Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Gratitude.
5 things I'm thankful for today are:
1. Memories. I don't have the most remarkable memory in the world, or even in my immediate family, but I am super thankful that the good, vivid and funny stories rarely escape my mind. And that I DO have some of the most remarkable memorIES in the world. :-)
2. Channels. If I had to watch shows like "The Bachelorette" with no other options, I would literally cry.
3. Motivation. We don't always have it, or at least I don't. So when I get it, I savor it.
4. Encouragement. I just probably couldn't do this life thing without it, and am blessed not to have to.
5. Freedom. Obviously.
1. Memories. I don't have the most remarkable memory in the world, or even in my immediate family, but I am super thankful that the good, vivid and funny stories rarely escape my mind. And that I DO have some of the most remarkable memorIES in the world. :-)
2. Channels. If I had to watch shows like "The Bachelorette" with no other options, I would literally cry.
3. Motivation. We don't always have it, or at least I don't. So when I get it, I savor it.
4. Encouragement. I just probably couldn't do this life thing without it, and am blessed not to have to.
5. Freedom. Obviously.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Once, Twice, Three Times A Lady.
I have a very specific definition of what a "lady" is. Opposite of that is my ingrained definition of a "woman."
Thanks to my mother, my sister and I not only heard about things that were ladylike and unladylike, but we also saw the correct kind of behavior displayed by my mom.
The classic song "Once, Twice, Three Times A Lady" comes to mind as I think of all the ways I've gotten to see my mother act like "a lady, NOT a WOMAN."
First, of course, I saw my mom as, well, my mom. During my growing up years, she was kind to us, but was very much our mother. We were disciplined, we were loved, and we could be stopped in our tracks with The Look. (There's a strong chance we still can.)
Secondly, we saw our mom in her other relationships -- with our dad, our grandmothers, aunts and uncles, friends, coworkers. And if "ladylike" is respectful, kind, fair and generous as we were taught it was, then yes, our mother is certainly a lady in those roles, too.
And lastly, I see my mom as a fellow adult, which is great. The progression has been natural, but the things I'm learning from my mom each day and with every interaction are well above average. To add to her original definition of a "lady" from our childhood, I'd say that as well as kind, gentle, genuine, and not crass, I can include dryly funny, open to new experiences, willing to work hard for desired results, and 1,000%, no-holds-barred, loving.
So this June 27, I'd like to wish my sweet mother a birthday full of the type of happiness she gives to me with every interaction, and has shown me at every turn.
After all, not every 60th birthday girl is once, twice, three times a lady. :-)
Thanks to my mother, my sister and I not only heard about things that were ladylike and unladylike, but we also saw the correct kind of behavior displayed by my mom.
The classic song "Once, Twice, Three Times A Lady" comes to mind as I think of all the ways I've gotten to see my mother act like "a lady, NOT a WOMAN."
First, of course, I saw my mom as, well, my mom. During my growing up years, she was kind to us, but was very much our mother. We were disciplined, we were loved, and we could be stopped in our tracks with The Look. (There's a strong chance we still can.)
Secondly, we saw our mom in her other relationships -- with our dad, our grandmothers, aunts and uncles, friends, coworkers. And if "ladylike" is respectful, kind, fair and generous as we were taught it was, then yes, our mother is certainly a lady in those roles, too.
And lastly, I see my mom as a fellow adult, which is great. The progression has been natural, but the things I'm learning from my mom each day and with every interaction are well above average. To add to her original definition of a "lady" from our childhood, I'd say that as well as kind, gentle, genuine, and not crass, I can include dryly funny, open to new experiences, willing to work hard for desired results, and 1,000%, no-holds-barred, loving.
So this June 27, I'd like to wish my sweet mother a birthday full of the type of happiness she gives to me with every interaction, and has shown me at every turn.
After all, not every 60th birthday girl is once, twice, three times a lady. :-)
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Kicking Against These Goads.
That happened today. It didn't take long for me to appreciate the correction, which at the tender age of 34 1/2, is sadly still a relatively new accomplishment for me.
Even odder than my sooner-than-usual gratitude for the correction was the reflection on other areas that much discipline is required for me, and how I should appreciate that, even when I'm the one who has to administer it. (Even after more than a decade of playing it, adulthood can still be a very tricky game for this redhead.)
The whole thought process reminded me of a lyric in one of Caedmon's Call's songs, "Where I Began." The group sings, "Kicking against these goads sure did cut up my feet / Did Your hands get bloody as they washed them clean?"
The first time I really listened to that song, I was curious and had to look up the word "goad." So, with the risk of thoroughly disgusting every English/composition instructor I've ever had or known, I type the next few words.
Webster defines "goad" as: 1. a stick with a pointed or electrically charged end, for driving cattle, oxen, etc.; prod.; 2. anything that pricks or wounds like such a stick.; 3. something that encourages, urges, or drives; a stimulus.
And as it did that first time I looked it up, seeing the definition now brings to mind all the discomfort of discipline.
Sometimes it physically hurts (look me up the day after a hard workout).
Sometimes it emotionally hurts (I can describe way too many details of the day last year that my soul was so wounded by someone's words I felt I could barely breathe).
Sometime it takes its toll on the ego (who wants to be told they're wrong -- ever?).
But always -- whether it's well communicated, poorly spoken, or doled out in a negative or positive manner -- discipline takes its toll on the action or lack of action that brought on the corrective measures. Pavlov's dog is a prime example.
Chances are, I won't stop messing up or being wrong, even after I turn 35. Or even (gasp!) 40. And, with any measurement of grace dealt to me, I won't stop being disciplined for those wrongdoings.
So as I see it, the only variable here is how I'll react to discipline. I can kick against the goads, cut up my feet, and have to deal with the wounds and scars. Or, I can accept discipline as the gift that it is and learn from it with grace.
Let's hope I'll choose the latter, early and often. Goodness knows that after three decades, I've done enough of the former.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Chee-ahs.
One of my favorite things about leaving the country was how happy everyone was. (Granted, this happiness generally displayed itself as we were leaving a place, but I'm choosing not to analyze that.)
In London, then all over Scotland, peeps of all ages, sizes and origins cheerfully called out, "Chee-ahs, lovey!"
Whether we were exiting a restaurant, had just ordered some coffee, or were leaving a store -- ahem, I mean shop -- we received the same salutation:
"Cheers."
However touristy or fake this was, the warmth of receiving this word in small cities and larger towns alike certainly worked its magic on my soul.
And how sweet it was.
"Chee-ahs."
I'll definitely drink a spot o' tea to that!
In London, then all over Scotland, peeps of all ages, sizes and origins cheerfully called out, "Chee-ahs, lovey!"
Whether we were exiting a restaurant, had just ordered some coffee, or were leaving a store -- ahem, I mean shop -- we received the same salutation:
"Cheers."
However touristy or fake this was, the warmth of receiving this word in small cities and larger towns alike certainly worked its magic on my soul.
And how sweet it was.
"Chee-ahs."
I'll definitely drink a spot o' tea to that!
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Gone.
There are times when a single word is used to denote the status of something really simple, like apples, or a visit from neighbors.
Then there are times when the same single word can change lives. Turn stomachs upside down. Cause hearts to skip beats.
I really learned this nearly six years ago when Hurricane Katrina changed the landscape of where I was born, raised, and learned how to be who I am.
And today I’m reminded of the power of the word "gone" as devastating tornados have ripped through so many states, including Alabama.
The city where my sister and her family lives has been almost completely decimated, and “gone” is the word I keep hearing in the news and reading online in references to the landmarks that have been the site for so many sweet memories Kim and Steve have made since moving to Cullman.
“Gone” is the word that was used to describe my little nephew’s barber shop after the first tornado hit Cullman yesterday, and “gone” is the word that is being repeated over and over as people worldwide comment on videos, photos and reports from Missouri, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Kentucky, and other states as a “super cell of tornadic activity” roars its frighteningly massive way across half our country.
Gone.
A great description for a bad headache, weird noise in the night, that strange thing my hair sometimes does for no reason at all… Not so great when it comes to people’s homes, workplaces, creature comforts, transportation means, roadways, and livelihoods.
I still hear an empty echo ring in my own voice when someone asks me about “that library you always loved as a little girl – the one with the winding staircase,” and I have to shrug and tell them the status: “Oh yeah. That was the Gulfport Library. It’s gone.”
Same for Beauvoir.
Same for my grandparents’ original house.
Same for too many of my beloved Gulf Coast landmarks to even count, really.
I hate in a big way that now it will be the same for my sister and brother-in-law, and the sweet community they have been wrapped up in while they were growing their beautiful family. I also hate that there will always be an amount of fear for me when another storm heads to the Gulfport and Biloxi area, just like my nephew might have some adjusting to do when it rains in Cullman. (My fingers are crossed against this, obviously, but you never know.)
For the most part, I really hate the “gone” of it all. Post-tragedy, things are so messy, then so bare. They’re icky. They hurt to look at. They put a scar on something you didn’t even know the depth of your love for…till it was gone.
What I don’t hate is that “gone” now also applies to that tornado cluster on steroids. And the monster that was Hurricane Katrina, and the terrible earthquakes and tsunamis that so many of our international brothers and sisters have suffered through.
Those disasters were hellacious, but they are gone. We’ll have other scares in our lives, but those times, on those dates, with those circumstances can never come back.
Similarly, who I was on August 28, 2005 can never come back.
In some ways, that’s a little sad. The innocence of thinking Hurricane Camille before I was born was the worst thing that could’ve happened to my home was kind of nice.
But am I glad my ignorance for how it feels to see your hometown rubble from afar is now gone? Absolutely.
Do I miss the unintentional lack of empathy I had for people who went through natural disasters? No way.
I’m glad that is gone. I’m glad I can look at the shock and horror of what has happened to Tuscaloosa, and Smithville, MS, and north Georgia, and know a little of how those people are feeling. I’m thankful to know how to pray. I’m thankful my fellow Mississippi Coast natives – and so many others who’ve dealt with this mess – know what to do, and how to help, and even what to say or not say.
Gone isn’t always great, but it also isn’t always bad.
What can never – should never – be gone are our prayers for these disaster-ridden times and people.
Because there will be a day a few years from now, when everything is for the most part cleaned up, that some Alabama 34-year-old will go home to visit her parents, and desperately long to drive up to something that is now gone.
So let’s keep our empathy intact.
Some things, in spite of nature and time and forces stronger than us, will never be gone. They can't be, if we don’t let them leave.
Then there are times when the same single word can change lives. Turn stomachs upside down. Cause hearts to skip beats.
I really learned this nearly six years ago when Hurricane Katrina changed the landscape of where I was born, raised, and learned how to be who I am.
And today I’m reminded of the power of the word "gone" as devastating tornados have ripped through so many states, including Alabama.
The city where my sister and her family lives has been almost completely decimated, and “gone” is the word I keep hearing in the news and reading online in references to the landmarks that have been the site for so many sweet memories Kim and Steve have made since moving to Cullman.
“Gone” is the word that was used to describe my little nephew’s barber shop after the first tornado hit Cullman yesterday, and “gone” is the word that is being repeated over and over as people worldwide comment on videos, photos and reports from Missouri, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Kentucky, and other states as a “super cell of tornadic activity” roars its frighteningly massive way across half our country.
Gone.
A great description for a bad headache, weird noise in the night, that strange thing my hair sometimes does for no reason at all… Not so great when it comes to people’s homes, workplaces, creature comforts, transportation means, roadways, and livelihoods.
I still hear an empty echo ring in my own voice when someone asks me about “that library you always loved as a little girl – the one with the winding staircase,” and I have to shrug and tell them the status: “Oh yeah. That was the Gulfport Library. It’s gone.”
Same for Beauvoir.
Same for my grandparents’ original house.
Same for too many of my beloved Gulf Coast landmarks to even count, really.
I hate in a big way that now it will be the same for my sister and brother-in-law, and the sweet community they have been wrapped up in while they were growing their beautiful family. I also hate that there will always be an amount of fear for me when another storm heads to the Gulfport and Biloxi area, just like my nephew might have some adjusting to do when it rains in Cullman. (My fingers are crossed against this, obviously, but you never know.)
For the most part, I really hate the “gone” of it all. Post-tragedy, things are so messy, then so bare. They’re icky. They hurt to look at. They put a scar on something you didn’t even know the depth of your love for…till it was gone.
What I don’t hate is that “gone” now also applies to that tornado cluster on steroids. And the monster that was Hurricane Katrina, and the terrible earthquakes and tsunamis that so many of our international brothers and sisters have suffered through.
Those disasters were hellacious, but they are gone. We’ll have other scares in our lives, but those times, on those dates, with those circumstances can never come back.
Similarly, who I was on August 28, 2005 can never come back.
In some ways, that’s a little sad. The innocence of thinking Hurricane Camille before I was born was the worst thing that could’ve happened to my home was kind of nice.
But am I glad my ignorance for how it feels to see your hometown rubble from afar is now gone? Absolutely.
Do I miss the unintentional lack of empathy I had for people who went through natural disasters? No way.
I’m glad that is gone. I’m glad I can look at the shock and horror of what has happened to Tuscaloosa, and Smithville, MS, and north Georgia, and know a little of how those people are feeling. I’m thankful to know how to pray. I’m thankful my fellow Mississippi Coast natives – and so many others who’ve dealt with this mess – know what to do, and how to help, and even what to say or not say.
Gone isn’t always great, but it also isn’t always bad.
What can never – should never – be gone are our prayers for these disaster-ridden times and people.
Because there will be a day a few years from now, when everything is for the most part cleaned up, that some Alabama 34-year-old will go home to visit her parents, and desperately long to drive up to something that is now gone.
So let’s keep our empathy intact.
Some things, in spite of nature and time and forces stronger than us, will never be gone. They can't be, if we don’t let them leave.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Quite A Lot.
My nephew is the youngest history buff I've ever met, and is a huge fan of "usin' army men t' set up battles," as well as dressing for the occasion.
The kid loves hats. Cowboy hats. Abe Lincoln's top hat. Army hats.
(I could go on and on, but if I did, I might steal thunder from the overflowing toy box in his room that's pretty much reserved specifically for hats.)
Yesterday, while my brother-in-law was working on something for Caleb's room, Caleb rushed downstairs to where my sister was and said, "You might wanna come up here and see me."
At this point in the story, I wondered where it was going. I mean, did he have a special job to help with his dad's project? Did he have a battle set up? What exactly was there to see...about HIM?
When my sister went upstairs, she found out.
There stood a beaming Caleb, loaded down with three play guns, other weapons, a vest from the French Revolution, and a hat from a battle I didn't catch specifics of.
When my sister commented on Caleb's outfit, he grinned and stated, "I've got quite a lot on."
Aside from being adorably quotable, isn't that exactly like me? (Ha... Really! Ha!)
I want my playtime when I want it, I love the things that make me uniquely rebekah, I do what I need to do to get by, but dadgummit, when it's time for the attention meter to be fed, puh-leeze come upstairs and comment gushingly when I've taken on "quite a lot!" This type of load doesn't need to go unnoticed! And especially not when I feel it's time for some credit.
While I'm not particularly proud of this self-realization, I do hope it'll help me be more aware about how I'm setting up my "battles" and what I am putting on -- and not just clothing-wise.
Long day at the office? What attitude am I choosing to wear?
Too tired to work out? Where's that self-discipline hat?
Exhausted from that person who always seems to withdraw more than she deposits? How about the perfume of kindness?
With any luck, foresight into these things will help me be prouder to show off the "quite a lot" I've got on when something big's occurring, instead of needy for the notice because I'm overwhelmed.
The kid loves hats. Cowboy hats. Abe Lincoln's top hat. Army hats.
(I could go on and on, but if I did, I might steal thunder from the overflowing toy box in his room that's pretty much reserved specifically for hats.)
Yesterday, while my brother-in-law was working on something for Caleb's room, Caleb rushed downstairs to where my sister was and said, "You might wanna come up here and see me."
At this point in the story, I wondered where it was going. I mean, did he have a special job to help with his dad's project? Did he have a battle set up? What exactly was there to see...about HIM?
When my sister went upstairs, she found out.
There stood a beaming Caleb, loaded down with three play guns, other weapons, a vest from the French Revolution, and a hat from a battle I didn't catch specifics of.
When my sister commented on Caleb's outfit, he grinned and stated, "I've got quite a lot on."
Aside from being adorably quotable, isn't that exactly like me? (Ha... Really! Ha!)
I want my playtime when I want it, I love the things that make me uniquely rebekah, I do what I need to do to get by, but dadgummit, when it's time for the attention meter to be fed, puh-leeze come upstairs and comment gushingly when I've taken on "quite a lot!" This type of load doesn't need to go unnoticed! And especially not when I feel it's time for some credit.
While I'm not particularly proud of this self-realization, I do hope it'll help me be more aware about how I'm setting up my "battles" and what I am putting on -- and not just clothing-wise.
Long day at the office? What attitude am I choosing to wear?
Too tired to work out? Where's that self-discipline hat?
Exhausted from that person who always seems to withdraw more than she deposits? How about the perfume of kindness?
With any luck, foresight into these things will help me be prouder to show off the "quite a lot" I've got on when something big's occurring, instead of needy for the notice because I'm overwhelmed.
What's the plan?
My friend Jane is brilliant.
Not just because she's earned her doctorate, or is uncannily discerning, or has made excellent relationship choices, or continuously shelved her own needs to honor her father and mother in the most optimal and sacrificial of ways.
My friend Jane is brilliant because she is a planner.
From the moment our friendship developed in our early 20s, Jane had a plan. I'm not talking for the next 5 to 10 years (though we'd be nuts to not recognize that of course those did and still do exist in her world); I'm talking about a plan for Errands Saturday. A plan for dinner on Tuesday. A plan for Christmas and birthday shopping. You get the idea.
Some people look at me and think I'm a planner.
A little clarification for those very kind people: I'm not. By nature I'm not, I mean. I have learned -- the very hard way -- that it pays to plan. That doesn't always mean I do it, though.
I'm, by nature, the farthest thing there is from a planner. In most things that are rebekah, I prefer to -- wait for it! -- play it by ear.
If I had a nickel for every time Jane asked, "What's the plan?" and I responded with, "Eh, let's just play it by ear" in the year 2000 alone, well, I'd have bought a new car in 2001. (Jane, however, would've saved diligently, researched investment options, and would likely be living out the retirement part of her plan before she turns 35.)
It's no secret to Jane or to me that these personality traits are likely part of our DNA, or that we both dream of achieving a fabulous balance between the two. We've been laughing about this for a while, and have gotten closer to The Mystical Balance each time we revisit the subject.
What has been a secret to me until just now is the Scripture that points so directly to my sweet friend's natural tendencies:
"Suppose one of you wants to build a tower. Will he not first sit down and estimate the cost to see if he has enough money to complete it? For if he lays the foundation and is not able to finish it, everyone who sees it will ridicule him saying, 'This fellow began to build and was not able to finish.'" (Luke 14:28-30)
There are many ways I've tipped my hat to Jane over the years, and for many reasons. Today, I salute Jane via the blogosphere for her wisdom of being a planner, and for her patience with me as I continue my struggle to learn what is a rare artistry in this age of instant gratification.
So, I guess the next question to ask myself is... what's the plan?
Not just because she's earned her doctorate, or is uncannily discerning, or has made excellent relationship choices, or continuously shelved her own needs to honor her father and mother in the most optimal and sacrificial of ways.
My friend Jane is brilliant because she is a planner.
From the moment our friendship developed in our early 20s, Jane had a plan. I'm not talking for the next 5 to 10 years (though we'd be nuts to not recognize that of course those did and still do exist in her world); I'm talking about a plan for Errands Saturday. A plan for dinner on Tuesday. A plan for Christmas and birthday shopping. You get the idea.
Some people look at me and think I'm a planner.
A little clarification for those very kind people: I'm not. By nature I'm not, I mean. I have learned -- the very hard way -- that it pays to plan. That doesn't always mean I do it, though.
I'm, by nature, the farthest thing there is from a planner. In most things that are rebekah, I prefer to -- wait for it! -- play it by ear.
If I had a nickel for every time Jane asked, "What's the plan?" and I responded with, "Eh, let's just play it by ear" in the year 2000 alone, well, I'd have bought a new car in 2001. (Jane, however, would've saved diligently, researched investment options, and would likely be living out the retirement part of her plan before she turns 35.)
It's no secret to Jane or to me that these personality traits are likely part of our DNA, or that we both dream of achieving a fabulous balance between the two. We've been laughing about this for a while, and have gotten closer to The Mystical Balance each time we revisit the subject.
What has been a secret to me until just now is the Scripture that points so directly to my sweet friend's natural tendencies:
"Suppose one of you wants to build a tower. Will he not first sit down and estimate the cost to see if he has enough money to complete it? For if he lays the foundation and is not able to finish it, everyone who sees it will ridicule him saying, 'This fellow began to build and was not able to finish.'" (Luke 14:28-30)
There are many ways I've tipped my hat to Jane over the years, and for many reasons. Today, I salute Jane via the blogosphere for her wisdom of being a planner, and for her patience with me as I continue my struggle to learn what is a rare artistry in this age of instant gratification.
So, I guess the next question to ask myself is... what's the plan?
Sunday, April 17, 2011
A heart full of gratitude.
Today, I'm thankful for:
1. Love. It's in the air, not only with several dear friends getting married and planning weddings, but just all around. ::happy sigh::
2. Sunshine! It's amazing what a little Vitamin D can do for ya.
1. Love. It's in the air, not only with several dear friends getting married and planning weddings, but just all around. ::happy sigh::
2. Sunshine! It's amazing what a little Vitamin D can do for ya.
3. True colors. Even though they're not always pretty, they're certainly valuable, and teach us many lessons (that hopefully enrich our lives).
4. Modern medicine. I'm counting on it for small(ish, relatively speaking) things, like a non-coma-inducing fix for my nagging headaches, and for massively large things, like cures for the nasty monster that is cancer, and for proactive genetic indicators for dear friends whose parents suffered from frightening diseases.
5. Time. It's a valuable thing, and I learn that more with each day, not to mention year.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Thankful Thursday.
I have many things to be thankful for this Thursday, but I'll try to narrow it down to just five. :-)
1. Help. It's so nice to get a little help when you need it -- even when you don't know you have access to the resources.
2. A finished product. Instant gratification is rare, but even slow-cooked gratification is lovely. And I'll take all of it that I can get!
3. Peeps. I mean, I do love my friends and family, but I find it hilarious to repeat the little play on words each Easter season. :-)
4. Technology. I'm an addict.
5. Light, love and letting go. That is all.
1. Help. It's so nice to get a little help when you need it -- even when you don't know you have access to the resources.
2. A finished product. Instant gratification is rare, but even slow-cooked gratification is lovely. And I'll take all of it that I can get!
3. Peeps. I mean, I do love my friends and family, but I find it hilarious to repeat the little play on words each Easter season. :-)
4. Technology. I'm an addict.
5. Light, love and letting go. That is all.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Testing 1-2-3.
I'm attempting a blog post from my phone, so this is only a test. If it were an actual post, you know it'd be a lot more verbose. ;-)
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
The Baby Jesus Cake.
My sister and her family are Yankees.Ok, not really. They live in the northern part of Alabama. And in all fairness, they're transplants. But compared to the Biloxi, New Orleans, and Baton Rouge areas, it's kind of a stretch.
One of the more significant differences between here and there is the lack of Mardi Gras celebration "up north."
While our conservative Southern Baptist family is Protestant to the T, we still make room in our hearts, religions and tummies for king cake each year, so it was pretty important to us to introduce my nephew to king cake as early as possible.
Caleb's friend reacted the way any Yankee -- ahem, I mean non-coastal person -- would, and firmly said no.
Who wants a piece of cake that sounds like it's made from the baby Jesus? No thank you!
However, Caleb's little-boy-terminology makes me think each time I remember it.
King cakes' inclusion of the plastic baby representing Jesus isn't just random; it's symbolic. While the whole point of Mardi Gras has been wildly exaggerated into a Bourbon Street perspective by the general public, its roots stem from the devout reverence for the many sacrifices that Jesus made for us.
So tasting this delectable pastry is more than just fattening up one particular Tuesday (and maybe every day before then, depending on how many delightful king cakes you're exposed to). Eating king cake and being reminded of the baby Jesus -- sometimes painfully in the tooth area -- are all part of what really is logical about Mardi Gras. We enjoy, we indulge, we celebrate life and all its gifts, and then we take some time to somberly appreciate those gifts, minus the indulgences.
But even still, if I were a Yankee (or something like that), and someone offered me a piece of "baby Jesus cake," especially when I was in pre-school, I probably wouldn't take 'em up on it, either. :-)
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
FLASHBACK: A Southern Baptist's Crack at Lent.
The year was 2008, the setting was my first Mardi Gras in the BR, and my first one back in Mardi Gras/Catholic majority territory since moving from the MS Gulf Coast in '99.
And the blog format was -- wait for it -- MySpace.
That's right, kids. We all have our sordid pasts to live with. I appreciate those of you sturdy and willing enough to look past mine and read on.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
a Southern Baptist’s crack at Lent
I am giving up bread for the Lenten season.
Those who know me well might ask yourselves, "Why would a Southern Baptist girl give up anything for Lent?"
Well, in the midst of all this Catholicism over here in the BR, and especially during the Mardi Gras season, I have become much more aware of the meanings of these things, and since my friends here are making sacrifices in honor of the sacrifice Jesus made for us, I thought, "I might could do that, too."
So far, I am on Day 2 and I have only had one Subway sandwich. (That was yesterday, when the Subway Sandwich Artist told me she could not make me a salad. What else was I to do? Tonight, however, I managed to eat around the rice in my leftovers, which I considered a huge practice of discipline.)
The second question you may ask yourself is, "Why bread?"
I can understand the puzzlement, because when my coworker Shannon brought it up as her sacrifice, I laughed myself silly at her. I was like, "No way would I give up bread! Pasta! Cookies! Crackers! Bagels?!"
But then I started thinking about it beyond my surface level and realized that would represent a TRUE sacrifice for me. (I do love my bread.)
So there you have it. Pray for me.
Currently watching : Lost - The Complete Third SeasonRelease date: By 11 December, 2007
6 Comments - 7 Kudos
From one bread lover to another...Godspeed!
Posted by Bethanie on February 7, 2008 - Thursday 7:22 PM
Boy, do I understand. No one here has ever really understood when I try to do this each year. But, I am a Catholic out of water over here in Big Baptist, Mississippi. I always try to give up Cokes, but usually fail by day 3 or 4. This year, I'm giving up french fries. Yep - I said it! French fries, baby! ....eh, we'll see how it goes. Hopefully more than the standard 4 days :)
Posted by Skye on February 7, 2008 - Thursday 9:16 PM
i've done this before as a southern baptist. chocolate was my sacrifice. it gives you a feeling of overwhelming accomplishment. hang in there.
Posted by monica on February 8, 2008 - Friday 6:55 AM
You will be happy to know that I too have given up a few things for Lent:
1) Liver
2) Goat cheese
3) The worm in the tequila
4) Raw red meat
5) And last but not least, moldy bread
I knew you would be proud of me!
Posted by Greg Mo on February 15, 2008 - Friday 9:14 PM
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Monday, March 7, 2011
Dude... Just. Chill.
One of the most classic friends of my life had quite a way with words. It didn't matter what the situation was; there was always an anecdote. Some were cliches, some euphemisms, some movie quotes, and some were just plain Lynwood-isms.
Many times, it wasn't what Lynwood said, but his timing and tone that were most effective. (And which inevitably led me to a burst of giggles that could hardly be stopped, but that's probably another blog.)
The day of L'wood's funeral, the guy I used to date told this story to an intimate group of our friends, and my eyes stopped tearing up long enough from a life cut too short by the monster of cancer to laugh so hard that I started crying for much more hilarious reasons.
All I could think -- and I'm pretty sure I said that day -- was, there is no telling how many times Lynwood had said those very words to that guy during their friendship. That how-hard-can-I-make-life, I'll-try-so-hard-it-becomes-pointless, stupidly wandering but incredibly dedicated friend of his.
But still.
Sometimes, in a very scary moment, I'll occasionally find my ex-boyfriend's paranoid relationship views becoming contagious and wanting me to adopt them. (Yikes.) Thankfully, that's when L'wood's strained, sarcastic and hoarse whisper from a room I wasn't even in at the time reminds me, also: "Dude... Just. Chill."
Many times, it wasn't what Lynwood said, but his timing and tone that were most effective. (And which inevitably led me to a burst of giggles that could hardly be stopped, but that's probably another blog.)
The day before Lynwood died, my very OCD, blatantly-uncomfortable-around-sickness ex-boyfriend* was helping Lynwood's wife out by staying with him for a few hours while she took care of some things. Lynwood was in Hospice care, and we all knew from his medical caretakers that he didn't have much longer to live. He did, however, still have his sense of humor, even if he had to croak it out through a strained and painful whisper.
The day Mr. OCD sat with him, though, there was apparently some trouble with Lynwood getting a sip of water when he needed it. The friend sitting with him hemmed and hawed over how to make the water-getting work without putting L'wood in more pain. Helping him drink straight from the cup didn't work. Then helping him get the straw bent properly didn't work. Rearranging pillows to adjust Lynwood's position didn't work. Then the idea of putting an ice cube on his lips was too much.
The guy was about to call a nurse when finally, in Lynwood's final hours of life, he warily looked in his friend's direction, stared at him with weak but deadpanned eyes, and strained to whisper something too faint to understand. The friend leaned in, apologetically asking Lynwood to repeat it. Again, it was too faint. Finally, the message came through very clearly: "Dude.... Just. Chill."
The day of L'wood's funeral, the guy I used to date told this story to an intimate group of our friends, and my eyes stopped tearing up long enough from a life cut too short by the monster of cancer to laugh so hard that I started crying for much more hilarious reasons.
All I could think -- and I'm pretty sure I said that day -- was, there is no telling how many times Lynwood had said those very words to that guy during their friendship. That how-hard-can-I-make-life, I'll-try-so-hard-it-becomes-pointless, stupidly wandering but incredibly dedicated friend of his.
My ex-boyfriend wasn't the only one with issues that Dr. Vinson so kindly addressed for us. The things I vividly remember Lynwood saying to me with that deadpanned stare had to do with accepting things that Lynwood tried to do for or give me throughout the time we knew each other. And convincing me to believe the positive things he told me others thought about me. And telling me that despite what I thought of myself, I really was better than my own perceptions.
I admittedly am not sure L'wood wasn't just being nice most of the time, since I surmise he was a little softer on me for whatever reason. Maybe it was my being a girl, or the shorter length of time we'd been friends.
Sometimes, in a very scary moment, I'll occasionally find my ex-boyfriend's paranoid relationship views becoming contagious and wanting me to adopt them. (Yikes.) Thankfully, that's when L'wood's strained, sarcastic and hoarse whisper from a room I wasn't even in at the time reminds me, also: "Dude... Just. Chill."And for those few minutes, I take a deep breath, and remember what life, and love, and beauty, and time are all about. I remember that crazy wonderful man's motto of "don't wait," and that he knew what he was talking about.
And I try to remember just how important it is to, well, just chill.
* Disclaimer: I blogged nothing I haven't said (and still wouldn't say) to the guy I used to date. And nothing that a million of our friends haven't said to both of us at some point. So, for the record, no backhanded bashing here. :-)
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Five Things.
Five things I'm most thankful for lately are:
1. The ability to choose what is good for me and what is not, and to cut out the ick when possible. I've learned that this applies to everything from food to grocery store lines to who I choose to spend time with.
2. The realization that the peeps who really love me really love me.
4. Reminders that life is short, and that we should not wait.
5. Curly hair. (Let's face it. Humidity would be a lot tougher to handle without it.)
1. The ability to choose what is good for me and what is not, and to cut out the ick when possible. I've learned that this applies to everything from food to grocery store lines to who I choose to spend time with.
2. The realization that the peeps who really love me really love me.
3. The opportunity to spend time with my precious, growing-like-a-weed Alabama nephew who never fails to make me cackle.
5. Curly hair. (Let's face it. Humidity would be a lot tougher to handle without it.)
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Cheat Days.
Conversation with a coworker:
Me: I guess nobody’s gonna eat all those petit fours and they’re just going to stare at me and make me smell them for the rest of my life.
Him: Why don’t you get a cup of coffee and just eat one?
Me: Well, I just ate some carrots, and I’m really at the point on South Beach where that should suffice.
Him: They don’t build in a cheat day? You need a cheat day.
Me: I’d kind of like to lose more than 5 lbs before making myself a cheat day.
:: pause ::
Me: Also, I cheated yesterday.
Friday, February 11, 2011
TGIF + 4 = :-)
Five things I'm thankful for are...
1. It's almost FRIDAY.
2. Friendships that pick up immediately where they left off, no matter when that "left off" occurred.
3. Meeting new peeps!
4. When a diet finally seems to be working. Whew.
5. Answered prayers, specifically in the form of divine appointments, affirmation, and well-timed encouragement.
1. It's almost FRIDAY.
2. Friendships that pick up immediately where they left off, no matter when that "left off" occurred.
4. When a diet finally seems to be working. Whew.
5. Answered prayers, specifically in the form of divine appointments, affirmation, and well-timed encouragement.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Mission & Prayer.
I'm working in an environment I've never experienced before -- not so much the healthcare area, but the spiritual facet. Since I'm not Catholic, I wasn't sure at first what it'd be like, but I knew from week one that it is an amazing fit for me, and a blessing to be part of.
These are some things I'm exposed to every day as I begin my work, and they provide an absolutely beautiful way to focus and remember why I'm doing what I'm doing:
And this is my favorite part of all -- the peace prayer of St. Francis of Assisi:
These are some things I'm exposed to every day as I begin my work, and they provide an absolutely beautiful way to focus and remember why I'm doing what I'm doing:
Our Mission
Inspired by the vision of St. Francis of Assisi and in the tradition of the Roman Catholic Church, we extend the healing ministry of Jesus Christ to God’s people, especially those most in need.
We call forth all who serve in this healthcare ministry, to share their gifts and talents to create a spirit of healing–with reverence and love for all of life, with joyfulness of spirit, and with humility and justice for all those entrusted to our care.
We are, with God’s help, a healing and spiritual presence for each other and for the communities we are privileged to serve.
And this is my favorite part of all -- the peace prayer of St. Francis of Assisi:
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;
Grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice.
Most of us eventually come to realize that life, as John Mayer said, "ain't a fairytale, it's a documentary."
While giddily reaching for stars is still encouraged in books and songs, real life soon enough translates pixie dust and lofty dreams to attainable goals and 5- to 10-year plans, often as early as high school.
Don't get me wrong: living in The Land of Nod really shouldn't last forever. As my cousin said years ago when I lamented that his then-toddlers had grown past that adorable baby talk, "Well, it might be cute now, but do you really want them to be calling pencils 'lellow' in junior high?" Point taken.
As necessary as the crash from unicorns and rainbows to meetings and budgets can be, it still has a harsh impact.
We eventually learn those sweet songs and poems we know from childhood sometimes originated in a very dark way, with medical epidemics, deadly fires, and such.
The 24-year-old princess wakes up to see a million other girls with tiaras and ponies and the latest fads just like hers, despite the comforts her daddy will coddle her with till death do they part.
The Peter Pans cleverly disguised as grown men are occasionally haunted by The One Who Got Away, forcing them to once again close their eyes and hearts until they find another Tinkerbell to whisk them into the night.
Or, in my case, the chick who was 30 before she noticed fat grams existed starts South Beach diet.
That's right, folks. I am in a carbless reality, and it's not pretty.
Ok, I'm on week 2, which truly isn't as tough. But those first few days of week 1 were something akin to a black-and-white Russian movie. The cinematography was off, the dialect was abrasive, and the subtitles just didn't match up to what I was used to.
As I lamented to some friends, "All this time I thought I was nice, but I'm not. Rebekah without bread might be healthier in the long run, but right now, I'm just MEAN."
It's a very harsh reality to realize what you thought was a relatively okay personality was apparently just constant starch and sugar intake.
I won't Splenda-coat it. Having to make smart choices isn't always easy or fun. (Nor is losing the dream of the last-minute rescue by a handsome stranger from any mess we get ourselves into, but that's probably another post for another blogger.)
But while reality may not always be the prettier option, it certainly is the healthier one.
Even when we don't see immediate results from choosing salad over KFC, or get instant gratification from doing what's ethical and honest, we still know we made the healthy choice for body and soul.
And, in the end, even if it's packaged as a documentary, that's the true grown-up fairytale.
While giddily reaching for stars is still encouraged in books and songs, real life soon enough translates pixie dust and lofty dreams to attainable goals and 5- to 10-year plans, often as early as high school.
Don't get me wrong: living in The Land of Nod really shouldn't last forever. As my cousin said years ago when I lamented that his then-toddlers had grown past that adorable baby talk, "Well, it might be cute now, but do you really want them to be calling pencils 'lellow' in junior high?" Point taken.
As necessary as the crash from unicorns and rainbows to meetings and budgets can be, it still has a harsh impact.
We eventually learn those sweet songs and poems we know from childhood sometimes originated in a very dark way, with medical epidemics, deadly fires, and such.
The 24-year-old princess wakes up to see a million other girls with tiaras and ponies and the latest fads just like hers, despite the comforts her daddy will coddle her with till death do they part.
The Peter Pans cleverly disguised as grown men are occasionally haunted by The One Who Got Away, forcing them to once again close their eyes and hearts until they find another Tinkerbell to whisk them into the night.
Or, in my case, the chick who was 30 before she noticed fat grams existed starts South Beach diet.
That's right, folks. I am in a carbless reality, and it's not pretty.
Ok, I'm on week 2, which truly isn't as tough. But those first few days of week 1 were something akin to a black-and-white Russian movie. The cinematography was off, the dialect was abrasive, and the subtitles just didn't match up to what I was used to.
As I lamented to some friends, "All this time I thought I was nice, but I'm not. Rebekah without bread might be healthier in the long run, but right now, I'm just MEAN."
It's a very harsh reality to realize what you thought was a relatively okay personality was apparently just constant starch and sugar intake.
I won't Splenda-coat it. Having to make smart choices isn't always easy or fun. (Nor is losing the dream of the last-minute rescue by a handsome stranger from any mess we get ourselves into, but that's probably another post for another blogger.)
But while reality may not always be the prettier option, it certainly is the healthier one.
Even when we don't see immediate results from choosing salad over KFC, or get instant gratification from doing what's ethical and honest, we still know we made the healthy choice for body and soul.
And, in the end, even if it's packaged as a documentary, that's the true grown-up fairytale.
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