5. A Chai latte with cinnamon and honey.
4. A swim in a lake either in the early morning, when it’s silent, or in the evening when the sun is just starting to go down and the water feels like green silk.
3. A really good thunder and lightning storm.
2. Good news.
1. A life that goes beyond the ordinary.
I could really use some good news right now.
Outside, there is a howling blizzard, and it’s not even the middle of April . . . it’s LATE April. The wind is freezing, the roads are awful, there is snow as far as the eye can see when just a week ago, it felt like summer.
We’ve been waiting ages to hear back about Steve’s job. It’s feeling like forever, and each time the phone rings we almost have a heart attack, only to find out . . . it’s somebody else altogether. I feel like a dog that gets excited at every coming car, and then is depressed to find out it’s not their owner, just some dude in a random Toyota.
Hangdog.
A few things and a few things only are keeping me going.
One is . . . the knowledge that spring always comes. It says that in Ecclesiastes.
Another is . . . that waiting is something the Lord seems to want us to do. A lot. Often. And if that’s the case, then I have to “set my face like flint” (thanks to my mom, a favourite expression of hers from Hannah Whitall Smith) and just keep going, day in and day out.
I’ve been reading a lot about waiting lately. I take that as a sign that the Lord is just asking us to wait. To wait for spring, to wait for the right job or circumstances, to wait for his timing, which is unfathomable. Each time I think I’ve guessed it, “OK, we’ve waited long enough! He’s going to let us know now!” I get nothing.
Because I can’t guess it. I shouldn’t even try.
Waiting is hard, but it can be dynamic. It “flexes the spiritual muscles”, according to Catherine Marshall. It tests us – our strength, our stamina, our faith in God. It forces us to give up anxiety, to give up control, to put things in God’s hands and then to wait for “the peace that passes understanding” because we need it. Waiting is not doing nothing. On the contrary, it is a powerful force, but one that we can’t see. And that’s why it is so frustrating!
Bottom line: (and thanks to my sister who sent this to me) “I am still confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.” Psalm 27 vs 13 – 14.
Gabrielle is 2.
That means, she prefaces just about every noun there is with the possessive “My.”
She points to people: “My Mummy. My Daddy. My bear. My sister.”
She talks about things: “My Dora bubbles. My fruit cup. My new boots.”
When she was a little younger, “My” took the form of her name for herself, which is “Gaga”. “Gaga’s new park. Gaga’s car. Gaga’s bedroom.”
In any case, there is a whole lot of possessive going on. We were hanging out with another two year old the other day, and when Gabrielle called some blocks “Mine”, the other little girl turned to her and said, “You shouldn’t say mine. It’s God’s.”
That’s because her parents have been teaching her that – good for them, I guess! I hardly even notice Gabrielle using the possessive. When I do, it’s either because it’s annoying (“Mine! Don’t touch!”) – in which case, I begin my standard lecture on sharing, which doesn’t seem to sink in at all – or because I have a feeling, somewhere in the back of my head, that “my” gives her a place in the world. You know, “My mummy. My daddy. My park. This is who I am, these are the people I am associated with and the things I do.” So in that case, it seems just fine to me.
My favourite author, CS Lewis, wrote in The Screwtape Letters that not noticing how often we say “my” is actually a pretty dangerous thing. You can start by saying “my” as in “my boots” and it doesn’t mean much. But if you use the same semantic shading for referring to people, possessions, and God, it becomes pretty disconcerting. “My God.” I own Him, He is there for my benefit. Just as I own my boots or my car. Not that “My God” is wrong to say . . . just that you have to be careful what meaning you attach to the “my”.
Everything we own, we don’t own, really. It’s been provided for us, whether you believe God does that or whether you think it is the circumstances in your life that enabled you to grow up, buy a car or a house or boots or whatever.
But I say “my” so often. Like a two year old. Sometimes I am pointing out my place in the world, or things I’m proud to be associated with.
Other times, I’m just possessive. Or taking things for granted, assuming they are “mine” and that it’s somehow a credit to me.
The bottom line – I’m going to try to go for a day and see if I can refer to things without using the possessive at all.
Today I realized I’m not as young as I think I am.
I work with college students, and on some level, I feel like I’m still one of them. I mean, I graduated three years ago. It hasn’t been an eternity yet. Once in awhile I get the feeling that they look at me as kind of ancient, but that’s counteracted by the way all the profs in the department make me feel, what with their sweater vests and all. I’m young. I’m hip. That’s the vibe I just assumed I was radiating, without even an ounce of effort on my part, like applying night cream for wrinkles or something.
But that changed today, when a dude with a motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm held open a door for me at the college. When I said, “Thank you”, he said:
“Oh, don’t thank me. Thank my dad.
He always taught me to be polite to my elders.”
!!!! Elders? Dude! Are you kidding me? Did he forget to teach you how to talk to the ladies? ‘Cause comments like that sure aren’t the way to go.
The worst part was, it didn’t even cross his mind for a second that this might be a shocker for me, or some kind of harsh wake-up call. No, he just went off to find his motorcycle or whatever (probably a scooter, HA!) as if, of course, yeah, she’s my elder. So deal with it.
It’s the same way with Olympic athletes and hockey players – a whole bunch of them, younger than me, richer than me, much, much more successful than me. And some pop stars.
When did I suddenly go from wanting to be older to realizing that it actually happens, and then you can’t stop it? I mean, I’m not saying I’m ancient. I’ve got a ways to go before that happens. But I’m not really pulling off the old “spring chicken” thing anymore either, I guess.
I could have had my first novel published by now, or maybe travelled to some places more interesting than Eastern Canada, or started my own business or become famous. I guess it’s not too late for that. But I guess I should also watch out, because at this rate, before I know it, it will be.
I smile a lot, and contrary to all expert advice, I never remember to put on sunscreen in the morning. So here come the crow’s feet and the leathery skin, I guess.
Bottom line – I guess I’d better start applying night cream for wrinkles.
When I’m stressed out and thinking about the reasons why, I grind my teeth together. I am not even conscious of it – I clench them and they remain that way until the stress is gone. And now that I think about it, I must look pretty tightly-wound to people who see me on those days. My jaw all clenched, shoulders hunched . . . what a pretty picture I must be. I should start calculating how many people are edging away when they see me storming down the hallways at work.
I’ve been stressed since yesterday, because Steve had a job interview and it involved a test. I was at work while he was at the interview, undergoing the test, and I can tell you I had my teeth clenched the whole time. When he finally called after the interview was over, I think I unclenched them for about five minutes while he told me it went well. Then, when he said “We’ll know by the end of the week” they clenched again, and I’m pretty sure they’ve stayed clenched ever since.
For example, last night. I woke up at about five a.m. and I had a blinding headache. Most likely because my teeth had been clenched for over 24 hours by that point! And even though I’m consciously trying to keep from clenching them, they automatically go to that position, so the headache is sticking around.
I am trying to chill out, though – what else can I do, it’s a situation that’s beyond my control! I read something good on my Facebook verse of the day yesterday: ”Do not be anxious, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God” (that might be slightly paraphrased). Anyway, that verse must have been written for teeth-clenching people like me. Do Not Be Anxious.
I guess that’s the bottom line.
Let the Road Trip Begin! 
Here’s the bad news.
My husband – his name is Steve – is going back to work. He’s been at home with our 2 little girls since the littlest was 3 months old and I went back to work.
That, in itself, isn’t bad news. Extra income can only be a good thing, I’m hoping, and the dayhome where the girls are going is FANTASTIC, Gabrielle loved it there before Catalina was born.
Trust me, I’ve been through the stress and panic of being a working mom. It still comes and goes, but I’m pretty sure we’re going to be OK in that regard.
What suddenly made me freak out was the realization that now my drive to and from work, which is already 20 minutes long each way, is going to include 2 little girls strapped into carseats at 2 notorious times of day - first thing in the morning, and right before dinner on the way home.
So that’s 40 minutes altogether that we have to spend squished into the 1992 Nissan Axxess. Thank goodness we aren’t in a big city with constant rush-hour traffic. Getting stuck behind farm equipment on Highway 2A is bad enough.
I used to do this with Gabrielle when she was a 1 year old. Mornings were usually OK, but the trip home was typically a bit of a nightmare, until I started handing out Arrowroot cookies and juice boxes before we left the city. At least, most of the time. Occasionally I forgot, and then the trip home was madness: “I wants a cookie! I wants my juice, Mom!” Insert heartbreaking sobs here.
So now . . . instead of one little girl, there will be 2 little girls strapped into carseats. 20 minutes, 2 times a day. Me in the front, trying to sing “Baby Beluga” or something to keep them cheerful.
Believe me, they can be a tough crowd.
You know, I could feel the tension mounting to exponential levels already yesterday when I thought about this new arrangement, which begins next week.
But suddenly it occurred to me that maybe I should freak out less, and think about this another way. At present, I see the girls 40 minutes less per day then I will once the “road trips” begin. It might not be so-called “quality time” a hundred percent of the time, but there are some good things that go on while we’re cruising down the road. Gabrielle and I used to look out for choo-choo trains, and that was pretty exciting. We waved at kids on the schoolbus when we passed them. Gabrielle liked to point out the little donkeys in a field we pass, and she learned all the words to “Baby Beluga” at a pretty young age, which has got to be good for language development . . . so on, so forth.
Bottom line – scary commute, but some quantity time.
