Left Field

photo from iacmusic.com

I pride myself on my planning skills.  My OCD is very satisfied with lists, planning, scheduling, and completion.  Checking items off lists is the highlight of my day.  There are many things I can be called, spontaneous is not one of them.

In the last year, I have really tried to focus on my prayer life and on letting go of some of that control.   My goal in life is to put His goals first, allowing God to show me direction and guide me to be the best wife, mother, and person I can be.  For someone as controlled as I am, this is my continued struggle.

However, the past year has been a series of eye-opening lessons for me.  I watched my Pop succumb to the most evil disease on the planet.  Through it, I prayed.  I prayed for peace for my mother, my son, my family, myself. I prayed for comfort for him and delivery from the cancer that robbed him of who he was.   He knew that I wanted to go back to school to make some life changes, and he pushed me to do that.  When the first path back to school ended in a closed door due to schedule flexibility, I simply prayed.  I prayed that if that was my new path, then I prayed that another door would be opened.   And it was.

I learned that I had missed the application date for the program I wanted, but that was okay.  I had been out of school so long that I had to take some prerequisite classes anyway before I could apply, and that has worked out well.    I passed my placement test with no worries, and I am currently taking the last required class before I apply.   I had a plan, going according to plan, to start the program in January 2015.   This would give me enough time to have the gastric sleeve surgery that was planned, heal from the surgery, and get started on the program.

Best laid plans of Mice and Men and all that...

Because now the plans have to change again, but for the best possible reason.

When I wrote this post about a year and a half ago, I expected that to be my reality.  Part of the reason for working on my prayer life was to be able to reconcile the idea that Z would be an only child.  A few months after that was written, I decided to pass along Z's baby clothes to a friend who was having twin boys.  I passed my maternity clothes to Goodwill, so I could move forward and focus on my family as it was.  The trip to Disney that was going to be delayed for a few more years was taken (and will be taken again).  I settled into my reality.

And now:  this is my new reality ---------------------->

Needless to say, my first reaction was shock.  Most everyone's has been.

My mom has had the BEST reaction so far:  pure joy.  Her faith and trust and strength have always been an inspiration for me, and this time it's no different.

So far, most of this pregnancy has gone okay.  I definitely don't remember being quite this sick with my son, but I will take every ache, pain, and bit of nausea and ickiness for opportunity.  I know I'm VERY blessed to have another child.  I don't, however, think that negates my right to complain a little (or a lot) about how I'm feeling.   Having endured 13 and a half years of infertility treatment and testing, I think I've earned a little whining about not being able to eat...ANYTHING.

Right now, everything is going well.  I still plan on going to school, just a year later than expected.  Since our children will celebrate their birthdays very close together (possible within a day of each other, since I will have a scheduled c-section), I'm not comfortable heading to a full time program with a new baby.

The plan is to continue what I've been doing:  pray for the best, follow HIS plan and not mine, and work through each moment, step by step.

Just Enough

A month ago, I received a very daunting bag of goo and some instructions.  A coworker of my husband's had sent home the Amish Friendship Bread starter.  I haven't had any in such a long time that I readily agreed to take the starter.

Basic info:  you add stuff to the goo on day six.  On day ten, you add more stuff, split the goo, add more goodies, bake, keep one of the new starters, and give the other three away with the instructions.  The smell of cinnamon fills the house as it bakes. 

I am now on my third round of baking.  Once you have given one away, that person now has his/her own Friendship Bread starter (and three more of his/her own to give away).   So, you have to find new people who want them.   Each time, I have wondered how I am going to find three new people to give the starter.

And each time, all three end up with new homes.

On the last round, I gave a starter to a dear friend at work.  Yesterday, we were discussing that it was almost time to bake and he said he wasn't sure if he had everything he needed.  I told him not to buy a lot of extras, I thought I had plenty. I knew I this was true of the baking soda, baking powder, and pudding needed for the bread.   I thought I also had enough flour to share, since he was only one cup short.

In order to have enough flour to make the new starters and the bread, you need three and a half cups of flour.  When I measured the amount of flour I had left last night, I had four and a half cups.

One cup extra.  Just enough.

To add to that, when I went to use the sugar from the canister, I had three cups of sugar left.   And what do you know?  You need three cups to make the new starters and bread.

Just enough.  

Ends and Beginnings

I cannot believe how quickly 2010 passed.  Regardless of how I would like for time to stand still, it inevitably continues to speed by with no hint of slowing.  To know where I am going for 2011, I have to look back on where I have been through last year.

Last year, I found myself wanting more.  Not more stuff, I have plenty of that.  I wanted more to my life.  More joy, more belonging, more of that seemingly undefinable feeling that makes a person sigh with contentment.

And so, I set out to find more.

The first thing I wanted more of was life, which required me to actually work on having less.  Less food, less excuses, less resting on my previous failures.  This didn't come at the start of the year.  I didn't really decide to have more of life until I had the first conversation with Dr. B on July 31st.   The goal was set (lose 50 pounds by the end of the year) and the (meal) plan was put in place.

Results?  42 pounds gone.  Was it 50?  Nope.  But that wasn't important. What is  important is that I lost the excuses and the defeat and instead of  "I didn't meet my goal. I give up" (my previous M.O.), my thought was "I ROCK!!  I lost 42 pounds!!"

And now I have more.  More confidence.  More support.  And more room in my jeans (I really need to go shopping).

I also have more joy in playing with my son.  I don't get tired as easily, which means more time to play together.   So much more.

I also went for more belonging in 2010.  I had grown tired of feeling out of place, so we found a new church in 2010.  And the happiness and comfort in this decision carries us into 2011.   Each time we enter the church, someone new greets us warmly.  It is as if we have been part of St. Paul's all our lives.  Just today, I was told how lucky we were to have found a church family like this.  I find it more God's intervention than luck, but I knew what she meant.

And so, I say goodbye to 2010.  But I am not saying goodbye to the lessons learned and the more that I gained.

In 2011, I am holding on to more life, more joy, and more us.  My life is full, beautiful, blessed.  I enter 2011 with hope and excitement.  I am in a position to enjoy more of life by working my weight loss plan.  My goal this year is to lose 100 pounds.  It's daunting, yes.  But it is also completely within my control to do it.

And I WILL do it.

Birthday Blessings

I have decided that we all approach our birthdays in different ways.  First, there is trepidation.  We worry about getting older. We fret about all the things we wanted to do and didn't.    Next, there is ambivalence.  It is simply another day in life.  Nothing more, nothing less.

And then, there are those who look on their birthday with joy.  Joy for having been given another year to live life, be with family, share with friends. That's not to say there is only one choice. Every birthday is different.

Today, on my birthday, there is joy.  I am well and truly blessed. I also started the day with tears.  The good kind.

The morning started off with my wonderful husband bringing me these beautiful roses:

You have to understand the type of relationship we have to understand how sweet this is.   I will be the first to tell you that I am not primarily a romantic person.  My husband is a fantastic mate, partner, husband, father, etc.  He does so very much for me to help me be a better person.  So, when flowers show up, they are even more special because they are not the most common way we express love.

And I would have it no other way.

He also brought me what has to be the sweetest card EVER.  For a man who can be silent, he does a phenomenal job at finding what he wants to say in the middle of a Hallmark card.

After work, I thought I'd go have a birthday dinner with myself.  A little time alone to celebrate me. That idea lasted for about five minutes.

Birthdays are about love and togetherness for me.  So, hubs had to work. So what?  Ziggy was still at home. And while he might not fully understand the "specialness" of birthdays.  I do, and I wanted to spend it with him. Instead of a steak and veggies and free birthday cheesecake, I had Sloppy Joe's made with my son.  One of the best birthday dinners to date.

The day started with tears. The day ends with them as well. Both times, good tears.  My day has been one of joy. Thankfulness for another year of life.  Appreciation for more love than I ever could have imagined.

And anticipation for what the next year (if I am again so blessed to have it) will bring.

The Body of Christ

For anyone who has been to a Baptist church in recent years, well, ever actually, you are very aware of the frequency of the Lord's Supper (rarely called communion).  It doesn't happen more than four or five times a year.  Normally, you can count on the Lord's Supper once per quarter to be relegated to a Sunday evening service.  Now, I point this out not to be critical of the practice.  I am simply relaying it in order to draw a comparison later.

For the last two Sundays, Z and I have been visitors at St. Paul's Episcopal Church here in the Boro.  At St. Paul's, Holy Eucharist (Communion) is observed every Sunday and Wednesday.   In my desire to learn more about the Episcopal faith, I found a most wonderful reason for the frequency (beyond tradition, that is):

"God's saving act, reconciling the world to Himself, is so important and yet so hard to internalize that it bears repeating."

There is also the matter of wine versus grape juice.  I know the reasoning from the Baptist side. The fruit of the vine is interpreted literally.  As in, it came off the vine, went into a cup.  No time for fermentation.   Since I am not well versed in the Episcopal faith, I am going to take it at face value that the word wine in the Bible translates literally to wine.   It is pretty much semantics for me, as I think it is important to focus on the symbolism over the contents of the cup.

Reality or not, there was always an idea for me that I couldn't participate in the Lord's Supper in a Baptist church unless I was a member there.   St. Paul's makes it very clear that if you have been baptized in any faith, you are welcome to take communion.   So, on Michael's recommendation, I took communion the first week.  I am so glad he suggested it, and so glad I listened.

I am going to give you my personal take on communion.   Even with its prior infrequency, the act of observing the Lord's Supper has always been a moving experience for me.  I wish I could adequately express how taking of the bread and wine (juice, whatever) transports me to those moments before the betrayal and the ultimate sacrifice provided for insignificant me.  To a time when a man destined for greatness was trying to tell his best Earthly friends that his time with them was growing to an end.   Teaching them to create a ceremony that would allow them to remember those last glimpses of his greatness before he left to be seated at the right hand of the Father.

The first Sunday at St. Paul's, I was so afraid of making a misstep that I missed the preparation of the Eucharist.  This week, I didn't feel quite so nervous.  After having been so welcomed among strangers, I truly felt that no one would laugh if I happened to make a mistake.  And so, this left me freer to watch the process.

There is such...beauty in the preparation.  Instead of following along with the words, I watched Father Colin as he spoke them and prepared to provide these gifts to us.   At the pinnacle of preparation, he lifted a communion wafer, larger than those to be provided to the congregation, announced "The Body of Christ," and broke it in half.

I can still feel the chills that ran down my spine and hear the echo in the silence that followed.

When it was time to go forward, I didn't hesitate.  I didn't feel odd, I didn't feel out of place

I felt blessed.

Like A Weed

"At 3 years and 11 months:

your child is 36 pounds, and that is in the 54th percentile for weight.

your child is 42 inches, and that is in the 84th percentile for height."

In just over two weeks, Ziggy will turn four.  I am NOT ready.  I know it really doesn't matter if I am, it's going to happen.  Today, on a shopping trip for new Sunday morning clothes, I realized that my toddler is on the cusp of becoming my little boy.

And I wanted to cry.  (Still do, truth be told).

That 84th percentile in height means that Ziggy has to wear a size larger in pants to make sure they are long enough.  While an almost-4-year-old is "supposed" to wear a 4T, Ziggy has to have a 5T.  When I wandered into the toddler section of a store today, I was hit with a stark realization.  The clothes for children carried by this store stop at a 4T. This means that I had to look for clothes in the little boys' section.  In an instant, my toddler ceased to be my toddler.

As I perused the little boys' section, the last five years of my life replayed.  I still remember the day I discovered I was pregnant. This discovery followed nearly five years of tests, medication, mood swings, migraines, saying goodbye to my first son, and more negative pregnancy tests than I care to remember.

My mind flashed through first nights with no sleep, months of teething, numerous ear infections, tubes, testing, and allergy shots.  I remembered crawling, toddling, walking, running, jumping, playing.  And giggles...smiles...hugs...kisses...cuddles...and hearing my little boy tell me he loved me for the first time.

While I would love for time to slow down, I wouldn't trade one minute of the last (almost) four years.  I would  not give back one moment of time I have been gifted with him or trade any of it for all the riches of the world.  And I won't worry about stores that do not allow me to stay in the toddler section just a little while longer, clinging to the last precious moments of toddlerhood.

I will just shop at the ones that do.

Shorthand of Emotion

It never ceases to amaze me how influential music is.  Music can communicate love, hope, peace, and faith. Music has the ability to cross barriers, be they racial, cultural, ethnic, or ones of language.  Music can bring calm to a storm, hope to the hopeless, and God to those who might not hear. It leads me to agree with Tolstoy's definition of music, that "Music is the Shorthand of Emotion." Sunday night, I was blessed to be a part of that dictation.   

For several months, the choir of LBC was on hiatus.  We did not have a choir director/music minister and, as a church, were actively seeking someone for the position.  As I do not have many talents for witnessing outside of what I can do in song, I felt the absence of a creative outlet fairly acutely.  I had felt like a piece of driftwood; there for an unknown purpose, simply being swept along with the tide.

Enter Jeff Campbell.

Having had broken my ankle the day before he was there to "audition," I had not met him prior to his arrival in mid-October, when Jeff came to LBC to fill the position of music minister/worship leader/choir director.   All I had been told was that he had travelled with Wings (with Liza) and that he was very nice.  Upon meeting him, I could definitely concur.  Jeff brought to our first meeting/practice an infectious energy.  Even with a very limited time schedule, Jeff opted to prepare a program for Christmas. It was certainly an ambitious plan; however, not once did Jeff's faith in what we could accomplish waiver.  He remained positive and uplifting, constantly reasserting his belief that we could (and would) do well.

Flash forward to Sunday night.  To say I was blessed would be a severe understatement.  Without the outlet of singing, I had been floundering and searching for a new direction. Last night, I was again reminded of the awe-inspiring ways in which God speaks to us.  For many, telling of their faith in Christ is second nature. For me, singing it is.  Where I would stumble with verses or struggle to find exactly the right words to say, music never fails me.  God always seems to give me what I need through music.  Last night, I had the privilege to sing with about 45 of some of the most wonderful people I have ever met. Each one, in his or her own way, brought something special to our program.  God was truly glorified last night through the lives and voices of those 45 individuals who gave of their time and of their talents to serve Him.  I am truly humbled that God would choose me to serve with such a wonderful group.  I am excited to see what plans He has in store for us next!  I pray that He will lead our choir to do great things for His glory and honor, for it is through Him that we are given these gifts and through Him that we will accomplish great works for His kingdom.