Act Like You Belong

Staying in a swank Hollywood hotel is not a regular scheduled event in my life, but my intention was to not make it obvious. “Act like you belong” I kept telling myself walking past turquoise padded walls and shiny balls hanging from the ceiling on my way to the fitness center. My gym clothes were not only mismatched but they were purchase at Target. If anyone had noticed, I would have been removed.

I continued to navigate my way around wanna be actors, hipsters, and people who I’m sure were famous but that I didn’t recognize, hoping that my age and trend challenged wardrobe would go unnoticed. I fantasized about being a model with a face abandon of make-up who still drew stares from men and women, but in reality I am a 40 something mom with four children who wears a bra with a hole in the side, and spends the weekend in a hip hotel only because someone else paid the bill. Pure luck.

The fitness room was inviting, offering chilled bottles of water and apples. I took full advantage. For a moment I considered stuffing my gym bag with the miniature apples to use the upcoming week in school lunches, however, I declined all temptation. Hotel savvy people don’t do crap like that.

Although Nick, the drive through cashier at our local Jack-in-the-Box thinks that I look like Jennifer Anniston, no one approached me before, during, or after my workout, asking for my autograph. After a brisk 4 mile run, I ended my relationship with the fitness center, aptly named “Sweat,” and ventured onward.

The pool area was bustling with people and funky music spouting from speakers so I took a peak at what was happening. Before I could yell, “cherry bomb!” while jumping into the pool but was stopped by a guy sitting at the entrance. He made it clear to me that the pool area wasn’t open to hotel guests because it was being used by a private party. I assume, by the look of the food and drink offerings that it wasn’t open to sweaty party guests in Target clothing either, but I refrained from asking.

I eventually made it back to my room without making eye contact with anyone and engaging in fake cell phone conversations which included words like “agent,” “photo op” and “travel expenses.” If I had any hope of looking the part, I had to act the part. Once I was safely inside my hotel room normalcy followed and all acting ceased.
Why did I feel so awkward in a hip Hollywood hotel? No one there looked like I do. Intimidation and fear do wonders in my ability to be myself.

I cannot imagine God hopes that I look and act like everyone else. I cannot imagine that every time I appear to be different because of the relationship that I have with my Father in heaven and my commitment to His word does he sigh and say, “I just wish she fit in.” I don’t imagine that in my efforts to be different and to contrast the world in which I live, God is disappointed. He is not.

I may not look like I belong in a stylish hotel with its overstuffed attitude and overt trend setters, but I do resemble my Father. And, one day we will look exactly the same as everyone else—in heaven.

Disposable Clothing

The posters on the windows were clear, “Nothing over $9.00.” Since the store was selling clothing I was skeptical of the low price. I didn’t doubt that “there was nothing in the store over $9.00” but the quality was in question.

I love a great deal. Love it like I love coffee and this deal was no different. I understood however that any article of clothing which I was about to purchase would not last more than a few months. The sweaters and blouses that would run with their more expensive counter parts named trousers and skirts for a month or two would eventually be demoted to lounge with the sweat pants worn strictly for dog and car washing. Their stay in the workforce line of fashion must haves is a short lived stay thus I have deemed them disposable clothes.

After first washing, the seam takes a left turn and ends up on my stomach. The buttons fall off after a week, and the little balls or bad material combinations gather like teenagers at a Bieber concert riddling the front and sides. The garment usually shrinks and retreats to the “give-away” pile sitting on the closet floor. I know the parameters of disposable clothing and stay close to the boundaries. Rarely am I surprised with the outcome. Trusting that these articles of clothing will fall apart within months is a given; a risk I take based on my investment.

Thankfully my investment in the word of God yields high rewards. The cost was great. God sent His only Son as a sacrifice for my life and for my inevitable sinful nature. The time I spend reading scriptures found in the Bible and spending time in conversation through prayer because of my love for Him and what He did for me, is priceless.

Daily I seek Him. I run to His word for answers. Daily I question Him and talk about my feelings and struggles, and He hears me always, provides an answer continuously, and gives me the guidance that I need at all times. What a deal!

“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly” Colossians 3:16a (NIV)

Star of the Week

I pride myself on the fact that every one of our children has had the distinguished opportunity to showcase my art skills each year they have been selected for “Star of the Week” in their elementary school classrooms. Multiply kindergarten through second grade, times 4 children, and that equals twelve “Star of the Week” masterpieces. Twelve. Four years of art education has not gone to waste. Money well spent I’d say.

I have masterfully created epic posters littered with colorful photos, stickers, smatterings of hand drawn art, lettering perfection, and perfectly labeled events of our young “Star’s” life to which my children had little involvement. On occasion I would let them place a sticker or glue a photo, and allowed them to answer the required questions like, “What is your favorite food?” and “What do you like to do in your spare time?” while trying desperately to not answer for them.

I amaze myself, really.

Our children would smugly sweep into their classrooms, poster in hand, anticipating the stunned faces and dropped jaws from classmates running to catch the first glimpse of the magnum opus. I have a reputation to behold.

I would escort each child to said classroom only to soak in the sticky sweet of acclaims and applause and watch, hidden among the mass, sullen faces of those whose defeat was apparent because of ill equipped mothers. Sad.

Enter child number four. Child number four wants to take my skills and stomp them into the rubbish lying in a city gutter. Child number four wants to do everything himself. Child number doesn’t color inside the lines and misspells words using permanent marker. He hastily turns a “b” into a “d” and crosses out unnecessary letters. Child number four uses tape instead of glue. You can see tape, you cannot see glue. He has stickers which overlap each other, and lays misshapen photos too close to handwritten words and phrases. Child number four spats in the face of my animated characters and expert collage execution. Child number four will suffer the consequences of his misguidance and stubborn ways. He will suffer.

Walking into the room carrying a heap of a “Star of the Week” poster, the teacher greets me, anxious I’m sure, to view the beauty for which I am known around campus. I plop the poster on the back table and begin to explain. “I have a degree in art from a reputable university. I can create a spectacular “Star of the Week” poster while blindfolded, suffering from dehydration and with supplies purchased at a hardware store. This is what I do. However, I have a 4th child who says, ‘I’ve got this Mom. This is my poster.’”

The teacher laughs and says, “I love when the kids do their own posters. The parent posters are pretty, but the posters done by children are my favorite and his is beautiful!”

My art supplies are packed away for good. Posters from past years are stuffed into the garage rafters, and I have resigned to letting the 4th child do projects on his own without any of my help.

The smell defeat is waifing about, but it isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I surrender, but if you happen to need the skills of a seasoned “Star of the Week” poster creator, I know just the right person.

Junior High

While setting my alarm the other night, "How Deep is your Love" by the Bee Gees came through the speakers of my clock radio. I instantly went back to seventh grade and let out a deep sigh.

Seventh grade.

Simplicity.

My day consisted of school, and sitting at the park sipping Icees and spitting out sunflower seed shells from the pile nestled in my cheek. Our homework load was minimal but our conversations were detailed, real, tangible, and centered on friends, and boys we thought were cute.

We wrote our friends letters which were folded in triangular, origami shapes, and signed each one with TTFN and BFF written in ball point pen. The letters were shoved into the ventilation slats on the locker doors and were a welcome surprise to the receiver. I loved getting letters.

If we needed a question answered, or had to decide on a place to meet, the landline telephone was our available source of communication. We sat on the phone for hours and talked incessantly.

Our teenagers have phones they rarely use for talking. Communication with friends is done via text messaging, and Facebook comments. They sometimes e-mail, they never write letters, and telephone conversations are on the go and only as a last resort when the text message appears too lengthy.

I hope that my children don't forget how to communicate with friends through verbal conversation. I hope they remember how to ask questions, and engage others in conversation. I hope they don't overlook the written word - using a pen.

That would be a travesty.

Pedaling Downhill

Our 8 year old likes to pedal down hills. I think peddling downhill is scary, so each time he stands up on his pedals and begins his hasty decent I holler, “Why do you pedal downhill?” He hollers right back to me, “I like going fast!” Within seconds he is down the hill, around the corner, and out of sight. I listen for the crash, but the crash never comes. He’s a professional.

He waits for me at the bottom of the hill. His face is cool from the brisk wind, his heart is pumping, and his mood is high. The adrenaline rush is addictive so he cannot wait to return to the top of the hill, and once again, pedal hard and fast down the hill.

I like to coast down hills. The slow decent is the prize to the grueling climb. I prefer to soak in the success instead of rushing through it. In addition, I don’t like to crash, or hurt myself. Even if none of these were to take place, the fear that I would crash or injure myself keeps me from the escapade. I am not a professional, I don’t need an adrenaline rush, and I prefer using a fan to cool down my face.

Our son loves reckless abandon.

I love order and rules, justice, and all things planned and well thought.

I’m the one who tries to keep everything in neat little boxes, sitting on shelves, each properly labeled and color coded. Perhaps I need some reckless abandon.
I am grateful for the lessons that I learn from our children. They help me slow down and soak in the peace.

Since I don’t own a bike I will not be making any trips downhill as excessive speeds. I will however, learn to allow a smattering of reckless abandon to season my life and trust in God’s safety net.

I'm Usually not this Sassy

Today I ended the afternoon sassy. Not the kind of sassy I have when my girlfriend complements me when I stroll into a circle of girls wearing a fashionable outfit, make up, and high heels. This sassy is the kind of sassy which results in apologies and sulking in regret.

Five days after Christmas and the kids are still asking for things. That makes me sassy. How about you give me back all of your presents and I will trade you for a twenty dollar bill?

The lunch bill tipped the scale at sixty dollars for six people. That makes me sassy. Can't we all just share a meal and drink water?

The youngest didn't feel like taking my daughter's photography seriously and kept smiling like a goof ball. That makes me sassy. He also needed a piggyback ride because he was tired of walking. Sassy.

The dogs stopped too many times to pee. I get really sassy when that happens.

Pictures make me look old so I get sassy. Who am I kidding? Do I really think that I look 30?

My oldest boy takes none of my suggestions which frustrates me and brings out my inner sassy.

My daughter doesn't like the way that I take pictures with her camera. Give me my sassy.

We had a great day. I have so much for which to be thankful. I shouldn't be sassy.

'Tis the Season to be Disappointed

In light of all the celebration and ambiance of the Christmas season, unfortunately, being disappointed is a common feeling around this time. In addition to the disappointment with unexpected gifts, lack of parking availability at the mall, pushy people seeking handouts, and department stores lacking in vast selection of the clothing sizes I need, the end of another year brings to light disappointments with life.

I'm not where I thought I would be in my career. I'm driving the same 15 year old car I thought we would have sold by now. Offers I have pursued failed. Friendships I have promised to keep kindled I haven't. In addition, change for which I have been praying for over a year has not occurred and doesn't seem to be occurring any time soon, and persistence with writing has been stifled with busyness and bad excuses.

Although my disappointment is embarrassing because of the fact that I am so blessed, I'm glad that God is not surprised with my disappointment.

I was reminded this weekend through Pastor Tom Holladay, that my disappointments are God's plan, which again, is disappointing. I also was reminded that God has not lost sight of the purpose He has for my life, which is encouraging.

Joseph and Mary were bombarded with disappointment and this is what I can learn from them:
I need to wait. I need to continue to wait, and wait, and wait. God's timing is perfect. Mary and Joseph had to wait, and it paid off in the end by her giving birth to Jesus.

I need to obey. Joseph and Mary obeyed God and I need to obey God in this season of disappointment.

I need to give gifts to others and encourage people who are doing what they love to do, and who are in a state of contentment and perfect joy. Giving gifts always changes my attitude and helps me to refocus on Christ. Encouraging others has the same effect.

I need to share God's good news. My disappointment by no means gives me an excuse for not sharing what God has done in my life. Satan wants to use my bad attitude to steer me away, but I need to draw even closer to Jesus.

I love what happens in Mark chapter 9 verse 19. The disciples are trying to drive out a demon from a possessed boy and they are unable. When they ask Jesus why they could not perform the exorcism Jesus replies, "You unbelieving generation. How long shall I stay with you? How long shall I put up with you? Bring the boy to me." Even the disciples were disappointed with the outcome of their ministry. However, Jesus knew that their disappointed outcome was a direct reflection of their lack of belief.

When I learn fully to rest in God's faithfulness, my disappointment with dissipate. When I learn to trust in His timing, joy will cover my discontent. When I earnestly seek Him and believe, not for a moment but for the long haul, my bitterness will turn to joy.

I'm grateful that God doesn't get tired of teaching me. I am blessed with His reminders. I am waiting and obeying knowing that freedom and release will come as long as I continue to concentrate on Jesus Christ.

I just need to reminded every now and again.