Our former pastor, a wise and gifted teacher, spoke last Sunday about some hard things. I've been mulling his words for 6 days.
So many times I hear excuses from people about their behavior, and they usually revolve around the desire to be happy. The marriage didn't make them happy, so they left. The job didn't make them happy, so they quit. The church didn't make them happy, so they tried to find another one.
The problem is, especially with those who say they want Christ to be the center of their lives, is that happiness doesn't mean what they think it does. Happiness is a feeling, nothing more, nothing less, and it's such a variable one that its comings and goings can hardly be tracked or predicted. I'm learning something about that feeling, and I'm starting to realize it has nothing to do with lasting, deep-seated joy or contentment. Happiness has everything to do with situations, and nothing to do with true security.
And, to be honest, I don't really think God cares if I'm happy in the moment or not.
Perhaps that sounds sacrilegious. But I don't find a whole lot of Biblical promises about "happiness". I've read about joy. And contentment. And peace. But nothing about warm and fuzzy feelings that fade as soon as someone cuts me off in traffic or the skies cloud up or the dog pees on the floor.
I'm starting to think that what my God requires of me is obedience to His Word, and if I get all warm and fuzzy over that, well, that's fine, but I don't believe that's the reason I'm supposed to be obedient. I can help my neighbor with a glad heart or a bitter one, the choice is mine. However, if I truly want to follow Christ, I don't have a choice about helping in the first place. That's the obedience that a Father requires of His children. Don't want to put money in the offering plate? Do it anyway. Don't want to volunteer at the homeless shelter? Do it anyway. Don't want to bite my tongue when someone treats me like crap? Do it anyway. Don't want to honor my husband or sacrifice for my children? Yes, do it anyway.
It's the obedience that's important, not my attitude about it. I can choose to find joy in submitting myself to the greater will of a God to whom I've committed my soul. I can choose to revel in the idea that the Creator of the universe cares enough about my little peon of a life to want me to be the best person I can be to change my little corner of the world. I can choose to find peace in obedience. I can choose to be content where I am, because He has placed me here.
When it comes right down to it, I think God is more concerned with me being holy than in me being happy. Happiness, as I said, is so fleeting and changeable, so fickle and variable; holiness is eternal. And I believe those are the things God is concerned with, the eternal things, as He is eternal. And because He is concerned with my holiness, or woeful lack thereof, then that is where my focus needs to be also.
I'll take joy and peace and contentment over "happy" today.
Next Wednesday marks the 15th anniversary of the day the Swede and I committed to each other til death do us part. Since the actual date falls mid-week, and the Little's 12th birthday is next Saturday, we decided to go out to dinner tonight.
We aren't big "out-to-dinner" people. We will sometimes go to the local Mexican place or a pub for a bite and a drink, and we like to take the family out once in awhile, but it's never anything fancy. Suits for him and nylons and high heels for me just ruin the fun that's supposed to be part of the night out, so we tend to keep things pretty casual. We tossed around the names of lots of nice restaurants and got recommendations from people who know more than we do, but in the end we chose an old (as in really old, as in the oldest operating inn in the country ... or so the brochure says) tavern, with fireplaces in the dining rooms and real food on the menu, and had probably our best night out in years.
Our waiter, Joe, was perfect. An older guy with thick accent, he asked if we were celebrating anything this evening, and we told him it was an early anniversary dinner. After pleasant congratulations, he proceeded to to everything right, being attentive without crossing over into "buddy" territory. He gave us time to talk, but was on hand to clear and add anything we needed. Big tip, he earned it.
The food was amazing ... the Swede got prime rib, I got duck, and everything was great. There were homemade rolls, extremely fresh vegetables, and we splurged on dessert. As we were finishing up and waiting for the check, Joe came by with one more plate, lit the candle, and wished us a happy anniversary:
Such a sweet gesture. As I said, big tip ... he earned it.
Spending quiet time alone with the Swede, without the distractions of phones and kids and dogs and chores and LIFE is something that doesn't happen often, and we're ok with that. We live our lives together, raising our kids, taking care of the blessings we've been afforded, working hard to make it all work. That's just who we are and what we do. But every once in awhile, we have to take the time to separate ourselves from all of that, and just be able to concentrate on each other, have an entire conversation without being interrupted, and reconnect.
Tonight was that night.
And, as we usually do as the anniversary date rolls around, we asked each other if we'd still do it, given the chance. And we both said yes, just like we did 15 years ago.
Projects progress slowly around here, and we've spent several months basking in the glow of our floor refinishing success. But, alas, those walls in the living room needed serious help. I'll spare any readers another recap of the issues my house has, but it has alot. And horsehair plaster is not my friend. But the floor in the living room looked great, and the walls ... well, they didn't. I blocked out the long weekend celebrating Columbus "discovering" America for the project.
We started here:
Fabulous!
Everyone knows the story of the Prodigal Son, the kid who just couldn't stand living under his father's roof, tied to the farm, so to speak, when there was all that freedom and life to be lived just outside the gates. So, he takes whatever his father will give him, and hits the road, intent on living life on his terms, and to heck with his family and their boring lifestyle and style-cramping ways. He starts living the high life, surrounded by friends and rolling in money. Of course, the friends only last as long as his money, and he eventually finds himself with none of either. He takes a job, the only job he can find, feeding pigs, and probably spends many an hour cursing erstwhile pals for leaving him when things got less than interesting. Cursing those pigs. Cursing the world that had let him down.
And then he got hungry. Apparently, slopping pigs didn't pay well, and he wasn't able to eat as much as he would have liked. And he began to realize that even the pigs on his father's farm ate better than he was at that moment. He realized that he had blown it, big time, but had one last glimmer of hope that he father would take him in as the lowest-paid worker, just so he could eat til his was full, and sleep somewhere warm and safe.
We don't know how long the son was gone, just that it was long enough to blow through a decent inheritance, lose his friends, find a job, and start envying pigs. Could have been months or even years. We do know that the father looked down the road for his son's return every single day. He kept working and providing and going about his business, but he kept a watch for his son to come home. Every. Single. Day.
And he waited. He didn't chase after his son. He didn't text him twenty times a day, begging him to come home. He didn't remind him that things were pretty good at the house, there was food and a warm bed and blessings just waiting for the boy to come get them.
He waited.
And the son came home. On his own, he realized the mistake he had made, had lived the consequences of his actions, and came home asking forgiveness. He must have been scared, not knowing what to expect from his father whom he had humiliated and worried and treated like crap. That walk up the road must have seemed like it went on forever, wanting to get home, but dreading the I-told-you-so's and the looks and the lingering disappointments. Coming into view of his father's house, he must have paused and wondered if he really wanted to go back.
And his father saw him. He didn't stand on the porch, arms folded, stern visaged, waiting for the son to shuffle his way through the gate and quake in fear. He didn't ignore him, pretend he wasn't really there like the son had ignore his father's pain and worry all the days he was gone; there was no tit-for-tat. Instead, the father ran, down the walk, through the gate and into the street. He ran, arms flung wide, tears streaming, relieved laughter bubbling up. He grasped his son, his skinny, disgraced, pig-smelling son, and threw his arms around him. He escorted him home, and spread the word that the party was on, starting right then. Food and wine and friends and family, all brought together to celebrate that which had been lost being returned.
I think of that father often. As I wait for my daughter to see the error of her ways ...
As I wait for the consequences of her choices to take their toll ...
As I wait for God to fulfill His promises ...
As I force myself to not tell her to come home ...
As I wait for her choices to lose their glamour ...
As I wait for her to come home.
We are heading to the Cape today, to celebrate the Swede's great-aunt's 100th birthday. Aunt Margaret is his paternal grandfather's last sibling, and the last of her generation. And apparently, she's still going strong. Her birthday is actually in early October, but she's too busy then for a party, so they moved it up.
She lives alone.
She reads prolifically, as in six to eight books a month.
She plays Sodoku, three puzzles a day, and she wins.
She enjoys competitive Scrabble games at the Senior Center.
She could enjoy many more years at the rate she's going.
Still, a hundred years is a long time.
In October of 1909, William Howard Taft was President, taking office after Teddy Roosevelt. The Titanic was still two and a half years away from sailing. People still remembered the Civil War. The War to End All Wars wouldn't start until she was almost five, and the Great Depression was twenty years away. She was a little younger than I am now when World War II ended.
And she can still likely kick my butt at Scrabble. So, we go today to celebrate a milestone that so few attain, and those that do are often unaware of life going on around them.
There's a man in my town who is 101, and like Aunt Margaret, he lives alone and spends time hanging out at the Senior Center. He's a true gentleman in every sense of the word. When the Boston Red Sox finally won the World Series in 2004, the local news interviewed him, because he actually remembered the last time that had happened, in 1918. He was 10. I noticed the other day that he needs a walker now, and he's given up driving in favor of the Center van, and I wonder just how much longer his body will hold out.
I am truly amazed at the fact that some live so many years, and see so much of the changes in the world, and then are able to pass on those stories to those of us who think certain things happened "forever" ago. I hope I can chat with Aunt Margaret today, and hear some stories about the deep past from a person who lived it.
People who consider themselves religious will often equate misfortune with falling out of favor with God. The Bible is full of stories of a rebellious people who messed up for a little too long, and WHAM! ... 400 years of slavery. A refusal to repent of our wicked, wicked ways can lead to some pretty nasty consequences in God's economy. And it's easy to jump to the conclusion that a rough patch in life is the direct result of screwing up in the eyes of the Lord. I'll admit to having those thoughts, about others and about myself. God is a just God ... and discipline isn't always a picnic. It's all right there in the Holy Book.
But so is the story of Joseph, and his descendants. Here was a people who emigrated to Egypt to escape a devastating famine in their own land. Joseph had already established himself there, and his family came to him and ended up staying. All was good, and everyone apparently got along famously ... Hebrews and Egyptians ... with no glimpse of the hardship on the horizon.
Then, there arose a new king in Egypt, one who didn't know the story of Joseph and the favor he found with the Pharoah of his day. This new king looked around, and saw his own people, and these other people, the Hebrews. Doing a quick head count, he realized that the Hebrew population had exploded, and if they ever got the thought to rebel, they were numerous enough to do serious damage. If they wanted to. Which, apparently, they didn't. Which, apparently, didn't matter.
Out of the blue, this king decided that from then on, the Hebrews were going to be the slaves, and the Egyptians were going to be the masters. Having the majority of the weapons probably allowed him to accomplish his goal relatively quickly. And, for generations afterwards, through no fault or rebellion or Godly judgment, they were imprisoned and impoverished and enslaved.
Until Moses came along.
The whole thing makes me realize that just because my life isn't perfect, it's just because it's life, and things happen, and other people set balls rolling that can smash into my neat little picket fence. It just is. Just like it just was for those Hebrews in Egypt. The important thing, for me, is to remember to do what they did ... continue to cry out to God, and trust Him with my future.
As I may have mentioned a time or two that I live in an old house. Built around 1905, it has its charm and character and its headaches. One of those migraine issues has been the roof. When we moved in 12 years ago, we knew its days were numbered. We've been extremely lucky that, despite 11 New England winters' best efforts, we've never had a leak, but each year we were closer to doomsday. Our luck probably has had something to do with the fact that there are easily four layers of asphalt shingles up there, on top of the original cedar. This past spring, we decided that next spring (2010) would be the time ... we'd probably have to refinance or pull an equity loan to pay for it, since an estimate we got five years ago came in at $15,000. That's a lot of money. For us anyway.
I consider myself a person of faith, so once we made the decision to get it done, I started praying that God would make a way for us to get the roof fixed without going further into debt.
And then came Memorial Day Weekend, 2009. That Sunday I took the Oldest down to Rhode Island to see one of my former players in an AAU basketball tournament. The weather was overcast and sprinkly, but nothing I worried about. As we got back on the highway to head home, the Swede called me on my cell.
"Where are you?"
"I just got on 95 to come home. Why?"
"So you're driving home through the storm?"
Gazing through my windshield, at the light rain that didn't even require full-blown wipers, I said, "What storm? It's only sprinkling here."
"We just had a hail storm like you read about. Golf-ball sized. Covering the yard. The tree in the front yard was bent over to the ground. I actually took the girls to the basement, the wind was so strong."
I looked again at the harmless raindrops falling just a half-hour's drive away, and thought he must be exaggerating.
He wasn't.
The closer we got to home, the worse the damage became. When we pulled into our driveway, the lawn was white, and there were drifts of hail stones. It was one of the strangest things I've ever seen. Turns out, a rain storm from the south met up with a cold front from the north, and the resulting clash left a swath of damage through two towns that we could plot on a map in a straight line. Including our house.
Long story short ... we're getting a new roof, courtesy of our insurance company, with no debt incurred on our part. We're using a local company (not one of the several out-of-staters who starting showing up and ringing doorbells the day after the storm), they'll be in and out in two days, starting in a few weeks.
People who don't subscribe to prayer or Christian faith will call the whole thing coincidence, and that's fine. We all make choices about what we believe and why. But for us, the Swede is now asking me to pray for him to get a new truck. I told him I would, but it might mean a tree falling on the old one.
I was in a hospital bed wondering if the child inside of me really wanted to be born. I was thinking that kid was pretty darned happy in the warm darkness, because they were holding on for dear life no matter how much my body was trying to push them out.
After an incredibly textbook 8 months of pregnancy, early September, 1996 rolled in with a heat wave to end all heat waves. I started retaining water and things got real miserable, real fast. As my due date of the 17th drew closer, I started to think about asking my doctor to induce me. I was more than uncomfortable, I hadn't seen my ankles in weeks, and sleeping had become something I could only hope would return after the baby was sleeping through the night.
At my ob checkup on the 12th, I begged my doctor to do something. She said no. Her philosophy that it's always better to go into labor naturally sounded good back in April, but in September, 5 days away from my due day when it was 98 degrees and humid out, it sounded like a prison sentence.
I left her office, and cried all the way home.
I had been home about an hour when the good doctor called me. "I've been thinking about you," she said. "I'm sure that baby is developed enough to thrive, and there's really no reason to make you wait. I'll call the hospital and you go in first thing in the morning, and we'll induce you. You should be holding that baby by noon."
I was excited, but little did the good doctor know that her timing was a little off.
So, on Friday the 13th, the Swede and I arrived and got me admitted by 7 am, I was dressed in the lovely johnny and hooked up to an IV by 8, and the waiting began. And continued.
And continued.
And continued.
Contractions that get a pregnant woman nowhere are hell, iin case anyone was wondering. The staff did everything they could think of to move things along, but even after my water broke at 2 in the afternoon, that baby just grabbed hold of whatever she could and hung on for dear life. She wasn't comin' out.
By 10 that night, there was some fetal distress. By 11, they had attached the monitor to her scalp. By 11:30, they had decided to just get her out of there. Looking at the clock, and then at the calendar, I asked my doctor, "Could we just wait til after midnight?" She gave me a wink, and went to make the arrangements for an OR.
At 12:22 am on September 14, Little Miss Middle arrived on the scene, all 9 pounds 10 ounces of her, healthy and beautiful and perfect as a newborn could be. She was a joy at that moment, and she's been a joy every day since. I've truly never met a happier child, one who was less trouble or more consistently good and enjoyable, including my own other two girls.
Two hours and ten minutes from the minute I'm typing this, she will be a teen-ager. That sweet little girl is growing up into a sweet young lady, and I've enjoyed every minute of being her mom.
Tonight, I'm feeling especially thankful, thinking back over the years, and recognizing the blessing that I have sleeping right upstairs.
The drama that is my workplace hit a new high this week, with my direct boss having a knock-down/drag-out with the big boss. I wasn't sure she'd still be my boss by the end of the week, but she is. We all had to attend mandatory training on "creating a respectful work environment", and since many of the peons, I mean lower-level employees, feel they've been disrespected for months, it wasn't a pretty scene. Why a room full of adults can't stay on topic without taking every possible opportunity to bash someone they're mad at is beyond me. Oh wait, I work with mostly women in municipal government ... that explains a lot right there.
I finally got notification that I passed my last class. Once the paperwork is processed (and the application fee submitted of course), I will be a full-fledged assessor. yay ... me. I've applied for an open position on the Board that's been vacant for months, which won't garner me any more money, but will give me some helpful experience and a good bullet point for a future resume.
The Middle is loving her new school. She's a kid who loves to be challenged academically, and doesn't complain when assignments are difficult. She also had her first band rehearsal, and word got back to us that the instructor said she's a great trumpet player and the band is lucky to have her. Being the kid she is, that's all the motivation she'll need to work hard and get better. She's made a few friends, one in particular who looks like she might get close to. She's a little frustrated because this girl's parents are super-cautious because of some unpleasant things their daughter experienced at a previous school, and she's not allowed to give out her phone number or come to our house or focus on anything but schoolwork. I told the Middle to be patient, and as we all get to know each other, hopefully things will loosen up.
She's going to turn 13 on Monday ... I'm having a little trouble with the whole "my girls are growing up" thing.
The Little is not enjoying middle school. The boys are grosser, the girls are flakier, and the work is just as boring. She said yesterday that part of her wishes she could be homeschooled, but she'd miss her friends. We keep telling her she just has to make it through this year. She's decided to go to the first dance tonight, which is a huge change from her sister last year. We'll give her a cell phone and tell her to call if she wants to come home early, but I'm sure she'll have fun. Her little crew of friends will all be there, and I'm sure they'll spend the evening talking and being silly and watching the 7th and 8th graders dance. She's still got a crush on the same boy as last year (and the year before), but is too shy to even say hello to him. It's incredibly cute to see her smile when his name comes up, and he seems to be the kind of kid I'd hope she'd be attracted to, and I truly don't want her getting involved with boys at this age, so we're just watching this play out.
The Swede remains the most incredible man I know, and I'm thankful for him every day when I hear about my co-workers' relationships and the men they're involved with. God has blessed me with a good man.
The Oldest had a good weekend in Virginia. We don't see her much these days, but when we do, it's been better. She moved out this summer, and into a place just down the street with her boyfriend. We aren't thrilled with her living arrangements, but refuse to nag her about it. She knows where we stand, and we move on from there. Not having the drama that is her life in our faces every day has lessened the stress levels in our home, so that we can get back to enjoying the person she is again. Because, when it comes right down to it, she is an incredibly enjoyable young woman ... she's smart and funny and caring, and she likes to laugh, even when it's at herself.
And finally, I am SO glad it's Friday, there really aren't words for it.
The Oldest is flying out to spend the weekend with her biological father today. They have kept in touch since our trip down last year at this time, and he sent her a plane ticket for another visit. She's still learning to navigate these waters, figuring out just what sort of relationship they are going to have. So far, it's been slow going, but good.
There is a place that adults need to get in just about every situation that isn't picture-perfect, where we just look at things rationally and accept that this is how it's going to be. We learn that we can't control other people, or be the master of every situation, and that sometimes, despite our best efforts, things just end up shitty. We need to figure out how to find our way through the trenches of burned-out relationships and hurts and disappointments and disasters caused by other people.
My daughter is learning to do that with this man. Yes, he made no effort to see her when she was little. Yes, he did and said some things to her mother that were hurtful. Yes, he was incredibly imperfect. But, he's also an incredibly decent man. And he's smart, and funny, and successful. And he wants whatever relationship with her now that she's willing to offer. So, she's getting on a plane this morning to explore this imperfect area of her life, and she's trying to accept the imperfections but see the good at the same time.
That's what grown-ups do.
