Rear View Mirror

Being a full-time working Mom married to a stay-at-home Dad does have its perks. Mitch occasionally tapes for me an Oprah episode which he thinks I will enjoy. One of these was a fashion tips show to help answer that most prevalent of questions asked daily by millions of American women: "Does this outfit make my butt look big?"

As one who has never been able to purchase a suit unless the jackets and skirts are sold separately, I awaited Oprah’s assistance on the edge of my seat.

I watched Oprah’s guest, Stacy Landon (who hosts her own show “What Not to Wear”) demonstrate disappearing-derrierre tricks on several women. My favorite is called “Bisecting the Butt.” This is not a surgical procedure but a sleight-of-wardrobe technique wherein one’s jacket hangs just halfway down one’s rear, thereby producing an illusion of less. Forget about covering up the whole enchilada with really long sweaters, ladies. It merely emphasizes what lies beneath.

I also found useful the whole discussion of a slightly lowered rise in your pants waist, combined with legs which are boot cut rather than tapered, and being careful to avoid hip pockets embellished with snaps, flaps or embroidered butterflies, instead opting for a tailored slash pocket, which she claims produces a trimmer effect.

What fascinated me far more than any of this, however was how each makeover candidate began: “I have always been bothered by my large butt.”

Each of these women looked to me like really normal, attractive ladies of average shape and size. It occurred to me that if most American women obsess about the size of our derrieres (or other parts), perhaps our inadequacies have more to do with perception than reality.

Oh, I do realize that our fast-food culture has delivered super-sized buns with a side of thighs. I recall the dire warnings about chocolate, “If you’re going to eat that, you might just as well smear it on your rear, ‘cuz that’s where it’s going to end up. A moment on the lips, forever on the hips.”

I do frequently remind myself that my body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, and in that connection I recognize that the back side of the sanctuary could use some renovations via crunches, leg lifts or whatever moves me. In my ongoing struggle against the world, the flesh and the donuts, the taming of the tush is often in arrears.

I do know all that.

Still, I felt curiously reassured as I reflected on my Creator’s formation of me and all my sisters. We are fearfully and wonderfully (and very, very intentionally) made. Pulling up around the curves merely indicates we are in the presence of magnificent mountainous scenery. People pay a lot of money to live among Colorado’s breathtaking views, as opposed to down in Kansas where the land is as flat as a supermodel’s tummy.

And that’s another thing. King Solomon praised his lover’s abdomen and described it as a “heap” or “mound” of wheat, “encircled by lilies.” Heaps and mounds are not skinny! And I’m fairly certain “lilies” are just a poetic way of describing stretch marks.

Husbands, go give your wife a love pat right now and tell her she’s gorgeous from mast to keel and stem to stern. And for those of you women whose husband is not as forthcoming with compliments as you might like, or for you who call God your Husband during this season, you go get that affirmation from Him right this instant! For starters, read Song of Songs 2:10-13 and all of Chapter 4. Be assured He looks at you with AT LEAST this great an intensity of love and adoration. And He longs for ours in return.

Ladies, let’s stop looking in the rear view mirror, shall we?

Oh, feel free to bisect your butt, buy boot cut legs instead of tapered, and practice other tricks of the trade. I know I will. At the same time, never forget we are beautifully and wonderfully created. And that’s the bottom line.

“Forgetting what is behind . . . I press on for my high calling . . .”

Life is Like Sudoku

Mitch loves his Rubik’s – 3x3, 4x4 and even the Professor’s 5x5. He even wanted a “back-up” 5x5 where the tiles are stickers rather than glued-on real tiles (like his current one) so he can play more freely without worrying about the tiles chipping off and being lost. Around Thanksgiving, I thought this was an unnecessarily frivolous expenditure and naysayed his request. Two days before Christmas with no gift for my husband, I felt differently and walked into Barnes & Noble looking for a Professor’s Cube. Why would I expect to find a Professor’s Cube at Barnes & Noble? I don’t know, I just want things to be easy and be located wherever I’m looking for them.

While they don’t carry a Professor’s Cube at Barnes & Noble, I did find something I thought would satisfy my husband – a Sudoku book. I had vaguely heard of Sudoku as a current craze, but when I read that it’s being called “the Rubik’s Cube of today” I knew I had a winner Christmas present for my husband.

What I didn’t realize is how much I would enjoy it myself, or that it could become a fun family activity we could do together. I also found a “Rubik’s Sudoku” set which has repositionable colored tiles which you can arrange to form any Sudoku puzzle, then solve. If you’re not fond of numbers and love colors, this set is for you. The tiles have numbers if you need them, but the colors stand out far more vividly.

Sudoku can be easy enough for our ten-year-old son – or for me – and it can be challenging enough to satisfy my Rubikian husband. I read the tips that came with the book and color-tile set, but it was Mitch who helped me see the puzzle differently.

Just in case you’ve never tried Sudoku, you have to fill a 9x9 grid on paper with the numbers 1 through 9 in any order so that every row, every column, and the nine 3x3 cubes within the 9x9 grid each contain the numbers 1 through 9, using each number only once in each row, each column, and each 3x3 cube. The puzzle comes with a few numbers filled in for you, and the rest are blank. You figure it out one square at a time, using pure logic. If you guess and you’re wrong, you throw off your results for the entire puzzle. So you really shouldn’t complete a square until you know for sure that one number and no other should be in that spot.

If you can’t stand numbers, know that this has nothing to with math. You could just as easily use pictures of nine different NFL logos. In fact, I was thinking maybe my 4-yr old would enjoy Sudoku if I could come up with a simpler version say in 4x4 or 6x6, using pictures of different farm animals instead of numbers. It’s the same principle.

Even before I wrapped the book for Mitch, I couldn’t take my eyes off the first puzzle, although I didn’t of course work it since I didn’t want to spoil his gift. After giving it to Mitch, I started “borrowing” it to play myself. I was fumbling along on my first puzzle, enjoying the process but taking rather a long time about it, when Mitch showed me a different way to look at it. Instead of trying to figure out what three or four numbers were missing from a row, which is time-consuming, he helped me look at the rows or columns in groups of three. He was immediately able to solve the simplest squares by just scanning three rows or three columns. If he saw the same number twice, he could often complete that number in the missing column or row. I know this story begs for an illustration, but I barely have time to write about it, much less find pictures that show you what I mean. But if you already play Sudoku you understand. And if you start playing you will quickly get my point as well.

Now here is what really excites me. Coming up to a New Year, I am once again thinking of the zillion ways my life needs to change. Diet changes, exercise, better time management, more time spent in prayer/worship/Bible study/Bible memory; controlling my emotions, keeping up with relationships, making the best use of the few short years we have to disciple our children, working on better ways of communicating with Mitch (less nagging), becoming an empowered person in my home/work/life, calling my mother and my sister more often, contacting my 100+ relatives more than once a decade, dealing with our financial shortfalls, the need to better train our dogs, and the ever-present problem of doing something about all the stuff in my basement.

On and on. It becomes overwhelming to me and then I slip into hopeless “nothing will ever change” mode. And worst of all, Mitch is disappointed by my chronic stressing.

And that is where my life feels like Sudoku, a fiendish level puzzle.

If I look at the entire puzzle, particularly as a novice, I feel overwhelmed by all the blank spots, all the data that doesn’t seem to correlate.

But if I can find a mentor, I don’t need that mentor to give me the answers necessarily, but to help shape my ways of looking at the problems.

I think the number one change I need to make this New Year’s is NOT to have a list of resolutions which I will dump within one week or less, leaving me in the dumps.

Rather, I think I need to do two things in 2007:

1) Look at my life in terms of patterns. Most of the changes I need to make would be affected by one or two areas. Instead of making lists of changes, I’m going to focus on finding “mentors” – friends or book authors – who can help me see the patterns of my life in a more strategic way.
2) Resist the urge to make unsustainable big changes. Instead, make tiny incremental changes which will become habitual. Einstein spoke of the greatest “invention” of all being the miracle of compounded interest. If it works that well in the realm of money, how about in the realm of personal habit?

Like Sudoku, I think solving one square will yield clues to solve other squares, more importantly giving me emotional momentum, encouragement that change is possible.

What would you like to do differently in 2007?

Mehmet Oz and Me

Is your waist less than 35 inches, men? Less than 32.5”, ladies? If not, you may be dangerously exposing yourself to increased risk of heart disease, according to Dr. Mehmet Oz, who appeared recently on Oprah.

My sweet husband lovingly taped this Oprah episode for me, knowing that I could stand to do a slightly better job of living FOR my heart, my physical heart that is. I could only watch a few minutes before feeling overwhelmed by conviction, although Mitch kept assuring me the later part of the show supposedly contains GOOD news.

Dr. Oz tells me I have an organ attached to my stomach – called the omentum - which stores fat. In this picture, Oprah is holding up a healthy omentum. Unfortunately, I think mine looks like the one on the left.

Although many people who know me may not realize this, I am just a couple pounds shy of being officially obese for my height and weight.
Here is one obesity calculator

In 2006 my health plan added an obesity wellness benefit, including extra tests and nutritional counseling for those who qualify. I came home and rather flippantly told Mitch I might be able to get these benefits. He promptly assured me this is not something to be excited about!

One of the positive things which has come out of the recent heartache at my church is that I (and probably you and millions of other Christians) have begun taking inventory of my own life. What weaknesses can I work on correcting? Is my accountability plan adequate to protect me from myself? And so forth.

Shortly after, I read Mark Driscoll’s blog
(thanks to Todd’s Nov 6 post) where Mark talks about women who let themselves go, thereby not helping their husbands any in the battle against sexual temptations. He’s talking about pastors and their wives, but I think it’s relevant for everyone. I promptly went home and related this to Mitch, and told him I want to change. Not only so he can find me more sexually attractive, but so I can live longer to be a blessing to my children and others.

Now Dr. Oz tells me that the number I should be looking at, first and foremost, is not my weight but my waistline. While 32.5 inches may sound do-able for most women, it’s an other-end-of-the-rainbow number for me. Mitch, on the other hand, has gorgeous flat abs that fit in size 31 pants – only slightly bigger than high school – and well within the 35 inches suggested by Dr. Oz for optimum heart health. I’m very proud of him, and wish I could add his waistline with mine and call it a healthy family average. But each of us is responsible for our own chocolate consumption.

Anyone else out there ready to make a change? I know some of us think about this every New Year’s, but this time, I think I need a jump start in November. It’s going to take some serious momentum to trim my omentum.

I Can’t See Clearly Yet For Seven More Business Days

I experienced a rite of passage yesterday. When all was said, done, tested, and paid for, we went for dinner at Cracker Barrel because I needed comfort food. When Mitch went through this, I’m ashamed to say I made fun of him. Now that it’s my turn, I humbly implored mercy, and he showed enough good character to repay me with kindness.

And not only Mitch but everyone else. At Cracker Barrel, I had to ask the waitress to read the Children’s Menu to me so I could make sure my son wasn’t ordering extra stuff that didn’t come with his meal. My daughter is a big mac ‘n cheese fan, so I pointed to the thumbnail size picture of what appeared to be a plateful of orange grubs, since the caption was obviously typed in a 3-point font.

After months of putting my prescription reading glasses on, off, on, off, straining for my eyes to refocus again and again on objects near and far, I’m finally willing to make the plunge, step over the line, belly up to the bar and take a swing at the ball – if, that is, I can see it coming. (Is that a golf ball they’re pitching?)

Ten years ago, I would have gone to great lengths to avoid asking anyone for help, even if it had been needed. But time softens one’s resignations to life’s harsh realities, so it was with only mild trepidation that I ordered my first pair of bifocals yesterday.

But during the next seven business days, if you see me groping or squinting or feeling my way, have a heart. If you’re still in your 20’s, I promise to be nice to you someday. When it’s your turn.

Decompression on I-70

“You’re going to drive??” a couple of friends asked, politely raising eyebrows at the thought of fifteen hundred miles and nine states in three days, enclosed in a small space with two small children. Sure, it saves money, although perhaps not enough to make it worth my time, figuring gas prices and lost work days. No one else will have to listen to the four of us belting out “I love peanut butter – and jelly!” And no one will examine us or our luggage in a paranoid manner.

But really and truly, the reason I drive is to reconnect, both with myself and the land I love. Driving across America brings dozens of chances for small interactions with fellow Americans. Most friendly, a few rude. Mostly honest, a few cons. All part of the tapestry that makes up America, my America. I want my kids to sense how big it is, something a 9-year-old just can’t fathom from passing through the clouds above.

I heard of an explorer in Africa, nonplussed when, in mid-trek, his native guides insisted on sitting for one full day before proceeding further. “We need time for our souls to catch up with our bodies,” they told him. He had no choice but to wait for his soul to catch up too.

When you fly, your worries can make it past airport security and stowaway in the overhead compartment. Four hours later, you find yourself in the same state of mind, set in a different location.

When I drive, those same cares and worries just can’t seem to hang on the outside of a vehicle going 70 mph. Somewhere in the cornfields between Hays and Wichita, one by one they lose their grip and slip screaming off into the Kansas sunset, leaving you lighter as they go.



Like a deep sea diver who gets the bends if he surfaces too quickly, I need time to transition from my world to that of my relatives. It’s not like I won’t find stress and worries in plentiful supply there: the heart is the same, it’s just a different twang. But at least I don’t have to bring my own.

So at least for this trip, you can keep your Travelocity and Expedia. I’ll just decompress on I-70, and then I-64, I-57, I-24 and I-65 – for me, the Land Between.

We’ll stop when we get tired and ask if they’ve got a room, pool mandatory. After a peremptory inquiry about discounts, I’ll pay whatever they charge. Tomorrow I’ll wake up, eat their sugary donuts, drink their watery coffee, and drive on.

My soul is decompressing right on schedule.

(Note: I wrote this two weeks ago at start of vacation, far from internet access. Now I'm back ready to post again.)

Unprepared

Opera House Red and that's just her living room walls (until her husband makes her paint it). Kim's got more color in her life than a fruit salad, mixed in glorious chaos with elegance, wit, perseverance and unshakeable conviction. She doesn't like to talk about integrity because she's too busy living it. She's passionate, obstinate, and sometimes sounds like Whoopie Goldberg on truth serum. I've loved her dearly for nearly thirty years. Read her own blog: Mountain Home Companion, but today enjoy her guest post here:

Ordinarily I find my monthly reminder of the curse bearable. I know what to expect. A couple days of irritability and depression and the strong urge to cry, probably a day of really bad cramping followed by a lightening of mood that is nearly euphoric because it follows hard upon such a depressive low. Generally I manage not to act out too much because I know what to expect and I know the feelings are hormonal, and thus are a magnification of small disappointments, hurts and sorrows. I deal by keeping my mouth shut and warning people when I am on edge a bit, and by apologizing a lot when I over-react. This past week I found myself floundering, not because anything was that terrible, but because my expectations weren’t met. Guys may age with thinning hair or an ever-increasing forehead, and I’m sure some of what they go through stinks, but I find the hormonal changes at this early age unexpected and really annoying.

This month, for added fun, the cramping and depressive mood hung on for days. Five very long days. Ask anyone in my house. It was a very long week. Oh not the first day, which I expected, but when the expected mood lightening didn’t happen, and I never felt that wonderful lift in spirits I have come to expect over the last several months, I gave in to the black mood. I had geared myself up for a short sprint and used up my strength, having no idea that this was going to be a cross-country run.

I would love to tell you that I turned to the Lord and allowed him to empower me with his strength, but I didn’t. Even the wonderful joy I experience being part of the worship team, and the excitement and pleasure in singing praises to God didn’t reach the deep level of exhaustion and weariness. One day this week, finally realizing that I could not continue as I was, I headed out to a friend’s house several miles and a world away. When I called to ask if I could come I heard the hesitation in her voice, but then she said “If you don’t mind if I work.” She had to give haircuts to 13 of her 50 goats, the ones she is showing at the Boulder County Fair this coming weekend.

I rushed home to change into clothes that can get stinky, dirty, and torn without causing me any distress and headed out. It was mid-afternoon and I had put in several work hours already, but had been relatively unproductive. It was a hot, humid afternoon, and the barn smelled of goats, hay, manure, and sweat. Not a bad smell, but earthy.

For the next several hours I swatted flies away as I watched my friend shave one goat after the other in the sweltering barn. We were able to catch up a bit, and in the sharing, the heat, the sweat, the animals, and the fresh, albeit “earthy”, air, running the goats out to pasture for a bit, watching them feed, petting, playing, and having several goats chewing on the hem of my shirt, my good humor returned.

The tension and anxiety I’ve felt building lately, that had only gotten worse with my monthly visitor, was washed away, and I slept better than I have in ages. Even tramping through a field of ragweed and the headache that followed didn’t dampen the effects of simply being with my friend in her simple but hard-working life.

Today I find myself thinking about Elijah, who had his time of discouragement just after God has done a mighty work through him against the prophets of Baal. In a very public triumph, God showed himself powerfully, but upon the completion of that task, and after watching God do mightily, Elijah showed his human weakness. But God did not scorn him, he cared for him and sent ministers to him, revealing himself in a still small voice. There is such comfort to me in my own times of weakness and depression in how God treated Elijah. Were there recriminations? No. There was restoration for body and spirit.

Okay, I know that dealing with the monthlies is not the same as battling the prophets of Baal and their wicked queen, but we battle many things in this life that are discouraging and try to sap our spirit. For me it is physical disability, financial distress, family discord, and sometimes just the feeling that I am very alone in this world with few to understand me. It may be spiritual warfare, lack of visible improvement in situations we pray for, whatever. Perhaps for you it is the daily battle to remain true and upright in a godless workplace, trying to stand for righteousness without being self-righteous, being gracious in a graceless society, or living out grace and mercy in a church that preaches it but doesn’t live it. Perhaps your family doesn’t share your faith, so you are constantly being tugged in two directions. Perhaps you are raising kids on your own after the man/woman to whom you pledged your life walked out the door. Perhaps you are mourning the loss of a loved one. Perhaps you are dealing with your own failures, bad choices, missteps and misdeeds. Or perhaps, like Elijah, you have just come through a time of seeing God work mightily through you, and now that the work is done and you have come down off the mountain, normal life is overwhelming you and depression

Perhaps your restoring time won’t be on a goat farm, but I pray that you will have that time. It can be alone with God, where his simple presence heals and restores your spirit or it can be when you are with someone who shares your faith and lets you fall on your face without judgment. Perhaps it will be simply being with those who believe in the God who cares and who can remind you that even when life is at its worst that you are loved. May you have your time of restoration.

Blessings on your head.

I Am Therefore I Blog

My early blogging efforts, pre-internet, pre-lunar landing, involved a reel-to-reel tape recorder. I happily devoted hours to capturing songs, stories, Bible memory verses and other expressions of my very small world, to be played back for admiring family and friends. (Well, my mother was enthusiastic, anyhow. An older sibling or two may have yawned and recalled the urgency of homework or dishwashing.)

At age 3 I composed a song including the phrase, “many, many missionaries, going on furlough” – clearly the big news of my day.

Much later, my Georgia family praised my renown as correspondent. Unfortunately, my missives from Tokyo had so much detail I would be exhausted for a year or two before writing another. A fault I still carry today.

But blogging is different; it has its own discipline built in to motivate regular posting. Letters go off in the mail and are never seen again; blog posts remain staring at one, until one writes something new to fill the spot.

They say women must utter roughly twice the number of words as men in a day, in order to achieve emotional resolution. (Some say this is because men don’t listen and women must say everything twice. I do not say this or I would be swiftly corrected, as the fault lies in the opposite direction in my household.) However, I know I must speak or write a significant amount each day or I feel I have not fully lived.

Sometimes I put Mitch to sleep, particularly if I am really scraping the topic barrel to use up those last few thousand words.

I blog because I have a great many opinions and feel the world is entitled to share the enlightenment. But I cringe at the thought of boorish recitations to captive audiences (except of course when I am giving hour-long benefits orientations) so like any good flights of fancy attendant, may I direct your attention to the small X in the upper right corner of your screen. If at any time while reading my blog you feel bored, first wait a second and see if a little yellow oxygen mask pops out of the screen. Failing that, do feel free to exit in mid-flight. Assuming your parachute opens, you can always check my blog another day. Or not. You’re the customer, you decide.

Finally, I blog because I would like to be published someday. Second for personal fulfillment, first because my family needs the money (did I mention we both work for non-profits?) I want to get some thoughts out there, see what people want to read, what makes them yawn, what prompts response. Hone my writing, better develop my choice of topic. Then when I think I have something close enough to ready . . .

Why do you blog?

Unveiled

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
– Nelson Mandela

How would it feel, I wonder, to be a stone jar, holding twenty gallons of water (the size of my aquatic turtle’s tank), and experience an explosive force transforming everything inside me? How does one contain such power?

What sensations might I be aware of, if I were a clay jar with a flame inside? When the moment came, would I surrender my insecurities to shatter in a thousand pieces, my torch blazing courage while willing hearts blew Reveille, proclaiming oppression’s defeat to my family and country?

Exactly what do I accomplish when I drag my uncertainties through my neighborhood, workplace, or Wal-Mart, careful to set everyone straight, not just in words, but by my shoulders’ droop and the scuff of my step, "I’m just a jar, you know, nothing special here"?

It’s true, if you only look at me, you might well miss the brightness. We carry this precious Message around in the unadorned clay pots of our ordinary lives. That's to prevent anyone from confusing God's incomparable power with us.

But make no mistake, the force inside is all-surpassing, powerful beyond measure. Strong enough to slake the world’s thirst with a joyful exuberance beyond mere water, blazing enough to break a tyrant’s grasp on the communities we love.

For eons, condemnation held glory captive, veiled, Rapunzel in her tower. Like the dwelling (you could hardly call it a home) we saw once in the Colorado mountains, no neighbors near, and no neighborliness either, barbed wire fence adorned with bullet-riddled cans, draped animal skins, and a four-by-six-foot sign proclaiming "The Law allows us to shoot trespassers on sight." Pretty scary stuff, like Numbers 11 and 16. If you see somebody climbing the fence, stand back.

That’s how it had to be, until one Friday, when Love’s clay jar shattered, mangled beyond comprehension, and simultaneously a four-inch-thick veil ripped wide, exposing the heart of God. Revealing the plans He'd cherished all along, to bathe our street dirt off and set us on the thrones of Cair Paravel. Once a king or queen in His Kingdom, always so.

With that in mind, don't focus on the unworthiness of your clay jar. Mandela added, "Your playing small doesn't serve the world." Do not call anything impure that God has made clean. Including yourself.

Instead, let the glory we hold be a spotlight for His dance. Provide people with a glimpse of good living and of the living God. Carry the light-giving Message into the night, bringing out the God-colors in the world. God’s glory and power inside me and you is not a secret to be kept. Go public! Don't hide under a bucket.

In responding to Nelson Mandela’s quote, John Eldredge wrote, "I realized we do fear our glory....because once we let others see it, they will see the truest us, and that is nakedness indeed."

My artistic friend took creations to a craft fair. Her neighbors oohed and aahed, did you do all these yourself? She wrote to me, "I felt they were seeing the real me for the first time." Unveiled. Our truest God-given glory, exposed, off the shelf, sleeves rolled up and ready to work.

Whenever we turn to face God (in any previously unexplored aspect of our souls), the veil comes off and there we are--face to face! We're free – all of us! Nothing between us and God, our faces shining with the brightness of his face, Rapunzel letting down our hair for the King of Glory to come in. And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are transfigured much like the Messiah, our lives gradually becoming brighter and more beautiful as God enters our lives and we become like him. Naked and unashamed.

And that is why we call this Friday good.