The Day that Did Not Happen

Nothing I had originally planned and scheduled happened today.  Nora was too nervous about going back to school, so we worked through that this morning.  Her doctor's appointment was postponed, and the parenting class I drove out of town to attend tonight was actually on a different night.  I caught myself humming that Easton Corbin tune "Roll With It" as I got into the car and then it came on the radio, but I was still in a terrible mood despite how I knew God was winking at me.  It's not that often that everything doesn't happen.  And it's not that often that I let a whole day go by without getting something "done."  Today was that day.  And I have been doing my best trying to be all right with this plan that was not mine because if there is one thing that today is telling me, it is this:

My days do not belong to me and the concept that I am in control of them is an egotistical illusion.  Having a calendar with plans written into them does not mean that this is what will happen.

To put it bluntly:  I am an uptight, "To Do" list addict, and God was reminding me that I'm missing the whole point entirely.  I am grateful for this kick in the (highwater) pants.

So, here are the gifts of the day that did not happen:

-Spending the evening at Mom's working on our Christmas puzzle.
-Eating with Nora, Mom, and Mike when I was just planning on skipping supper.
-The church in Geneva I visited for "no reason" had a giant painting of a tree with the word "ALIVE" written under it.  There was also a poster that said something about women being fully present as themselves in the love of Christ.  (I know he can love a heart like mine.)
-Knowing that when I pray for more of His truth to be revealed to me, He always follows through.
-The coffee and driving and space of the fields and sky as I drove toward the place I never went to.

How I overcame my fear of eating alone at a restaurant

This seems like a good title for a post, but now I can't think of anything to say about it.  Somewhere down the line, I finally overcame my fear of eating alone at a restaurant.  How?  I was hungry.  I was alone.  It just sort of came together.

I ate alone at Runza tonight (with reading material--you have to look busy.)  Have you noticed that many restaurants have started to incorporate the single-seating area?   You'll find a long table, usually slightly elevated, that faces toward the window, so all the lonely diners can stare wistfully into the wide world while consuming the sad calories of their solitary meal.  It's almost as if facing toward the people eating together would simply be too painful.  I suppose it works on some level.  The restaurant looks busy.  Plus it would just be awkward to put all of us in the middle of the dining area peering like anti-social vultures over the tables of families fighting over the last mozzarella stick or young couples sharing shakes and cooties.

But seriously, eating alone isn't bad at all.  Really.  When was the last time you went on a date and agreed with everything your companion said?  How often do you get to eat ALL the chips and salsa?

(While this post might seem comical, it actually points toward this process I'm in the middle of--the process of feeling good in my skin no matter the circumstances.  Tomorrow's post:  How I overcame my fear of clowns, bandaid adhesive, and highwater pants.)

That's the Power of Love

Nora's 4 year check-up was today.

"And did you know? I love you." Nora's doctor stopped there leaning over slightly in her rolling chair, looking at her patient, hands frozen in place. We were suddenly so present, pulled into the actuality of the situation by the girl I live with and love. "I love you, too, Nora." And I knew Dr. R did. And they hugged. And when they finished, Nora looked at Dr. R and hugged her again.

My mom was there, and she was crying. Written on the wall were the words:

Believe in Miracles. How often do the walls speak so literally?

The small, sterile room became sacred suddenly; it exhaled a breath, invited warmth, something human, something divine. And I was learning something: that I wish we said "I love you" more often, not just to our family or our friends but to all our neighbors. I mean, why not? My girl has hutzpah, the kind that loves the world without the fear of rejection. This is what it means to love with abandon. "What? You can't handle this love? Too bad! I just gave it to you! You don't scare me! I love you!"

What do you think would happen? We exit the bus: "Thanks! I love you!"

We turn down the telemarketer, "Not today, but I love you!"

The janitor standing stunned in the hallway, the mop stuck to the shock of it: "I love you. A lot."

He was not waving but drowning.

1.  Kirk walks out of the shop door and waves, the way he always does, head bowed so his hand reaches that much higher above his head--a humble acknowledgment that his relationship with people is more important than his own recognition.  "Nice weather!"  For this man who spends 75% of his time outdoors, the statement reflects more than a simple platitude.   Last winter was tough out here.  Even Kirk with his usual thin, upright stride started to wilt a bit under the lack of sun, the pounds and pounds of snow.  "Yeah.  It's great weather.  I should have come outside earlier," I say while lifting Nora into the back of the car as she yells, "A happy new year to you!"  A good winter.  A new year.  They deserve mention.

2.  We run into Teagan, her unmistakable smile, dark glasses--wedding preparations filling her heart.  We joke about simply providing each of the wedding guests with a single spork that they have to hang onto for the entire day.  "Don't lose this.  I'm serious."  She waves to Nora as she gets into the car.  Nora turns and swipes her arm back and forth, clearing a path between her and her tall friend, "Bye, Teagan!"

3.  I would venture that 88% of the people who drive trucks around here have "steering wheel" waved at me, the single finger lifted slightly from the one hand perched like a five-fingered bird on top of the wheel.    I usually feel like I'm playing "Wack-a-mole" when this happens, lifting my own finger from the steering wheel 2 seconds too late.  He's gone.  And he thinks I'm a jerk.

4.  I'm particularly fond of waves with sound effects:  the old index finger to the forehead with a wink and a "click" sound, like you make when you're calling a horse.  I like that.

5.  Breaking the waves.   When we wave at each other, we acknowledge our usual boundary and burst through it as from the surface of the water.  Your presence brought me out of myself, and I lift my hand to acknowledge you and this lifting that frees me from myself.  And I'm glad to see you.  So glad to see you.

Your turn.  Tell me your waving stories.  I'm listening.  And waving.

Making Mountains out of Mountains

Where we were raised, what we see and know of our time and our place, all of it was chosen so our hearts and hands might bear a particular terrain and texture, one that would help us with our work and our love.  

 When at 16 I dreamed of moving far away from this place, living in Denver and wearing the city lights like some proud and civilized diamond necklace, I was here between two small mountain towns:  Silt and Rifle.  It took so long for me to understand that mountains make for strong, silent souls and a diamond necklace is just a few rocks on a string, not much good for anything.  I love these mountains.

 These are the bookcliffs that surround Rifle and lead to the valleys of Palisade and Fruita (you've probably eaten a peach from there.)

 All the wild horses...

 The walls of Glenwood Canyon carved out by the Colorado River.

 There have been a lot of fires in the area--they leave the mountains bare but for the stubble of tree stumps along the bald face.

 I don't know how many times I've been down this road.  You'd think you'd get used to the scenery, but you never do.

 The Colorado River passing through Rifle.

 My first job was here at the Rusty Cannon as a maid.

 This is Burning Mountain.  There was a big mine fire that left this scar where the mountain still burns.

The hogbacks in Silt where I grew up.

When in doubt, quote Mother Teresa.

Today while reading and driving home from Colorado, I "ran into" this and thought it useful in terms of yesterday's ramblings about being good at something.  (Don't worry--I wasn't actually driving, though this quote did drive a lot home for me--uh...yeah.  I'll stop now.)

"How can you know when the Lord is calling you into some vocation?...You can know by the happiness you feel.  If you are glad at the thought that God may be calling you to serve Him and your neighbor, this may well be the best proof of your vocation.  A deep joy is like a compass, which points out the proper direction for your life.  One should follow this, even when one is venturing upon a difficult path."  -Mother T  (tougher than even Mister T)

Oooooo.  A deep joy is like a compass.  She is speaking my language here.  But I want to be clear on this, too.  I'm not excited about this statement because it seems like a good excuse for just having a good time.  The second part here reminds us that it's a "venture" that might require us to walk a difficult path.  Believe me, when I choose to "follow my joy" by eating an entire bag of Doritos, this is not the same thing at all.  This is not the 60's kind of abandon that found us "loving the one we're with" and doing "whatever got us through the night."

You know the kind of joy she's speaking of here.  You've known it suddenly, like the light of a star passing through you.  The perfect moment when peace and joy fit inside you and:  IT.  IS.  ALL.  RIGHT.  You forget your name.  And you feel God's sweetness and the honey from the rock and it makes you...not just happy.  Happy is this feeling that comes and goes depending on your circumstances.  Ah, but joy.  Joy isn't a feeling.  It's pure spirit--the kind that lifts you out of your boots, straightens your socks, and puts you back where you came from but with a clearer sense of how your boots are the right boots, the kind that can walk through anything including a pile of fear.  Joy says, "I'll do it scared if I have to, but I'd rather do it laughing."

How do I know if I'm good at something?

1.  People eat more than one helping of it.

2.  Whatever it is, it doesn't rust.

3.  You might not know that you're good at it.  In fact, it's probably best if you don't know how good you are at it.

4.  It feels natural, graceful, full of ease.  (or)  It's difficult, you don't get it right sometimes, you wish you could trade it in for something else, something easy, safe, repetitive like putting the plastic wrap around fortune cookies rather than coming up with the actual fortunes.

5.  Some days it takes a team of wild horses to get you back to doing it.  Many times you try to bribe the horses with apples and honey-covered carrots, but they don't fall for the sweet stuff until you've done your work.

6.  You struggle with it.  You talk to it.  It talks back.  You have opinions.  It has opinions.  You continue to work together because you both need each other--sometimes more than water or air or food.

7.  You lose sleep over it, but you never feel tired.

8.  It no longer matters to you if you're good at it.  You just do it.