No, seriously. Sometimes I feel like I'm still the same insecure tween inside a grown woman's body.
Last weekend, my family was invited to a rather large, but lovely gathering. There were a few people I knew, and a few I did not. And there were about a bazillion kids. Because we live in the Hill Country, and we hill country folk love our young 'uns.
When I enter a social situation, it requires a lot of energy. I know I come off like a complete extrovert, but that is a funky facade. There is a crazy tension between dying to be heard and dying to hide that occurs each and every time I enter a party-like atmosphere. I either don't talk at all, grab the nearest baby and keep myself busy, or become a talking machine that WILL NOT SHUT UP.
This particular night, I chose the latter. A couple of the women asked me what to expect from public school, because their families are making the switch. Even as I babbled on and on about volunteering and making friends with people who know the teachers and blah, blah, blah, I was having an out of body experience. I was hovering over the room, yelling at myself to JUST BE QUIET, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! WHY ARE YOU USING SO MANY WORDS? But I ignored myself. I was determined to leave the lasting impression that I'm a crazy person.
By the time I got home that night, I knew what I SHOULD have said. I should have said that if the Lord has called your family to public school (or home school or private school), He will be faithful to equip you AND your children. He loves them so much more than you ever will, and you can trust that He's led you here for a reason. Simple, right? But simple always alludes me in a room full of women I want to be friends with.
So, sweet cooler-than-I'll-ever-be women that I met on Monday night, if you're reading this (although I have no idea how or why you would), please have a little grace. Apparently, on the inside, I'm still 14.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Wednesday Women: Edition 4
In the seventh grade, my family moved to Los Alamos, NM. It was a bit of a culture shock for a southern family to move West.
We immediately began going to the only church of Christ in town, and there we met the most amazing and beautiful woman I think I've ever known. Her name was Ruth Harrington. She was the preacher's wife, and she lived in the house right next to the church building. She was soft spoken, always smiling, and she baked. Oh, man, she baked.
Each year, she'd have a holiday open house, and we LOVED going. The food was incredible, but it was also just fun to get to hang out with our friends in a place we all cherished.
I remember at least once that I got to stay with them when Mom and Dad were out of town. I don't remember where the other girls stayed, but I was at the Harringtons' home all by myself. And I loved it.
I had the privilege of staying in Elynn's bedroom. Elynn was their daughter, and she was already grown and out of the house. In my imagination, she has always been this perfect, beautiful woman, just like her mother.
Just being in Mrs. Harrington's home made me feel refreshed and at peace. It was like vacation. I helped bake cookies and sat in the little living room off the kitchen and read back issues of Reader's Digest. I don't remember a single conversation we had.
As a matter of fact, whenever I think of her, I can't really remember her voice. I think that's because she let others talk. I'm sure she had plenty of wisdom to share. But I love that she knew how to listen. That's a rare gift, I think. Most of us can hear, but few of us actually listen.
I'll never forget the Harringtons' last Sunday at that little church. I cried and cried and cried. I remember standing upstairs in the hallway, sobbing, my dad nearly crying with me. It was one of the hardest good-byes I've ever had to say. She captured my young heart, and I miss her to this day.
Even though I can't remember her voice, her smile is forever etched in my memory. I will never be that quiet and sweet. God just didn't design me to be quiet. (Ask anyone who knows me.) But from Mrs. Harrington, I learned that listening and smiling is more important than talking. And that baking the perfect dinner rolls is a love language all its own.
We immediately began going to the only church of Christ in town, and there we met the most amazing and beautiful woman I think I've ever known. Her name was Ruth Harrington. She was the preacher's wife, and she lived in the house right next to the church building. She was soft spoken, always smiling, and she baked. Oh, man, she baked.
Each year, she'd have a holiday open house, and we LOVED going. The food was incredible, but it was also just fun to get to hang out with our friends in a place we all cherished.
I remember at least once that I got to stay with them when Mom and Dad were out of town. I don't remember where the other girls stayed, but I was at the Harringtons' home all by myself. And I loved it.
I had the privilege of staying in Elynn's bedroom. Elynn was their daughter, and she was already grown and out of the house. In my imagination, she has always been this perfect, beautiful woman, just like her mother.
Just being in Mrs. Harrington's home made me feel refreshed and at peace. It was like vacation. I helped bake cookies and sat in the little living room off the kitchen and read back issues of Reader's Digest. I don't remember a single conversation we had.
As a matter of fact, whenever I think of her, I can't really remember her voice. I think that's because she let others talk. I'm sure she had plenty of wisdom to share. But I love that she knew how to listen. That's a rare gift, I think. Most of us can hear, but few of us actually listen.
I'll never forget the Harringtons' last Sunday at that little church. I cried and cried and cried. I remember standing upstairs in the hallway, sobbing, my dad nearly crying with me. It was one of the hardest good-byes I've ever had to say. She captured my young heart, and I miss her to this day.
Even though I can't remember her voice, her smile is forever etched in my memory. I will never be that quiet and sweet. God just didn't design me to be quiet. (Ask anyone who knows me.) But from Mrs. Harrington, I learned that listening and smiling is more important than talking. And that baking the perfect dinner rolls is a love language all its own.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
It's not my problem
This has been an emotional week or two. The kind of emotional that drains you and makes you wish you could stay in bed for a week. But Christmas is just around the corner, and I have too much to do to stay in bed. And for that, I'm kind of grateful.
Last weekend, a friend called to ask for help. She wanted me to help make Christmas happen for her daughter. She's about to be evicted from her apartment, she can't pay her utility bill, and they're barely eating. But all she wanted was for me to make sure her little girl had a Christmas.
I've never even been close to homeless. We've been nearly broke before. But nearly broke for us meant transferring some money from our savings account to the checking account before we paid some bills. I am blessed beyond what I deserve. I grew up in a family that took money management very seriously. And I am married to a man who is very good with money.
And I totally take it for granted.
I've always viewed homelessness as someone else's problem. I know how that sounds, but I'm just being honest. And if you're honest, most people reading this have felt the same way.
When I see a man on the street corner holding a sign, I'm hesitant to give. What if he uses the money I give him to buy alcohol or cigarettes? Then haven't I just enabled him? I think to myself, "Why doesn't he just get a job?" Or "Doesn't he know that if he just stopped buying cigarettes, he could afford an apartment?"
But I don't know his story. I don't know why he's standing there. I don't know the (probably heartbreaking) circumstances that led him to the miserable place where he must beg just to eat. And what I'm learning is that everyone has a story. Every homeless person has a story.
So when my friend called to ask for help, I was honored and humbled. I know it took a ton of courage for her to make that call. But she swallowed her pride and did it out of love for her daughter. And my mother's heart can understand that much.
I made some calls, and a few Godly friends helped make her Christmas a little more bearable. But what she'll never know is the impact she's had on my life. She asked for help. And in asking for help, she made me part of her story.
I will never see another homeless person without thinking of her and her daughter. I don't know what God has planned for me ministry-wise, but I can't help but believe that He has a role for me in some sort of homelessness prevention ministry. He's priming me for it.
He's touched my heart through her, and I'm coming to understand that when the proverb says "the righteous care about justice for the poor", it means that He intends for us to make it our problem.
Last weekend, a friend called to ask for help. She wanted me to help make Christmas happen for her daughter. She's about to be evicted from her apartment, she can't pay her utility bill, and they're barely eating. But all she wanted was for me to make sure her little girl had a Christmas.
I've never even been close to homeless. We've been nearly broke before. But nearly broke for us meant transferring some money from our savings account to the checking account before we paid some bills. I am blessed beyond what I deserve. I grew up in a family that took money management very seriously. And I am married to a man who is very good with money.
And I totally take it for granted.
I've always viewed homelessness as someone else's problem. I know how that sounds, but I'm just being honest. And if you're honest, most people reading this have felt the same way.
When I see a man on the street corner holding a sign, I'm hesitant to give. What if he uses the money I give him to buy alcohol or cigarettes? Then haven't I just enabled him? I think to myself, "Why doesn't he just get a job?" Or "Doesn't he know that if he just stopped buying cigarettes, he could afford an apartment?"
But I don't know his story. I don't know why he's standing there. I don't know the (probably heartbreaking) circumstances that led him to the miserable place where he must beg just to eat. And what I'm learning is that everyone has a story. Every homeless person has a story.
So when my friend called to ask for help, I was honored and humbled. I know it took a ton of courage for her to make that call. But she swallowed her pride and did it out of love for her daughter. And my mother's heart can understand that much.
I made some calls, and a few Godly friends helped make her Christmas a little more bearable. But what she'll never know is the impact she's had on my life. She asked for help. And in asking for help, she made me part of her story.
I will never see another homeless person without thinking of her and her daughter. I don't know what God has planned for me ministry-wise, but I can't help but believe that He has a role for me in some sort of homelessness prevention ministry. He's priming me for it.
He's touched my heart through her, and I'm coming to understand that when the proverb says "the righteous care about justice for the poor", it means that He intends for us to make it our problem.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Wednesday Women: Edition 3
Where did this week go? There has been so much going on that I'm doing well to shower each day, let alone check email or (heaven forbid) blog. I have three or four different posts started, but nothing finished, and here it is Wednesday again. Not that anyone but my dad actually reads this (Hi, Dad), but here's hoping I can catch up a bit in the next week.
I do want to take time out to honor this week's Wednesday Woman. Since I'm doing this in chronological order, these are still childhood memories, and they are not always very clear, so bear with me.
When I was a child, I attended a private school (Knoxville Christian School). I cannot remember half of my college professors' names, but I remember my teachers' names for grades 1, 2 and 3 (mainly because the teacher for 1 and 2 was the same woman, just with a different last name because she married one of the student's fathers the summer in between...but that's another story). Today, I'd like to tell you about my third grade teacher, Mrs. Mattie Lou Robinson.
Mrs. Robinson seemed so old to me (and I think she actually was). She was tall and very thin and wore her gray hair teased into a beehive of sorts. She always wore a very sweet smile, even when she was reprimanding us, which she did frequently. One of my most vivid memories of her is the daily reminder to wash our hands after using the bathroom because if we didn't, we might as well eat poo-poo. In my mind's eye, I can see her sweet smile and the shape of her mouth as she said the word "poo-poo". Even today, I think of her nearly every time I wash my hands. But I digress...
Mrs. Robinson dedicated an entire semester to the study of the book of Acts. She told us the stories in vivid detail of the gift of the Holy Spirit and the stoning of Stephen. She made the Bible come alive for us. She made the men and women in that book tangible and easy to understand. Each day, when we opened our Bibles together, we went on an adventure. There were maps and pictures all over the classroom, and we understood the places that Paul walked to be real places that we longed to see for ourselves. From infancy, I went to church and had my own Bible. But Mrs. Robinson showed me that it was more than just a book with cool stories. It is the living, breathing word of God.
Years later, when I was at Harding University, Mrs. Robinson showed up at a recital I was scheduled to sing for. I think she was attending one of those classes for retired people. And I'm not kidding you, she looked EXACTLY the same. And she remembered me. I was honored to have the opportunity to thank her in person for the impact she'd had on my personal hygiene and, more importantly, my love of God's book.
Each year, when my children start school, I pray they will have teachers who impact their lives for Christ like Mrs. Robinson did mine. What an awesome gift to a child. And what an amazing gift to a parent, to help mentor a child like she did.
Now, I think I would be shocked to find out she is still living here on earth. If she is, I'm sure she's been on a Smucker's label on Willard Scott's weather report (which is code for REALLY old). But assuming she's passed on, I have no doubt that she's with her Father, the ultimate storyteller.
So here's to you, Mrs. Robinson (you know I couldn't resist), I imagine you're enjoying washing your hands in that heavenly sink.
I do want to take time out to honor this week's Wednesday Woman. Since I'm doing this in chronological order, these are still childhood memories, and they are not always very clear, so bear with me.
When I was a child, I attended a private school (Knoxville Christian School). I cannot remember half of my college professors' names, but I remember my teachers' names for grades 1, 2 and 3 (mainly because the teacher for 1 and 2 was the same woman, just with a different last name because she married one of the student's fathers the summer in between...but that's another story). Today, I'd like to tell you about my third grade teacher, Mrs. Mattie Lou Robinson.
Mrs. Robinson seemed so old to me (and I think she actually was). She was tall and very thin and wore her gray hair teased into a beehive of sorts. She always wore a very sweet smile, even when she was reprimanding us, which she did frequently. One of my most vivid memories of her is the daily reminder to wash our hands after using the bathroom because if we didn't, we might as well eat poo-poo. In my mind's eye, I can see her sweet smile and the shape of her mouth as she said the word "poo-poo". Even today, I think of her nearly every time I wash my hands. But I digress...
Mrs. Robinson dedicated an entire semester to the study of the book of Acts. She told us the stories in vivid detail of the gift of the Holy Spirit and the stoning of Stephen. She made the Bible come alive for us. She made the men and women in that book tangible and easy to understand. Each day, when we opened our Bibles together, we went on an adventure. There were maps and pictures all over the classroom, and we understood the places that Paul walked to be real places that we longed to see for ourselves. From infancy, I went to church and had my own Bible. But Mrs. Robinson showed me that it was more than just a book with cool stories. It is the living, breathing word of God.
Years later, when I was at Harding University, Mrs. Robinson showed up at a recital I was scheduled to sing for. I think she was attending one of those classes for retired people. And I'm not kidding you, she looked EXACTLY the same. And she remembered me. I was honored to have the opportunity to thank her in person for the impact she'd had on my personal hygiene and, more importantly, my love of God's book.
Each year, when my children start school, I pray they will have teachers who impact their lives for Christ like Mrs. Robinson did mine. What an awesome gift to a child. And what an amazing gift to a parent, to help mentor a child like she did.
Now, I think I would be shocked to find out she is still living here on earth. If she is, I'm sure she's been on a Smucker's label on Willard Scott's weather report (which is code for REALLY old). But assuming she's passed on, I have no doubt that she's with her Father, the ultimate storyteller.
So here's to you, Mrs. Robinson (you know I couldn't resist), I imagine you're enjoying washing your hands in that heavenly sink.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Wednesday Women: Edition 2
What I'm about to say is from my childhood memory. And it is not always reliable. Just ask my family. The things I remember are totally random and often completely insignificant. But these "memories" are tools the Lord has used to mold me into the woman I am today, and I want to honor that.
When I was a little girl living in Tennessee, we lived very close to my mom's best friend, Gina. I don't have a lot of experience with Gina as grown-up Amy, but in Amy Jill's little memory, she lives as this amazing, outgoing, hilarious woman who made life full of bright colors for anyone who knew her.
My sisters and I often played at her house. She had kids my little sisters' ages, and her next door neighbor had a little girl that I loved to play with. Gina had rules and boundaries, and we were expected to obey her as if she were our mother. We all feared disappointing her, not because she was heavy-handed with discipline, but because we adored her and couldn't stand to grieve her.
On snow days, we would trudge through the snow to her house for s'mores on the wood stove in her basement. We did little plays and shows in that same basement. We ran laps around her house and played badminton on the "court" set up between her house and the neighbor's.
Sometimes, the neighbor girl wasn't home and I would get the privilege of drying dishes in Gina's kitchen while she washed. It was in those moments that she asked me questions and showed interest in my little life. For all I remember, this may have happened only once, but if so, it must have been a pretty powerful afternoon for my little heart.
The day we moved away to New Mexico is a day I'll never forget (although I'm not sure I remember it accurately). We said good-bye to Gina and her sweet family last, and driving away in our Chevy Astro, we all cried.
In my memory, she smiles all the time. She has a thick southern accent and uses the word "girl" a lot. ("Girl, it's been forever since...." "Girl, I'm so happy to see you...") She loves fiercely and passionately. Yet she is quiet in spirit. She has a confidence in the Lord that produces joy. She is not mousy, but she is meek.
Gina taught me that loving Christ is not boring. She taught me that when the Lord gives you personality, you use it.
And she taught me that when I let my Lord's heart be the heart of my home, I make my home a sweet memory for anyone who enters it.
When I was a little girl living in Tennessee, we lived very close to my mom's best friend, Gina. I don't have a lot of experience with Gina as grown-up Amy, but in Amy Jill's little memory, she lives as this amazing, outgoing, hilarious woman who made life full of bright colors for anyone who knew her.
My sisters and I often played at her house. She had kids my little sisters' ages, and her next door neighbor had a little girl that I loved to play with. Gina had rules and boundaries, and we were expected to obey her as if she were our mother. We all feared disappointing her, not because she was heavy-handed with discipline, but because we adored her and couldn't stand to grieve her.
On snow days, we would trudge through the snow to her house for s'mores on the wood stove in her basement. We did little plays and shows in that same basement. We ran laps around her house and played badminton on the "court" set up between her house and the neighbor's.
Sometimes, the neighbor girl wasn't home and I would get the privilege of drying dishes in Gina's kitchen while she washed. It was in those moments that she asked me questions and showed interest in my little life. For all I remember, this may have happened only once, but if so, it must have been a pretty powerful afternoon for my little heart.
The day we moved away to New Mexico is a day I'll never forget (although I'm not sure I remember it accurately). We said good-bye to Gina and her sweet family last, and driving away in our Chevy Astro, we all cried.
In my memory, she smiles all the time. She has a thick southern accent and uses the word "girl" a lot. ("Girl, it's been forever since...." "Girl, I'm so happy to see you...") She loves fiercely and passionately. Yet she is quiet in spirit. She has a confidence in the Lord that produces joy. She is not mousy, but she is meek.
Gina taught me that loving Christ is not boring. She taught me that when the Lord gives you personality, you use it.
And she taught me that when I let my Lord's heart be the heart of my home, I make my home a sweet memory for anyone who enters it.
Plum worn out
Today is the first day since I started this whole journey toward a more disciplined life that I'm really having trouble even getting started.
I'm tired. It's cold. I'm hungry, but too lazy to make anything good for me. I know I need to work out, but I'd rather stay in my pj's all day and pretend like I don't pay $100 a month for a gym membership. I didn't quite finish all my shopping yesterday, so I can't move forward with some of the things on my to do list today. There's folded laundry everywhere, and I lack the motivation to put it away.
So here's where I have to "be transformed by the renewing of my mind" (Romans 12).
I can take a quick nap with the boys this afternoon. I have a jacket. I have instant oatmeal, and that's going to have to do for breakfast this morning. The gym and a quick shopping trip are the perfect morning outing for the boys. And laundry - ugh - Thank you, Jesus, that you gave me the energy to actually FOLD the laundry yesterday.
I have a feeling this is going to be a fake-it-'till-you-feel-it kind of day. Pray much?
I'm tired. It's cold. I'm hungry, but too lazy to make anything good for me. I know I need to work out, but I'd rather stay in my pj's all day and pretend like I don't pay $100 a month for a gym membership. I didn't quite finish all my shopping yesterday, so I can't move forward with some of the things on my to do list today. There's folded laundry everywhere, and I lack the motivation to put it away.
So here's where I have to "be transformed by the renewing of my mind" (Romans 12).
I can take a quick nap with the boys this afternoon. I have a jacket. I have instant oatmeal, and that's going to have to do for breakfast this morning. The gym and a quick shopping trip are the perfect morning outing for the boys. And laundry - ugh - Thank you, Jesus, that you gave me the energy to actually FOLD the laundry yesterday.
I have a feeling this is going to be a fake-it-'till-you-feel-it kind of day. Pray much?
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
On my knees
As I write this, my dear friend Kendyl sits in a waiting room in Little Rock while her father has surgery. Surgery to remove the cursed cancer. If you're reading this, won't you join me in praying for her father, his surgeon, and his sweet family?
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