then. Children, moving, and now retirement. Oh, and moving out of state. That’s a rather big change. But one thing is the same.

He still has my heart. And on this Thanksgiving, I’m truly thankful.

What are you thankful for?

 

 

 

Death and taxes…

On Life, , ,

“…But in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.”

-Benjamin Franklin, in a letter to Jean-Baptiste Leroy, 1789

I would have to add to that short list.

Change.

I think change is certain. Empires rise and fall. Flowers bloom and fade. The years tick away, absorbing our youth and elasticity. Says the woman who just had a birthday.

Change seems to be as certain as death and taxes. We all live on the cusp of change. And it doesn’t really matter what the change is. Change just is. It happens often and in varying degrees. The addition of a child, the loss of a loved one. A new address, job, direction. I’ve spent some time recently, struggling to embrace the excitement and heartache of change. And I’ve discovered that change hits me in one or all of the following areas.

Change disrupts comfort.

Last December we moved to a new house in a new city. Not far from our old house but definitely far enough away to leave me looking for a new grocery store. And finding a new grocery store is obnoxious. It sounds petty but you know I’m right. Walking into a giant warehouse size space with no idea which direction to go to find mayonnaise. It can be intense. Not to mention moving away from people you love. It’s uncomfortable. Then I’m reminded by that annoying often faint voice of reason that maybe the pursuit of comfort is not the highest or noblest ambition. I doubt Mother Teresa was concerned with her comfort. I hate that voice sometimes.

Change disrupts control.

I’ll admit it. I’m a control addict. There’s a certain high that comes from watching a great plan come together. But trying to control life is like holding water in your hands. Even if you are strong enough to sustain it safely in your cupped hands, it will eventually evaporate. Loosing my grasp of the circumstances around me means I’m back to controlling what I was meant to control. My tongue and my attitude.

Change disrupts confidence.

There are no guarantees. The inevitable “What if?” What if it doesn’t turn out? What if I fail? But those aren’t really valid questions. Those are surface questions. I’m not concerned that things won’t work out. They always do. My concern is that things won’t work how I want them to. (See paragraph above.)

Change.

The leaves on the trees change every year. It’s just around the corner. They burn with glorious color to celebrate the sublime summer. This year, I intend to take a cue from them. As this season in my life ushers in change, may I be engulfed in vibrant hues of celebration for what has been and what is waiting for me around the corner.

What change is happening in your life right now?

WHAT?

On Life, , , , ,

Telephone.

Remember that game? Everyone sits in a circle.The beginning of all riveting games. One person whispers something into the ear of another person and it travels the circle. Usually, what is spoken at the end is a far cry from the original statement. Something gets lost somewhere in translation.

I like to call this marriage. Minus all the people in the middle. Unless you have children.

For example, I say one thing. My husband hears something all together different. (All right, and vice-versa.) Communication is challenging. But in our house, there’s another factor in the mix.

The language of law enforcement.

After years of having a toddler or two underfoot, I’m pretty fluent in tantrum and exhaustion. And likewise, my husband’s experience among the less than virtuous in our society has made him fluent in his own language.

Here are some examples. The first statement is something I might say. The second statement is what my husband hears after a lightning flash translation in his head.

Outing to the park. Translation, “ER visit.”

Grocery store. “Potential abduction.”

Solicitor at the front door. “Home invasion.”

The language of law enforcement.

This translation issue came to light again recently. I was returning from a weekend away. (My husband is awesome.) As we got on the freeway, I asked my friend to send a text to my husband so he would know were on our way. He likes to know these things, but maybe that’s another blog. Long story short, the auto correct feature kicked into high gear and the text that was sent was not a correct representation of the situation. It was kind of funny, I thought. So did my friend. We laughed and she asked if I thought he would decipher it. Within seconds, my phone was ringing. My husband was calling. His take on the message was that I had been kidnapped. He was not laughing. Between him dialing my cell phone and my friend answering, he had worked out which office he was going to call to roll out the rescue squad.

The language of law enforcement.

I used to think my husband was paranoid. Or that he didn’t find me competent. Those opinions made for some lively marital conversations. But I’ve come to discover that my law enforcement husband simply speaks a different language. And as I take the time to listen to the incidents that have transformed his thought processes, I find it much easier to give him grace. He loves us. And he fights to keep us separate from the horror he’s seen.

He took an oath to serve and protect. He takes that oath seriously every day. And at the top of that list are the one’s he loves. He doesn’t sit atop a white stead with shiny armor.  Somedays it’s a grungy uniform with just a shiny star on his chest. But the bottom line? I’m trying to learn his language. It’s one way I can show him I love him too.

Can you relate? What languages are spoken in your home?

 

Rights!!

On Faith, ,

My family and I are getting ready for a short term mission trip to Mexico. The last time I was getting ready for a short term mission trip to Mexico, I was in high school. Four score and seven years ago.

I will never forget the preparation for the first trip. My youth pastor sat us down at one of the meetings to watch a video. It was Loren Cunningham, the founder of Youth With a Mission. I was so impacted, I still remember the point of his message.

Missionaries have no rights. 

You do not have the right to a comfortable bed. You do not have the right to a warm shower or a shower of any kind for that matter. All those things that we accept as rights are more in line with what the rest of the world would call privileges. Clean bathrooms, potable water from the faucet, indoor plumbing…privileges.

Since those many trips to Mexico and other adventures, I have discovered that the relinquishing of rights is required of more than just missionaries. Anyone who would call themselves a disciple has been given that same charge.

Disciples have no rights.

Our contrived ideas that 12 men sat at the foot of the Master with legs and arms crossed taking notes are devastatingly misplaced. Jesus told them to follow Him. He told them to bury their dead, sell all they had, become as dependent and single minded as children. To relinquish their rights.

There are times when my children try to exercise their rights. Often they attempt to evoke the fifth amendment. They falsely believe that they do not have to say anything that may or may not incriminate them in an illegal or inappropriate activity. That does not get them far.

But I also will try to invoke my rights. The Declaration of Independence tells me that I have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. And yet…

He [Jesus] called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.

I struggle to relinquish my rights. I find myself often ready to stage a coup against those ills and injustices done to me. I am ready to rise up and defend my position. I whine and complain. I feel entitled. I want to grab the situation with both hands and force it to yield to my vision of how it should be. To take no prisoners. To exercise my rights.

And yet…I am asked to lay down my rights. To relinquish control and to become dependent upon the Giver of Life. Like a child. Unless I change.

I have no rights.

I don’t like it. I fight this idea on a daily basis. It goes against every grain of my fiber. But that’s the point. The coup that must be staged is within my heart. My self-righteousness and pride and self-assurance must be extricated by the roots and surrendered.

How about you? If you are wondering if you hold onto certain rights, watch your attitude today. And I will do the same. May the coup begin!

Decisions, decisions, decisions

On Faith, On Life, ,

This is an actual sign in the middle of Nevada.

My husband stumbled upon this photo that he took on one of our camping trips. He suggested I write a blog post on it.

“Yeah. That’d be cool.” Feigned enthusiasm.

“You could write about choices,” he says.

“Yeah. That’d be cool.” More feigned enthusiasm. In my head, I’m thinking something else.

Choices? I don’t want to write about choices. Acknowledging choices means having to make them. And I don’t want to. (Whine and stomp added for effect.) My natural tendency is to set up camp in front of the sign. Indecision begging me not to commit. To cling to the hope that I don’t have to chose.

However, upon embarking on this blogging journey, I committed to embracing it. I chose to write on life, faith and writing. And since I didn’t specify whose life, that leaves my life by default. Blah.

So fine. Choices it is.

“This way” or “that way?”

It didn’t take long for me to recognize what choice I am currently facing. In a nutshell, I am forced to chose what I will do while I am waiting. My agent recently submitted a proposal for a novel I wrote. And I’m waiting. I’d like to think I’m waiting for a book deal. Then reality sets in and I realize I’m probably waiting for numerous rejection letters.

When I’m waiting for my children while they are at piano lessons, I read a book. When I am waiting at the grocery store, I pretend not to read the magazine bylines. When I am waiting for the lasagna to cook, I check Facebook. But this waiting, this is different. I’m not waiting for an hour. I could be waiting for months. Life must continue in that interim.

What will I chose to do while I wait? And the two choices appear like a neon sign in the arid dessert.

This way or that way.

On the one hand, or this way, I can choose to be content. I can chose to live in the moment. To lay down the outcome and trust. To recognize, book deal or no book deal, all I have is today. Or I can go that way. I can chose to wrestle for control of the future. To attempt to hold the unknown in my hands and mold it into something of substance. Like holding water in my hands and squeezing it until it becomes ice. Not improbable so much as downright impossible.

Perhaps both paths lead to the same outcome. Perhaps, next week (that’s called optimism), my agent will call and say a book deal is on the table. Perhaps the choice isn’t where I end up, but who I have become by the time I get there.

But either way, this way or that way, I get to choose.

Tiny Bubbles

On Faith, On Life, ,

 

Have you ever seen a toddler play with bubbles for the first time? Their fascination is captivating. They follow and chase the free-floating orbs with euphoria. A small round ball, a tiny bubble drops and every ounce of attention focuses. With arm outstretched, they waddle hurriedly to capture and claim the treasure. The bubble continues to fall and explodes, sending small droplets of soapy goo to the adjacent blades of grass.

The toddler stops suddenly. Frozen. Staring at what was. And then, the lower lip juts out and their brows furrow. Liquid disappointment falls down their cheeks.

Shattered bubbles are painful regardless of age. Dallas Willard says, “Reality is what we learn when we find out we are wrong.” When the bubble pops, reality is there to stare us in the face. The world is brimming with tragedy and pain. Suffering and destruction. Our rainbow like, soapy clean bubbles cannot shelter us. Our illusions of safety are fleeting. But security, that is an altogether different matter.

Death’s shadow passed by again last night. My husband missed the first two innings of another baseball game tending to a “clean up” effort of another demonstration of man and car vs. tree. Tree won. A few days prior, he was called away from an award dinner to an officer involved shooting. All officers are fine. Suspect died in the gun battle he started.

The world is a dangerous place. Death and pain run rampant and try as we might, our small, gossamer, self-constructed bubbles are no match. Fragile and translucent. They don’t stand a chance against the razor-sharp shrapnel of everyday life.

Not everyone lives with such demonstrative examples of this. But no one is exempt. No one can walk through this life unscathed. And yet, we put forth great effort to try. For many years, especially with small children under foot, our motto had been, “Safety first.” Often spoken tongue-in-cheek, none-the-less it was applied with vigor and vigilance.

But what is left when the bubbles burst?

We are not safe from pain and trouble. We are not immune to suffering or tragedy. Our hope cannot reside in the residue of tiny bubbles. But who needs bubbles anyway? Our eternity is secure and sheltered in the capable hands of the Almighty God.

“These things I have spoken to you, so that in Me you may have peace. In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)

 

 

 

Badges? Badges? We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!

On Life, , , ,

I am so jealous of the Girl Scouts. And not for the reasons you might think. Sure they have the “Thin Mints” and the “Samoas” and the “Lemonades.” All pure genius. But those aren’t covet inducing.

I see the Girl Scouts and the thing I want most is the vest. Think about it. Haven’t you done some stuff that is badge worthy? Reached a mileage goal in running, or a weight goal or an anniversary?

My vest would be a color other than kelly green (this is my daydream so I get to pick) and I would wear my badges proudly. It sounds ridiculous but we do it everyday. At the end of the day, my to-do list is examined. How many badges did I earn today? Laundry, grocery shopping, bills, chauffeuring, and on and on. The number of badges earned is compared to the number of badges missed and an opinion is formed. Good day? Not so good day? Horrible day?

On those days where the accomplishment column is on the empty side, my self-worth swirls around the porcelain bowl that still needs cleaning. And always on those days, I seem to come face to face with the vests of those around me. Their vests are laden with badges! How in the world can I keep up? They have badges I’ve never even thought of!

But the rebel in me, that part that wants to rage against the machine longs to be free. I wish to walk into my yard and burn the vest. And then shout from the hill behind my house…

“Badges? Badges? We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!!”

Imagine a day where the only goal is to live. Live every moment until you fall into bed without thought of to-do lists and badges. (Cue orchestra.) To fall asleep simply remembering the moments that made you laugh or cry. (Music builds to crescendo.)

Who’s with me? (Applause and screaming.)

Say it with me…

We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!

 

 

If you give a mouse a cookie…

On Faith, ,

You know that cute little children’s book? A simple act of giving a mouse a cookie turns into something way bigger and unexpected. I’ve never given a mouse a cookie. It makes an adorable children’s book but frankly, I have no intention of willingly giving a mouse anything except a bit of “d-CON.”

But it makes me think…what would I do? What if I gave God permission?

It’s a beautiful afternoon. Sitting beside a quiet brook and listening to the birds chirp. Communing with God. All is right with the world. In a moment of rapture, you tell God that He can have His way. You give Him permission to orchestrate your life as He sees fit.

Something occurs in that enchanted moment. Unseen and relatively unnoticed. A covenant is made. Not a contract signed with ink but a contract signed by the blood of the Lamb on the flesh of your own heart.

I have needed to be reminded lately, that I indeed gave God permission. My peaceful has been replaced by chaos. The world is upside down and inside out. The wheels have fallen off the bus and I can’t even find them to reattach them. “What is going on?” I wonder, often out loud like a crazy person.

And then I hear this…

“You do not want to leave too, do you?” Jesus asked the Twelve. (John 6:67 NIV)

In other words, “When things don’t happen like you think they should, are you out?”

The world stops. A question has been asked and it demands an answer.

Am I out? But He has never disappointed. Over and over He has taken the broken trinkets and  baubles I seem to keep collecting. He takes the heartache and confusion that seem pointless. And then, He uses them to create something I could have never imagined. He incorporates every part into something that has value. A piece of art that proclaims with abandon that He alone is God. That He alone creates and He alone redeems.

I stop looking for the bus wheels and I give Him permission again. Well said Peter.

Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and to know that you are the Holy One of God.” (John 6:68-69)