I wanted to help a new friend. So I broke my own cardinal rule and hosted a jewelry party for her at my home.
It’s never a good idea to stray from core values and it didn’t go well for me.
There may be something to picking a bad event date. Note to self *Nov. 7th SUCKS! Most of my good friends were previously engaged with kid’s activities and work and board meetings. I should have canceled the event or picked a new date.
I get it. We are busy, busy people. But almost a dozen ladies agreed to join me, so I went ahead and forged on with the party.
Some cancellations are explainable. My sweet neighbor has a three day old baby. She gets a pass. Another dear friend is moving –she fell asleep accidentally early in the evening. I hate moving. I understand.
But the other ten people who RSVP’d to my party and didn’t show… I need a note from your teacher.
Because I felt like a BIG loser.
It’s like waiting for your date to show and waiting and waiting and waiting. And then you take off your makeup and try not to look in the mirror to see your sad face.
I did however have three of my daughters friend’s over. We played Just Dance and ate all the food I prepared.
We ate a lot. Hey ladies…the appetizers were awesome.
I sat on my barstool next to my jewelry friend and tried not to panic. But we both knew by 8:30pm the party was a disaster. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.
It stinks to feel unwanted and discarded for the “Voice” or something better that came along.
My pride prickled. I wanted to cry but I honestly didn’t have it in me. I was too exhausted from cooking and cleaning.
It was a great opportunity to be reminded of my true worth and value which is not dependent on a room full of women purchasing jewelry. I spent some time in Psalms this morning refreshing my wounded spirit.
“Although you and your circumstances may change dramatically, I remain the same throughout time and eternity. This is the basis of your confidence. In my presence you live and move and have your being.”*
I’m guesing Jesus had some parties that didn’t go over too well either. It brought back my smile.
Next party…no jewelry. And just so you know, if you no-showed, I still love you. A lot!
My husband has many unique attributes –some quirkier than others, but my favorite “Timism” has to be his distinct approach to making friends with everyone he meets. Remember Ferris Bueller? That’s what it’s like being married to this guy. The world is just waiting to be Tim’s new friend.
Saturday, Tim and I (and our littlest girl Kolby) hit the mall to do some Christmas shopping. But I made sure to lay down the ground rules before we left the house.
The rules were:
No spending four hours debating over a single present. That means we get in, we get out and we do not make dinner plans with our new best friend –the retail associate.
No negotiating over prices in loud obnoxious voices. This is the Mission Viejo Mall not the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul.
No buying man purses.
No strange behavior.
First we went to the Apple store, where in less than four minutes I had purchased a gift for my daughter that starts with an “i” and rhymes with mad. (Sshhh!!! Faith will be so excited).
I knew exactly what I wanted and quickly made the purchase. Just as I reached out to grab the receipt, Tim walks up with his new Apple BFF (some random retail dude) and I have to redo the order because I now have a $10 discount. Then Tim and Apple guy start talking religion and technology and ten minutes later I excuse myself and head over to Pottery Barn. I browse for a long time and then call him and leave a frantic text message to extricate him from the store.
Then we go and try on perfume at Nordstrom’s. I find one I like and my husband debates eau de toilet vs. perfume with the lady –for another twenty minutes. Once again I have to drag him out of the store because he has made a new “she-friend” and they have exchanged business cards.
Now we go to the hair kiosk and try on extensions and he makes another new friend with the hair lady. I just love extensions because I have baby fine hair and sometimes, I wear them, and pretend I am a blond Kardashian. Please don’t ask me if I have them on. If my hair looks awesome just assume I do and if it looks stringy and like Rogaine would do me some good, you can assume I don’t.
Tim likes extensions too. Sometimes he wears them and I pretend he is Fabio.
Then we go to every single kiosk in the mall to look for the perfect iPad cover for Faith and another one for Tim. I bought him an iPad for his birthday in November and apparently he needs a different iPad cover for all the different ways you might ever want to use an iPad…like on a gondola in the Alps, preaching a sermon in Tuscany, or dancing in the Bahamas. So there’s the mountain man iPad cover, pastor iPad cover, techno Ipad cover…and so on and so forth.
I’m dying here because all the stupid cases look the same but my sweetie has to check out every single freaking one before he can make a decision. Then we run into our friend Dan and now we have a shopping posse.
Dan joins us as we head into Brookstone and my husband decides to climb into the massage chair. The whole store gets a play by-play account as Tim’ calves, arms and derriere are massaged by the a-ma-zing chair. Tim tries to negotiate with the young girls on the price and asks them very loudly to knock off $1000 off the large price tag. They laugh and think he’s cute and weird and I crawl into a hole…and die again.
We head to lunch at Nordstrom’s café and have a lovely meal with Kolby and Dan and then inevitably, we go to the man purse store –Tim’s favorite place at the mall.
And I’m sucked in to his excitement because he’s like a little kid amped up on Lucky Charms and he’s so excited to try all the bags on and find just the right one to fit his new iPad and make him look like James Bond.
Kolby found one too.
We have a new name for the man purse. It’s now called a holster and if you call it a murse Tim will pull out his gun and he might have to shoot you if you mock him.
And I buy him a new holster because I am sucked into the vortex of Tim Keller and his exuberance. And this man is so stinking energetic and adorable and friendly, he’s like Lassie and you just can’t help yourself from loving him because he’s contagious and absolutely priceless.
And that’s probably why he has over a thousand friends on Facebook and it’s why I go to bed every night with a smile on my face (though he might tell you it’s for another reason).
“That’s my mama,” says Kolby, pointing to me as I drive while talking to her sister. My toddler’s burgeoning vocabulary makes me chuckle and I glance at them in the rearview mirror.
Faith smiles at Kolby. “Yes, that is Kolby’s mama,” she agrees. “But its Faith’s mama too.”
Kolby narrows her gaze into a territorial sneer, “No Faith. That’s Kolby’s mama. Not Faith’s mama.”
And so Faith volleys back and the next thing I know the car is filled with the wails of an almost two year old and her ten year-old sibling bickering over who has claims to me.
“Mine.”
“Ours.”
“No Faith, mine mama.”
It was funny at first –this cuteness of a toddler ensconced in a world where everything belongs to her; where sharing is optional and highly overrated (in Kolby’s opinion).
But as we move into the holiday season and I reflect on our culture, I don’t know if the world operates much differently than an entitled baby fighting over her mama.
Last week’s Black Friday headlines have left me scratching my head and wondering what the hell is wrong with our country?
And even though I love Target and Wal-Mart, (as much as the next women out there who can pick up power tools and Goldfish all in one store) I have to wonder what kind of ideology I am buying into when the Target add on TV depicts a woman training for the super athletic event of shopping.
After this year, maybe next year’s ad could show the woman training with weapons, like the lady in Walmart who pepper sprayed a group of shoppers to get to an X-Box?
Or they could show her at the gun range learning how to protect her loot, maybe jousting with a waffle iron, or learning ninja smart phone skills to take down those pesky people who get their grubby hands on your goods.
Mine. Mine. Mine,
How about practicing the art of the trample? There’s a nice pastime to usher in the Christmas spirit (and yes this is pure sarcasm because I know I will get a comment or another blogger posting Samantha Keller advocates trampling. I do not nor have I ever trampled…just to be clear!)
But I am appalled at the greed and inhumanity Black Friday reveals about the state of our hearts. Clearly, some Americans feel so entitled to a get a good holiday deal they will even kill for it. Really?
We now have two holidays that have mutated. What are we going to lose next?
Halloween –dress like a slut day and Black Friday –act like an animal at the mall day. (Use violence if necessary)
I’m taking a stand and reclaiming this Christmas.
It’s not about Santa or the “Christmas Spirit”, the lights (though they are fun), the presents (which are grand) or the food (even though I sure love pie).
Christmas is about a baby, born in a manger and a big God who made himself small to be with us.
And this Jesus is mine. And yours. And ours.
Buy less stuff! Instead of “Go Big or Go Home,” how about “Go Small and Go Home (and be with your loved ones.)
“Can we pleeeeeaaaaassssse go to the Halloween store?”
My sweet little Faith pleaded, cajoled and whined long enough to drive me batty and so I caved (which you knew I would) and off we traipsed to the dreaded Halloween store to pick out a costume. But this time, just to spice it up, we took along a posse of little ladies consisting of three ten year-olds and a toddler.
On the way to the store, the girls turned up the radio and belted out Taylor Swift songs with all the gusto they could muster, wailing on and on about some nasty girl who stole Taylor’s man and getting revenge and so forth. (That Taylor is a wee bit snarky and I think I like her)
We pulled up at the Halloween Bootique at the Kaleidoscope in Mission Viejo and I must confess I was blown away (in a pleasant red balloon flying away in the sky kind of way) at how upscale and charming the store was. It was far more Harry Potter than Nightmare on Elm Street and nothing like the mega-suck Halloween stores I am used to.
In fact the second I walked in I did a double take and giggled in delight. I danced around and whipped out my camera. The owner Ryan Privratsky, a young hip guy, stared at me, bewildered by my bizarre behavior, but then recovered quickly and asked if he could help us.
He took us to a beautiful children’s section and then helped us to a fitting area where a very patient lady (because the girls tried on about a bazillion costumes) meticulously and with great pains took apart each costume, assembled it, and then lovingly placed it back in the bag like it was a couture outfit.
I’m not kidding; it was the Nordstrom’s of Halloween retail. This Bootique had stellar customer service and darling displays. There were also roped off areas, where I assume the more mature costumes were concealed, not that I ventured into the X-rated section with my babies, but I was tremendously relieved none the less that it wasn’t in my face; though I did take one sweet pic just to tempt my hubby for a private costume party.
The girls grabbed dozens of costumes and the show began.
One of the girls pulled out quite a few costumes that her mama nixed via text message. I thought it was hysterical because if I hadn’t been there in person, Faith would have been looking behind the ropes and eyeballing the grown-up section.
“Mom, what about the gothic vampire?
Me-“No”
“Genie with bare belly?”
Me-“No.”
“This one?”
Me-“No, no, no!!!”
Finally we found the “Ahhhhhhhhh” costumes for all the girls, where everyone in the store smiled and the birds chirped and mama was happy that no tummy, booty or gaping expanse of chest were showing.
And in response to this blissful experience I forked over way too much cash for Faith’s costume. But for the first time in this whole drama of costume buying business, I felt like I got my money’s worth because I had a lovely experience with the girls and I didn’t have that awful feeling of being violated by bad taste and gruesome ickiness.
I guess some things are worth a little extra cash.
The girls want to have another Girl’s day out next month, where we can assume I will spend too much money, shopping will be involved, and Taylor in all her teen angst will be sung.
Also, I found this article on Ryan in the OC Register.
And oh by the way, this is not a sponsored post. I just really wanted to help out and promote a cool young man who is working his butt off and making this mom’s life a little easier. Well done Ryan!
It’s a sweet vignette-one of thosetouching Super Bowl commercial moments that brings a tear to the eye.
Daddy is trying to help baby Kolby eat her mac and cheese with a spoon and he is pulling out of his hat all the good tricks.
He is doing the locomotive move, “Choo, choo…here comes the train.”
Then the buzzing bee, disguised as a spoon move, “Buzz, buzz (spoon darts around baby’s face until she opens her mouth), here comes the bee.”
But baby is having none of it. She screams in a howl of fury and tightens up her little pink bow mouth.
“I do it,” baby shrieks like a pterodactyl.
Daddy cajoles, “I have been eating a lot longer than you have and I can help.”
Baby stares him down defiantly. It’s the scary toddler stare- “Blue Steel” in diapers.
Daddy walks away defeated.
Baby picks up the spoon and giggles, and then throws some macaroni over her head like a crazed baby high on power and processed cheese.
Then he gives me the look. The parenthood is so freaking hard look. And I laugh and laugh and laugh some more.
Final Score: Baby Kolby -1, Daddy-0
I laugh because I can relate all too well. But mostly I laugh because it’s a picture of how I am with God, a maniacal baby hopped up on mac and cheese battling a loving father who is trying to guide me into all truth.
Every single day I fight between surrender and selfishness. Between “I do it!” and “Lord, you are in control.”
I think God shows me these vivid pictures of faith to highlight my own silly/stubborn streak and to illustrate His unending and radical love for me.
My son asked me the other day how I hear from God.
“Well Kyle, ” I said with a smile and a knowing laugh, “sometimes I hear His voice in cheesy noodles. You just have to listen.”
It was a bad day. Some random lady at a ministry event decided to zing me with an acerbic comment and then my hubby stood me up for lunch. All of a sudden the weight of the world descended upon my shoulders like a heavy backpack of cranky boulders.
This is the part where I am supposed to say I lifted my tense spirit up to the Lord and it all washed away like a Holy Spirit Calgon bubble bath. Sadly, my dormant deviant side kicked into gear and I decided at that moment all I wanted was a margarita and chips to soothe my weary soul.
But, I didn’t want to go alone. I needed a partner in crime. So, I called Keri, knowing she probably wasn’t going to be up for an impromptu luncheon at our favorite Mexican restaurant, Casa Ranchera, but crossing my fingers that maybe, just maybe, she might be open to a little frivolity.
When Keri didn’t pick up, I pulled up to her house on the off-chance she might be at home. There she was in all her mama glory, standing outside in the sunshine with her two adorable munchkins. Her little boy had a watering can in hand as he dug in the dirt while Keri planted flowers. I pulled the Expedition up to her driveway and stuck my head out the window.
“Hey Ker, want to go get a Margarita with me?” I nonchalantly inquired.
She looked at me quizzically. I could see her mind chewing on my request, “Bad day?”
I nodded yes. Can you come?’
“I really don’t want to drag the kids and we just ate lunch. How about next week and I’ll get a sitter.”
“I think I’m going to go by myself,” I said.
She gave me a long look. You can’t go by yourself to have a margarita.”
“Why not? I go there all the time. Besides, I have the baby with me.”
She didn’t say any more but I assumed she was thinking that it made me look like a sad and lonely soul nursing my sorrows like someone from the cast of Cheers. “I’m going,” I declared defiantly, gave her a forced smile and set off for the Ranchera.
The baby and I arrived at the restaurant and were led outside by my favorite hostess. She placed us at a table with a waiter we were familiar with and in my favorite spot for the baby to run around. When the waiter came by I ordered up my chips, quesadilla and one perfect margarita.
I sat back in my chair and savored each moment; the warm sun, the salty chips, the tasty snap of lime in the margarita, and my sweet baby girl who tottered around my feet taking her first steps. I breathed in slowly and then took a moment to ask the Lord what the heck was going on my heart.
First, my pride had been wounded by the insensitive woman. I felt inadequate and underappreciated. I had been criticized for my teaching outline. In my haste to complete it, I had inadvertently mismatched the fonts and the lady compared me to another teacher who performed more up to her standards.
The truth is between my two jobs, three kids and busy ministry schedule; I was amazed she even got an outline in her hands to slam. The other teacher simply had more time and was operating in a different season of life. It wasn’t an apple to apples comparison. More like a grape to apple comparison and I was the squished grape.
I also felt the sting of disappointment by being overlooked by my husband. I knew it was unintentional but I had been jilted and forgotten none the less. The one man in the world I wanted to share my dang quesadilla with was too busy for me. That made me sad and I needed to forgive him.
The margarita in my hand raised another issue. Why did I feel the need to make a statement and drink by myself in public? It wasn’t about the alcohol, because I haven’t over imbibed in almost twenty years. But there was definitely a desire to escape; to run and hide from the thumping pain of rejection. Consciously, I knew that chips and a margarita would not soothe my soul, but it was an outward attempt to heal an inner boo-boo that only God could address.
And then there was the final crux, my unwavering passion for authenticity. A good thing, usually, but possibly teetering on defiance in this instance. My stubborn spirit cried out, “I will order the real margarita, and not ice-tea. I will not hide or posture for any man.”
I so badly want to be defined as real, rejecting hypocrisy and my perception of Christian posing, that the very act of proving my independence might have been prideful in and of itself. I was throwing out the baby with the bath water (Or the tequila with the margarita in this case).
Despite my misgivings, the baby and I enjoyed our little outing and I learned a few things about myself that day. As long as I am doing what God calls me to do, to the very best of my ability, I have nothing to be ashamed of. And even though my husband stood me up, he is generally a stand up guy and I am tremendously blessed.
I realized the margarita was merely a symbol for relationship and it was this longing in my heart to be known and loved that drove me to reenact a normally rewarding experience. And while God met me for this margarita, next time, I think I’ll wait to go with friends.
My last post sparked some great conversations. One dialogue was with my pastor (husband). He made a few points I wanted to address:
As leaders we are held to a higher standard. To whom much is given much is expected. And the same swimwear (a two-piece) I wore as a volunteer in highschool ministry may not be the appropriate attire in my new position. Clearly, I am slow to adjusting to my new paradigm as a pastor’s wife. (But if you knew where I came from, you might already be scratching your head at the colossal shift in my behavior)
My idea of cute and my husband’s idea of modest are not the same. Here we go back to the middle ground again, but we have discussed spending some real money on a bathing suit that represents both our values. Cha-Ching!
When expectations are assumed, but not discussed it can lead to disappointment on both sides. And when your wife is a writer sometimes her thoughts leak out into the internet cloud, (subconsciously of course) but I see your point dear!
While my desire is to honor my husband and protect all men from lust, I still have the desire to be pretty. And therein lies the catch-22.
Joshua Harris, in sex is not the problem (lust is), states, “The way you dress can either help or hinder the men around you who are trying to resist lust.” So, if my idea of pretty is a hindrance, then I may need to reevaluate what pretty means. Maybe pretty can include modesty. But maybe it doesn’t have to include a t-shirt and board shorts either (so soggy and uncomfortable)!
Harris also suggests that men play a part in this responsibility to resist temptation. Men are not exempt from the solution. And I don’t want to ever take this too lightly. I want to affirm and acknowledge just how difficult it is.
Breasts and belly buttons are not evil. Dressing to tempt and lure is. There is no shame in being voluptuous and it doesn’t make a woman less spiritual or unclean. And if you see a sister who is in sin, have the conversation with her instead of snubbing her or talking behind her back. I’m just saying…
The truth is I struggle with this. It’s not a black or white issue and I don’t want to justify or fall within legalistic rule making. Ultimately, modesty and lust are a matter of the heart.
God knows we will get discouraged, on both sides of the matter. He encourages us to not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we will reap if we do not lose heart.(Gal 6:9) So, I’ll just be over here sowing some seed and eating some humble pie.
My husband bought me a very special swimsuit for our honeymoon cruise in the Mediterranean-one very hot yellow polka dot bikini. It has cute little strings that tie on my hips and I feel like a sassy and mischievous gal when I squeeze into it. Now, I am not claiming to be a supermodel, but my husband clearly expressed his approval with a large goofy smile whenever I dug those polka-dots out of the drawer.
That is, until we started a church and all of a sudden he became very concerned with covering up his wife’s bodacious bosom and abdominals. Apparently pastor’s wives should wear modest and conservative (translation-old lady) tank suits. But, what’s a girl to do when her mammary offering turns even the ugly tank into a sexy piece of spandex?
The truth is I don’t have a modest bod! I am, shall we say…curvy. Every summer we hit the bathing suit store and my husband hopes I will find an appropriate suit to hide my bosum and every year he leaves frustrated. At this point, I am relegated to a t-shirt for all church events, because the ta ta’s have gone underground. Apparently, I am somehow less spiritual in my wanton state of voluptuousness. (Heeee)
If I have painted a picture of immodesty, I have been misleading. In general, my dress is very conservative and unassuming. My daily wardrobe is professional and streamlined. I don’t want my clothes to ever distract from the message, but I also conversely, don’t feel a need to hide my body as something to be ashamed of.
Modesty is a confusing road to navigate to begin with. I want to be fashionable and express myself with clothes. But, I also understand the premise of not tempting men (deeply visual creatures), who apparently have a nerve that runs from their eyes to their loins. But when the same men who tell me to cover up walk around with their shirts off at the pool it seems like a serious double standard. At the very least, let me wear the tank suit without a burka.
Not so long ago, I remember a day when the folks in high school ministry used to call my husband a Ken-doll because his body looked like a sculpted piece of art. And I don’t recall him hiding those luscious biceps to protect the eyes of women behind a t-shirt (Praise the Lord)). To his benefit, he does wear one now at church baptisms and pool events, so I can’t argue that he asks me to do something he is not willing to do.
As a pastor’s wife, I want to be above reproach, but as a woman I also want to have the freedom to wear a bikini when the congregant’s eyes aren’t boring a hole into my choice of swimwear. So for now, I will compromise with tanks and a t-shirt for all church events near water, and I’ll let the bikini out of the drawer for vacations alone with my honey (hubba hubba).
This is where I think the church has ambiguity and difficulty encapsulating the problem of lust, modesty and male/female interaction. Is the answer to pornography shrouding women? Do our daughters need to be dressed like the Amish for our boys to not treat them like sexual objects? Is there some sort of middle ground regarding modesty for women and personal responsibility for men?
Maybe someday we can move beyond the superficial and allow a modest two piece bathing suit on a woman to not cause a stir. Because isn’t it all just a fig leaf to God?
My baby was diagnosed with RSV this week. It’s a respiratory virus that causes infection of the lungs and breathing passages in young children. After discussing treatment and symptoms with me, the doctor forgot, possibly on purpose, to explain the potential side effects on the mother. So, while I was adequately prepared for the baby’s illness, I was completely unprepared for my part in this journey.
As the home healthcare van pulled up to my house to deliver the torture machine, aka nebulizer, my insides started to quake. We were instructed to administer breathing treatments every four hours for one to two weeks to baby. The directions should have said, place gas mask on the child and brace yourself, because the baby will morph into a feral cat as soon as she sees the machine…a biting scratching little creature fighting for her life.
One week into this illness, I understood on a much deeper level, how God must feel when He watches His children suffer for their own good. Our baby fears and despises the very treatment that will help heal her. Over and over, her screams rip into my heart as she stares at us with eyes full of distrust and betrayal.
My husband and I sound like broken records, repeating how very much we love her in our best soothing voice. But it’s not enough. Our baby is mad and angry. She even howls at the machine, as if to rage against the symbol of her supposed injustice.
Of coarse, only a baby would doubt a loving father and mother’s intentions, right? I mean, we would never question our Heavenly Father, even when he leads us into the desert that borders the Promised Land…or would we cry and fight, every single time, just like a little child?
After eight nights of little to no sleep, fretting over each toss and turn, and straining to hear any variation to my beloved baby’s labored breathing, I have pretty much reached the end of my own strength. Her desert has become my desert, and the Promised Land but a memory I cling to in exhaustion.
This desert has no sense of humor, limited grace, and very little patience for my spouse. We bicker and pick at each other, ridiculously fighting over who is more tired (me, of course), until we remember who the real enemy is. And so last night, I prayed and cried out to God, to see Him more clearly in this dark night of the soul, on what has become a dry and barren road of nebulizers and endless mucous.
As I closed my eyes, long before my head hit the pillow; I sensed God’s comfort in this rest, more than the usual catatonic crash as of late. I felt drawn into His warmth, as though I were beckoned with waves of restorative manna for both my body and soul. And though I awoke on the hour, it was enough sleep to sustain me for one more day.
Today the baby actually relaxed in her treatment, closed her eyes and leaned into her wee mask. She opened her small mouth and deeply breathed in the medication that allows her find the air she so desperately seeks.
For this mother and child, God’s manna is rest. His provision is air to breathe. And his sustenance is not only for us, but for for all the weary sojourners traveling through the deserts of life seeking a glimpse of the Palace Gates and His everlasting glory.
It’s one of those days where I have been warm, truly warm, for only a few minutes. At the end of my run this morning, I started to break a sweat, despite the chilly 38 degree temp and maybe, just maybe my feet thawed.
Then in the shower, I defrosted momentarily, but upon exiting, returned to afore-mentioned frozen status.
It’s my own fault. My favorite socks were dirty so I went without.
Decided to stink up my loafers and go foot commando.
I thought I would be so bold and cheeky in my sockless state, a brazen message to the world that I can handle adversity.
But I was wrong. I am a whiner. A sniveler.
A fair-haired Popsicle whiling away the day dreaming of a roaring fire, a cuppa tea, an enthralling read, and oh yes…
