I've decided that taking famous quotes and attributing them to Rasputin could be the most hilarious thing I've thought of in the last hour.
For instance, the quote that I used in the last post:
"Love changes, and in change is true" - Rasputin
Wasn't that fun?!
Friday, September 25, 2009
What Love is Now
"Love changes, and in change is true." - Wendell Berry
Right now love is:
Rob calling to say he'll be late and me saying, in all honesty, "It's okay. Take the time you need."
Ironing Rob's shirts at 10:00 p.m. while upstairs Rob types away at his computer, trying to get things together for his class.
Reading a book on massage.
Telling Rob he needs to play with his kids, just to try to get him to relax a little.
Rob telling me he appreciates all the extra things I'm taking on so that he can focus.
Going to bed, feeling eager, and looking over at Rob who looks like he's about to cry because he's so worn out. Telling him it's okay and going to sleep in his arms.
Not worrying about formal date nights, cause I know right now it'd just be too much for our family.
...
At other points in my life, most of these things would have been completely unacceptable. They wouldn't have said love at all. But right now they do. It's a quiet, soft kind of love, and it's alright. It adds depth to the chaotic, passionate love that tends to be my favorite kind.
Right now love is:
Rob calling to say he'll be late and me saying, in all honesty, "It's okay. Take the time you need."
Ironing Rob's shirts at 10:00 p.m. while upstairs Rob types away at his computer, trying to get things together for his class.
Reading a book on massage.
Telling Rob he needs to play with his kids, just to try to get him to relax a little.
Rob telling me he appreciates all the extra things I'm taking on so that he can focus.
Going to bed, feeling eager, and looking over at Rob who looks like he's about to cry because he's so worn out. Telling him it's okay and going to sleep in his arms.
Not worrying about formal date nights, cause I know right now it'd just be too much for our family.
...
At other points in my life, most of these things would have been completely unacceptable. They wouldn't have said love at all. But right now they do. It's a quiet, soft kind of love, and it's alright. It adds depth to the chaotic, passionate love that tends to be my favorite kind.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Just Like a Teenager
On Tuesday one of the girls in my Sunday School class, Becca, a delightfully bouncy 10-year-old, gave me what must have been a heart-felt compliment.
She introduced me to a friend by saying, "This is her! This is Sister Thacker!" By her friend's response, I could tell Becca has talked about me before. In glowing terms. And it made me feel very uncomfortable. I can do respect, but unabashed admiration is harder to cope with. I said, "What's up?" and gave her my by-now-signature upwards nod and Rock On sign.
As her friend stared at me in something like awe and I tried to think of the best response (I wanted to run away or laugh or just say, "Stop that!", but all of those seemed inappropriate. I decided to just do nothing), Becca continued, "She's my favorite teacher ever! She acts just like a teenager and she's 29!"
I smiled at that. As Becca and her friend ran off to do whatever it is 10-year-olds do, I mumbled to myself and the other adult woman standing there, "I'm not sure that's a compliment."
In reality, I'm only 28. And I don't think I act "just like a teenager." But then again, maybe I do. Signature upwards nod and Rock On sign submitted as piece of evidence #1.
This has me thinking. About what it is I do that makes me "just like a teenager" to her. I mean, I raise 3 kids and cook dinner and clean house and organize 5 people's lives. I don't send text messages or "speak" text languages. I don't attempt to dress immodestly and call it acceptable. And I have long ago stopped worrying about if Joe and Jane Cool think I'm in the "in" crowd. Clearly: not a teenager.
But I make it a point to be ridiculously casual when the time does not call for it. I'm just as random as the girls I teach (as evidenced by the fact that we often get nothing accomplished for an entire hour), and I refuse to take a hard line on discipline towards them. And while I don't speak text, I do say a lot of non-professional words and phrases like, "what up?" "sup?" "whatever" "it's cool" "rock on" and "hey". I sometimes show up to class and say, "I didn't feel like preparing a lesson this week, so I didn't," and then we'll just goof off and have a brief spiritual thought and call it good. Clearly: teenager.
While I'm trying to take it how she meant it--as a sincere compliment, maybe one of the best compliments she could think of--I'm wondering if I should "grow up" a little.
Oh well. So long as no 50-year-olds start saying that I act just like a teenager, I guess I'm okay.
She introduced me to a friend by saying, "This is her! This is Sister Thacker!" By her friend's response, I could tell Becca has talked about me before. In glowing terms. And it made me feel very uncomfortable. I can do respect, but unabashed admiration is harder to cope with. I said, "What's up?" and gave her my by-now-signature upwards nod and Rock On sign.
As her friend stared at me in something like awe and I tried to think of the best response (I wanted to run away or laugh or just say, "Stop that!", but all of those seemed inappropriate. I decided to just do nothing), Becca continued, "She's my favorite teacher ever! She acts just like a teenager and she's 29!"
I smiled at that. As Becca and her friend ran off to do whatever it is 10-year-olds do, I mumbled to myself and the other adult woman standing there, "I'm not sure that's a compliment."
In reality, I'm only 28. And I don't think I act "just like a teenager." But then again, maybe I do. Signature upwards nod and Rock On sign submitted as piece of evidence #1.
This has me thinking. About what it is I do that makes me "just like a teenager" to her. I mean, I raise 3 kids and cook dinner and clean house and organize 5 people's lives. I don't send text messages or "speak" text languages. I don't attempt to dress immodestly and call it acceptable. And I have long ago stopped worrying about if Joe and Jane Cool think I'm in the "in" crowd. Clearly: not a teenager.
But I make it a point to be ridiculously casual when the time does not call for it. I'm just as random as the girls I teach (as evidenced by the fact that we often get nothing accomplished for an entire hour), and I refuse to take a hard line on discipline towards them. And while I don't speak text, I do say a lot of non-professional words and phrases like, "what up?" "sup?" "whatever" "it's cool" "rock on" and "hey". I sometimes show up to class and say, "I didn't feel like preparing a lesson this week, so I didn't," and then we'll just goof off and have a brief spiritual thought and call it good. Clearly: teenager.
While I'm trying to take it how she meant it--as a sincere compliment, maybe one of the best compliments she could think of--I'm wondering if I should "grow up" a little.
Oh well. So long as no 50-year-olds start saying that I act just like a teenager, I guess I'm okay.
whateverness
Ugh! I do NOT want to be alive today.
Not that anything's wrong. I'd just rather be alive tomorrow.
Not that anything's wrong. I'd just rather be alive tomorrow.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Needle-Point
I sat in the middle of the parking lot in my van, doors open to let in the air because Teancom was asleep in his car seat. It was 6:15 on a Thursday night and Elijah and Miciah were out of sight practicing on their respective soccer fields. For a moment or two I sat thinking about how great it was that Teancom was asleep, since he hadn't napped earlier in the day. I looked back at him and smiled. Sleeping children are beautiful.
Then I did something that I hadn't done in years. I picked up a needle-point project. Yep. Tamra Thacker was doing a sewing project. It's a project that my Mother initiated when she was in town one time, playing around and finding new avenues for her sewing habit. Unlike most of my Mother's sewing ideas, this particular project interested me because it was different, fast, and required absolutely no skill. But I hadn't finished it then, of course. I'd let it sit on my shelf for 2 years, waiting for the right time. Twiddling my thumbs at soccer practice seemed like as good a time as any.
As I wove the thread through the fabric, I felt a sense of calm and peace come over me. Suddenly I felt a desire to be drawn back in time. Not back to the days of my own Mother doing sewing projects at my soccer practices, but way, way back. Back to days before women's rights, when being "accomplished" as a women meant that you were an excellent cook and made amazing quilts.
I had a desire to sit around a fireplace late into the night and use the dying light to embroider my skirt and darn my husband's socks. My husband would read to me out of the Bible and I would nod appreciatively at appropriate times, perhaps when he gave a particularly stirring rendition of Psalm 24, or spoke with emotion in his voice as he recounted the story of Abraham and Isaac. We would spend some time talking about the discipline of the children and he would tell me about the crops. I would briefly tell him about my day, and then listen with heartfelt interest as he talked about more important things that happened to him.
I imagined this conversation between my 1750's counterpart, the virtuous Tabitha, and Robert, my hard-working husband.
We are sitting in front of the fireplace in the evening hours. The children are asleep. Robert is putting the 400-lb. family Bible on his lap. As he starts opening it I say, "Oh, Robert, how I love to hear you read to me from the Bible. But I was wondering if I could suggest that we read some Shakespeare tonight."
Robert looks at me stonily but silently.
"We can read the Bible, too, but I just love the story of Hamlet," I continue.
Robert is shamed by my brazen comments.
Of course, though, my suggestion wouldn't have happened at all, because I would have known that speaking like that towards my husband was a sin.
As I sat in the van thinking upon this happy scene, I knew in an instant that women's rights have set me back. Consider it! Knowing how to read is a burden--I could certainly accomplish more sewing projects if I didn't have the chore of reading books to slow me down. Being able to vote is a particular bother, because then I have to spend the time to be informed. Back in the day I couldn't vote--how can property vote? I didn't have to be bothered with thinking for myself or reading for myself. I just had to bother with raising 11 children and cooking and cleaning, and sitting around a fireplace sewing blankets for my children.
Who thought up women's rights anyway?!
Then I did something that I hadn't done in years. I picked up a needle-point project. Yep. Tamra Thacker was doing a sewing project. It's a project that my Mother initiated when she was in town one time, playing around and finding new avenues for her sewing habit. Unlike most of my Mother's sewing ideas, this particular project interested me because it was different, fast, and required absolutely no skill. But I hadn't finished it then, of course. I'd let it sit on my shelf for 2 years, waiting for the right time. Twiddling my thumbs at soccer practice seemed like as good a time as any.
As I wove the thread through the fabric, I felt a sense of calm and peace come over me. Suddenly I felt a desire to be drawn back in time. Not back to the days of my own Mother doing sewing projects at my soccer practices, but way, way back. Back to days before women's rights, when being "accomplished" as a women meant that you were an excellent cook and made amazing quilts.
I had a desire to sit around a fireplace late into the night and use the dying light to embroider my skirt and darn my husband's socks. My husband would read to me out of the Bible and I would nod appreciatively at appropriate times, perhaps when he gave a particularly stirring rendition of Psalm 24, or spoke with emotion in his voice as he recounted the story of Abraham and Isaac. We would spend some time talking about the discipline of the children and he would tell me about the crops. I would briefly tell him about my day, and then listen with heartfelt interest as he talked about more important things that happened to him.
I imagined this conversation between my 1750's counterpart, the virtuous Tabitha, and Robert, my hard-working husband.
We are sitting in front of the fireplace in the evening hours. The children are asleep. Robert is putting the 400-lb. family Bible on his lap. As he starts opening it I say, "Oh, Robert, how I love to hear you read to me from the Bible. But I was wondering if I could suggest that we read some Shakespeare tonight."
Robert looks at me stonily but silently.
"We can read the Bible, too, but I just love the story of Hamlet," I continue.
Robert is shamed by my brazen comments.
Of course, though, my suggestion wouldn't have happened at all, because I would have known that speaking like that towards my husband was a sin.
As I sat in the van thinking upon this happy scene, I knew in an instant that women's rights have set me back. Consider it! Knowing how to read is a burden--I could certainly accomplish more sewing projects if I didn't have the chore of reading books to slow me down. Being able to vote is a particular bother, because then I have to spend the time to be informed. Back in the day I couldn't vote--how can property vote? I didn't have to be bothered with thinking for myself or reading for myself. I just had to bother with raising 11 children and cooking and cleaning, and sitting around a fireplace sewing blankets for my children.
Who thought up women's rights anyway?!
Stolen Quote #7
This is a stolen quote from Rob's childhood. For some reason, it runs around my head more than you'd think a quote like this should.
"You're never too poor for 2-ply."
"You're never too poor for 2-ply."
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Stomach Bug
For fun, I started the day off bright and early by puking. You know what they say about the early bird catching a stomach bug. Anyways, I promptly went back to bed until 11 a.m. ... My boys are used to me sleeping in a little, but 11:00 is really late, even for me.
In the meantime Rob had also puked. Before he left for work I had started coming out the other end (which meant promising things to come for Rob also--and all his sessions happened in a public restroom. Yea for him!), and as I did so, I was reminded about Teancom's stomach bug last week. He threw up early in the morning, and then had intense diarrhea for about 6 hours. Other than refusing to eat, the bug seemed not to slow him down at all, and by early afternoon he was back to his normal self.
In contrast, I spent most of the day sleeping or "expelling", and occasionally accomplishing both tasks at once.
Later in the day a thunderstorm came through. It was fun to listen to the thunder, cause it sounded like how my stomach had earlier. All rumbly and angry and turbulent. ... It was also amazing to look at the house at the end of the day and see it exactly as it was this morning, complete with smashed Ritz on the kitchen floor, dirty dishes growing mold (or something), and clothes sitting in the washing machine waiting to be moved to the dryer.
I have finally eaten something besides saltines and Sprite. Pizza that I nearly burnt because I wasn't paying attention (how can you think about food when your stomach says eating is a BAD idea (and, interestingly, also says that saltines are the tastiest food you've ever eaten)). I'm hopeful that tomorrow will be toilet-event-free.
In the meantime, it makes me feel old that my 3-year-old son waltzed through this sickness while I acted like I was dying.
In the meantime Rob had also puked. Before he left for work I had started coming out the other end (which meant promising things to come for Rob also--and all his sessions happened in a public restroom. Yea for him!), and as I did so, I was reminded about Teancom's stomach bug last week. He threw up early in the morning, and then had intense diarrhea for about 6 hours. Other than refusing to eat, the bug seemed not to slow him down at all, and by early afternoon he was back to his normal self.
In contrast, I spent most of the day sleeping or "expelling", and occasionally accomplishing both tasks at once.
Later in the day a thunderstorm came through. It was fun to listen to the thunder, cause it sounded like how my stomach had earlier. All rumbly and angry and turbulent. ... It was also amazing to look at the house at the end of the day and see it exactly as it was this morning, complete with smashed Ritz on the kitchen floor, dirty dishes growing mold (or something), and clothes sitting in the washing machine waiting to be moved to the dryer.
I have finally eaten something besides saltines and Sprite. Pizza that I nearly burnt because I wasn't paying attention (how can you think about food when your stomach says eating is a BAD idea (and, interestingly, also says that saltines are the tastiest food you've ever eaten)). I'm hopeful that tomorrow will be toilet-event-free.
In the meantime, it makes me feel old that my 3-year-old son waltzed through this sickness while I acted like I was dying.
Friday, September 4, 2009
My Garden
Know how I thought about writing up a Garden Series of posts? See how much I've written about it?
Yeah. Nice.
Anyways, this is my garden:
My garden really is my baby. Every year it extends further and further, as we take out lawn to add more plants, or add vining plants that will grow up our poles and fences (and hence extend our garden without taking up ground space). Love, love, love my garden.
Yeah. Nice.
Anyways, this is my garden:
My garden really is my baby. Every year it extends further and further, as we take out lawn to add more plants, or add vining plants that will grow up our poles and fences (and hence extend our garden without taking up ground space). Love, love, love my garden.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Angry Soccer
A few weeks ago I played a soccer game, like normal. Except it didn't go like normal, and I wanted to write about it.
I'm a pretty laid-back soccer player. I don't get riled up, even when we're losing (even losing badly). Plus I'm very cordial on the field. I like talking to the opponents, and I congratulate them on good plays. Seriously, a good shot is a good shot, no matter who took it.
I lost my competitive edge some time in Jr. High. I had a soccer coach who beat the life out of my soccer game. I stepped down from my competitive team and joined a rec league and learned how to lead and how to encourage and how to just play because I was having fun. No one was yelling at me or telling me I played like $h1t (and yes, my coach DID tell us that. More than once). I LOVED it. And I decided, at 13 years old, that if more competitive soccer led to more stress and more stressed-out coaches, then I wanted nothing of it. I wrote off, in that moment, any prospect of playing soccer at high levels. No college ball. No thank you.
So now I play co-ed soccer on Friday nights in a 35+ (those are the ages. Sometimes it's 25+, but sometimes they don't have enough teams, so they combine with the older league) local indoor league. And I'm a star. Not to brag, ... Okay, I'll brag. I'm really good. My team doesn't win every game, but I "keep my own stats", as I like to say. Most games I participate in 50% of my team's goals. It's a little easier to do because I'm a girl, and they need a "girl touch" on the offensive side of the field before anyone can score.
At first I kept involvement stats if I was involved in the play. If I started the play, made a crucial pass, assisted or scored. But I've improved since then, so I only count "involvement" if I assisted or scored (which is a shame for last week's game, when I started 3 plays that lead to goals, but assisted none and scored none (cause I played defense the whole time)).
Well, the game a few weeks ago was progressing like normal. Low-key. We dominated the first half, but played sloppily and only scored 2 goals. I assisted one of them. And I was shooting well, which was good for me, cause I hurt my knee back in June and have been worried about if I'd be able to play at all. So I knew that not only could I play without pain, I could shoot! (And, to brag again, I shoot harder than a lot of people on the field, guys included.)
Then the second half started. I was sitting out for the starting rotation (6 minutes on and 6 minutes off, if we have a full team, which we did). By the time I got on the field, the other team was up by 1. THAT MEANS IN 6 MINUTES THE OTHER TEAM SCORED 3 UNANSWERED GOALS. And I was ticked. Not only had we let up on our play and that was disappointing, we let the SAME GUY score all 3 times, in the exact same way. He dribbled from his own half, through about 6 people, and shot the exact same low shot to the far corner.
It'd be one thing if the guy was a dribbling genius, but he wasn't! He wasn't near as good as he thought he was, and he wasn't a generous player (in fact, his play could be described as sexist, and yes, I WOULD describe it that way). The fact that my team wasn't taking the ball away from him at half field was unacceptable.
2 minutes into my first turn back on the field the other team (though not the same guy) scored again. It was 4-2. I walked to the line for the kick off and said, "They've filled their quota." I was now focused and feeling ruthless. They will NOT score again. Not on my field.
We had plenty of opportunities to get back into the game. During that first rotation in I scored. The ball was bouncing around the box, people shooting and rebounding like crazy. The ball came to my foot, and as if in slow motion the ball left my foot and headed for the far upper corner. It was so well placed that it hit both sides of the corner on the way in. I didn't even wait for the congratulations. I turned and walked to mid-field, eyes on the ground. There was still another goal to be scored.
And I scored it. It was a beautifully placed shot to the near post. Buried in the back of the net. Both shots must have been hard, but they felt slow and deliberate. Like everything I did was intentional, and I could perform like this for the next 100 years.
We were now tied 4-4. I looked at the clock, and with 2:30 left, we could still win the game. But suddenly, my fire was gone. Just Gone. I ran slower. My passes weren't on. I found that I was back to the normal Tamra who doesn't care if we win or lose, so long as we're having fun.
The game ended in a tie, and I felt fine about that. The world was okay again. I had gotten my evens.
I even apologized to the guy who had scored 3 goals, cause during my moments of Fire, I had kicked him. Not on purpose (I could never do that, no matter HOW mad I got), and it wasn't even my fault really, but still I didn't apologize for it. Usually I'm uber-apologetic. It half-killed me to walk away, but I was so mad that I didn't care. After the Fire was gone and the game was over, I was sorry for kicking him.
It was kinda fun to feel that Fire again, though I don't like employing it, cause there's so much anger associated with it. I haven't felt it since a certain game in High School that I can recall in detail to this day, even though it happened 14 years ago. It was a deeply frustrating game, and I scored 2 goals in under 5 minutes to win the game by 1.
... And if you were keeping track of my involvement stats for the game of my Fire: 2 goals and 1 assist, out of 4 total goals. That's 75%. Impressive, no?
I'm a pretty laid-back soccer player. I don't get riled up, even when we're losing (even losing badly). Plus I'm very cordial on the field. I like talking to the opponents, and I congratulate them on good plays. Seriously, a good shot is a good shot, no matter who took it.
I lost my competitive edge some time in Jr. High. I had a soccer coach who beat the life out of my soccer game. I stepped down from my competitive team and joined a rec league and learned how to lead and how to encourage and how to just play because I was having fun. No one was yelling at me or telling me I played like $h1t (and yes, my coach DID tell us that. More than once). I LOVED it. And I decided, at 13 years old, that if more competitive soccer led to more stress and more stressed-out coaches, then I wanted nothing of it. I wrote off, in that moment, any prospect of playing soccer at high levels. No college ball. No thank you.
So now I play co-ed soccer on Friday nights in a 35+ (those are the ages. Sometimes it's 25+, but sometimes they don't have enough teams, so they combine with the older league) local indoor league. And I'm a star. Not to brag, ... Okay, I'll brag. I'm really good. My team doesn't win every game, but I "keep my own stats", as I like to say. Most games I participate in 50% of my team's goals. It's a little easier to do because I'm a girl, and they need a "girl touch" on the offensive side of the field before anyone can score.
At first I kept involvement stats if I was involved in the play. If I started the play, made a crucial pass, assisted or scored. But I've improved since then, so I only count "involvement" if I assisted or scored (which is a shame for last week's game, when I started 3 plays that lead to goals, but assisted none and scored none (cause I played defense the whole time)).
Well, the game a few weeks ago was progressing like normal. Low-key. We dominated the first half, but played sloppily and only scored 2 goals. I assisted one of them. And I was shooting well, which was good for me, cause I hurt my knee back in June and have been worried about if I'd be able to play at all. So I knew that not only could I play without pain, I could shoot! (And, to brag again, I shoot harder than a lot of people on the field, guys included.)
Then the second half started. I was sitting out for the starting rotation (6 minutes on and 6 minutes off, if we have a full team, which we did). By the time I got on the field, the other team was up by 1. THAT MEANS IN 6 MINUTES THE OTHER TEAM SCORED 3 UNANSWERED GOALS. And I was ticked. Not only had we let up on our play and that was disappointing, we let the SAME GUY score all 3 times, in the exact same way. He dribbled from his own half, through about 6 people, and shot the exact same low shot to the far corner.
It'd be one thing if the guy was a dribbling genius, but he wasn't! He wasn't near as good as he thought he was, and he wasn't a generous player (in fact, his play could be described as sexist, and yes, I WOULD describe it that way). The fact that my team wasn't taking the ball away from him at half field was unacceptable.
2 minutes into my first turn back on the field the other team (though not the same guy) scored again. It was 4-2. I walked to the line for the kick off and said, "They've filled their quota." I was now focused and feeling ruthless. They will NOT score again. Not on my field.
We had plenty of opportunities to get back into the game. During that first rotation in I scored. The ball was bouncing around the box, people shooting and rebounding like crazy. The ball came to my foot, and as if in slow motion the ball left my foot and headed for the far upper corner. It was so well placed that it hit both sides of the corner on the way in. I didn't even wait for the congratulations. I turned and walked to mid-field, eyes on the ground. There was still another goal to be scored.
And I scored it. It was a beautifully placed shot to the near post. Buried in the back of the net. Both shots must have been hard, but they felt slow and deliberate. Like everything I did was intentional, and I could perform like this for the next 100 years.
We were now tied 4-4. I looked at the clock, and with 2:30 left, we could still win the game. But suddenly, my fire was gone. Just Gone. I ran slower. My passes weren't on. I found that I was back to the normal Tamra who doesn't care if we win or lose, so long as we're having fun.
The game ended in a tie, and I felt fine about that. The world was okay again. I had gotten my evens.
I even apologized to the guy who had scored 3 goals, cause during my moments of Fire, I had kicked him. Not on purpose (I could never do that, no matter HOW mad I got), and it wasn't even my fault really, but still I didn't apologize for it. Usually I'm uber-apologetic. It half-killed me to walk away, but I was so mad that I didn't care. After the Fire was gone and the game was over, I was sorry for kicking him.
It was kinda fun to feel that Fire again, though I don't like employing it, cause there's so much anger associated with it. I haven't felt it since a certain game in High School that I can recall in detail to this day, even though it happened 14 years ago. It was a deeply frustrating game, and I scored 2 goals in under 5 minutes to win the game by 1.
... And if you were keeping track of my involvement stats for the game of my Fire: 2 goals and 1 assist, out of 4 total goals. That's 75%. Impressive, no?
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Borrowed Time
You know how someone will have a near-death experience, or survive something they "shouldn't have", and then they'll say that they're living on borrowed time?
I've decided that's silly. Not because that person isn't living on borrowed time, but because in reality we ALL are living on borrowed time.
The last few months I've been searching my soul. I don't mean that to sound tacky, it's just the truth. I've re-written attitudes and ways of being. And I've done it nearly effortlessly, if you can call a major change in attitudes and behavior "effortless." I've done it without complaint, and I guess that's what I mean by effortless.
One of the concepts I've been focusing on is charity and service. I need more charity (that is SO obvious, if you know me), and I want to fill my life with more service. Not cheesy service. And it doesn't even have to take a ton of time. Just wanting to do the right things at the right time. Wanting to go and do what the Lord wants me to do. No complaining. No questions asked. Just DO it. No excuses.
And this has made me think about borrowed time. There was a long period in my life where my time was MY time. I didn't want to do a lot of service, or give someone a ride to church, or whatever, cause it would be inconvenient. It would take time. It would stress me out or make me bitter. And I didn't want Rob to do a lot of service, either. I needed him HOME. Life was all about me and my needs. "YOU'VE got problems? Let me TELL you about my problems. Yeah, that's right. I don't want to hear it."
It's not like we weren't serving. Rob was (and still is) giving hours and hours and hours each week to the Bishopric, and I had (and still have) a calling. Not to mention the small children we're trying to bring up right. We were dedicated. We were diligent. And we didn't have any more time to give than we were already giving. I need time to live my life, too!
And that's where the paradigm shift happened for me: This isn't MY time. It's the Lord's time. He's letting me borrow it.
And suddenly the time it takes to serve isn't inconvenient or cutting into my day: the time I get to live "my" life is a gift. Serving the Lord CHEERFULLY is what I need to do so that I can truly turn my life over to Him. So that I can be at peace.
Each new thing I embark on now, each new task I take upon myself, seems easy to do. When objections arise, I wave them off. If those objections persist, I stare them down, and they lower their heads in shame and walk away.
My new mantra has become: "The time has passed." Way too much time has passed, in fact. Too much time of me sitting in self-pity or apathy. Me focused on me. Too many excuses have been used. Too many times have I said, "I have lots of time to do that, so I'll do it later" or, "Someone else is better able to take care of this," or, "I'm doing good things already," or the million other sad sorry excuses I've employed.
No more. The time has passed. I'm living on borrowed time. And I know that I need Him to be in control of that time.
I've decided that's silly. Not because that person isn't living on borrowed time, but because in reality we ALL are living on borrowed time.
The last few months I've been searching my soul. I don't mean that to sound tacky, it's just the truth. I've re-written attitudes and ways of being. And I've done it nearly effortlessly, if you can call a major change in attitudes and behavior "effortless." I've done it without complaint, and I guess that's what I mean by effortless.
One of the concepts I've been focusing on is charity and service. I need more charity (that is SO obvious, if you know me), and I want to fill my life with more service. Not cheesy service. And it doesn't even have to take a ton of time. Just wanting to do the right things at the right time. Wanting to go and do what the Lord wants me to do. No complaining. No questions asked. Just DO it. No excuses.
And this has made me think about borrowed time. There was a long period in my life where my time was MY time. I didn't want to do a lot of service, or give someone a ride to church, or whatever, cause it would be inconvenient. It would take time. It would stress me out or make me bitter. And I didn't want Rob to do a lot of service, either. I needed him HOME. Life was all about me and my needs. "YOU'VE got problems? Let me TELL you about my problems. Yeah, that's right. I don't want to hear it."
It's not like we weren't serving. Rob was (and still is) giving hours and hours and hours each week to the Bishopric, and I had (and still have) a calling. Not to mention the small children we're trying to bring up right. We were dedicated. We were diligent. And we didn't have any more time to give than we were already giving. I need time to live my life, too!
And that's where the paradigm shift happened for me: This isn't MY time. It's the Lord's time. He's letting me borrow it.
And suddenly the time it takes to serve isn't inconvenient or cutting into my day: the time I get to live "my" life is a gift. Serving the Lord CHEERFULLY is what I need to do so that I can truly turn my life over to Him. So that I can be at peace.
Each new thing I embark on now, each new task I take upon myself, seems easy to do. When objections arise, I wave them off. If those objections persist, I stare them down, and they lower their heads in shame and walk away.
My new mantra has become: "The time has passed." Way too much time has passed, in fact. Too much time of me sitting in self-pity or apathy. Me focused on me. Too many excuses have been used. Too many times have I said, "I have lots of time to do that, so I'll do it later" or, "Someone else is better able to take care of this," or, "I'm doing good things already," or the million other sad sorry excuses I've employed.
No more. The time has passed. I'm living on borrowed time. And I know that I need Him to be in control of that time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)