God uses broken pieces

Grief touches us all. Sometimes there are seasons of life, sometimes events knock the wind out of our sails. I told you about a trying time for me coming to terms with the fact that I was actually depressed. That post is here. Ecclesiastes 3 sums that up pretty well:

There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
 a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.

The only ways I know how to describe the feeling I had was either that I was lost at sea. I was bobbing up and down with the waves of life and catching air, but not really feeling that there were any life rafts. I felt very lonely and a bit paranoid that anyone else was able to help me.

Of course, through it all God was there. We had such a beautiful message on Sunday for those who were either in a season of grief or battling with something more long-term. About how God can use the broken places in us to bring healing to others and how, even in our pain, he is PRESENT with us.
Here's the link to that: http://renovatuschurch.com/#/podcast

All of this to say, it is good and necessary to remind ourselves that we are all human. That sometimes you just need to be sad for a while and sometimes you need to just CRY with someone else rather than try to cheer them up. I think as Christians and perhaps Americans, we are tempted to just put on a smile or say "I'm fine" when we're not doing so great. You don't have to let EVERYONE in to your cave, but you need to let SOMEONE into your cave. And even when your faith takes a beating, know that "Jesus wept" at the death of Lazarus. Odd, since he knew what he could do and was about to do--raise Lazarus from the dead!!! He wept because he wanted to share in the sorrow, not because he had no hope.

Be a lifeline to someone around you. Grieving alone is the worst. You don't have to have just the right words or any magic prayers. Pray for the peace of God and healing of the heart. If you sense a friend is down, ASK. Dig. Pray.

Take time to grieve when you need to. You get no brownie points in heaven for trying to paste on a happy face. Seek the Lord and His joy.

I'm doing much better these days, now that I've faced and named what was going on and have been using life boats of medicine and friends and even this blog. Joy really can come in the "morning."

Mexican for Mother's Day

We were pulling out of church, full of encouragement and thoughts on friendship. Our sleepy little boy in the backseat, already saying, "All done." Um. We have a 30-minute ride, son. You'll have to get comfy. Being the one named Mommy, I got to pick the lunch spot. I opted for the very close and recently discovered Mexican dive near church, Miguel's. If you saw this place, you'd probably keep driving. It looks like it's attached to a sketchy motel by interstate. But their fajitas are fantastic. And they have an "A" rating.
There we are, and within 30 seconds of entering, Shepard knocks over the basket of tortilla chips. But within moments, we have a Mother's Day miracle! I show him for the 100th time how to drink from a straw (even though he has his own sippy cup, he really loves to play with straws). He takes the drink from me and promptly drinks through the straw! This endeavor is a leap away from last week's Sunday lunch that ended up in a full clothes-change in the Showmars bathroom. (For him, not me) Last week's sippy cup got left behind at the church, so we were trying to help him drink milk from a styrofoam cup. Milk-bath.
Fast-forward to Miguel's. I was so excited. I had started to worry that Shepard would be in his first day of college telling his classmates that the one distinguishing thing about him is that he never learned to drink from a straw.
 Our massive plates of fajitas came, as did Shepard's rice and grilled chicken. "RICE!" That kid loves some rice. As is usually the case, about half the rice makes it to his mouth, and the other half ends up in his lap and on the booster seat. We have at least graduated from the "everything on the floor" phase. As he started poaching the rice off my plate, and I had a teeny moment of "hold up! It's my Mother's Day lunch! Calm down little poacher!" Then I realized. I am his mommy. I am mothering him.  I helped him eat and drink (!), and I'll scoop all my rice to his plate so he can drop half of it. I will cheer him on when he tries the beans, even if he makes yucky face. I will take him outside and shake off his lunch in the bushes by the restaurant. I will carry him, draped over my shoulder in sleep, into the house after church and lunch and kiss his forehead and cover him up and pray for a good nap. I will hold him in my lap in his Elmo pajamas when I should be fixing my hair or doing the dishes...because he climbed up there and that's where he wants to be. I will tell him 298 times to sit on his bum and put him in time out despite his protestations. I will do all these over and over because one Mother's Day in the not-too-distant future, he will sit and eat something he ordered for himself and he will eat it all and ask for seconds and grow taller than I am. His long, lean body will get too long to sit in my lap, and his cartoons will turn into car shows or time alone in his room. I will tell him to sit on his bum because one day he'll be at a friend's house, and he'll need to set the example. I will always mother him to varying degrees, of course, but now I get the privilege of being hands-on. He still takes my kisses and runs to me at the end of a school-day. He still mostly fits in my lap. It takes four times longer to get ready in the morning because he still needs me. One day he'll brush his teeth and put on his own clothes. I constantly tell myself this or that phase will be over soon enough, but in truth, I'm not sure I want it to be. I'm very busy celebrating my "moments made of now."

Thank you, Shepard, for making me a Mommy. It's one of my favorite names.

All I really want for Mother's Day

 Here's the part where I should write something heartwarming about how just BEING a mom is thanks enough. It is, really. I try to squeeze joy out of each minute (even the temper tantrum minutes...that seem so long). I steal kisses and hugs and light up at the thought of all little man is learning.
I can also dream. So, for this Mother's Day, I'm going to dream a big dream...a flight of fancy, if you will.
I'm going to be real. A real working mom's wish list...

What I would love:
1. A grocery concierge. Someone to go put stuff in the cart that will magically turn into meals. I'll pay for the grocery bill. I just find grocery shopping to be overwhelming and tedious. Much like staring at a full pantry and wondering what we have to EAT. (first world problems, I know)
2. Three days in a row with no morning wake-up. No alarm, no video monitor, no lawn mowing neighbors, no worries about whether I'll get an actual shower or have to resort to a bird-bath in the sink. I just want to awaken naturally and feel the cool sheets and wonder what day it is and smell some coffee...ease out of bed and take deep breaths because there's just no hurry. I sometimes get this little delight on Saturday. It feels like a morsel of heaven.
3. For my entire house to be entirely clean, even if it's just for a day. The baseboards clean, the kitchen art free from oatmeal splatters, the assortment of toys under the sofa gone, the corners of the bathroom sparkling, the laundry done, the bills all filed...I actually don't have enough imagination to see this in my mind's eye. I can only make a list and pretend that it could ever be possible in another dimension or world.
4. One day a month to do house and crafty things. Pinterest alternately inspires me and repels me. I find lots of the posts to be actual do-able decorating ideas. I just don't know when or how to accomplish them. There are always other irons in the fire, it seems. And I have limited wall space. But there is a end table in my den calling my name. I need to figure out how to get that re-done. Soon. Perhaps I'll just take a day off and send little man to school.
5. Instant hair-dryer. This one may seem silly to you. I detest drying my hair, especially May through October. It's like willfully submitting myself to a sweatbox. My hair just doesn't air dry for myriad reasons. It must be blown out. If it could happen in 30 seconds, that would be a slice of heaven.
6. More time to volunteer. I know, I went all humanitarian on my dream list. But it would be amazing to have some time that I could dedicate to helping someone else. At this point in life, I just don't know where to fit that in on a regular basis. It's kind of all I can do to take care of the ones I have.

That's a short list, right? Not too much to ask or dream?  :) Dreaming is good for the soul.

And when I get back to my reality, my never-quite-clean house, there's this little nugget to keep me smiling:

What's Going On?

I can always tell when life keeps throwing extra balls into juggling routine. I don't get to jot down my thoughts. Busy is my mother-tongue, but every day I am checking in to be sure I'm doing the "right" busy stuff.

What's been going on?

1. No-new-clothes 2012: We had some seriously WARM weather for a St. Patty's day weekend, and I went scrambling into the attic for something short-sleeved and cotton. I also went digging in my closet for sandals! Sandals are the one thing I love about summer. However, after limping around work for a day and shredding the tops of my feet with a pair of black dress sandals...and remembering how I needed some all last summer, I caved and purchased some black dress sandals. The ones I had rip the top of my feet. It's just not worth it. While I was at it, I picked up a pair of bronze-colored flat sandals that should go with literally everything else in my summer wardrobe and cover the bases. These were my birthday presents.

Happy Birthday to meeeeee....



2. I continue to justify my two-shoe pick-up with the fact that one of last year's pairs of sandals actually came completely apart last Friday at the grocery store. I had to walk out with one shoe in hand and one shoe on. I don't even walk barefoot in my own house. I can't stand to have bare feet! So the idea that I was walking in a filthy parking lot kind of put me over the edge. Sadly, this was a pair of "investment" shoes. I had been looking for a pair of beige dressy yet casual sandals for years when I found these, and spent a little more on them than I normally would. Let's just say they haven't worked out. I had to take them to shoe repair last year when the soles were coming off...and last week, they entire cork wedge came apart from the top. Ugh.

3. I haven't yet purchased ANY clothing or jewelry. And hopefully won't be needing any additional shoes. I will say that it was much much easier to coast through fall/winter weather with my wardrobe than it will be for summer. Pretty much my entire summer wardrobe was purchased last year, as the post-baby-body wasn't fitting into my summer stash. So, when you see me sporting my black and white striped shirt for the bazillionth time, just know. It fits. It matches. I'm wearing the heck out of it.
4. Shepard is starting to talk and make sooo many connections. When he hears an airplane overhead and waves his hand around, as I showed him how the planes fly. His inquisitive nature is at work the moment he wakes up. I love to see him scrunch up his forehead when he's trying to work something out. He knows most of his animal noises now and attributes them to the correct animals. Crickets still buzz like bees, but that's fine.
5. Speaking of the short guy, we were sooo blessed to pull down a bag FULL of summer clothes for him. I was thinking he didn't have any, then lo and behold, a TON from my friend Jill were hiding behind a Christmas box! Thank you, Lord for your provision again and again. We were able to pass on a ton of clothes on to some other little boys too, so I'm thankful to give and receive.
6. My boss is retiring. At the end of next summer, we'll have a new President of Winthrop. Crazy, since he's been president since Jerod and I were students here (and a few years before that, even). So, the next year or so could bring lots of change to me and my co-workers as we have the "last" events all year for this president and make plans to inaugurate a new one.

I still have no idea why this list was numbered. Sometimes I just like to number things. Two of the items were about shoes. You can't help your passions, now can you? For the record, I would like to highly endorse the Clarks Privo sandal line. Stylish, flat and cushiony (see picture above). All the things a girl with bad feet and a shoe fetish could love.
Happy Spring!

Chronic Concentration Face--My Cross to Bear

One of my favorite English professors, Dr. Bird, from "back in day" at Winthrop wrote about me in a campus-wide post this week. It's ok. He cleared it with me first. He didn't change my name to protect the innocent, but it's ok, since the "crime" listed is one I've been accused of a lot. Read on. It's a good post in any event. I'll be back after the post to wrap up, so for heaven's sakes, don't miss out on THAT. My part of the story is in yellow, but do read it all. You'll be a better person if you do.  :)

The Weekly Reader

March 5, 2012

3.20

An ongoing publication of Winthrop University’s Teaching and Learning Center.  Past issues are now archived on our webpage:   

http://www2.winthrop.edu/tlc/mainresources.html

What Does That Make You and Me?—Dangerous Assumptions

You know the old line about what happens when you assume. That sad result is not always the case, but often enough, it is. I have been thinking lately about some of the assumptions I have made about students, some recent, some long ago. I want to highlight a few.

This semester, I have a student that I knew was going to be trouble, from day one. Conrad, I’ll call him, since it is possible that not a single current student at Winthrop is named Conrad. Before the first class started, when the students were sitting silently, checking their phones, or talking quietly with a nearby neighbor, Conrad was bouncing off the wall. He was talking very loudly, seemingly to no one, breaking the code of silence that students follow on the first day. When class started, he had a comment at every turn, sometimes with a raised hand, but usually not. Every time I asked a question, he was the first to answer, or to try to answer.  After a few days of this, I could see the other students roll their eyes whenever he opened his mouth—which he did all the time. And he spoke so loudly! I just assumed he was impolite, oblivious, and self-centered. I knew I would have to have a talk with Conrad to try to rein him in. I did not look forward to that little talk, having had some version of it with troubling students several times over the years.

Then one day during a group exercise, I heard him tell his group members something. (How could I not hear? He spoke so loud that people in the next class probably heard him.)  Just these three words from Conrad changed everything:  “I am autistic.”

What? I could hardly believe my ears. In my limited experience with autism, Conrad’s behavior was not what I had come to expect. Soon after, I asked him to meet me in my office so I could ask him what I could do to help him. (Nothing, he told me, and that turned out to be pretty true. He is a very autonomous person, and as it turns out, an excellent student.) I told him that I appreciated his contributions to class, but that I worried the class was depending on him to do all the talking. I asked him if he could wait and let others talk first, then add to the discussion. No problem. And behavior changed the next class period. Conrad’s, but also mine. In short order, the rest of the students changed their behavior too.

Last semester, in another section of this course, I had a student, “Sherman,” who I could tell was totally zoned out.  I knew that he wasn’t paying attention in class.  He looked either bored or disgusted.  As I talked or other students talked, he kept his head down, his face hidden by a hat, his hands doodling instead of taking notes.  Early on, they had to write a short paragraph during class, then read what they had written aloud to members of their group. Sherman’s group finished before the others—because Sherman hadn’t written anything. I was furious at his insolence and lack of participation, but I let it go.

At midterm, they had to write an in-class essay. I was busy doing something else, so I did not notice what Sherman was up to. Sherman was up to—nothing. Which I found when I began to grade the essays.  I was missing one. Sherman’s.  Before the next class, I asked him to come out into the hall. I was furious, with a half semester’s frustration built up, and now he was going to get it from the old man. “Where is your essay, Sherman? Why did you not turn it in? And why did you not do any of the other in-class writing that you were assigned? Is this class just beneath your contempt?”

But he came back to me with a very sad look. And then he said, “Oh no, it’s not anything like that. I just didn’t think anything I wrote would be good enough.”  I immediately got off my high horse. Sherman had written the best paper in the class on their first big out-of-class paper assignment. I asked him why he couldn’t write that in-class essay. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just panic. I can write, but not under those circumstances. I freak out, knowing that I won’t be able to write anything good while I am sitting there with the whole class. I knew it was 10% of the grade, so I figured I would just take that deduction and try harder on everything else.”

Another set of assumptions on my part. If I had continued to labor under them, the student who was potentially the best in the class might have made one of the lowest grades.  Sherman and I worked that out. He was astonished to find that I would make some accommodations for him. I guess Sherman had made some assumptions of his own.

The final story takes place several years back, maybe fifteen years ago. This student hates me! She thinks I am an idiot! No matter what I do, no matter what I say, she just sits and stares at me with the same disapproving look. I tell a joke.  All the students laugh—except for Shelley. She just sits there, with that same disgusted look. Shelley hates me. Shelley thinks I am a joke. Oh well, you can’t please everybody. Let it go.

And then, the next semester, a new class, and who is sitting right in the middle but Shelley? Shelley hates me! Why in the world would she ever take a second class with me?

A few years, ago, I saw Shelley, and she told me this: “Dr. Bird, you were my favorite professor ever.”  What?

Sometimes my assumptions are correct. I have a large fund of life and teaching experience to bank on to make correct assumptions—but not all the time. These three little lessons—and many more like them—have taught me to question my assumptions about students. Maybe I’m right, but if I’m wrong… 

(end of his post)

Well, there you go. By way of explanation of THIS event, I was the only freshman in an honors class of upperclassmen. I had only recently declared myself to be an English major, and found myself extremely intimidated by everyone else. The class was only about 10-15 students, and we met around a conference-room table, so there was nowhere to hide. I was deathly afraid Dr. Bird would call on me, and I would be a stammering idiot. He and everyone else there seemed light years ahead of me intellectually, but the class was "American Humor and Mark Twain." I didn't WANT to drop it...I knew that being in there would stretch me. I did love him and the class, and couldn't wait to take another class from him. He taught me how to THINK better.

However, it does bring to light one of my interesting recurring life experiences. I have been told more than enough times that someone finds me "intimidating." Huh? In my head, I'm just a goofy, slightly pudgy girl with big brown eyes who likes to read. I do realize that I have two personalities, though. I have the let-my-hair down fun times side, in which I will sing silly songs that make up on the spot...in public, if required. The part of me that likes to cut up, poke fun, be sarcastic, laugh until I cry...

And there's the Type-A Shelley. That's the one that meets a deadline even if it involves bleeding or wailing. That's the Shelley that is intensely focused on producing the perfect product--be it a college paper, work report, logo, etc. The one that will stay up all night to re-do a draft or reprint a paper because it has one error. 

I was at a wedding once with mostly people I knew through church. One guy who was there I had seen around casually for at least a year or more. Now, I really like to dance...so when the hip hop gets going, so do I. Especially at a wedding. It doesn't even take any alcohol to loosen me up. I just don't have much shame in the arena of freestyle dance. I tumbled off the dance floor a few songs later and wiped my brow, laughing and probably goofily high-fiving my friends. This guy came up to me and just looked at me like I had three heads. "Shelley?" As if he didn't know it was me. "Um...yeah?" I responded. Seriously, dude. I thought you knew my name at least.

"Shelley?" he asked again. Ok, this was a little ridiculous. I had recently verified my persona.

"I thought you were all button-up and no fun," he explained. I had apparently flabbergasted him with my outburst of throw-down happy-dancing. 

It was then I realized, he had probably only seen me in my task-oriented element...getting the slideshow ready before service on the computer or delegating, handing out something, etc. I think Type-A Shelley can be a little scary.

So, in the past few years, I'm working toward merging these identities. In my defense, pretty much everyone who told me I intimidated them has come back to say their initial impression was off, and that I was much nicer once they were actually around me. Whew! I'm going to blame it all on my condition. I have chronic concentration face. Only remedied by fellowship and community. So, you all are my medicine. Here's to keeping me healthy and LAUGHING...and on time and with quality work...with a plan...gosh, I'm a hot mess!

I'm so not Hipster. Here's why.

I try valiantly to just be me. And be ok with it. Every now and again I get these flashes of feeling so uncool. And I try to be ok with that too.
Today's post is about hipsters. If you are unfamiliar, do read the wikipedia post on it. It's funny in and of itself. I found this funny blog to help folks diagnose if they are hipsters...
 When we started attending Renovatus Church, I thought I just had some friends with European tastes in clothing or the affinity for a thrift store. They were my "artsy-fartsy" friends.
I remember the exact moment I realized they were part of a social people group. (Admittedly, I was definitely late to the hipster party. That's what happens when you work at a super-conservative church and don't get out enough.) We went to an art show in the arts area of Charlotte. It was an area I had frequented in the late 90's and early 2000's. But after a short hiatus, the vibe had changed. Everyone in the large gallery space looked like my artsy-fartsy friends. With their vintage calico clothes, multi-layers, teal tights, skinny jeans, flowers in their hair, rumpled boots or ballet flats, hair that looked like it hadn't been washed in two weeks or cut in two years (esp. on the boys)...etc. I was immediately fascinated. I was watching them as an anthropologist might eye a previously unknown tribe. It was like their breeding ground or something. I then also realized that there were LOTS of familiar faces. Tons of them either attended my church or had floated through there at some point. The gallery show was comprised of a handful of folks I knew or knew of, so that made sense. I just didn't realize this was a hipster-Christian-artist-people-group! They all seemed so cool. And I seemed so old and uncool. I couldn't have been more than 5 years older than most of them, but the expanse seemed great.
I've worked toward being ok with not being hipster. There are a few major things that would prevent me from going there anyway. And in very anti-hipster fashion, I've made a LIST. And just for kicks, I'm going to NUMBER IT. Watch out.

1. I'm too hot-natured: Boots in the summer with a sundress? Knit beanie...ever? I live in the south. I never need anything knit on my head unless I'm going outside to play in the snow. Fifteen layers of anthropologie-thrift-calico? Eight yards of scarf draped over everything? I just can't handle it, y'all. I would sweat through and then be angry. Getting warm and getting angry go hand in hand. Don't y'all get HOT?
You might be hipster...

2. Every time I've tried to venture the slightest bit into hipster-fashion-land, I just look like a clown. I love a pop of color, but I can't seem to pull off the devil-may-care color and pattern attitude of the hipsters. While I admire their abilities, I just look silly. I thought I might try to wear a pair of red tights recently. There was nothing in my wardrobe that would support them without looking like a weird circus-hobo-hoarder hybrid. And I truly cannot belt a cardigan.
3. I'm too old: As I approach 40 (eegads!!!) and have produced a small offspring, I can no longer stay out late or stand up for long periods of time. That pretty much cancels any cool concerts since they begin at 10 or 11 pm and are usually standing-room-only. These days, I love curling up with my Kindle at 9:30 pm in some sort of jammies. I even like a lot of the music, but my feet and back hurt after standing for any length of time.
4. Speaking of feet...I love some ballet flats, but I have bad feet. That knocks out converse, ballet flats Toms, and other staples of the hipster shoe wardrobe.
5. I like pop music. According to hipsters, I should go to a support group for saying that.  :) I don't love it. But I'm not indie-chic. It seems too much to keep up with...always looking for the obscure, experiemental band that four people know about. I like stuff I can sing along with, has a fun beat, good vocals. I don't really care if they play the dobro with dulcimer hammers. Case in point, Sigur Ros. That music just makes me think that murderous fairies are going to strangle me in the night. I don't get it.
6. I'm OK with having a desk job. Possibly I'm too practical. I like having good insurance, a steady paycheck; and I'm ok with not fulfilling every artistic dream I can dream. I'm creative, but not an artist. It's ok. Some of us have to have desk jobs, get up every morning and be more creative in our off hours. Not knocking anyone who chooses to live their dreams and work in coffee shops...but it's a similar kind of future...so, you're going to be staring at 40 and have seniority at Starbucks? Or, in case you're anti-Starbucks, since that's "the man..." seniority at {insert local fair-trade coffee establishment}? Kudos to you for creating art. The world definitely needs more of that. I'm not being sarcastic. There is far too much ugly in the world.
7. I wish I could create more art. I'm artistic, but not an artist. I can barely use my DSLR on auto-focus. I don't take creative pictures of the tree silhouettes against the sky or my food creations with my iPhone. I don't sit up 'til 4 am writing songs about poetry and love and the meaning of it all or lack thereof. I don't make crafty crafts to sell on etsy or to hang in my hipster baby's room. This is one area that I really do lament. But I just don't have time to handcraft paper flowers and origami birds. 'Cause I'm sitting at a desk job all day.
8. I eat processed food. I'm not proud of it. It just is. I'm not making homemade kefir, drinking raw milk (you people really are crazy), growing my own corn...Thanks to all the hub-bub, I do think a little more about what I'm eating...hub-bub and the constant instagram pictures you guys post of your culinary creations and inhalations...I do purchase actual vegetables and fruits and use them.
9. I have never seriously toyed with being vegetarian or vegan. I can't eat food with bones or legs (like lobster), but I do like a good steak, sprinkled with some stinky bleu cheese. Accompanied by a baked potato with butter and sour cream. Holla.
10. Vintage/thrift/resale clothing just freaks me out. My husband can rock some thrifty finds, but I practically break out into hives at the SMELL of a goodwill. The idea of wearing someone else's dead skin cells makes me die inside. I'm not trying to be elitist. I'd wear second-hand stuff from folks I know. I just can't buy stuff from strangers who might have had 6 cats and a nose-picking habit. There isn't enough detergent in the world to clean that. I'm gagging just writing the sentences out.
11. I choose to forgive some of you for bringing back the 80's fashions. Perhaps because I actually REMEMBER the 80's, it all feels a bit reprocessed. Off the shoulder shirts, punk neon shoes or color-blocked anything...leggings...well. Good luck to you. I'm just not there.

I do applaud you, hipsters and hipster-Christians. You've brought a lot of issues to the fore in a good way...environmental concerns, poverty, sex slavery, etc. So, I enjoy your company, envy your arts, laugh at the boys in skinny jeans a little...but I'm not you. I missed the window by a few years. You fascinate me. And little by little, I learn that whatever it is I'm becoming is ok too. I don't really have a people group, but hopefully we're all part of the same family anyway.

You might be a hipster...