Where We Stand: Candid Conversation

Dad and Katie are in a deep conversation on the subject of theological liberals vs. conservatives.

Peter: "What is a conservative?"

Abigail: "The good guys."

I Bet You Didn't Know....

I was "tagged" with another meme: to tell ten little known facts about myself. Without further ado, here they are. :)

1. I was medically tongue tied when I was born; blessedly it was discovered and corrected in infancy. Nevertheless, my family will tell you that I've been working hard ever since to make up for my early limitations.

2. I've had two different first and middle name pairings. My name was Lauren Michelle for my gestational life. It changed to Katharine Elizabeth on the way to the hospital.

3. My most dramatic accident left me only with three scars and a funny story to tell.

4. One of my least dramatic accidents left me with a fractured pelvis and an embarrasing story to tell

5. I once asked a blind lady what her favorite color was. This falls into the category of embarrasing moments caused by me trying to make up for my early verbal limitations.

6. I do not like to ride roller coasters, I prefer to get my thrills from eating raw lemons.

7. I am highly likely to get literal sympathy pains if someone describes an injury in any detail or if I see someone's injury, however I enjoy murder mysteries and a little detail in that context doesn't bother me in the least.

8. One of my dreams is to someday possess a ship in a bottle.

9. I have a mole on my left hand that I find extremely useful in telling my hands apart. Yes, I'm serious.

10. I love Greenland and all things Greenlandic.

I tag Sara, Abbie, Janel....any other takers?

Let Go (is an incomplete sentence)

I am and always have been a worrying saint. But I am very conscious that those two descriptions don't belong in the same sentence. I can't and don't want to change the saint part. But I'd sure like to change the worrying part.

I think sometimes about the verse in I Peter that commands me to cast my cares upon Christ. A chorus we sometimes sing paraphrases the verse like this, "I cast all my cares upon You, I lay all of my burdens down at your feet..."

That picture of laying whatever worries me at Jesus' feet is one I've carried in my mind for most of my life. It's a picture of letting go. Giving up. Refusing to worry any longer. For each of these concepts, all required by the verse, it is a good picture.

What the chorus doesn't fully illustrate is the second half of Christ's command--the part that is an indirect promise. We give, He takes. He doesn't, after all, stand passively by with an ever-growing pile of my cares at His feet.

No, for He takes it and looks after it from the time I let go ever afterwards...as His own burden. Instead of me. In every way as concerned about its final conclusion as I could be.

And I still go to all the trouble of worrying?

Naturally

"Yes, it's natural."

Those are words I say rather frequently. They are usually in reference to my hair. Sometimes, they are concerning color, sometimes concerning curl. Yes, it's blond. Yes, it's curly. And yes again, it's natural. Usually, the question comes from an acquaintance. Occasionally, it comes from a complete stranger.

Last week, I was exiting the library when I passed a gray haired woman going the other direction. I think I smiled in her direction; perhaps my acknowledgement of her existence was the reason she turned around a second later and called after me,

"Are your curls natural?"

I turned and informed her that they were.

That was all the invitation she needed to tell me Life Story, Chapter XXV, entitled "Curly-Haired Daughter." Curly-haired daughter (CHD) had straight hair until she was between the ages of 10-14. In fact, it was also fine and thin. "Wispy" is an adjective that might come to mind. She had brown hair, chestnut brown hair, "not blond like yours. Brown. Darker than yours."

By the time CHD turned 14, the transformation was complete. Her head was covered with goregous curls, "just like yours." It had also also turned coarse and thick.

From here the story became rather confused. There is a beautician in CHD's family. It is clear that curls are not "in style." (Although I was also informed that none of the celebrities look even a little bit pretty if they don't have just a bit of curl.) CHD has dyed her hair black, straightened it, and cut it just above her shoulders. She looks quite ugly now. In fact, she looks exactly like a witch.

I admit that I have a weakness for listening to people's life stories. People are infinitely fascinating creatures. But sometimes it is unclear how to best respond to some people's admissions. This was certainly one of those times. What should one say upon being informed by an opinionated gray-haired mother that her erstwhile curly-haired daughter looks like a witch?

P&C

...stands for Pomp and Circumstance!!!

Hooray for Dad's commencement ceremony taking place in just an hour! He'll be graduating with a Master of Ministry after eight long years of persistent study while working full time (plus), taking care of his family of seven, and moving eight times!

Yeah, it's been tough sometimes. But I am most awfully grateful for his example of perserverance and keeping his eyes on the goal. And though the goal was always rather larger than a cap and gown, I must say I don't think a dash of P&C will hurt a bit.

(I've been watching "the kids" while Dad and Mom are in Atlanta for Dad's ceremony. Much as I wish I was there, I must admit we've had fun together being here. In case you were wondering, I've denied every request for lemon meringue pie. Some memories are too fresh....)

Gotta' Love It

On days when I am not so much like my heroine, I sometimes use my journal to help me refocus.

As you already know, Monday was such a day. What you didn't know was that journalling was just the escape I attempted.

I went to my room mid-morning and closed the curtain because I don't have a door yet. I sat down on my bed, opened my journal, and wrote my first sentence. That was approximately when I heard John's voice through the doorway. Solitude, alas, rarely lasts long in our house.

"Katie, can I come in?"

"No."

*pause*

"I wanted you to correct my math."

*Katie (rudely) didn't bother to reply.*

It was silent for only a moment afterwards before I heard the remote control trucks start up outside my bedroom. I turned back to my journal, content in the knowledge that John had successfully found something else to do. At least, I was content for a moment....

I had written perhaps a whole two paragraphs when I heard the truck noise slow down and come closer. That was when I saw that one of the trucks was being carefully manuevered back and forth so that it was gradually pushing the curtain open. I rolled my eyes and returned to my work.

I find it relatively easy to cut out noise when necessary. Utilizing my powers of concentration, I was able to ignore the full-scale remote control truck performance that was soon in full swing on my bedroom floor. When I returned to earth, it was to realize that the trucks were gone.

At least, I thought they were gone. A quiet "vroom, vroom" attracted my attention and I looked up again to see the largest truck slowly, cautiously approaching the edge of my bed with a math book, a sheet of math problems, and a pen stuck between the front bumper and the hood.

I corrected his math.

Study In (dis)Similarities

The only parrallel I can think of today between the Proverbs 31 woman and I: we both rose while it was "yet night."

And I went right back to bed!!

Purging

I still haven't decided about the disintegrating pine cones and graying stick, shed from some unknown tree. Nor have I decided about the plain, most ordinary rocks.

I've only decided it's no good being the Queen of Stuff. Most people would probably just call me a pack rat. I prefer the royal title; it sounds so much more graceful.

When the majority of my belongings spent a two year sabbath in a storage unit, I admit that I missed some of it. In fact, I missed some of it a lot. But, really, I missed only a very small "some" of it. Most of it, I quite amazingly lived peacefully without.

Last week I informed a friend that we are settling into our new house and "sorting through stuff, getting rid of stuff, and planning a garage sale." He looked rather incredulous when he responded, "Isn't that the normal thing to do when you're moving OUT?"

Uh, yeah.

But when you successfully survive two years without "stuff" it is rather easier to get rid of it afterwards....

So, lately one of my projects has been sorting through stuff, getting rid of stuff, and planning a garage sale. I hope to cut my belongings down to at least half. I made a good start on my clothes, cutting them down after their retrieval from storage by about 75%. About every item I am trying to ask myself, "Do you want to keep this?" If yes, "How are you going to use this?" If a reasonable answer presents itself, "How are you going to store it?"

A lot of "stuff" is going into the trash and I hope my queenly title is slipping away from under my nose. After all, about all those things "I can maybe use someday"--isn't God big enough to provide a replacement for it if I do need it later? There's a big difference, I'm learning, between wise stewardship and a faithless hoarding of stuff you've never used.

Which brings me back to the disintegrating pinecones, aging stick, and oh-so-ordinary rocks. Eleven and a half years ago we moved away from my childhood home. I can still recall the solemn feeling that overswept me as I went out into the yard all by myself and gathered up a few remembrances of my childhood home to save "forever." I planned to show them to my grandchildren someday. "See, this is a pinecone from the very yard of very house where I grew up..." (I didn't quite foresee the natural disintegration process.)

This memorabilia fails my "keep it" test miserably. Although I want to keep it, I have no reasonable reason why. I really have no conceivable use for it. And I'm not sure exactly how to store it.

But...

I haven't decided yet.

Such is the power of sentimentalism.

'Twill Be Worth It All

Today's mail brought this with my name on it:

It made this totally worth it.

Romans 8 reminds us that every uphill our lives push us into climbing will seem like nothing when we are living our eternity with Christ.

The mail didn't change my life today, but it reminded me that it is a past-overshadowing future I am looking forward to.

Embarrasing Moment

One reason not to:

- Prepare in the dark to go out.

- Stuff socks randomly into your drawer.

- Break the crossed-legs-bent-at-the-knee rule.

- Wear shoes and socks when sandals or hose might do.

- Leave the house in too much of a hurry to look in the mirror.

The reason?

You may notice part way through the Wednesday service at church that your feet are adorned one in a black and one in a navy blue sock.

(Don't be surprised if the discovery causes you some dismay. And please don't say I didn't warn you. )

Love Me, Love Me Not

Some people might label it eavesdropping. I prefer to call it "listening" and I count it (modestly) in my (modest) array of skills. I can stand in a room full of people, pick out a person I'd like to listen to, and tune into their conversation. Everything else in the room dims into background noise, and I can usually follow every word of any conversation I prefer. This is a very dangerous skill to have, for reasons you might prefer not to know.

It didn't take much of my skill to catch part of the discussion flying around my table at a recent potluck. I even shouldered my share of the conversational burden. But at some point I rather suspect my listening radar took off on some tangent and when I came back to my own particular conversation I heard a friend describing the following excerpt from a movie she'd watched:

Character 1: "I love you."

Character 2: "Love me? How can you? I do so many bad things. I don't think anyone should love me."

Character 1: "You don't understand. I love you. And when I choose to love someone, I don't get the option of loving them in pieces. I love you. Or I don't."

This conversation took place a week and a half ago. I've been ruminating on it on and off ever since. I've reflected that this--the love described--is the love God has.

You might take me by way of example. He could have broken me in pieces, seen how my unloveliness overwhelms me at every turn, and decided I wasn't worth the trouble and discomfort. Loving me, after all, means loving someone with acne and jagged toenails. It means loving someone who rarely gets anything done without a to-do list and a deadline and experiences a high frequency of burnt toast. It means loving someone who snaps at her brothers and sister when irritated and whines and complains when asked to do a task she doesn't prefer. It means, worst for Him, loving someone who once hated Him and who now goes through long periods of time where making herself talk to Him is a chore.

His eyes are wide open. He knows all this. And, with a typical, human, piecemeal love, He could have decided, rightfully, that loving me was too thankless a task.

But He didn't.

His love doesn't compartmentalize.

And I think I have an excuse for feeling uncomfortable when I see a beggar on the corner? Grumbling at the guy who cuts me off in traffic? Yes, and snapping when irritated, whining when inconvenienced, and dragging my feet to my prayer closet?

I have not yet learned to love.