Making the Magical Choice

There is much talk these days about how we choose to spend our time – with whom, doing what, in which location?  Are we filling our days with mundane responsibilities and leaving little time for just ‘being,’ and are our souls suffering for it?  Do we lack the ability to relax, to be quiet and still, to say “no” when bombarded with life’s frequent requests?

Am I overcommitted, overscheduled, over the top crazy as I attempt to manage the dolling out of my time, talents, and treasures?

Yes.

Of course.

Absolutely.

No doubt about it.

I need to add the word “no” to my vocabulary more often, like most of the moms I know.  I need more quiet, more stillness, more relaxation in my life, like most of the people I know.  I need to realize when I’m exhausted from the constant striving to get it all done, the pushing to fit it all in, the rushing around at a frantic pace because somehow, that’s become my most consistent mode of existence.

My children have a day off school next week for fall break.  We were planning to spend the long weekend at the lake.  Just the four of us, in one of my favorite places on earth, in my favorite season of the year.  Boat rides wrapped in blankets, smores by the firepit, a completely empty calendar, inbox, to-do list.  Three full days of the quiet, stillness, and relaxation my soul has been craving.  In short, my idea of pure bliss.

And then, we got a call from some very spontaneous, very generous grandparents.  They had other ideas about our fall break, and those ideas didn’t involve quiet.  They didn’t involve stillness or relaxation or anything at all my soul has been craving.  In fact, they involved just the things my soul dreads.  Airplanes, hotel rooms, lines, public bathrooms.  And a very famous mouse by the name of Mickey.

The first thing that came to my mind was one simple word . . . no. 

I wanted smores, not Space Mountain, I thought, as all sense of gratitude eluded me.

Sometimes, you need to say “no.” 

But sometimes, an unexpected offer comes along.  It might be an invitation from a friend, or a request from a teacher, or a gentle nudge from a pastor encouraging you to try something new.  It might even be a revelation from God – one you know is going to bring choices and challenges you aren’t sure you can handle, and you’re confused and scared and angry and you wish He wasn’t making the path so clear.

Sometimes, the unexpected offer comes from people you love.  It’s no revelation, just a simple request, and it means a change of plans.  It means you must wait a little while longer for what your soul craves, because you know that in the waiting, there will be great joy.  There will also be roller coasters, increased anxiety, very little sleep, and a whole lot of germs.  But more importantly, there will be the anticipation of a secret to share, the moment the surprise is revealed, the enormous grins on their faces, and the certainty that comes from knowing . . .

Sometimes, you gotta say YES!!!

Disney World, here we come!  

America the Beautiful

Stanley, Idaho.  Population 63.

Surrounded by incredible beauty.  The Sawtooth mountains, rising up jagged and strong and stunning.  The Salmon river, swirling and splashing over rocks the color of the sun.  The rolling valleys, dotted with trees and cabins and life.

We had lunch at the bakery after our white water rafting trip.  I’m pretty sure the entire town was there with us.  There aren’t many options in a place with sixty-three people.

They were a rugged bunch, if you want to know the truth.  It’s an hour’s drive when you run out of razors, after all.  And you don’t need a collared shirt to float the river, fish the banks, farm the land.

There are new faces in Stanley this time of year, or so we heard.  They come for the summers.  Leave their ski resort jobs in Salt Lake and their college classes in Boise for a few months in paradise.  They live out of the backs of their cars, pulling out tents wherever the camping is good.  They bathe in Redfish Lake, which was frozen solid only a month ago.  They come year after year, enticed by low humidity and miles of hiking and biking trails.  I imagine the desire for solitude must draw them in too, or maybe it’s simply the slow pace of life in the middle of nowhere. 

I felt torn in this town.  A town with no traffic lights, no parking lots, and very few choices.  I couldn’t survive here, I thought.  I wouldn’t have enough to do, enough places to go, enough people to see, enough things to buy.  I wouldn’t be able to work and seek and strive for . . . whatever is it I’m constantly striving to attain.  Recognition, appreciation, knowledge, success, wealth?  Bigger and better and more?  Deep down in the dark and dirty places of my heart, I know what I’m really striving for is a completely unattainable goal. It’s what I’ve been striving for most of my life and can’t let go of, despite knowing with every certainty that I will never reach it.

Perfection.

Stanley, Idaho is far from perfect.  It’s far from anything, as a matter of fact, and so very far from Atlanta, Georgia.  Yet, the people in Stanley . . . they seem so happy.  They smile easy, unencumbered by any real responsibility.  No one we met was married or had children.  One of our fly-fishing guides has been building his home in town for over thirty years.  He’s not quite finished, what with helping out when they need him over at this ski school and that road crew and down the street at the local rafting company.  They live wild and free in Stanley, capable of making decisions only for themselves and their immediate futures.  Their worries are few, their burdens light.  They seem a community of wanderers, bound by their love of this amazing place and their inability to leave it for long.

Could I live in a place like this, I wondered?  I would revel in spending a few hours among the undeniable glory of God’s untouched creation, yes.  My hours there fueled my faith and filled my soul as I witnessed the majesty of our Creator rise up around me.  Only He has the power to show this obsessive-compulsive mind that astonishing beauty can lie in a lack of order and planning and symmetry.  But could I spend days and weeks without the possibilities I’m used to?  Could the quiet and the splendor and the stillness fulfill me for more than a day or two?

We had to leave.  It was only a summer vacation and our life is here, amidst the concrete and the traffic and the constant busyness of one of the biggest cities in the nation.  The heat felt oppressive as we stepped out of the airport.  Welcome home, I thought, and I smiled easy.

I’m not meant to live in Stanley, Idaho, but I’m glad God took me there. It’s good to see the differences in people.  Good to realize my choices have brought me to a specific place, and despite its downfalls, I can find happiness here. I find joy in my many responsibilities, though he can upset me, she can anger me, and it all seems heavy sometimes.  There are no mountains just outside my window today, but there are hydrangeas as blue as the sky.  There is more striving than stillness, and I’m sad for that, but God allowed me to visit a new place and He offered a new perspective, and I’m grateful for that.  I’ve seen what people are capable of, when they live their dreams and stop worrying about what others think. I’ve seen what it looks like to take life day by day, with the support of others doing the same. I’ve observed those who aren’t seeking approval from the world, but from within.  I’ve realized that the idea of perfection is drastically different for everyone, which means there is no perfection. 

Life in Atlanta can be overwhelming.  It can feel disconnected and demanding and exhausting.  But I imagine life in Stanley has its own disadvantages.  

There is no perfection. 

We make our own choices, and we look for the blessings in what we’ve chosen.  They are always there, at the top of a snow covered mountain range, or in a city filled with millions of pines and people.

If you’ve never been to Idaho, I highly recommend it.  Sun Valley, where our family stayed for the week, was one of the loveliest resorts I've ever seen, with mountains in every direction, meandering streams, and more flowers than you can believe.  The town of Ketchum, just about a mile from the resort, is a bustling community of interesting folks from all over the country.  The town and resort have much to offer.  There are cultural events and wonderful restaurants.  There are quaint shops and golf courses.  There is ice skating, horseback riding, fly-fishing, swimming, and miles of hiking and biking trails.  And the summer high temperatures in Sun Valley are usually right around the low temperatures in Atlanta.

If you do ever make it out to Idaho, be sure to visit Stanley, population 63. It’s a wonderful place to find a whole bunch of blessings you never could have imagined, and return home to a whole bunch of blessings you should have been counting all along.

The last time I wrote about our puppy, I should have promised it would be the final time.  I didn’t, and here we go again.  Of course, the last time I wrote about our puppy, she had just ventured back from the brink of death.  Dramatic, I know, but very much true. 
 
Today, though alive and well, Macie’s days are no less numbered, mainly because her newest trick involves barking her head off at the deer behind our house EVERY SINGLE TIME SHE SEES ONE.  Friends, the autobahn for deer is two hundred feet out my back door. I don’t know where they’re heading, but apparently, every deer in the metro Atlanta area has to walk through my backyard to get there.  What this means for me is every time I sit down at the kitchen table to enjoy a few minutes of quiet and a warm cup of decaf with enough vanilla creamer to make it taste like desssert, my lovely reprieve from the busyness of life is broken by the sound of an ear-piercing bark from a twenty pound dog who wants to tackle a hundred pound deer. Needless to say, several of my robes now have coffee stains down the front of them, and I almost fell off a chair while changing a lightbulb last week.

Despite Macie’s obvious desire to be featured on Craig’s List, she remains a permanent fixture in my nightmares home.  And between the frequent episodes of incessant barking, she continues to teach me.

Macie is fully aware she is not allowed to chew on the dining room rug.  If a human is within her line of sight, she will stroll into the dining room, lie down calmly on the rug, and pretend to be preparing herself for a nap.  When Macie thinks no one is looking, however, she’ll race right into that dining room and take a big ole' bite.  Of course, our brilliant little puppy hasn’t yet realized there is more than one entrance to the dining room and I can sneak up behind her and see exactly what’s she’s up to at any time and just what kind of fool does she think I am anyway?  I am ALWAYS looking. 

The fascinating thing about dogs is they are more like humans than we’d like to admit.  Macie knows the rules.  She simply breaks them anyway.  

Hmmm.  Sound like anyone you know?  I’d like to say it sounds like my nine-year-old son and my seven-year-old daughter, and frankly, it often does.  You know who else it sounds like? 

Me.

I know the difference between right and wrong.  I choose wrong anyway.  I know the difference between judging and empathizing.  I judge anyway.  I know the difference between serving others and serving myself.  I serve myself anyway.  I know the difference between coveting and loving.  I covet anyway.  I know the difference between God’s way and my way.  And still, over and over and over again . . . I do it my way.  I should be taking a nap, and instead, I’m gnawing on the damn rug.

Like Macie, I know the rules.  I know what I’m supposed to do – with my time, with my talents, with my treasures.  I simply choose to do what I want to do instead, and many times, there is a big difference. 

I’d like to blame it on Satan.  He was the pesky apple pusher, wasn’t he?   I’d like to blame it on Adam and Eve.  They ate the forbidden apple, right?  We are fallen because they fell.  But really, I shouldn’t blame anyone.  Instead, I should express thanks.  I should drop to my knees, grateful and appreciative and forever indebted, because no matter how many times I break the rules . . . no matter how many times I make the wrong choice . . . no matter how many times I do what I want to do instead of what I know I should do, He forgives me.  

Personally, I’m not the best at forgiveness.  I remember.  I stew.  I dwell.  Most of all, I harbor unrealistic expectations.  I believe I will only have to forgive once, because how in the world could anyone who has sinned against me have the nerve to do it again. 

Oh. 

But wait. 

We sin.  That’s what we do. 

We know the rules.  We break them anyway.  Day after day, month after month, year after year, generation after generation.  And because He forgave, so must we.  Not just once, but every time.  Everyone. 

Even if it means giving a belly rub to the puppy who barks like a maniac at the deer . . . and then eats your dining room rug.

Matthew 6:14  For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you.

I should be a big fan of Halloween. I love chocolate. I adore chocolate. I NEED chocolate. That fact alone should be enough to make me love Halloween. I mean, how cool is it that every year on the last day of October, you can knock on someone’s door you don’t even know and they will open it, smile, and hand you a free Hershey bar. That’s just good living in my opinion. Of course, sometimes they hand you the cheap stuff like Tootsie Rolls and Blow Pops, but that’s not a huge problem because there’s probably someone in your family who likes that junk. You can just pass it along to them. Or trade it for their chocolate.

My real problem with Halloween has to do with the costumes. And the decorations. And the staying up late on a school night to go running around the neighborhood begging for dessert. I don’t need a bloody, mangled rubber hand in my house. Not at Halloween and not ever. I don’t care for plastic skeleton heads hanging from windows and I definitely don’t like fake witches with warty faces playing spooky music. I’m a pumpkin and mum kind of girl. Maybe a hay bale or two on the front porch with some cute scarecrows smiling out at the world, happy to be enjoying the crisp fall weather and the smell of burning leaves in the air. Instead, there are inflatable spiders the size of my car sitting in the yard across the street.

My children love Halloween. God has a sense of humor like that, doesn’t he? My kids will pore over the catalogs that start arriving in the mail the day after school starts, searching for the perfect costumes and the best decorations for our house. Their top pick in the decorations department this year? A bag of rats. Not one rat people. An entire bag. Of rats. They actually asked me to shell out good money to purchase this particular decoration. It’s the middle of October and I’m still holding out for the bag of rats “to go on sale.” Because then I’m going to buy them. Wink, wink.

Last year, we hosted a Halloween party I had absolutely no intention of hosting. My kids began talking about the party we were going to have the moment October rolled around. I kept listening and nodding my head, telling them what great ideas they had and then quickly changing the subject. When October 20th arrived and my children had made a guest list, created handmade invitations, and planned both the party menu and entertainment, I figured there was no way out of it. I played along with their fun and we hosted a gaggle of kids in costumes for a fabulous little soirée in our backyard. There was pizza and candy and even a haunted trail. There were no inflatable spiders.

This year, my eight-year-old son decided to break tradition when it came to his Halloween costume. In the past, he has allowed me to persuade him to wear what I wanted him to wear, usually something that turned him and his little sister into a matching pair. They have been Minnie and Mickey Mouse, a cowboy and cowgirl. You get the drift. This year, my son was determined to have a scary costume. And by scary, he meant completely and totally inappropriate for a child.

I asked around for advice on the costume dilemma and my friends had some stellar ideas.

“Show your son three costumes you approve of and let him choose the one he likes best.”

“Explain to your son that you don’t want his costume to be so scary he frightens his little sister and any other small children he might run into while trick-or-treating.”

“Tell your son you tried to order the scary costume he wanted but, what a bummer, it was sold out.”

That last one was my personal favorite. It was a win, win – he didn’t get the scary costume and it wasn’t my fault.

I think my real problem with Halloween is that it exposes my children to the fact that there is a dark side to this world we live in. It might not come in the form of ghosts and goblins, but evil does exist. I realize scary costumes don’t automatically inform children about crime and rape and murder, but costumes that include fake blood and sharp accessories, and which have names like grim reaper, evil phantom, gothic vampire, crypt master, psycho clown, and wicked werewolf bring up terms I’m not ready to discuss with my eight year old. And how do you explain the fact that we teach our kids not to eat any candy they get while trick-or-treating until after we have inspected every piece to make sure it’s “safe.” One of my strongest memories of Halloween involves my parents teaching me this same rule. It was how I learned there were people in the world who might intentionally want to hurt children. That’s a big lesson in the life of a child. A necessary lesson, no doubt, but one that is life-changing.

Our family will celebrate Halloween on October 31st along with everyone else. We have made our annual trek to the local pumpkin patch in search of the perfect pumpkins, one for each child, and there was a great deal of photography involved in the outing. We will carve our pumpkins into jack-o-lanterns on Halloween Eve while the seeds roast in the oven. Orange and black decorations sit out around our house and the kids’ costumes are hanging in their closets ready for a big night of trick-or-treating. I was able to talk my son out of his first choice costume with honesty. I told him I didn’t think it was appropriate for an eight year old and he had to choose something else. He was mad at first. I even got the ol’ “I’m not going to dress up as anything” line for a few days, complete with a very smug look. Eventually, my son came around. It might have had something to do with the fact that I told him children without costumes wouldn’t be trick-or-treating on my watch, but either way, we went online and found a costume my son loved. He’s going to be a warlock. I have absolutely no idea what a warlock is and, frankly, I don’t think my son does either. Basically, the costume looks like a wizard from Harry Potter, which is okay with me. There is no blood, no suggestion of death. I suppose a warlock is some sort of human like creature who performs magic spells.

You know . . . I wouldn’t mind being a warlock myself. I could perform all kinds of amazing magic spells. I could make the scary costumes and decorations disappear. I could turn the lollipops and gumballs into Butterfingers and Milky Ways. I could make the blow up spiders vanish into thin air.

Most importantly, I could make my son’s innocence last just a little bit longer.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!