Beauty on the Backroads

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Fighting for better

Eleven years ago today, Phil and I exchanged vows, partied with our friends and family, and set out on a three-week road trip honeymoon that included a daylong hike to the top of a mountain in the Great Smoky range where we slept in a primitive cabin accessible only by foot.

Some people thought we were crazy. Especially about the road trip honeymoon part. Hours together in a car? That’s the basis for newlywed fighting, they said. Phil and I dismissed their warnings because we got along really well. In our three years of dating/engagement, we didn’t really argue. We were great friends and enjoyed a lot of the same things. Conversation flowed easily between us. I could not imagine us being one of those couples who fought.

Fighting couldn’t be good for a relationship, I was sure.

Photo by CloudVisual on Unsplash

—

Fast forward almost 11 years.

We are sitting next to each other on the couch in silence. The kids are in bed and we are trying to decide what to watch for our evening entertainment. Generally, this is difficult for me. Phil had suggested a comedy special or a movie. I was leaning toward an episode of a TV show that we’re working on finishing. For once, I actually voiced that this was my preference. Usually I’m a “whatever-you-want-to-watch” sort of girl because I don’t want what I want to create conflict. (The Enneagram is helping me sort out this part of my personality.)

Phil was sticking with the comedy special or movie, so given those two choices, I chose movie. He then offered me three or four options, all of which only sounded okay to me. I showed little to no enthusiasm for any of them and could not make a choice. I tried to explain to Phil that because a movie wasn’t what I wanted in the first place, that whatever movie he wanted to watch would be fine with me because all the options were equal in my mind.

This was not the answer he was looking for. (My husband’s Enneagram number is helping us understand this better.) I could sense him beginning to shut down. This was a Saturday night, the end of his longer stretch of work for the week and the end of my full day with the kids home all day. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the couch, which I often interpret as the end of the conversation.

I sat there looking at him, trying to find words to say out loud. I did not want the evening to be over before it began. I also don’t like to sit and do nothing. There have been times in our relationship when I would have just walked away, grabbed a book and headed to bed for the night, leaving my husband on the couch to pout (that’s how I saw it). This was my temptation this night also.

So, I said some words out loud to this effect: “I’m not going to just sit here.” I don’t remember the other words I said, but I kept talking, wanting to provoke Phil to say something, anything. (This is not my usual modus operandi.) I didn’t want to run away, but I didn’t want to be bored. I kept trying to explain my point of view, which was met with mostly silence. At one point, I got up from the couch to take a bowl back to the kitchen. I remember Phil telling me to “Go. Get out of here.” It was a hurtful sort of tone, and there was a part of me that was shocked at his words. A bigger part of me didn’t believe he meant what he was saying, so I raised me voice and said, “You don’t mean that.” He countered with my own words back to me, the ones where I said I wasn’t going to sit there next to him if this is how he was going to be.

It was like hearing what I said for the first time. I understood how it sounded when I said it. Like I couldn’t handle his emotions so I was going to abandon him.

“That’s not how I meant it,” I said. I still needed to take the bowl to the kitchen, but I promised him I’d be back.

There was still some silence when I sat back on the couch but somehow we managed to talk through what was going on. Part of the motivation for making up was that the next day was Mother’s Day and we had plans to go out for breakfast early. Neither of us wanted to still be fighting then.

We settled on an episode of Doctor Who (another show we’re still catching up on). Our Saturday night was not ruined.

—

Maybe these kinds of things happen in your marriage, but they haven’t happened often in ours. I was surprised at how good I felt after this argument. (That’s different than feeling good about the argument.) I felt like something had shifted in our relationship.

I remember days early in our marriage when my opinion would differ from Phil’s. It didn’t even have to be a big thing. I thought it was my “job” to go along with whatever would make him happy. Because I thought if I could keep conflict out of our relationship, we’d have a good relationship. Years of therapy helped me uncover how unhealthy this was for me.

I’ve discovered that I have a mind full of my own wants and needs and it’s okay (better than okay, it’s necessary) for me to express those and take appropriate action. And I don’t need to feel bad if what I want or need is not the same thing as what Phil wants or needs. Neither do I need to feel bad for meeting my wants or needs.

This runs counter to some things I learned and believed in my younger life.

—

I am 40 years old and I am just now finding my voice and the courage to use it.

Change, I’m learning, requires some conflict. Maybe it’s internal conflict. Maybe it’s relational. Maybe it’s public. But for anything to change, there will be some resistance, and I never thought I would be a person who creates conflict on purpose.

But this is part of who I am.

I worry sometimes that if I challenge something or raise a question that doesn’t go along with whatever is keeping the peace that I will be viewed as someone who creates conflict for the sake of creating conflict. I don’t want to be a drama queen or accused of “rocking the boat” but what I’m learning is that sometimes the boat needs to be rocked. And every time I use my voice to speak up, to ask a question, to challenge something, it costs me something personally. So, I have to make sure whatever I’m fighting for is worth the personal cost.

—

I always thought it was a no-brainer that my marriage is important to me. I love Phil and I want to be with him for a long time, but only recently have I seen how much work we have to do, how sometimes we have to fight if we want something to be better.

Photo by Ben Rosett on Unsplash

Sometimes fighting looks like giving each other space to work on our own garbage and become the best versions of ourselves. Sometimes it looks like a literal fight with raised voices and hurt feelings. Sometimes it looks like caring for each other in ways that are sacrificial. Sometimes it looks like caring for ourselves in the same ways.

This is some of what 11 years has taught me.

That, and it’s possible for a marriage to get better with time. When I look at our life, the people we’ve become in those 11 years, I see only better things ahead. Our marriage today is better than it was a year ago, worlds apart from the day we set out on the road trip adventure.

It has not been easy. (You can read about some of those struggles on this blog.)

It has been worth it.

Whatever it takes to make it better. Even conflict.

The slow work

“Maybe you’re believing lies.”

As I drove past the church sign where this message was displayed, time seemed to stop. You know what I mean, right? It’s sort of like hitting a pothole with your car only it happens in your soul. I wanted to turn the car around and go back, make sure I’d read it correctly, but that wasn’t an option.

Church signs usually make me groan. Sometimes, I chuckle. Rarely am I still thinking about the message more than a week later.

—

Photo by Gabriel Jimenez on Unsplash

I’m itching to dig in the dirt. A month or so ago, during a restless early evening, the kids and I started clearing away leaves and debris from the flower beds. Winter was finally letting go of its grip on the weather, and I was ready for spring to show up and show off. There was little evidence–a few green stems–of the flowers yet to come, but I saw our work as preparing for beauty. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.

We’re a little behind on our garden plans for the year, but I’ve been filling pots with packaged soil and planting flowers to line the porch. Even when the garden plot is ready and the vegetables have been planted into the soil, the reward will take its time in coming.

Still, we must do the preparing.

—

A friend, one of my best, graduated last week with a master’s degree in marriage and family therapy. She is a busy mama and in her spare time, she takes actual physical stuff people want to throw away or don’t need anymore or have given up on, and makes something beautiful out of those things. Whenever I see pallets or doors or windows sitting outside a home or business labeled “free” I think of her and would pick it all up if I could deliver it easily. She has a gift for trash-to-treasure.

Her job as a therapist is not much different. I know from my own experience in therapy, as a client.

It took years but my therapist helped me dig through the dirt and debris I’d accumulated in my life to find the beauty that was growing there. This is a gift to humanity–the digging together and the beauty that emerges. My friend, and people like her, are helping people make something beautiful from their messy lives.

But it is slow work.

—

The debris started accumulating when I was in elementary school. I believed one lie about who I was, and that’s all it took. Lies are slow work, too. Over time this one lie wound its way around my heart until I couldn’t see the beauty underneath anymore. Once you believe one lie, it’s easy to believe one more, until one day, you can no longer untangle the truth from the lies.

This makes me think of kite string, especially after the kite has been stashed in the mudroom closet for a season. You pull it out thinking you’re going to fly it, only to discover that the string is twisted and tangled. (If kite flying is not your thing, how about a necklace dumped in the bottom of your jewelry box?) The fun is delayed and maybe you become frustrated. (Guilty.) I do not have a lot of patience for untangling things. Exhibit A: my cross-stitch threads. If they form a knot and it takes longer than a couple of tries to straighten it out, I grab the scissors, cut my losses and move on. Same for kite string. And I have more than one necklace I’ve thrown back into the jewelry box for “some other time.”

Untangling the lies you’ve built your life on is just as messy and frustrating. It’s definitely not what I would call fun.

But the freedom … the freedom is worth the effort.

—

When I started seeing a therapist, I thought I was there to untangle the most obvious knot. If we would just pull this string a bit, we’d loosen the whole mess and voila! we’d have a problem solved. Turns out, it’s not that easy. Or it wasn’t for me.

Photo by Stacey Rozells on Unsplash

Sometimes we’d pull on a marriage string and other times we’d pull on a childhood string. Sometimes we’d be working with one section of the tangled mess and all of a sudden we’d jump to something else that I didn’t even know was part of it. The more untangling we did, the more painful it became. Those knots closer to the center were deeply formed and at times I wanted to just cut them loose. But my therapist showed me a gentler, more patient way. Cutting the knots out would have cut me off from something important. I would have lost a connection I could never get back and as much as I didn’t want it to hurt, I also didn’t want to forget. Not completely.

—

Do you remember the first lie you believed?

I’m not talking about Santa Claus or the tooth fairy or something your brother told you to mess with you (although that last one could be it, I guess). I mean the lie that sounded so close to the truth that you believed it enough to let it hitch a ride in your life.

I can’t tell you what it is for you, but I know what it is for me, and I know that believing it caused me to make decisions that I sometimes wish I could change. What would my life have looked like if I hadn’t believed that lie? I’ll never know.

What I do know is that the beauty was there all along, even when I couldn’t see it, and it took a lot of dirty work to discover it again. Now, I can’t stop marveling at the beauty that was buried beneath all the lies.

—

I spent a lot of years blaming God and other people for some of the stuff that’s happened in my life, and while there may be some truth to it, that’s a path that never led to freedom.

A couple of months ago, I decided to start forgiving myself. For not knowing better or different. For believing lies about my intrinsic worth and value. For the choices and decisions I made based on those lies.

“I forgive you,” I said to my younger self. And a weight lifted.

This doesn’t mean life got instantly better or I’m suddenly the person I always thought I could be. But it’s a step on the path toward healing and wholeness, which if I’m honest is some of the slowest work I’ve experienced. Sometimes I wonder if this is true: the slower the work, the more lasting it is. I don’t have a lot of evidence to support that statement, but it makes some sense to me.

—

Trust the slow work, friends, and don’t be afraid or discouraged if the healing or transformation you seek takes time.

Learning from history with a sigh-worthy love story: Review of Together Forever by Jody Hedlund

Two things I know when I pick up a Jody Hedlund novel: I’m going to learn something about a real person or event from the past, and I’m going to read a sigh-worthy love story. Together Forever, the second in a series, taught me more about the orphan trains of the mid-1800s and the developing relationship between Marianne Neumann and Andrew Brady was what I’ve come to expect from Hedlund: charm, chemistry, conflict and curiosity (of the kind that keeps the pages turning so I find out how the whole thing will end!)

Part of my interest in this series is that the orphan trains head from New York City to Illinois, my home state, and I’m always interested in learning more about the real-life events that inspired these stories. That’s one of the strengths of Hedlund’s writing–a page-turning story based in history with evidence of extensive research wrapped in a romantic storyline. It’s a little bit of everything I love in a good book, consistently, which is why she is one of my go-to authors. (If you’ve regularly read my book reviews, you’ll know this is true. You can find my reviews for other books by Jody Hedlund here.)

I’d recommend reading book one first, although it isn’t strictly necessary for following along with this book, but it does provide some continuity.

I received a copy of the book from the publisher. Review reflects my honest opinion.

This is 40

I am nesting.

On Saturday I emptied the refrigerator. Last summer’s homemade pickles in their jars. The bread ends that seem to multiply on every shelf. The eggs. The milk. The fruit and veggies. All of it sat on the floor or the counter as I carefully removed the shelves and wiped them down with soapy water. When the whole thing was finished, I almost didn’t recognize the interior of this appliance. It felt good, this cleansing.

For weeks now, I have had the attitude, especially with the clutter in our house, that it needs to go. Broken things or things handed down. Shoes and clothes that don’t fit. I am slowly and gradually releasing things that have taken up space in our home. I suppose it could be spring cleaning, although I cannot admit to being bitten by that bug too often in my life.

I am making room for something. I am nesting, but I am not pregnant, at least not in the “with child” sense of the word.

—

On Friday, I turn 40.

Photo by Miguel Sousa on Unsplash

I remember how freaked out I was when I turned 30. I had a baby and a husband and the carefree(ish) days of my 20s seemed gone forever. Which was a confusing feeling because my entire 20s felt like I was waiting for my life to start until I had the husband and babies. Having what I thought I always wanted wasn’t enough to keep me from feeling a tiny bit of sadness that my 20s were gone.

Ten years later, I am almost giddy to kiss my 30s goodbye. The babies have grown into small adult humans with lots of words and thoughts and actions, and these are the years I was waiting for when I thought the diapers and potty-training would be the end of me. The husband and I have walked through some dark days and are re-emerging in the light. Our marriage is almost 11 years old and it finally, almost, feels like I thought it was supposed to feel, but there were plenty of days I wasn’t sure I’d still be married by the time I turned 40.

Having made it to now feels like a gift.

But it was also a lot of work.

Ten years ago, I barely knew who I was. I defined almost every part of myself by my relation to someone else–husband and children primarily. I was a wife and a mother but that is not all I was and I had trouble giving voice to those other parts of me because I didn’t really believe I was those things myself.

—

I’ve been preparing for this birthday for years. I think it started when I finally made an appointment to see a therapist. Maybe it was earlier, when I read a book about women and their issues. What stuck with me was something about women getting better or bitter by the time they are 40.

Here’s what I wrote six years ago about this: Every woman becomes either beautiful, bitter or beaten (having given up on life) by the time she’s 40. We either face our stuff or we don’t. Six years from the big 4-0, I’m tracking toward bitter or beaten. That’s a hard truth to face, but my eyes are open to how I can face my issues and let God work through them.

SIX YEARS AGO. This journey goes back further than I thought. Even then, I had had my share of bitter. It took me a few more years, but I decided to get better. Bitter is easier but nothing compares to better.

This week, two days before my 40th birthday, I released myself, with my therapist’s blessing, from counseling. I’m taking the summer off from my once-a-month appointments and in the fall, I’ll reconsider whether I still want to keep going. I’ve been seeing this therapist one or two times a month for more than three years. This was the road to better. It was forged with tears and paved with hard conversations and truths.

But it was also the place where I learned to find myself again. “You are strong and capable,” my therapist has said to me more times than I can count. She has spoken words to me that I could not speak to myself. The woman I am today is partly due to the woman who asked me hard questions, who prayed for me and spoke truth over me. Sometimes I hated it, but I’ll never regret it.

—

A few weeks ago, I started making a list. A few weeks before that, I started thinking about what theme would define my 40s and beyond. I’m not into pressuring myself to check a bunch of stuff off a list in a set amount of time, but I did want to think intentionally about what I want to do. I’ve been choosing a word to guide my year for several years now. How could I translate that to the next decade and beyond?

Photo by Alexandra Gorn on Unsplash

I landed on “no excuses, no regrets.” This is a balance of risk and practicality. I’m not a risk-taker, but I’m more cautious than I need to be. In my 30s, I had a lot of reasons for not taking care of me, for not pursuing my wants and dreams. Reasons are valid, but they can easily turn into excuses and excuses are rooted in fear. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t want to look back 10 years or more from now and regret that another decade passed without me at least taking aim at the things I want.

The list is in progress and there are not firm deadlines. There are health plans and travel dreams and writing goals. For whatever reason, I feel like I don’t have the luxury of putting things off until someday. Maybe that sounds morbid, but I don’t want to live in the shadow of someday. I want to step into the light of today. Not everything I do in my 40s and beyond will be magical, but I think that’s the beauty of it. It doesn’t have to be. Sometimes being present in the ordinary and grateful for the everyday is its own kind of magic.

—

I don’t remember when I first heard about a mid-life crisis. It always sounded like such an awful thing. It was a phrase loaded with stereotypes. Of men buying sportscars or divorcing their wives for younger women or of women taking drastic measures to alter their appearance. I’m not sure I actually know any people who have done this at midlife, whatever that means anymore, so maybe the “crisis” part of it is just another lie meant to make us want things that will make us feel better for a moment but won’t reach deep enough to find the wound we’re trying to ignore.

I always wondered what it would feel like to approach midlife. Would I panic and grasp for flimsy lifelines to my younger days? Would I secretly hate people who were younger and more successful? Would the words I said reveal me as a bitter old woman? Would I be able to age gracefully?

I’m surprised to find that this doesn’t feel like a crisis. It feels like a rebirth. A chance to start fresh and do things differently. I think that’s why I feel like I’m nesting. I am pregnant with new life, but it is my life not another human’s that I’m growing. I have yet to know what it will become, but because it is composed of all the things I’ve already experienced, it will be rich and full. And oh so loved.

—

A benediction, of sorts, for my 40th birthday.

Photo by Samantha Sophia on Unsplash

Blessed is my body, stretched and scarred from bearing children, often hated and ignored. This is the vessel I’ve been given and I will treat it with respect, honoring the ways it literally carries me through this world.

Blessed is my mind, beaten and bruised from the mental gymnastics I have performed for so many years. This is my inner sanctuary, a place of retreat and rest. I will renew it, minute by minute if necessary, telling myself what is true and right and good. This mind is the captain that steers the vessel, and I will give it what it needs to guide me on straight paths.

Blessed is my work, even when I’m not sure what that is. I will strive to do what I can where I am, giving myself grace to say “no” to anything that isn’t part of my mission in this world. I will accept that the progress might be slow and that as long as I am alive, the work is not finished.

Blessed is my presence, my place on the earth, my contribution to the human race, even if there is no measurement of my impact. I am here. I am worthy of life. I matter. I will seek to live like I believe this true everywhere I go. And blessed is my voice, when I cannot stay silent about something important. I will not be afraid to say what I think, to speak truth to others, even if it is hard to hear. I will not take responsibility for someone else’s feelings about truth.

Blessed am I, my past, present and future me. I will forgive myself for the things I believed about myself that were not true, for the choices I made based on those decisions. I will not look back in anger but with love and understanding for the girl I was and the woman I was becoming. I will remember the good things that came from even the most hurtful situations. I will hold it all as grace and remember that what I think, feel and do now will look different in another decade or two.

—

This is not a competition, friends. That’s another thing I’m learning. I am 40 years old and still discovering what it means to have fierce and loyal friendships with other women. I find it’s easier to do the more I focus on the woman I’m becoming instead of comparing myself to who other women are becoming.

I have sometimes dreaded my birthday, but this year, I feel nothing but light and love. It is a good way to enter a decade. Amen.

Getting to know me: Review of Reading People by Anne Bogel

I’ve been aware of personality inventories for almost two decades now and I’m recently obsessed with the Enneagram, so I wasn’t sure if I would fully enjoy this book by Anne Bogel (known online as Modern Mrs. Darcy) that provides an overview of seven inventories/factors that influence personality. (Spoiler alert: I loved it!)

Reading People: How Seeing the World Through the Lens of Personality Changes Everything is a challenging book to read straight through because it seems like it would best be used as a guide to dig in to one aspect of personality at a time. Even after reading the whole thing, I know I need to go back and focus on the Myers-Briggs because I think I’ve mistyped myself all these years.

Even with a working knowledge of some of the aspects Bogel talks about, I learned about some new ones and some new ways to use them in my actual everyday life.

This book came highly recommended by many online friends, and I would pass on the recommendation to you, especially if you want to know more about yourself. (Note: Not everyone is ready or willing to do this work. It’s worth it, but it’s not easy.)

Side note: I’m trying a new thing with my reading goals this year. Each quarter, I’m focusing on a different topic primarily for my nonfiction reading. In the first quarter, I read three books on racial justice and reconciliation. This quarter, I’m reading books about relationships. Reading People was first on the list because knowing more about my personality helps me understand other people better. (If you want to keep up with my quarterly reading, I talk about my progress every month in the reading newsletter I send via email. You can sign up here. No spam, I promise!)

And if personality stuff isn’t your thing, but reading is, I suggest you check out Bogel’s website where she offers reading challenge resources and recommendation lists. She also has a podcast that sounds interesting.

(I should also note that I received a complimentary copy of this book for blogging purposes. Review reflects my honest opinion.)

Run your race

It was only 20 minutes after the race had started that the first runner crossed the finish line. My son and I stood there at the end of the route wrapped in winter coats on a Sunday afternoon in April. Two of our foursome–Dad/Husband and Sister/Daughter–were out on the course somewhere and we weren’t expecting them for at least another 15 minutes or more. But my son insisted on seeing the first person to cross the finish line and wanted to keep watching as the timer ticked away while more and more runners crossed the line.

Over the next several minutes, young and old, women and men finished the race. Right around the 38-minute mark, our people came into view. My daughter was struggling through some discomfort as my husband jogged next to her, watching her carefully and closely.

Weeks ago, when my husband decided he wanted to run this particular 5K, he asked my daughter if she wanted to run with him. She’s part of a running program at school and is training for another 5K in May. (I’m her running buddy for that race and I’ve been training, too. More on that later.) I was proud of her for saying yes and taking on the challenge.

Read the rest of this post over at Putting on the New.

Why I Run in the Rain

It was a mild week in February when I started running again.

Well, let’s be honest, it’s more like walking and slightly faster walking. The fitness app on my phone registers it as walking, which is always slightly depressing because I’m definitely NOT WALKING when I’m out there, but whatever.

The first week is often the hardest, so I was lucky that I started my workouts on unseasonably warm days. By the second week though I was bundled up and running in biting winds. By week three, I was running through snow. I am now at 13 workouts (beginning of week five) of an eight-week program with the goal of running a 5K, and it’s no exaggeration to say more than half have been in some kind of rain, snow or cold weather. My most recent workout was in a cold spring downpour.

My shirt says “Chase Your Dreams.” I wish my dreams would pick some better weather.

I almost never want to leave the porch when I face the weather. I whimper. I groan.

And then I think about how far I’ve come and I go for it.

—

I’ve been a little stuck with the writing lately. There’s always something else, it seems, to distract me. Some of it is necessary. Some of it is not. This is part of what I feared when I started working part time in January. Before that, I had what I thought was an ideal schedule for writing, meaning my days were mostly free and I could spend them how I wanted.

Conditions, it would seem, were perfect for writing.

Except they weren’t really.

Sure, I churned out a lot of words in those days. I blogged regularly. I submitted a couple of pieces to other publications. I wrote a short story to give away to blog subscribers.

But I still found a lot of other things to do. Netflix. Coffee dates. Volunteer work. Hardly ever did I devote the kind of time to writing that I imagined I could.

So, it’s odd that now, when I have less hours in the day to write, I still have time for it. I may not be blogging every idea that comes into my head (that’s definitely true) or writing a ton of articles but I’m still writing.

Even though conditions are not perfect.

—

Sometimes I think about where I would be if I had waited for the weather to be perfect before I started working out again. I don’t have to think too hard. I would be stuck somewhere in week 2 slogging along trying to train for a 5K in May and running out of weeks to get it done.

Instead, I’m more than six weeks away from race day with less than half of the program to finish. I could skip a workout when the weather gets rough but I’ve built up some momentum and I want to keep it. The workouts are getting harder, but I don’t want to give up all the progress. The same is true with writing. I have a lot of words in a lot of different forms in my computer files. Too much to give up.

—

I’m easily discouraged, though.

I see other runners out on the sidewalks or hear casual talk of regular 3- and 4-mile runs. I think about how I shuffle through my workout with sweat, tears and aching muscles and wonder why I’m even out there doing this running thing. I don’t want to be a marathoner. I’m not aiming for the Olympics. I kind of sort of like running and I want to be healthier. But I’m not sure I’ll ever be trim or fast.

It’s not hard to criticize myself before I actually get out there and run. When my feet are pounding the pavement and I’m cresting small hills, when the number of consecutive minutes of running increases and I’m doing it without walking–those are the times I feel like I’m a runner, like I belong out there.

And writing is not much different. When I’m not writing, I’m jealous of all the other writers I know and the words they’re putting on pages. I’m convinced they have the perfect conditions for writing, so of course they can do that work. I look at my measly offerings of words and wonder if I will ever have what it takes to join the ranks. (Of what, I’m not even sure anymore.)

But when I’m writing, most of those doubts fade. The words connect with each other and sometimes readers and it suddenly doesn’t matter how much I’m writing or how fast. Regularly doing the writing is all that matters, and it doesn’t make a difference if my words are banged out in an hour after work or over half a Saturday or at 5 a.m.

Just doing it is what matters.

—

There is no such thing as the perfect time or the perfect conditions.

What a revelation, right? I feel like this is an obvious conclusion, but it’s taken me some time to see it.

Whether it’s running or writing or something else entirely, I can’t always wait for the perfect time or the perfect conditions. Sometimes it’s going to be sunny and mild. Other times I’ll be cursing the wind for daring to gust so much my cheeks turn pink. Sometimes I’ll start with sunshine and end in a downpour.

It’s cold but I’ve got goals!!! Week 2, day 1 of #c25k is calling my name.

A post shared by Lisa Bartelt (@lmbartelt) on

But every time, I just have to do it. Whatever it is.

Because if I wait until everything is perfect, it won’t happen.

—

 

There’s a big difference between the perfect time and the right time, and this theory does not apply to every thing in every season. The time for me to go back to work was neither perfect nor right when my kids were less than school age, and the time for running was neither right nor perfect when my back was spasming. Do not let this post be your ticket to a guilt trip. You do what you need to do.

But let it be a question you consider: Am I waiting for the perfect time to do something that only requires the right time? And is now the right time?

I cannot answer that for you. And if you want to share your answer in the comments below, I would love to encourage you at whatever time it is, for whatever goal you have.

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Saturday. City. Snippets.

The cafe was crowded, matching the city streets outside.

It’s been a while since the kids and I have hung out in the city on a Saturday. If I needed a visual for the word “bustling,” I had it. Everywhere, there were people. Quilters in town for a convention. Men, women and children on their way to a march. Visitors. Residents.

I’m never sure how to classify us. We don’t live in the city, but we’re regulars now, so much so that when someone asks me where the convention center is, I can answer without hesitation, and I know which streets are one way and in which direction. My heart beats in rhythm with the city.

But sometimes I’m still overwhelmed.

Like when we walk into a crowded cafe with no backup plan for an alternative. No tables were open for the three of us, but I spotted three vacant stools at the long hightop. We placed our orders and headed in that direction.

“Is anyone sitting here?” I asked the older couple sitting on the end. “No,” the woman replied, welcoming us. (A side note: I’m a total introvert and often hesitant to engage strangers. But sometimes I surprise even myself.)

“Are you going to the march?” the woman asked me before I’d had a chance to fill our cups with water. The question surprised me a little. It’s not the first thing I would ask a stranger but maybe it was a good one for the kind of day it was in the city.

“No,” I told her. “Not this time.”

—

Photo by Jerry Kiesewetter on Unsplash

I’m sitting at home now feeling guilty. We were in the city. We could have gone to the march, but in all honesty, I only remembered on Friday that it was happening. Most Saturday events are inaccessible to us because my husband works and has the van those days. He just happened to be away for the weekend, though, and we did have a vehicle.

But we’d made plans. Library. Lunch. A festival at the Science Factory. I asked the kids the night before if they would want to go to the march and both of them were not overly eager. Now I’m wondering if I’m a bad parent for not taking them. Am I an activist who backs up her words with inaction?

Scrolling through photos and social media posts, shame rolled over me. I should have been there. I should have made us go.

—

Our food arrived at the hightop table where my son had been babbling away about Minecraft and school to these two strangers who listened as patiently as any grandparent would. The woman confessed to me that neither of them could hear very well, which in their case was probably a blessing. My kids say the darnedest things in front of strangers, and I am secretly horrified every.single.time.

We didn’t learn much about them except the man is an artist with an exhibit at a nearby gallery, and they have family in the area. When they left, though, the woman said they had enjoyed the conversation, and I felt only gratitude. So much of what we do as humans these days is solitary or “social” in name only (I’m looking at you social media) that it was refreshing to choose connection in a crowded cafe.

Maybe this is its own kind of lesson.

—

We finished our lunch and walked up the street to market, where we’d usually find my husband. On the way, I noticed the number of people holding signs asking for help. This isn’t something we usually see because we’re often in the city in the early morning or toward the end of the work day. Once we were in the market, we waved to my husband’s coworkers and made a quick bathroom stop. The market, too, was crowded with people of all walks of life.

We left out a different door and circled the building.

“THERE’S NO WAY!”

A man was talking loudly with his group of friends and I heard the phrases “government assistance” and “food stamps” in his tirade. I can only assume he was decrying the people with signs asking for help.

His words hung with me, and I wondered how many times we use that thinking as a reason not to get involved, as a way of staying blind. If we can convince ourselves that a person in need is running a con then we absolve ourselves of responsibility. Right? How many times do I tell myself the story I want to hear so I don’t have to take action?

—

I have been reading a lot about racial injustice lately, and I am convinced that I am blind in more ways than I know. I am a white woman who can hardly see past the end of her privilege and it is wrecking me.

And waking me.

But I still have a long way to go.

I’m discovering that it’s easy to become myopic. I think this is a default mode for most of us. We can see what’s right in front of us pretty clearly, but to see farther away, we need some help. It takes some effort.

Photo by rawpixel.com on Unsplash

Myopia is not all bad. When I was working with refugees weekly, I was full of stories and passionately advocating for immigration policies that would benefit them. When government policies lessened the presence of refugees in our community, I shifted my gaze toward undocumented youth. Now I’m learning about racial injustice. Because I now spend my days with students, some of whom have harder stories than others, my vision has shifted again. I still care about all of these things, but I’m realizing that it takes conscious effort to see them in my daily life. Like putting on a pair of glasses.

I have to want to see.

—

Our first stop of the morning had been to the library where two of us picked up books we’d requested and all of us walked out with at least one book. While we were there, I overheard a woman complaining about not having a library card and needing to use the computer so she could complete some paperwork for a job she’d just gotten.

Later, when I heard the man loudly proclaiming “There’s no way,” I thought about the woman at the library. About the little (and not so little) lines that separate us. Access to Internet seems like it should be ubiquitous by now. (I could insert “secure housing” or “adequate food” or “a living wage” into that sentence, too.) But even in the United States, a country we like to believe is more well-off than other places in the world, these things are not guarantees for everyone.

But you have to want to see it if you’re ever going to believe it.

—

We parked our van on the rooftop level of the parking garage, which made my son’s day. He’s been begging us to park up there for months and when we first arrived, we were the only car on that level. It was creepy in a sort of post-apocalyptic kind of way. For a moment, we felt like the only people on earth.

When we left, a few other cars had joined us on the top level. The sound system for the post-march rally was being tested in the park next to the garage. Sounds of life were all around us. We knew we were not alone in the world.

I steered the car carefully on the ramp as we descended back to street level.

And this I think is the point of all of this: a vantage point offers us a spectacular view and maybe even a moment of peace, but to see the world true, we more often than not have to be on the same level as the people and circumstances we’re trying to understand.

For many of us, that means a descent to street level or the wearing of glasses to give us better vision.

I still have so much work to do.

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‘None of my business’ no more

It’s Friday, which means it’s one of two days most weeks that the kids and I trek to the bus stop near our house, ride public transportation into the city to pick up the van my husband drove to work, and drive back to our house so they can catch the school bus and I can go to work.

Every time I explain this to someone, it sounds like a chaotic way to start the day. I won’t lie: it makes me anxious every time. So much can go wrong, and I am not the kind of person who likes things to go wrong. Especially not on school mornings. Especially not before I have to embrace the unpredictability of my work day. I can only handle so much uncertainty. Most days, our morning adventure is no big deal. We walk. We board. We ride. We drive. We make it back with time to spare. Some days, though, it’s anything but easy.

Photo by Hope House Press on Unsplash

One time, the bus running our route had to be exchanged for another bus. This happened well before our stop, but it messed up the predicted arrival time on the bus finder website. Another time, the bus was super late, made more late by the driver exhibiting some odd behavior at a stop that caused us to lose a few minutes. (And minutes are crucial in our plan going according to, well, plan.) That particular day gave us all a good dose of adrenaline before 9 a.m.

Relying on public transportation means there are circumstances beyond my control. And other people’s actions affect my own. This is not something I enjoy, as an independent, first-born, American woman. I don’t like being caught in other people’s messes, especially if it means my so-called plan for the day is altered. Sure, if the kids miss the bus, I can take them to school on my way to work, but that’s not the plan, man. In truth, we have so many options. When the weather has been particularly harsh, we have opted for the rideshare plan, where I put the kids on the school bus at the normal time and call a rideshare driver to pick me up and take me to the city to get my van. This has been its own kind of adventure.

Americanism (I don’t even know if that’s a thing) tells me we should just have two cars like everyone else so we don’t have to rely on public transportation. Or so my husband would never have to drop me off and pick me up from work. (Sometimes, those seven minutes in the car are the most conversation we have without the kids present. Why would I miss out on that?)

—

The last time we rode the bus, there was a boy sleeping at the back, where we usually ride. None of the other passengers seemed to be “with” him as we rode into the city. My heart started beating faster. I imagined scenarios where he’d been left behind by a rushed parent. Likely, he belonged to the driver, I thought, but just to be sure, when our stop came, I ushered my kids to the front of the bus so I could mention it. The driver smiled and said that was his son, and my relief was probably visible. I didn’t have to save or fix anything, but it was good to be reminded that my heart is alive and well, that I can do the right thing even when it turns out to be nothing.

I didn’t used to be a person who got involved in something that didn’t seem to be any of my business. Mostly, I’m scared because getting involved often means talking to strangers or doing something that requires more energy than I think I have or could cause conflict (which I try to avoid at all costs, usually). I think that I don’t want to be bothered, but I almost never regret when I do.

One night when Phil and I were out on a date, walking through the city, I noticed a credit card on the ground. We weren’t directly outside a restaurant or bar or anything, so I picked it up. We looked at the name. Phil wondered if he knew the person because he sees a lot of cards and people at his job in the city. I wasn’t sure what to do. What if the person came back looking for the card? Would they freak out? I would freak out. But what if someone else picked up the card? Someone who had no intentions of being honest?

I kept it and after we put the kids to bed and I drove the sitter home, I did a search for the name on the card. Then I Facebook messaged the person I thought it was and tried to be as non-creepy sounding as I could. I gave the person my phone number and said whereabouts I lived so that maybe this person would trust me more. (I can be wary of strangers, but not everyone is.) We connected right away and made plans for me to return the card the next day. I met the cardholder in the parking lot of a grocery store and returned the lost item. The whole thing, including the google search and the messaging, probably took less than half an hour, and who knows what it might have prevented? It was worth the extra effort.

Photo by Gwen Weustink on Unsplash

I need to remember these things when I’m reluctant to get involved. We just heard a sermon at church about the Good Samaritan, and sure, it’s a familiar story, and those of us who have been in church for more than a few years probably know it by heart. But I was reminded that when I can’t be bothered to get involved, I’m missing out on something. I’m missing out on being a neighbor to someone. I’m missing out on following Jesus, who told that story and said, “Go and do likewise.” Jesus went out of his way to meet people and heal people and get involved when others thought he shouldn’t. This didn’t make him a meddler, and I don’t remember anyone telling Jesus to mind his own business. (Spoiler alert: It was all his business anyway.)

If I want to be like Jesus (and I do, I desperately do), then I will do like Jesus. I’m increasingly convinced that the world is God’s business and He wants me to participate in it. And sometimes that will mean getting involved, depending on someone else, or abandoning my well-crafted plan. (This will not always be neat and tidy, either.)

The question Jesus was asked that prompted the Good Samaritan story–“Who is my neighbor?”–could easily have been stated, “That’s none of my business.” How easily those words slide to the front of my brain and roll off my lips. It is the fruit of a culture that values independence more than dependence. (Except at tax time, for some us, when we can claim our dependents.)

We have idolized independence as a virtue while demeaning dependence as a vice. 

Photo by Lautaro Andreani on Unsplash

I think this is one of my main complaints about the Church today. In my experience, we don’t need each other enough. We need each other in a crisis but not so much on a regular basis. Maybe I’m missing out on something because I am too independent. (Translation: Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me the church is more interdependent than I think.)

But how do we do it? I’m not totally sure. All I know is what it takes for me: time. Time to notice. To see. To consider. To decide. Getting involved in something that I want to say is “none of my business” isn’t second-nature to me. Maybe with enough practice, it will be.

Those three little words

I moved through the kitchen banging pots and slamming cupboards and when one of my children asked me something, the cork holding my anger inside popped and I spoke harshly in response to whatever they were asking.

It was a normal day in our house, as far as I can remember. These days normal is different than past days. I have a part-time job that keeps me occupied five hours a day outside of the house while my husband continues his full-time job three days a week. We’ve been doing this for a couple of months now and we are not always handling it well. I think what had gotten to me on this day was that I was in the midst of making dinner but all I could see with my eyes were the things that still needed to be done. Dirty dishes had piled up. The right kinds of clothes had not been washed. I was feeling overwhelmed and I could have saved myself the blow-up if only I had been willing to utter those three little words:

I need help.

Ben White via Unsplash

Read the rest of this post over at Putting on the New where I write on the 12th of each month.