I've Become A Circus Act

Since I haven’t had any time at all to sit down and write, I thought I’d give you a quick update on what is taking up the hours of my life.

It goes by the very exciting, and equally exhausting and overwhelming name of . . . work.

Yes.  I’m officially a working mama now. 

I got my real estate license late last spring and started getting my feet wet with a few clients during the summer and fall.  In January, things began to kick into high gear, and my feet are no longer a bit wet.  These days, life’s a deluge.  I’m soaked from head to toe, my hair hanging  damp and stringy in front of my eyes as I hunch over to block the piercing rain shooting darts on my back.

Working is hard, y’all.

Having a job where people need you to perform duties that are still new to you, and therefore take much more time than they probably should, means all those other duties you’ve been performing quite efficiently for the last twelve years get pushed waaaaaay down to the bottom of your to-do list.  And let’s face it.  Many of those items on my to-do list for the last decade or so were to-do’s.  My list now includes a multitude of activities that can’t really be called to-do’s.  They are must-do’s, and there’s a difference. 

Working is a juggling act, as life often is, but suddenly I’ve added all these balls to my act.  Things are flying around all over the place and here’s the thing . . . I was never any good at juggling.  I’m dropping balls left and right and most of them involve the duties that are old hat, the things that were once second nature, almost automatic – the people I know will love and forgive me despite the fact that I’ve dropped their ball and it’s rolled so far away I can’t even see it anymore.

What I very clearly didn’t realize is that all those things I’ve been doing for so long – the ones that have suddenly been relocated from their position of top-priority to one of the many things that have to be done today -  those age old duties are not just going to automatically take care of themselves.  Those long juggled balls are not going to stay up in the air on their own, my friends.  I have to keep them there. 

I’ve been trying to explain to my friends and family that I could really use their patience and understanding right now, as I’m going through a major period of adjustment trying to settle into my new existence as a working mom, but no one seems to get it.  I’m sure you’re doing fine, they say.  You can handle it, they tell me.  I, on the other hand, am pretty sure I’m not doing all that fine.  In fact, I’m rather certain I’m not handling it at all.  I could give you many reasons why I believe this to be true, but for the sake of time, I’m just going to share one with you today.

Last week, I FORGOT TO PICK UP MY DAUGHTER.

Yep.  You absolutely read that right.  Libby’s cooking class ended at 4:30.  At 4:45, a wonderful friend of mine sent me a text offering to bring her home from said cooking class the following week.  Thank goodness for that interruption, because I was knee deep entering a listing and there was nothing breaking my working mama concentration.

It was fine.  There were contractors putting in new lights at my house and they had to move their truck so I could get out, but thankfully, we only live about a mile and a half from school and I arrived by 4:56. 

I cried the whole way there.

The worst part about it was that this wasn’t the first Libby ball I’d dropped that week.  Honestly?  It wasn’t the second either.

So . . .

How do you feel about my juggling now?

I know I will get the hang of things, and so will my children.  Women all over the world manage to be excellent wives and mothers while simultaneously having a career.  There will be many positives to this new adventure – I believe that.  It will be good for my kids to witness their mother learn the value of time management.  It will be good for my husband to have some financial support.  It will be good for me to contribute to our family in new ways.  It will all be good, because God is good.  I have asked Him into this endeavor and I have faith that He will show up in it.  In fact, He already has.

I saw his hand when things recently worked out with a deal I wasn’t sure had a chance of working out. I saw his hand when I received my first paycheck in over twelve years and instantly felt a deep new appreciation for my husband.  I saw his hand in the generosity of a colleague who supported me every step of the way.  I saw his hand in the friend who texted me at just the right time, offering a reminder that my top priorities must remain just that – above everything else.  And I see his hand each day in the faces of my clients, who have trusted me enough to help them buy or sell a home, and who make me smile while doing it.

To all the working mamas out there - bravo, well done, nice job, and hang in there.  You are a true inspiration to me, and no doubt to many others trying to turn their own circus acts into successes. To all the mamas who are working at home – I have a newfound awareness of just how much important work you do on a daily basis.  Keeping children safe, fed, clothed, educated, healthy and happy are life’s greatest and most difficult calls, and they require endless amounts of kindness, energy, and grace.  I pray we can all support one another as we juggle the balls in our lives, and that we can forgive one another when we drop a few.

Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might . . .

Ecclesiastes 9:10

Grace

She’d been in bed for half an hour, chatting and singing and dancing and hosting the usual evening soiree she has every night with her baby dolls.  I’d hugged him good-night, told him to sleep well, reminded him we’d be up early for his sixth grade Bible study in the morning, and sent him off to bed as well.  There were no more emails to answer or phone calls to make.  The laundry was going and the dishwasher set to run. 


With the duties of the day complete, I sat down in the leather chair with my laptop and invited the puppy up to snuggle beside me.  (I know you’ve just fallen out of your own chair at the thought of OCD me allowing a dog on the furniture, but just so we’re clear, it’s the only piece of furniture she’s allowed on, it’s leather so I can easily clean it, and there is a huge blanket covering the seat so she’s not even really touching it.  I know.  What can I say – it happened when I was recovering from my surgery last year and needed her warmth while watching hours on end of HGTV, and you know what they say about teaching an old dog new tricks?  That saying is spot on, my friends, and it’s been her chair ever since). 


I opened Ann Voskamp’s blog, attempted to make sense of the prose turned poetry she pours daily into my soul.  Sometimes, I think she’s writing to me, though I know it isn’t true.  Her words, in all their backwards, reversed order beauty, offer exactly the reminders I shouldn’t need, but do.

Her post that night was about kids and fame and the insatiable need for attention epidemic that’s currently sweeping our land, and how funny, I thought.  I just wrote a little something about that myself.  I need to meet this woman one day.  I think we’d be fast friends.

I didn’t hear anything unusual upstairs.  He was going to the bathroom, brushing his teeth.  Doing the things he always does when I send him up to bed each night – stalling tactics, if I’m honest, because he never spends that much time on his teeth in the mornings.  

It drifted down slowly, floating around me like a cloud.  It took me a second to realize what it was, and when I did, the words on the screen in front of me blurred into nothing.  I breathed in, deep and long and full, and the weight of it all lifted right off my heart.  

The tears spilled over, the screen now just a mass of swirling colors as I took another breath, drawing it in, allowing it to fill the emptiness.

He had sprayed his cologne.  He had sprayed it again, finally, after days and weeks that seemed so heavy with the guilt of my mistake, and I know it’s ridiculous to read anything into an eleven-year-old boy putting cologne on.  I know he hasn’t forgotten and neither have I.  


Still.   


That scent . . . .


It smelled like forgiveness to me. 

I wonder sometimes when this screwing up thing will end.  I think I’m starting to realize it won’t.  Being a parent equals messing up, often in a BIG way.  I did it, again, recently.  I messed up, screwed up, did it all wrong, and my child is paying the price.

A harmless text to a few friends, or so I thought.  I thought it was too adorable not to share – his newfound appreciation for smelling good after receiving cologne for Christmas.  I meant to be open and funny and bond with other moms over the preciousness of a child on the brink of puberty.  But I forgot something important.  I forgot that those moms might decide to share the story with their own little boys on the brink of puberty, and that’s where it all went to hell.  You see, little boys can be cruel to one another, much like adults I guess.  They see a place to poke and they go in for the kill.  I’m sure they meant to be open and funny too.  But all he felt was the sting.

Damn.  This parenting thing really sucks sometimes.

He’s already teetering on shutting me out.  He’s quiet, reserved, moody.  He’s almost twelve, and so I expected this was coming.  Expected and dreaded, even while knowing it’s exactly how things are supposed to go.  This becoming independent – it all hinges on his ability to pull away from me.  He has to do it.  It’s healthy for him to do it, in fact, no matter how much it wounds my soul. 

I had hoped I could do it well – parent a child who has begun to realize he won’t always be parented.  It’s difficult, but I thought I could do it well.

I knew something was up when he came downstairs that morning without the cologne on, and deep down, I knew it was my fault.  I should have kept it for me alone.  I should have relished in the way it made my heart feel - both wide open with joy and torn to shreds with sorrow - to see him doing something so indicative of where he’s headed.  To see my son showing an ounce of concern over his appearance because that’s what growing up does to little boys – it makes them self-aware.  It’s a good thing, in many ways, and there is a thread of relief woven through those moments when you realize your child might actually brush their teeth one day without being asked because they are changing in exactly the ways they are supposed to change.  

I should have kept it to myself.  But there was pride mixed in with the joy and the sorrow.  There was pride and wonder and fear and even hopefulness for what is to come, and when all those feelings intersect, you are left with nothing to do but laugh.

And so that’s what I did. 

I laughed about how much cologne he was using and shared it with my friends because that’s how you find relief in those moments that feel like they will crush you.

And instead, I crushed him.

I’ve apologized.  I’ve cried and lost sleep and cried some more, and I’ve apologized.  But like all those other times I knew I’d messed up in such an incredibly huge way, I can’t let it go.  Because I know, he’ll remember this one.  That time I spanked him and sobbed for weeks afterwards.  That time I intentionally broke a Lego creation because he had been so mean to his sister.  He was little then.  Too little to remember.  But this one, he will carry.  The time his own mom turned him into a joke.  He will remember, and so will I.  And hopefully, it will be a lesson well-learned.

Damn.  This parenting thing really sucks sometimes.

Light Me Up In 2015!

 
If you ask me, the end of 2014 felt heavy.

There is often a bit of a letdown after Christmas.  I get that.  The anticipation is so great for all those weeks and the celebration of his birth means everything and then, it’s all over. 

I usually feel sad for a few days after Christmas, when I know I must wait another year to honor our baby king with beautiful lights and nostalgic music and, of course, gingerbread cookies.  As much as I love putting the decorations away, because that’s what people with OCD delight in after a hectic month, when everything is packed up neatly in tubs and tucked away for another eleven months, I instantly miss the tree and the manger and that Christmas feeling.  You know the one – that comfort you feel deep inside that all is right and peace will reign and love is the only thing we need. 

Christmas is twinkly and bright and exciting.  It’s full of surprises and celebrations and smiles.  Christmas is magical, and when it ends, all that joy that’s been building up for a month seems to fade as we face the reality that it will be a while before everything feels so special again. 

It never lasts more than a few days, and so I expected the same this go round.  But this year, it was different.  This year, the afterwards felt more empty than usual.  The sadness felt too deep.  My shoulders ached and my neck felt sore and I found tears lying just beyond everything I saw. 

There was no reason for the burdens that pulled me down.  God is good and my circumstances are too.  Great marriage.  Happy kids.  Our family is healthy, clothed, fed, sheltered.  We are warm and dry and so incredibly blessed.  I’m literally drowning in blessings.  But, drowning is still . . .

Drowning.

The guilt overwhelmed me as the new year began.  Get it together, girl, ran constantly through my mind.  You should live in a constant state of thankfulness with this life you lead.  People are hungry and scared and sick and alone and You. Should. Be. Nothing. But. Grateful.

GET IT TOGETHER. 

Then, I realized what was happening.  We do this thing every year, as one draws to a close and another begins.  We take stock.  While simultaneously pressing forward – making plans and goals and wishes - we can’t help but look back, and all that remembering fills us with emotions that have massive weight.

The last twelve months?

They were heavy.

Call my life blessed all you want because it is.  Call me fortunate because I am.  It doesn’t change the fact that for me . . . 2014 was hard.

2014 did not go as planned.

2014 had many messes and lots of tears and a whole heap of pain.

There was sadness and sickness and shame.  There were dashed dreams and unmet expectations and altered friendships that will never be the same.  There was loss and there was anger and there was the realization that God’s plans for me might not ever line up with my own.

It was a difficult year, and aren’t they all, my friends, on some days?

Doesn’t every year come complete with longings that can’t be fulfilled, relationships that can’t be mended, and conditions that can’t be changed?  Doesn’t every year have drought and doubt and darkness?  

Don’t we all have those days when we just can’t seem to find the light, and isn’t it okay as long as we let His light be the one that leads us out of our dark places?

It always does, you know.  He always shows us the way back to Him, and once we sit again at his feet, we can remember the rest. 

We can remember that amid the inevitable sorrow every year brings, there was SO MUCH beauty and joy to behold.  There were countless fun times and new friendships and a ton of laughter.  There were overcome challenges and memorable experiences and exciting opportunities.  Dashed dreams paved the way for new ideas.  Unmet expectations encouraged improvement.  Altered friendships taught us about forgiveness.  There was growth and gain and greatness in every single day, if we simply choose to look back on each of them through the lens of his glory and grace.

January brings sadness for me.  It just does.  I’ve blamed it on many things over the years – the end of the holiday season, the cold weather, the gray skies.  Yet I’ve realized it’s not a specific situation in my life weighing me down.  It’s simply because the flip of the calendar to a new year, to a new month in which I actually get to slow down long enough to be still with my thoughts, ignites in me the desire to evaluate the state of my heart.  And y’all, when I look long and hard at my heart . . . I’m sad.  Because I can see, my heart is still not where I want it to be.  I’ve had 12 months to give more, and I haven’t.  I’ve had 52 weeks to serve more, and I haven’t.  I’ve had 365 days to be a better wife and mom and daughter and daughter-in-law and sister and sister-in-law and aunt and friend, and I haven’t. 

Another ENTIRE YEAR has gone by . . . and I still don’t look a whole lot like Jesus. 

I’m not giving up.  This year has already started off much better than last year, because I spent the first week of this year with family and friends, instead of in the hospital (can I get an Amen for the one year birthday of my fabulous semi-colon?!). 

Without a doubt, 2015 promises to be another year of fullness.  I am certain it will be full of some familiar heartaches, because life will always have valleys this side of heaven.  There will be mistakes and missteps over the next twelve months, just as there were over the last twelve, and some of them might push me into those dark places where life feels hard and heavy.


I will not remain there. 


Because I know, His light is brighter than any darkness I face.  My heart may still be full of sin, but I know He is at work inside it, and He’s. Not. Giving. Up. Either.  


He is using every dark place in my life to shape me.  To change me.  To mold me in his image. 

And with every mountaintop I reach, I pray that I will be better able to reflect Him.

Happy New Year, my friends!  Wishing you health, happiness, and an abundance of His light and love in 2015!!!

Then spoke Jesus again to them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that follows me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.  John 8:12

'Twas The Night Before Christmas

It’s Christmas Eve . . .  

Don’t be the innkeeper.

Make room for him, my friends.

Don’t tell him no and don’t shut him out and don’t send him away.

Open the door to your heart and let him in.

He just wants to come, like any baby waiting so long inside a mother’s womb.  He simply longs to enter your world, to stay with you always, to be present in every moment of your life.

His light is shining all over the world tonight and it is too bright to ignore.  Hear him knocking on your soul and understand that He is enough for you.  His forgiveness overshadows every failure.  His grace overcomes all guilt.  His glory abounds forever.  He alone provides hope and peace and comfort and salvation, and his great, unfailing love for us KNOWS NO END.

So please, don’t be the innkeeper. 

Let that baby king come in.  Draw him close to you, place him on your heart as you would any other tiny child, and breathe in the incredible goodness of him, our Emmanuel.

Our Savior.

Our Jesus.

Emmanuel

It’s December 13^th.   Twelve days until Christmas. 

Plenty of time.

Plenty of time to get the shopping done.  Plenty of time to wrap the gifts.  Plenty of time to trim the tree and mail the cards and bake the cookies. 

Don’t panic, my friends.  There is plenty of time.

I know how it goes.  We hustle and bustle all month long.  We rush around in a flurry, here, there, and everywhere.  Our minds race with all that must be done.  The commitments pile up and the lists grow longer and we wake up in a cold sweat fretting about whether we’re on track to accomplish all that we need to accomplish to pull this thing off. 

Did we remember to move the elf?  Did we remember to read the Jesse tree devotional?  Did we remember to put a treat in the advent calendar?  Did we actually order that gift for our mother-in-law, or did we just dream that we did?

It’s okay.  Christmas is busy.  We try to get things done early, but it’s tough to put much of a dent in the responsibilities that go along with making this much magic in a single month.  There are expectations this time of year – BIG ones – and most of them fall on us moms.

In addition to the myriad of roles we play every other day of the year - you know the ones – nurse, cook, housekeeper, chauffer, psychologist, rule enforcer, wife (that usually does seem to come in last, doesn’t it?), in December, we add a slew of duties to this mama position that can make our heads spin.

We do the planning and the decorating and the shopping and the baking and the surprising.  We create the cards and order the cards and stuff the cards and address the cards and stamp the cards and mail the cards.  We rack our brains to come up with the perfect gifts for everyone in the family and fuss about how much money we’ve spent to make everyone we love feel equally special.  We plan school celebrations and ornament exchanges and tacky sweater parties.  We cut and tape and tie and hide packages in places we might never find them again, and y’all, at six o’clock this morning I was using the tip of my pinky finger to spread Nutella on the tiny mouth of our elf, because, ya know, that sneaky little fella got into the candy jar last night while we are all sleeping lying awake trying to think of new elf tricks.

It’s okay.

Christmas is hard and I’m tired too.  My body shifted into overdrive the second we put away the pumpkin pie and my brain is turning to eggnog as I try to fulfill all the requests and requirements that go along with the biggest holiday of the year. 

But it’s okay.  I won’t get it all done and I won’t get it all right.  I will forget to send someone a card.  I will burn a batch of gingerbread cookies.  I will get him the wrong color and her the wrong size and I will worry about presents when the whole thing . . . the whole month . . . our whole life . . . is all about His presence.

I will screw up this Christmas because I am a mess, and isn’t it funny how He came?  Not in a royal palace, surrounded by the splendid majesty he deserved.  No.  He came in a barn.  He came in the middle of the dirt and the muck and the animals and the mess.

He came to be human, and the barn was the perfect place for him to enter the world, because it wasn’t perfect.  A king born in a messy barn was exactly the right setting, because he wants to settle himself in our mess.  He wants to settle in our messy hearts and stay forever.

So don’t panic, my friends.  Enjoy this Advent season.  Enjoy the hustling and the bustling and the extra obligations.  Enjoy the rushing and the racing and the added commitments.  Amid your shopping and wrapping and celebrating, feel the comfort he provides.  Feel the peace he brings.  Feel the hope he offers.  Feel his light and love envelop your soul as he settles deep within, content to stay as long as you let him.


There is plenty of time to get ready for Christmas. 


There is plenty of time to get ready for His coming. 

Because He’s already here.

Grateful

Thanksgiving.


Giving thanks.


To Him.


For Him.


Because every blessing . . . all of them . . . come from Him.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends!  May you gobble 'til you wobble, and may your day be filled with His abundant blessings!


Give thanks to the Lord, call on his name, make known among the nations what he has done.
Psalm 105:1

The Skinny on TOO MUCH SKIN

Can we talk about nudity today, friends?  A tough subject, perhaps.  A bit taboo, maybe, or at least it used to be.

Naked was once a term found in the same sentence with words like ‘forbidden,’ ‘prohibited,’ ‘unacceptable.’  There’s a reason underwear used to be called ‘unmentionables.’  Since Adam and Eve listened to that sneaky snake and ate that darn apple and realized they were running around in a garden without any clothes on, people have tried very hard to keep important areas of their bodies covered, concealed, and contained. 

So WHAT IS UP with nudity these days, people?  Seriously, how did the naked human body become something so easily shared?  So readily flaunted it’s as if modesty never existed . . . as though nothing is sacred, special, saved? 

What happened to privacy?  What happened to restraint?  How in the world did we come to equate nakedness with confidence? 

Confidence?

Sharing pictures of your naked body with the entire world doesn’t scream confident to me.  It screams desperate.  It screams impulsive.  It screams . . . lost.  And not Have you lost your panties?   Not Have you lost your mind?  But lost, as in . . . Have you lost your sense of self-worth?  Have you misunderstood what it means to have respect, both for yourself and from others?  Have you forgotten you are so deeply loved by God that you don’t need anyone else to adore you?  

Those people?  Those people gawking at your nakedness on their computers and their phones and in magazines?  They might be gazing at you and staring at you and ogling you.  They might be wishing they could talk to you or touch you or even be you.  But they don’t respect you.  They don’t love you or adore you.  They don’t even know you.  And yet, you’re sharing yourself with them so casually, so carelessly . . . without any real consideration for what it means to be naked in front of another human being.

There are headlines about cleavage and curves.   There are articles about nip slips and side boobs.  Stories of nude photographs leaked to millions come out so frequently that teenage girls all over the country now think it’s okay to send sext messages to every boy they know on a regular basis.  Y’all, there are songs that refer to our intimate body parts as junk. 

Junk?

These parts . . . they are given to another in our most personal and vulnerable moments.  They connect us to those we have committed to love though everything.  They express our desire and they fit together perfectly to create generations.  They bring forth life and provide for the life they usher in.  These parts?  They are special.  They have purpose.  They are NOT junk. 

It scares me.  All of it.  I have a daughter and a son and a husband and it scares me to death.  This frivolous overexposure.  This tolerance.  This condoning of what was once so off-limits and this relegating of our bodies, which have true value, to junk that has none.  It scares me. 

I know it’s not the biggest of our problems. There is poverty and hunger and there are millions of orphans.  There are women and children who are sold into slavery Every. Single. Day.  This nudity epidemic isn’t the only issue in the world, nor the most important, and I’m certain many might not think it an issue at all.  But shouldn’t we at least consider the possibility that we are perpetuating dangerous attitudes with our failure to address the way nudity and sex have become absolute obsessions in our culture?  Might we be fueling a fire that suggests women are merely objects of pleasure, and not worthy human beings with an abundance of gifts to offer?

In the midst of a nation spellbound by the blatant undressing of so many, how do I teach my son that a woman is to be cherished and treasured for who she is, not what she looks like?  How do I teach my daughter that she doesn’t have to bare her body, because the right people will care about her soul?  How do I remember that I don’t have to live up to a specific standard . . . that I was created in the image of God, and that’s what makes me beautiful?

The world says other things.  The world fixates on physical appearances and applauds immorality, and there is no doubt about it, in this world, sex sells. 

I live in this world, but I can’t be consumed by the deterioration of society’s values.  I must hold on to the truth.  I must teach it to my children every day, as the world bombards them from every direction, begging them to buy into the myth that attention brings happiness.

Because the truth . . . the truth of Him . . . Him.  He is the only real source of contentment in this world . . . in this life.  The truth says my body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within me (1 Corinthians 6:19).  The truths says I can glorify God with my body (1 Corinthians 6:20).  The truth says I do not have to be conformed by this world (Romans 12:2).  The truth says God does not look at outward appearances, but at what matters most (1 Samuel 16:7). 

The truth is Jesus.  And grace.  And the kind of love that transcends and transforms, from the inside.  The truth is what God sees when he looks at us, and that’s what we should be sharing with others. 

Not our flesh . . .

Our hearts. 

Falling for You

If you doubt the existence of God, may I suggest something?  It’s super simple.  Won’t take you but a few seconds, yet might just change your eternity.

Step outside.

That’s it.  Just walk out into the world and take a look around, my friends.  The evidence, the proof of Him . . .

Y’all.  It’s everywhere.

It’s in the gold.  Dancing from branches, swaying on the breeze as the temperatures fall, it pours like warm honey into the soul.  The color of his lampstands in the temple.  The color of the bowl where he holds the prayers of the saints.  The color of the streets in heaven.  It glistens and gleams and reflects the light, His light, and I know . . . it’s all His doing. 

It’s in the orange too.  The orange, reminding me there will be a harvest, again, because his provisions never stop.  It catches my eye, lapping at me, like flames reaching out to touch the coldest heart.  That fiery orange, so pure and vibrant it could never be replicated, it burns down in, consuming me with the warmth only He can bring.

It’s in the red as well.  Every shade, from scarlet to crimson, the hues seem almost unimaginable on leaves once green.  The red, so rich and sure and alive, dripping like grace to cover me, all of me.  That red, the color of blood poured out on a cross, the color of blood shed to redeem a broken world, the color of our Savior's blood, given to bring life that never ends.

The gold shimmering in the sunshine, it won’t last.  The orange will be gone within weeks.  The red disappears as each day grows colder.  But that gold hanging like love notes from the trees, it cries out, See my greatness and power and glory and majesty and splendor. That orange flaring up before my very eyes, it calls loudly, The world is all my creation. That red flashing deep and vibrant and true, it sings, Delight in what I have made. 

And though they all drop away as fall becomes winter, for a short time each year, every year, the colors of autumn offer beautiful, fleeting reminders. Those colors, they burst through my doubts and shout from the treetops and pulse in my ears . . .

You

are

worth

EVERYTHING

to

me.

Happy Fall, friends!  May this season of bounty and blessings fill you with love the way it always seems to do for me - may His love be so complete in you, that it can't help but overflow to others. 

Magical Choices, Part 2

So I owe you an update.  Yea, I know.  That’s a dumb thing to say because there are like, all of three people, maybe, reading this, but it sounds way too weird to say “I owe myself and my need to process and document life for the purpose of the future an update,” sooooo I’m sticking with the I owe YOU an update line.

I owe you (and my need to process and document life for the purpose of the future) an update on Disney World.

We went to Disney World for fall break.  We were planning to go to the lake.  We were planning to have cool temperatures, boat rides, fires, smores, quiet, peace, relaxation, and absolutely nothing on our must-do list, which seems to have grown to epic proportions lately.

Then my in-laws invited us to Disney World.  Invited, as in, we will pay for your family of four to enjoy a weekend at the most expensive magical place on earth.

Would you say no?

Neither did we.    

The kids were beside themselves thrilled. I went kicking and screaming.  Well, actually I was stewing silently about my lost lake trip and keeping my entire body to myself and not touching anything or anyone and using antibacterial wipes if I was forced to touch something and passing out wipes to my kids and my husband and anyone near me who would take one.  But internally, I was kicking and screaming.  And what I was screaming was, DON’T MAKE ME GO!!!!!!

Our flight took off anyway, and God answered my first prayer when our plane landed safely in Orlando with the seat backs and tray tables in their upright and locked positions, and most importantly, the oxygen masks and barf bags untouched.  And although I never expected God to follow us from the airport to Disney World, I’ll be darned if he wasn’t right there with me the entire weekend, answering my prayers one right after the next.

Now I do need to tell you that my prayers were sucky prayers.  I wasn’t praying for big, important, world peace and a family for every orphan kind of things.  I do that, sometimes, but not when my focus is on keeping my anxiety in check and my OCD under wraps in such a way that my husband and children can enjoy themselves without being traumatized by my insanity. Disney World is not the place to plead for an end to war.  I was in a battle of my own, friends, and it was all I could handle at the time.

I should also tell you that I’m aware there are countless people who do not think I’m crazy because of my anxiety and OCD, but because I don’t share their adoration of “the happiest place on earth.”  There are people in this country who are completely in love with all things Disney.  We saw at least half a dozen couples on their honeymoons at the Magic Kingdom.  If my fiancé had even suggested we consider Disney World for our honeymoon, I would have returned the diamond without hesitation and fled, and I mean every word of that y’all.  

Disney is a highly entertaining place.  In my opinion, it’s a great place to take children once every few years.  I think It’s a Small World is an adorable ride and I love Thunder Mountain Railroad.  I could do without the women in shackles on the Pirates of the Caribbean extravaganza (shouldn’t someone be complaining loudly enough about that to get some much needed, politically correct updates?), but I admire the way Disney parks are kept clean and organized, the “cast members” remember to stay in character at all times, and boy do those folks know how to put on a parade.  But I am not one of those moms who shows up at the gates of the Magic Kingdom with Minnie Mouse ears on my head secretly harboring fantasies about becoming a squatter in Cinderella’s castle.  And if any one of my friends ever mentions going to Disney for a girls’ trip, I will never speak to her again. 

Ever.

I go to Disney World because I want to witness my kids enjoy it.  Without them, I’m staying as far away from that place as possible.  So those prayers of mine before we arrived and the entire time we were there?  Well, I’d say totally and completely selfish pretty much sums ‘em up. 

Please, Lord, let the weather be nice.

Please, Lord, let the hotel be clean.

Please, Lord, let the kids get along.

Please, Lord, let my in-laws keep up.

Please, Lord, let the lines be less than thirty minutes.

Please, Lord, let me keep my lunch through the Space Mountain ride.

Please, Lord, PLEASE let me survive two full days of large crowds, public bathrooms, and people walking around chomping on turkey legs the size of my arm. (Could I get an Amen for that one, people?  Seriously, those things have to be a public health hazard.)

The thing is . . . God knows me.  He knows my heart, and he knows that sometimes, it does beat for others.  Sometimes, I put away my egotistical desires and ask the One who makes the impossible possible to do meaningful things in the lives of those who need him.  Sometimes, I forget about my own needs and ask God to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, heal the sick, provide for the poor. 

But sometimes . . . many times . . . maybe even most times, I go to God with nothing but my own mess.  My ugly, selfish, sinful mess. 

And He hears me.

And He loves me anyway.

And He takes my self-seeking prayers, and my filthy heart, and my inability to look past my own circumstances, and He shows me just how much I mean to Him.

The weather was perfect.  The hotel was wonderful.  The kids got along.  The in-laws were amazing.  The lines were well under thirty minutes.  I kept my lunch through Space Mountain (uh, barely, and just for the record, I am officially retired from that ride, along with The Tower of Terror at Hollywood Studios, which I will curse until the day I die).

I’ve often heard it said that God meets you where you are.  I’ve also heard it said that he has no intention of keeping you there, but we’ll save that for another day and another blog.  Here’s what I think . . .

I think God met me at Disney World.  Amid the noise and clutter of a weekend I didn’t expect and wasn’t sure I could embrace, I think God showed up in a thousand different ways to remind me of a thousand different reasons He loves me. 

For the sake of full disclosure, I must tell you that those amazing in-laws I mentioned hired a concierge to help us navigate the logistical maze that is five parks in two days.  I am quite sure Ramon was very expensive.  I am also quite sure Ramon was an angel sent from heaven.  With his MBA from NYU and the five languages he speaks, Ramon left a lucrative career in risk management to start his own concierge company, and he now spends over 325 days a year escorting groups of people around the Disney parks, and any other major Orlando attraction.   

Ramon was not only an angel, he was a genius (and some might say certifiably crazy because of the previously mentioned 325 days a year at an amusement park).  We never looked at a map.  We never looked at a schedule of events.  We never argued over what to do or where to go or when to eat.  We followed Ramon around like ducklings as he calmly and casually escorted us to each ride, show, restaurant and park. He took pictures of the family in all the right places.  He saved us a spot in the shade to watch the parade, complete with a little mat for the kids to sit on.  He found, cleaned, and set tables for us while we ordered lunch so we could sit right down and enjoy our Disney dining experience.  He secured us a table at Animal Kingdom’s Rainforest Café in under two minutes when there was a sixty-minute wait.  Our group of 4 adults and three children hit five parks in one weekend and never felt stressed, rushed or even tired, and the kids were able to do almost every single thing they wanted to do, and more, in a 48 hour vacation. 

I don’t know when we’ll go back to Disney World.  This trip might have been our last because, ya know, Ramon.  Without him, we just couldn’t hack it, and based on the treatment we received, Ramon is not in our budget. (If you’d like to find out if he’s in yours, I will gladly share his contact information as I highly recommend him to everyone on the planet).

The thing is, even without Ramon, I know I would have enjoyed our trip to Disney World.  Despite all my resistance, I found much more joy than I imagined I could on our surprise getaway.  The weekend was miraculous, in my opinion, and not because of the beautiful weather and the short lines and the generous in-laws and the personal concierge.  The weekend was miraculous because God is in the business of making miracles, and I asked him to come along.  I invited God to join us, and God never turns down an invitation to be present in our lives, no matter where we’re going.  And because I asked God to come with us, and I knew without a doubt that he would show up, I saw Him everywhere.