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When hard looks easy

August 25, 2014

I tend to learn things the hard way.

You know, reluctantly and repeatedly.

Actually maybe that’s not the hard way, just the way. (I’m not sure I could name something I’ve learned easily or on the first try.)

Maybe I should say I tend to learn hard things the hard way.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t like to attempt things I know I can’t do or do well or do the first time. (I must have been delusional about parenting before I ever had kids.)

I make lists. I check off tasks. I throw a load of laundry in the washer and clean up the dishes and feel satisfied that I’ve done my duty for the day and then I go find a book to read while the rest of my house sits cluttered.

I follow recipes, especially ones without a lot of ingredients or steps.

I write articles I know with about 85 percent certainty will be published. I blog (because I’m the publisher…wahoo!). I go to the same grocery stores and restaurants because they are familiar and easy to navigate and I know what to expect.

Because most days I want my life to be as easy as possible. And if not be easy then certainly look easy.

I don’t want you to know how panicked I am about our budget when I’m breezing through the aisles of the grocery store, avoiding the ones with the food we can’t afford. I don’t want you to hear how I talk to my kids at home when I just want to be left alone and they need everysinglethingrightthisminute. I’d rather you think we have it all together.

I’m not sure why but when I was composing this post in my head, I was thinking about my first job. Not the babysitting one, but the one where I had to dress professionally and work in an office. It was a good-bad job, but I wasn’t thinking about the job itself; rather the days before I got the job. My grandparents had sort of arranged for me to call the guy who would be my boss, and when that day and time came, I huddled under my bed covers and pretended to sleep late. (Hey, Mom. This is a confession here. Go easy on me, okay? It was almost 20 years ago!) Of course I wasn’t fooling my mother who had to literally shake me and nearly drag me out of bed. To make a phone call. For a job. (Confession: I still hate making phone calls. If you hear me on the other end of your phone, consider yourself special.)

It might have been the phone call or it might have been the job. I was 17 and liked being by myself with a book (some things never change), but I also liked money to buy things, so I eventually did the hard thing and made the call and got the job and did the job (which in itself was hard).

This rose just bloomed, months after the other ones withered. Better late than never.

I would like to tell you that the older I get, the better I’m able to deal with these things, but it just isn’t true. Long after I graduated college and was working a full-time job in my field, I was avoiding hard things, trying to make my life easier. (I even cried during a staff meeting, way more than once, but once in particular because I got a change in duties that was actually a vote of confidence but it messed with my social life. Clearly, I have issues.)

So, the hard things.

I did a hard thing this week. And not because I wanted to. I had to. And it was bigger than I could handle alone.

(Another confession: when it comes to sink-or-swim situations, I’m in the “sink” category. I’d much rather give up and drown than fight my way to firmer ground. Please don’t analyze that. I don’t want to know what that says about me.)

When it was over, people said things like “awesome” and “organized” and “put together” and they called me things like “leader” and “confidant,” and while those things make me feel good for a time, I secretly wanted to tell them all the truth.

What truth? Oh, you know, the one where I wasn’t sleeping for days because of worry and to-do lists and the one where I thought I might actually throw up on the day of this event and how my family nearly disowned me because I was a wretched person who yelled and cried and predicted disaster and hoped no one would show up so they couldn’t see what an utter failure I was. (You think I’m exaggerating, don’t you? I’m not.)

Something happened, though, in the days leading up to this massive undertaking, and I wish I could tell you it was because I have an amazingly fruitful and faithful prayer life and absolute trust in God. (Did you not read the part where I was predicting disaster? Help my unbelief!)

I didn’t pray as much as I should have or could have. I was too worried for all of that. But someone must have been praying. Or maybe sometimes God shows up anyway, even if we haven’t prayed. Maybe He loves us enough to help us out, even if we forget to ask.

Everything happened as it should. There were no great disasters. No epic failures.

And I can’t take a bit of credit for it because I felt like it all happened around me and in spite of me.

It’s like this passage I read (this week … not a coincidence) in Anne Lamott’s Grace (Eventually):

God was most show-offy when things did not go according to my plans, which was approximately ninety percent of the time.

If I limit my life to easy things, the things I know I can do without help from God or anyone, then I really haven’t done much of anything. But if I let myself attempt things that are too big for me, then I learn to ask for help.

From God and from other people.

And then life gets a little more exciting.

Or interesting, at least.

I’m not sure you’ll find me seeking adventure or challenge around every curve, nor do I have any plans to make my life harder.

But I’m slowly being convinced that my life needs to reflect something bigger than me. If I can handle everything that comes my way, then I have no need of God. If my dreams are within reach, maybe they aren’t big enough.

I don’t know what all of this looks like or means, but I know that when I do hard things and God meets me in them and carries me through them, I become more and more convinced that an easy life is not the same as the abundant life He promised.

When’s the last time you tried something too big for you?

What stops you from taking risks?

Where have you seen God be “show-offy” in your life?

A mixed bag: Review of A Table by the Window by Hillary Manton Lodge

August 20, 2014

A book combining food and family secrets was almost impossible to resist, but I’ve got mixed feelings about my experience reading A Table by the Window by Hillary Manton Lodge. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy through the Blogging for Books program.)

The book focuses on Juliette, a food writer and youngest heir in a French-Italian family with deep cooking heritage. She tells the story in first person, and frankly, I was a bit bored in the beginning. I didn’t care much about her life, which didn’t seem all that bad, and although I was excited about the inclusion of recipes, I also felt they were intimidating and inaccessible to someone who hasn’t been raised with such a rich knowledge of proper cooking techniques. I did enjoy the cooking theme in the story, though, and Juliette’s appreciation for food. Her family was likable also and the characters were vivid and memorable.

Unfortunately, I was almost halfway through the book before I really started to enjoy it. Juliette tests the waters of online dating and that storyline started to propel the rest of the book. I took a liking to Neil, the doctor with whom she begins communicating. Their exchanges are cute and probably saved the book for me. The ending was abrupt, offering less closure and more questions. Thankfully there was an excerpt of the next book included at the end of this one. Still, I wasn’t sure going in that this was a series and the ending kind of caught me by surprise, but not in a good way.

I mostly wanted to read this book as research for the novel I’m writing because the theme is similar: a young woman floundering in her present uncovers a family secret that could shape her future. I’m not sorry I read it, and I’m interested in the next one to see where the storyline goes, but I kind of hoped for more from this one.

If you want to make yourself drool, head on over to the book’s Pinterest page, though. In a word: yum!

A vote for summer (and fall and winter and spring)

August 18, 2014

In less than a week, summer will (unofficially) be over. At least where we live, the kids go back to school next week and the carefree, do-what-we-want days (I stole that line from my coolest Colorado cousin) will be over.

Back to setting alarms and packing lunches and meeting the bus twice a day.

Back to homework and enforcing a regular bedtime and the end-of-day reunion of family.

Honestly? I’m going to miss summer.

We’ve never been close, summer and I. Although I’m sure I enjoyed the break from homework and school when I was a student, summers sort of lost their allure when I got my first job out of college. Summer was like any other time of the year. I got up, I went to work, I came home. Except it was more humid than other times of the year.

Our family summers in recent memory have had their positive moments, but I’m becoming one of those moms who enjoys her relative freedom during the school days. So, I sort of feared this first summer following our firstborn’s kindergarten year.

I found a groove with one child all day long and in what seemed like an instant, I was back to having both kids all day and one of them is in constant need of social interaction. Summer could be a disaster, I predicted.

And then it wasn’t.

There were family visits here and there and long drives in between. There were outings and adventures and days of sheer boredom in between. There was togetherness–oh, there was togetherness–and times I wanted to have JUST FIVE FREAKING MINUTES TO MYSELF WITHOUT ANYONE TOUCHING ME. (Have I mentioned I’m an introvert?) And a long separation that was almost too much to bear.

There were trips to the library and reading on the porch and visits with friends and an amazing vacation and countless memories that are falling through the cracks of my mind. (And parks! We went to the park so many times!)

There were plans that came about and plans that didn’t.

And you know what? Summer was great!

Today, I was mourning the upcoming loss of time with my daughter. She’s a creative, imaginative, passionate spitfire of a human being in a small package but she’s crazy fun to be around, even when she’s pouting. As we drove to get school supplies, just the two of us, I felt the need to tell her how much I would miss her when she went back to school.

And then an hour later I was thanking God that she was going back to school because she couldn’t stop fighting with her brother.

I can’t have it both ways, I know. I can’t have our family all together all the time (at least not without some major changes to how we live and I’m just not sure that’s our best option) and I can’t send the kids away forever. (I would never do that, by the way, even on the hardest days.)

Just the same, I couldn’t have endless summer because I’d miss the colors of fall, the slowing down in winter and the rebirth of spring.

I will miss my daughter when she’s at school, but I can’t wait for those big hugs when she comes leaping off the school bus at the end of the day. Or the big smile on her face when she sees me at her school. I love hearing the stories of her day and storing up our tales to share with her.

I will miss the freedom we have in the summer to take a family adventure on whatever day suits my husband’s work schedule, but that just means we have to be more intentional about scheduling our fun on other days. (We already have some plans!)

Part of me wants to regret all the things we didn’t do this summer–all the projects and the exploring that just didn’t fit into our lives–but that would rob us of the joy we did have.

So, summer, I’m sad (really!) to see you go, but I know you’ll be back again next year. And fall, I’m ready for you! (Okay, that’s false bravado. I’m not ready AT ALL. But bring. it. on.) And winter, you just wait your turn. I promise to make hot chocolate and try to enjoy the snow again this year but don’t get too eager. And spring, my love, you’ll be what keeps me hanging on during those subzero mornings waiting for the school bus to arrive.

Play nice together, seasons, and I’ll give each of you your due. I’ll look for the best and turn away from the worst. (Okay, I’ll probably still complain loudly on Facebook about snow days and shoveling and heating bills.)

It’s hard to say good-bye, and I hate transition times, so I might be singing a different tune in a week or two. For now, though, we’re squeaking out our last bit of fun this week and preparing for the return of routine next week.

Thank you, summer of 2014, for reminding me of all you have to offer. You’ve earned a place among my favorite seasons. (Spoilers: It’s a 4-way tie.)

How was your summer? What’s your favorite season and why?

Not worth the journey: Review of The Trail by Ed Underwood

August 13, 2014

I had high hopes for this book, maybe too high. When I read the description for The Trail by Ed Underwood, I thought it sounded a bit like The Shack. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book from Tyndale House in exchange for my review.) Unfortunately, it doesn’t measure up to the quality of storytelling found in The Shack, and I found it overall not as interesting as I’d hoped.

The Trail is a parable about discovering God’s will and it centers on a couple, Matt and Brenda, who are trying to make a decision about Matt’s job prospects. Their friends send them in to the woods to meet an old mountain man/preacher, Sam, who is supposed to take them on a weekend journey in the mountains and teach them principles about discovering God’s will.

I liked the principles and thought they were useful statements in the life of a Christian. And I appreciate the idea of the book because we, as Christians, often make the concept of finding God’s will too difficult.

However, I really couldn’t identify with any of the characters. Matt seemed like a selfish jerk. Brenda was a little bit flighty and weak. And Sam was sometimes just hard to believe as a person. He preached a lot and the conversations between the characters were not realistic. I also wasn’t sure whose point of view we were supposed to be reading most of the time. There were clues, but it was awkward.

I almost couldn’t finish the book and ended up skimming the last couple of chapters just to be done with it.

I did take away a few good principles, but the effort to find them just wasn’t worth it for me.

When I want to go deeper

August 12, 2014

A beach vacation is hardly first on my list of destinations, but at the request of friends, we decided to take the plunge, so to speak, and take a joint family vacation with another family.

It was wonderful in ways I’m still trying to understand, myself.

And it was enriching to my spiritual life, even though the only time we set foot in a church was to admire the stained glass in the Catholic church on the square.

Because standing on the shore of the ocean, I can feel God and sense His presence.

Deep calls to deep, the psalmist says, and I don’t understand it but that’s what I feel when I look out on the forever-and-ever stretch of water before me.

It calls to me. And I want to dive in, splash, and be swept away by something bigger than me.

I look at the ocean, and I see God.

I’m blogging at Putting on the New today. Read the rest of this post here.

What the snapshot doesn't show

August 11, 2014

Lights in a rainbow of colors criss-crossed the stage, near-blinding the audience at times, perfectly coordinated to the heart-thrumming rock music blaring from the stage. The congregated faithful raised their hands, swaying, dancing to the beat, overcome to overflowing with joy and adoration.

Fifteen years ago, this is what I thought the Christian experience was all about. The ecstatic worship the pinnacle of spirituality. I drank in every opportunity to attend concerts and festivals and experiences that would remind me of my new nature, my new family, my new take on the world. I wanted to be carried along on the high from one experience to the next and never come down.

Looking around me in the present, I wondered if anyone else was thinking that. I wondered if their faith was strengthened by the gathering of believers or if they were downcast at the appearance of everyone else’s exuberant worship. I was among those singing my heart out but not because my life was full and my joy unending. The opposite was true.

I was spent. Dry. Worn out. And all I could do was sing loud in hopes that my soul would hear.

—

“You look so relaxed!”

I had posted this picture from our first day at the beach and the comments echoed this sentiment. Because how could you be at the beach and not be relaxed?

In truth, it was our worst day at the beach. Two tired mommas with five rowdy kids were anxiously awaiting the arrival of the dads and the weather–how dare it!–was not what we needed. The wind stirred up the sand, stinging our backs and covering everything. Away from the ocean, our kids cried as the sand mercilessly surrounded us. We were all tired after a day of travel. We were determined to spend a bare minimum of a couple of hours at the beach because of the colossal effort it took us to get there that morning.

When I snapped the picture, it was so I could text it to my husband with the greeting: Wish you were here! (A note with a double meaning, for sure.) I posted it online later in the day because it was a decent picture of me. (I don’t do a lot of selfies.) And I was surprised at the message it conveyed.

If we’re not careful, our whole lives can play out like this. We can wear our masks of comfort and civility when deep inside we are hurting and bitter. We can put our best clothes on when our souls are covered with filthy rags. We can say the right things and do the right things and never let on that our lives feel wrong. We can paint a pretty picture for the world to admire hoping no one will look too closely and see that we’re just trying to cover up a tattered canvas.

I don’t know about you, but it’s really easy for me to judge someone’s surface. I glance and assume and never take the time to scratch away my assumptions. And I walk away distressed because my life as I know it doesn’t measure up to what I perceive is someone else’s reality. And I’m not just talking about Facebook and Pinterest and Instagram. I’m talking in real life with the people walking around beside me.

I not only judge a book by its cover, I judge a life by its snapshot.

Because that’s really all I get in a moment is a snapshot. One picture that represents just a moment, not the whole. Even a scrapbook of snapshots wouldn’t tell the whole story. I know that my snapshots don’t show you what’s really going on. So, why do I assume it’s that way for everyone else?

—

I have to write a recap of our family’s year for a family reunion on my husband’s side.

I will confess that I dread this task. I hate writing a year-end Christmas letter, too, because all the highlights and cheer are not the sum total of our lives. There was a year not too long ago when I wanted to lay it all out there–all the junk our family was going through because I just couldn’t fake it anymore. I think we managed a letter that addressed the reality without covering it up, but I still didn’t want to write it.

I’m learning that a year is not all highs and not all lows. Nor is a month or a week or a day. It is some of each, and I am one of the first to side with an extreme. (Life sucks! I hate everything! Why are we here?) My husband gently reminds me that this is not the way it is. That even in the hardest weeks, we have bright spots. It is one of the reasons we try, as a family, to share one best thing and one worst thing about our day at dinnertime. No one has to have a worst part but we encourage each other to find one best part.

Some days, we need reminding that there was good in our world.

—

The windows are down, a breeze filling the car as we zoom the country roads. I am singing at the top of my voice, uncaring about the notes or how I sound. I want to scream and yell and hit things but this day, I sing instead. It is a release, of sorts.

I am curled up on the bed, bawling on a Sunday morning before church because I don’t want to go and be with people. I want to wallow in my own messy life. But I wipe my nose and dry my eyes, all puffy and red, and I go, less because I want to and more because I think I should.

And I find myself in good company, among those with messy lives and heavy burdens and free-flowing tears. There is comfort and joy and love and care.

And there is this song.

Bless the Lord, O my soul, O my soul. Worship his holy name. Sing like never before, O my soul. I’ll worship your holy name.

The sun comes up, there’s a new day dawning, it’s time to sing your song again, whatever may pass and whatever lies before me, let me be singing when the evening comes.

Sing like never before. And I do. Loud and raspy and off-key.

Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me. There are good things and bad things that have happened and will happen. There are weeks of triumph and weeks of trial. This is the sum total of the Christian experience. Not just breathtaking mountaintops. Not just sunless valleys. Some days are deserts. Others are waterfalls. Some draining, others refreshing. And the presence of one does not guarantee the absence of the other. A good week may be followed by a bad one. A bad one may lead to a good one. A season of trial will not last forever, nor will a season of comfort.

Let me be singing when the evening comes. At the end of the day, week, month, year, will I still be singing no matter what happens?

It is a prayer of constancy in an ever-changing world.

This moment, whatever it may be, does not define my life. Or your life. This season is not all there ever is. And what you see now is not how it always was or will be.

Let’s not be afraid to step out from behind the picture. To show our lives for what they are: a messy, beautiful reality. And to look for the scratches beneath the surface of other people’s pictures.

Not so we can judge each other more but so we can love each other more.

Maybe we’ll love ourselves a little more in the process, too.

What I needed to hear: Review of Speak by Nish Weiseth

August 6, 2014

For those who doubt their life or story matters, this is a collection of stories to convince you otherwise.

Speak: How Your Story Can Change the World is a sometimes-gentle, sometimes not, kick in the pants for everyone, not just writers or storytellers or speakers, to tell our stories. And it is equal parts inspiring and convicting. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book from Zondervan through the Booklook Bloggers program.)

The author, Nish Weiseth, is the founder of one of my favorite blog spaces, A Deeper Story, and though I haven’t read a lot of her work, in particular, I love the mission of the site and the stories shared there. So, I’m pleased to discover I love Weiseth’s writing as well.

And her message–that stories are more powerful than all the labeling and stereotyping and arguing policy that goes on–is timely. Over the two days that I read the book, I watched online arguments erupt and devolve into hatred among strangers over stories about a group of Muslims using a community room at a local rec center for a religious observation and about whether a 37-weeks-gestation body found in a garbage can should be called a “fetus” or a “baby.” (I digress a little but only to show the relevance of Weiseth’s work.) It is situations like those–and so many more–that call for stories. That urge us to know people for who they are not what we think they are or should be. Weiseth calls us to ask questions, to listen, and to tell our stories in an exchange of humanity. She writes,

This book is a call to do just that– to change the game by telling the stories of our lives with courage, honesty, and integrity. It’s a call to acknowledge that each of our stories is a small piece of the greatest story–God’s continual work and transforming power in our lives. (24)

One of my favorite features of the book is the reprinted blog posts at the end of each chapter illustrating how a specific story changes the way we see a particular issue or stereotype. I love that Weiseth shared her book space with other writers to add another layer to the work. And though she has written a book and lives in Salt Lake City as part of a church plant, Weiseth is also a mother to two young children and immersed in the daily routines of life and family. She insists that our lives don’t have to look like a Hollywood movie to matter.

Most people are living life by daily fulfilling the obligations set before them. … And though you may be living what seems like an ordinary life, faithfully doing what God has placed in front of you to do means you are actually living an extraordinary story. (183)

Not a book just for those who communicate for a living but one for anyone striving to live a life that brings more of the Kingdom of God to earth. Our stories, our journeys, our trials and triumphs, matter. And, as Weiseth says, they can be the catalyst for change in someone else’s life.

When I'm surprised by prayer

August 4, 2014

I am not what you would call a “prayer warrior.”

I forget to pray. I tell people I’ll pray and then I forget. I try things on my own effort before praying as a last resort. I intend to make a dedicated time in my day to pray and then oversleep or get distracted by the children fighting in the first 10 minutes of being awake. (Summer, we love you, but it seems like we’ve had enough.)

And even when I do remember to pray and do so faithfully for a time, I give up too early when I don’t see anything change and I wonder if prayer really is effective, like the Bible says, or if it’s me who has a deficit in righteousness.

But then there are weeks like this last one. When I pray and the answers surprise me and I believe all over again that God cares and hears, and yes, prayer matters.

—

Our eight-year-old mini-van has been limping for a few weeks now. We weren’t sure what was wrong only that she wasn’t running as smoothly as she could. (Why is our van a “she”? I have no idea.)

On Tuesday, the kids and I piled into the car to run a quick errand only to discover the car would not start. I panicked, then took a deep breath, then tried again and it started but it was still being funny and I prayed all the way to the store and back that please, God, could you just get us there and back without trouble.

He did, and the car did not repeat its antics for my husband (which always makes me feel like a stereotypical hysterical female, even though he does nothing to encourage that feeling) when he drove home from work that night.

I continued to pray for safe travels around town, but as I prayed through the week and the car continued to limp, I changed my prayer from “get us there and back safely” to “if we’re going to have a breakdown, let us see You in it.” I feared being stranded while out running an errand and prayed that we would see a friend if that happened. I feared being stalled in traffic and prayed that a police officer would pass at the right moment to help us. I prayed that Phil would be with us when it happened because his head is much cooler than mine in times of adversity.

We made it through the week without a breakdown, and I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that Phil would soon make the call to get the car into a mechanic. We had survived another week and I felt like we’d won a battle.

—

Sunday was a busy day for us. Phil was scheduled to preach one of his occasional sermons. I was in charge of coffee and snacks and had two containers of muffins to contribute.

Because he works a full-time job during the week, sermon prep often happens in his head and takes shape on Saturday night. Sometimes late. I prayed that he would have clarity and vision and focus. His process would drive me, the planner, crazy, but it works for him and God always shows up.

Still, when the light bulb of an idea went off on Saturday night and the message took shape, I shook my head in amazement.

Why am I surprised when God answers prayers?

As I baked the muffins, I continued my praying because I have struggled to have a servant’s heart during coffee hour. I love providing food and coffee for people but sometimes, I am overwhelmed by the burden of it and the need to be appreciated. So, I prayed for God to change my heart, which was tending toward selfish, and let me have a heart of service. And I prayed that we would be able to feed people with the few snacks we had available. Our stock was desperately low, and the muffins were a last-ditch effort to make sure we had enough.

—

We managed to be ready to leave for church when we wanted to be–early enough that Phil could get prepared for his part in the service and I could start the coffee. The kids were dressed and mostly behaving, so we were feeling good for a Sunday morning.

The kids and I loaded ourselves into the van. I turned the car on to lower the windows while we waited for Phil to join us. He got into the car, stuck his key in the ignition and turned.

Nothing happened. Except the thing that had happened to me on Tuesday. The dials on the dash went wacky but the car didn’t start.

He tried again. And again.

He popped the hood.

And tried again.

We had no extra time to try to get the car going, so we phoned for help.

Our pastor came to pick us up. We loaded our kids and their seats and the muffins and the sermon props into the car and headed to church.

I was in tears.

Of all the mornings, Lord! Why this one? Why when Phil has to preach did the car not start?

The short drive to church reminded me that this exact thing is what I had prayed for. (Okay, maybe not this exact scenario, but it was an answer to prayer.)

We had been stranded at home. On a Sunday. When lots of people we know are available to help us and drive by our house. We had time to spare before church started. Yes, it was inconvenient and not according to plan, and yes, we had to rely on the help of others, but of all the scenarios I’d imagined about our car breaking down, this was by far, the best one.

It didn’t happen on vacation. Or on our many trips through the Midwest to take the kids to their grandparents or pick them up. It didn’t happen while we had a van full of groceries or while Phil was at work or on a busy road.

I still cried about it because I hate when things break, but I saw the good in it. And how God had answered my prayer.

—

I headed straight for the church kitchen when we arrived. The kids and I had done some prep work the day before, so all I really had to do was turn the coffee pot on and get a few things in order.

But I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of four boxes of donuts on the counter.

Four. Boxes. Of donuts.

I hadn’t planned for them, but there they were. Provision. Not exactly like fishes and loaves, but a close enough comparison to make me grateful for the God who hears and sees and provides even donuts.

I set to work cutting the donuts into halves so they would go further, and I shared our troubles with friends who popped in to ask how we were.

And I realized that my prayer for a heart of service was answered, too. Because it is hard to worry about what other people are thinking of your snacks when your van is sitting dead in the driveway and people are pouring love into you by caring and shuttling and hugging and offering to help.

—

The van needed a new battery, which in itself was an answer to a prayer I didn’t pray because that’s a less expensive solution than having the car towed to the mechanic and who knows what else. After a Skype consultation with my dad (our family mechanic) and a ride from a church member to the auto parts store, Phil was able to fix the battery problem, and we still made it to his work picnic in time to have dinner with his co-workers and their families.

Our car troubles are not completely over, but this week reminded me that my worries are not a worry for God. My prayers do matter and God hears them, even when I pray for things to turn out a certain way and He has other ideas.

I forget that prayer is not just telling God something or making a list of requests, but it’s part of a relationship. And it doesn’t end when we say “amen.” If we keep our eyes open, we might discover answers to prayer we didn’t expect.

I could use more of those kind of surprises in my life; couldn’t you?

The surprising word that sums up our vacation

July 31, 2014

I remember the year everything about vacation changed.

It was sometime in those middle school years, I think, and my parents took us on a trip to Florida they or someone in our family had won through some kind of promotion. And of course, there was a catch. The kind where you go on the trip in exchange for sitting through an hour-long promotion from an agency that sells condos. (We did this on our honeymoon to score some gas cards and a restaurant gift card. It wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever done, but it also wasn’t pleasant.) My parents sat and listened to the man and his sales pitch while my brother and I did whatever we could to entertain ourselves. I remember they told my parents afterward how well-behaved we were. Maybe that was part of the pitch.

Our family walked away from the meeting that day the proud new owners of a time-share condo in Daytona Beach. I secretly thought my parents might be crazy, but I was a kid, so what did I know?

From then on, our vacation destination was set: Daytona Beach, Florida. Or, if it wasn’t too much trouble, somewhere else we could exchange our week. One year, it was Arizona. (The aforementioned honeymoon was in Williamsburg, Virginia, and is thanks to that time share week, so I guess I better not complain!)

The beach. Most summers we drove for two days to spend time at the beach.

And what I remember most about those summers is ridiculously painful sunburn (the fate of the fair-skinned) and overwhelming feelings of inadequacy about my body (the fate of the non-bikini-clad, at least that’s what I thought then). I was never a partier, so a week at the beach was not the raucous good time I’m sure some of my peers might have envisioned. In truth, I was happy to sit on the balcony of the condo (in the shade) and read book after book after book. But that was how I would have spent my summer no matter where I was. The view was just a little better in Florida.

Two years ago, our little family of four got to go to Daytona together with my parents, and that trip redeemed most of my so-so memories of Florida vacations.

But I still had my reservations about the beach. We are reluctant acquaintances.

—

Months ago, our friends posed the question: What would we think about taking a vacation to the beach with their family?

We’ve lived in Pennsylvania for six years and the “shore” has been on our list of things we wanted to do, just to experience what so many of our friends and acquaintances know and love. But we didn’t know where to begin or if we could go for the day, and frankly, we’ve never had the money or time to do it. Our friends go to Cape May, New Jersey, and they stay in the same house each time, and we’ve heard wonderful things about that area. So, this seemed the perfect opportunity.

Still, I was hesitant.

I’m not really a beach person, I told my friend, who is the complete opposite. She could live on the beach and be happy the rest of her days (and I love her for that). But we kept talking about it and because we love this family so much and their kids and our kids are friends, we agreed to look into and consider the costs and availability.

Long story, shorter, we booked a week in a house in Cape May, New Jersey, and last week embarked on our first-ever vacation with another family to the beach.

In the week leading up to vacation, I was super stressed out. Our kids had been back from Illinois only a few days before our beach week was to begin, and I hate packing. Plus, our travel was going to be split up. The moms and kids were going on Saturday and the dads would follow on Sunday. So, I had to segregate the packed belongings into Saturday and Sunday piles. It was overwhelming.

By the time I got in my friend’s van on Saturday, I was ready for some R&R. Except that we had five kids between the two of us and more than three hours of driving ahead of us. R&R was maybe a far-fetched dream.

—

Traffic snarled and crawled as we drew closer to the beach. The miles ticked down on the GPS and time seemed to stand still. Then finally–FINALLY–we were at the house and out of the car and unpacking our meager belongings (the second wave of provisions would arrive Sunday night with the men). And we could hardly wait another minute to see the ocean. So, we piled back into the van and drove out to the park where the lighthouse stands. We raced over the dunes, spread our arms wide and exhaled.

With a breezy welcome, the ocean crashed its greeting onto the shore. We cast off our shoes and let the sand fill the gaps between our toes. The ocean teased us with its gentle lapping, and we let the cool waters wash our feet. It was a foretaste of the week to come, just enough to remind us that we had made it. We walked the shore, the kids running off their dormant energy, collecting shells, until our feet couldn’t take any more. We bid the ocean “good night” then searched for a pizza place to satisfy our hunger.

We woke the next day with plans to hit the beach for real and after a Herculean effort to wrangle five kids into swimwear and pack a lunch, we made it to the beach and the children frolicked while we soaked up sun and let the rhythmic ocean waves soothe our weary souls. (But lest I forget, the wind was fierce that day and the sand was stinging us. We may look relaxed in our pictures but we were fighting for our happy place.)

It is not easy getting to the beach, but once you’re there, it’s worth it. Each day we were at the beach, I felt like time stood still.

After dinner, we walked the promenade and stumbled upon a wedding taking place on the beach. As my friend, Beth, so eloquently observed:

We (2 exhausted mammas and 5 full of energy children) walk the mile or so to the end of the promenade-where ocean meets rocky shore-where a wedding party forms. Bridesmaids clothed in teal, hairspryed hair withstanding wind. Groom wringing his hands. A bridal white horse drawn carriage rolls to a halt. The girl children-busily imagining their weddings 20 years the making-“Ohhhh and Ahhh” as they see her, the Princess bride. As we all are taken by the magic of the moment-of the majestic ocean and mystery of love-the horse, adorned with braided hair and roses, urninates while all five of our kiddos loudly observe, “Ewww He’s peeing.”

Our men arrived later that night to find their wives barely hanging onto sanity. They’d never been more heroic in our eyes.

We had literally already been to the nut house.

—

The week was full of surprises. Perhaps the most surprising was this: I actually had a good time. And by that I mean I would do it all again tomorrow. All the packing, all the driving, all the washing sand out of everything, all the protecting our lunches from seagulls, all the sunscreen, all the lotion, all the walking and sweating and cooking and cleaning.

It’s not that I expected to have a horrible time. I knew it would be fun because our friends are fun and seeing new places is fun and being together as a family is fun. I just didn’t expect to have so much fun I’m actually missing it today. Me? Missing the beach? Who’d have thought?

I had hoped to write a post listing all my favorite things about our trip or recounting all the best moments, but the truth is, I can’t choose favorite moments because there are too many. Each day was special for lots of reasons and to single out a best moment is too hard. (Plus, I don’t want you to hate me for having a fabulous beach vacation. Trust me, it’s a rarity for our family. We do not live glamorous lives all the time. Case in point, this blog post.)

So, how would I sum up our vacation? You’ve read this far, so I owe you a word, and that word is the word that I’ve been meditating on all year long.

Enjoy.

From the splashing in the water to the digging our toes in the sand to the climbing the lighthouse steps to the date night with tasty seafood to the shared meals around the kitchen table to the late-night talks to the overall ambiance of this historical seaside resort, I enjoyed our vacation. (And if you need to know why it’s so hard for me to enjoy life, read this post.)

So, here’s my question for you: When’s the last time you were surprised by how much you enjoyed something? Care to share your story? Leave a comment so we can enjoy together.

When the series has to end: Review of Abandoned Memories by MaryLu Tyndall

July 30, 2014

By the time I reach the third book in a series, the characters are my “friends.” (Don’t judge me, I’m an introvert.) And even though I know a series has to come to an end, sometimes I still dread it.

I’ve been eagerly awaiting Abandoned Memories, the third and final installment in MaryLu Tyndall’s Escape to Paradise trilogy that follows a group of American colonists post-Civil War to the jungles of Brazil to form a new Southern utopia. And it was only disappointing in that it signaled the end of the journey for this group. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book from the author in exchange for my review.)

The second book, Elusive Hope, left with a mystery I couldn’t wait to see solved. And Abandoned Memories delivered. I only needed one day to read it. So, if this is the first time you’re hearing about this series, let me catch you up without giving too much away.

It began with Forsaken Dreams, on a ship bound for Brazil. There we first met this lively bunch of characters who include Captain Blake Wallace and Eliza Crawford, Magnolia Scott and Hayden Gale, and James Callaway and Angeline Moore. each with their own reasons for leaving their lives in America behind for a second chance at happiness. The first book focuses on Blake and Eliza and the obstacles they each need to overcome to find that second chance. Book two is the story of Magnolia and Hayden, who both must give up a dream to discover a life of true purpose and beauty. And book three zeroes in on James and Angeline, both who have disreputable pasts but are determined to make a new start in the new colony.

Woven through each of these stories is a mysterious temple that both draws and repels the members of the budding colony. Some are drawn by the lure of riches buried below. Others are afraid of the darkness enshrouding the temple. In this final book, the mysteries of the temple are fully revealed and these six main characters learn how their lives have been intertwined for a reason: to defeat a terrible evil.

The adventure. The romance. The spiritual battles. It all comes together in a page-turning, heart-pumping story, one I hate to see end, but know it’s for the best.

Definitely don’t read this one unless you’ve got your hands on the first two. I’m tempted to go back and read them all together again just for the continuity of the story.

If you’re a fan of movies like Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom and Romancing the Stone, or the TV show Lost, then this is a series you don’t want to miss.