When I drove out that morning, I was going on vacation to visit a friend in Texas. I was in my mid-twenties and had just extricated myself from a painfully unhappy relationship. I wanted to get far away to recalibrate and regain my perspective. Out of state: perfect.
By the time I got back from my road trip a couple of weeks later, something foundational had shifted in my heart and I had embraced the idea that happiness lay elsewhere. Continue reading I Never Meant to Leave Florida
What do I mean by a mood sponge? I doubt you’ll find the term in any psychology textbook per se, though you may recognize it for reasons of your own. It’s a description I base on personal observations and life experience.
Mood sponges are people who tend to take their emotional cues from others, whether as a defensive tactic or a learned behavior. They measure their responses and reactions by those around them and sadly, absorb way more than their share of the negative.
I think there are reasons someone becomes a mood sponge and it’s not because they are lazy or uninspired. Maybe they’re trying to keep the peace. Or protect themselves. Or just make their lives work.
Here are some examples (names changed): Continue reading Because the Holidays Are Risky for a “Mood Sponge”
If you were to visit my neighborhood tonight, you wouldn’t have to go far before being confronted by more than one of those front yard animatronic Santas that repeatedly drop their drawers to reveal “Happy Holidays” written in script on their rears. Down the block, there’s a rifle-toting Frosty the Snowman in camouflage gear, while SpongeBob grins weirdly at baby Jesus in the blow-up manger scene close by. I live in the Midwest, but I’m sure that wherever you are, the scene is similar.
It’s all very confusing.
Christmas has come to represent over-the-top materialism, endless parties, spiked eggnog, and that ubiquitous loop of holiday songs in the background everywhere – even at the gas station. It seems obvious: Christmas has been turned into a mostly secular holiday.
But before you go getting all nervous that I am about to launch into a rant about how NOT to observe Christmas, let me assure you I have exactly the opposite intent. Here’s my suggestion for a more meaningful season: Continue reading Why It’s Time to Rethink Christmas
Despite our best efforts (or maybe because we often withhold our best efforts), we are forced to continually bob and weave, reposition, and adjust in this life. Even if all our own choices were wise (unlikely), we would still be operating in the company of other flawed humans. We all lead workaround lives.
But have you ever stopped to think about who led the ultimate workaround life? Continue reading And I Thought MY Life Was a Workaround
“Nothing, not even your dream coming true, is perfect.”
Before I went into law enforcement I lived in the world of advertising and public relations for almost a decade. All these years later, I am still drawn to a compelling headline or an irresistible book title. When good content follows, I’m affirmed and happy. (I still believe words have a power that even a badge and a gun can’t touch.)
That said, how co
uld I resist a title like “How to Use a Runaway Truck Ramp”? I was hooked immediately.
I already knew Shawn Smucker’s writing from reading his blog and following him on Twitter. I knew he was accessible, funny, and wise, committed to his family and his faith. And here was a bonus: this book promised to introduce me to his wife, Maile, also a writer and deep thinker. I couldn’t wait to go along on his family’s cross-country journey.
Seriously, you ask, did they really take their four small children (ages 2, 3, 7 and 8 ) on a four-month long bus trip across the US and back again in a big old lumbering bus they named Willie?
Yes, and they survived with some great stories and more than a few surprising lessons. Both Shawn and Maile journaled throughout the experience so no detail was missed in the retelling. The result is a sometimes white-knuckling, often hilarious, completely relate-able story, not just of their journey, but of their transformation.
The writing is engaging:
“The road there is like a sliver of thread dropped amongst rocks, and it winds along the path of least resistance.”
Thought-provoking:
“But what if my ‘today’ must die in order for such prolific life to rise? What if the destruction of this current beauty must take place so that the root of something even more glorious can push up new shoots through the darkness?”
Honest:
“I wonder if maybe I didn’t fill my real life with enough gusto to make it worth staying in.”
Challenging:
“That’s the thing about adventures. The stuff that happens isn’t always easy. It’s not always fun. But it’s always worth telling.”
And inspiring:
“Adventures will change you. They’ll saturate you with a fresh view of life. They’ll take every foundation you ever stood on and shake them until they crack. Adventures will tear away layer after layer of you, and in the end, when it’s all over, you’ll step away from that pile of old skins and barely recognize the person you have become.”
How to Use A Runaway Truck Ramp: A great title that delivers fabulous content. (Can you tell I’m affirmed and happy?)
Click here for a sample of Shawn’s writing and then get a copy of the book here: http://shawnsmucker.com/store/
Shawn Smucker is the author of How to Use a Runaway Truck Ramp and Building a Life Out of Words. He lives in Lancaster County, PA with his wife Maile and their four children. You can find him on Twitter and Facebook, and he blogs (almost) daily at shawnsmucker.com Maile blogs at mailesmucker.blogspot.com
I love donkeys. And come on, elephants are just plain cool!
Can we just leave it at that? Can we stop there before you write me off because of my political leanings or I get upset with you for yours? In spite of all the naysayers and Chicken Littles in the media, I don’t really think we’re looking at the end of life as we know it as a result of the 2012 election (or any other election). But it’s okay; if you insist on continuing to needle me, go ahead. I doubt I’ll be dissolving into tears over it. Continue reading You Can Mock Me About These Things and I Won’t Cry (Really)
Confession time. Lately I’ve realized there are a number of things in my life that really aren’t up to me. I may have a role to play in them or I may wish I had more influence over them, but the end result is actually out of my hands. Frankly, if I’m to be truthful, this is kind of a relief.
Here are ten, in no particular order.
It’s not my job:
1. To bring others around to my way of thinking – I am entitled to my opinion and have a responsibility to form these opinions based on truth and prayerful consideration. But ultimately it’s not up to me to decide for someone else or attempt to convince them of a different point of view, however well-intentioned I may think I am. Continue reading Ten Things That Aren’t My Job
I could feel myself sliding into a funk.
Traveling with a group of my closest friends over the last several years had always been restorative. Relaxing. Outrageously fun. But now it had taken on additional layers. Somehow drama and dysfunction had been introduced into the mix this time around, a complication that had never been a part of any previous experience.
Looked at through a particular lens, you could say it made us more like a family. After all, families are imperfect, right? And it doesn’t mean we don’t love each other. (I rather prefer that view.)
It started with a minor misunderstanding that morphed into hurt feelings and doubts about motives. Tears. Words. Then hugs. Forgiveness.
And for me, a lingering darkness. Here’s why. Continue reading The High Cost of Drama, Assumptions, and False Agreements
I’ll be the first to admit, I have no idea about Walt Whitman’s faith, whether he was a Christian or not. For all I know he may have been a pantheist, a Universalist, a Buddhist. He died 120 years ago, so it would be pretty hard to have a conversation with him about it now.
I do hope I meet him in Heaven someday so I can talk to him about his poetry and his process. I would enjoy gaining some insight into what it’s like to see through his eyes and hear how he crafted his thoughts into such classics.
That said, when I read his poem “Miracles” through my faith grid and spiritual experience, it’s hard for me not to believe that he had some sort of relationship with the Divine. I read his lovely words about the miracles found in the common and the extraordinary, about the beauty to be found in the streets as well as the fields, and I am inspired to worship.
Somehow, I think that’s what Walt was doing.
Here is his poem, see what you think:
Miracles
By Walt Whitman
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet
and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim–the rocks–the motion of the waves–the
ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
If you’re living a “workaround” life like I am (and who among us isn’t, on some level?), recognizing the everyday miracles may often be just what you need to get you through. For me, they include a sweet friend writing me an email at just the right time to tell me what she appreciates about me; the return of green to the grass after a brutal summer drought; the giant chocolate Lab catching my eye from across the room and thumping his tail in greeting; the discovery of shared faith in the unlikeliest of places.
Will you share one or more of your everyday miracles in the comments below?
“I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.” Isaiah 49:15b-16a
I can relate to hands, can’t you? Strong ones, gnarled ones, huge, tiny, soft, capable, calloused, grimy – they come in all varieties.
I have my mother’s hands: the length of my fingers, the shape of my nails, the skin that is starting to thin. I notice the similarities more and more as I get older, because it’s her older hands that I recall most clearly. I find I even fidget with my hands the way she once did, repositioning my rings with my thumb and pinky finger, stiffening and thrumming my fingers when I’m tense.
There’s an extra spark of recognition these days when I look at old photos of her. She’s rooting through a purse, folding her arms, holding a book.
And she has my hands.
She never learned to play a musical instrument that I know of, but she could type about a jillion words a minute, error-free, whether on a manual typewriter or an IBM Selectric. When word processing became an option, it was a breeze for her.
She spent hours at the keyboard, fingers flying, typing out the notes she would use to teach her Sunday School class, notes she then printed out in 5 x 8” booklet form. Sometimes she would even add clip art and decorative embellishments, though no one was going to see her notes but her.
She wasn’t an artist but she was always willing to learn: ceramics, crochet, dress-making – she tried her hand at all. She was a perfectionist, so smart and yet in many ways so insecure, which meant she always worked harder than most anyone else.
To this day, I treasure the tiny sugar bowl and creamer she shaped and fired in her community center class. For years I had one of those crocheted doll skirts she made that would fit discreetly over a roll of toilet tissue. (Remember those? The doll stood in the cardboard core). And I see her clearly in my mind’s eye, bent over the dining room table or kneeling down on the floor, pinning a pattern to fabric.
She penned many a note in the margins of her Bible with those hands and wrote out prayers to her Savior in longhand to tape on the mirror, clip to the refrigerator, or tuck in her purse. After she died, anything with her handwriting on it became like gold to me, physical evidence of her existence through the words her hands had written.
I love the idea that God wants so much for me to understand the depth of His love for me, He uses human concepts, tangible images I can understand. Like hands.
Now if I’m fidgeting, if I’m tense, if I nervously ball my fingers into a fist, I think to myself, “Look at me. I’m turning into Mama.” And love courses through me like an electric current. She’s been gone 15 years but she’s really not. God has given me her hands and I am so thankful.
I think of my mother when I look at my hands and I am reminded of the love I will always have for her. And I picture Jesus thinking of me when He looks at His hands, with nail scars that bespeak an unfathomable, eternal love. It undoes me every time.
That’s the thing about hands.
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/kwerfeldein/2234720298/”>Martin Gommel</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photo pin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a>
Follow
