I remember being a child in Sunday School when we learned about the Ten Commandments because, being the type of person I am, as we went over them I immediately began to tally in my head how good/not good I was based on how I evaluated my own obedience to the commandments. It went sort of like this:
No Gods before me - Check
No Idols - Check
Don't take the Lord's name in vain - Check*
Remember the Sabbath - Check
Honor your mother and father - Check **
Do not murder - Check
Do not commit adultery - Check
Do not steal - Check
Do not bear false witness - Check***
Do not covet - (Uncomfortable silence...at least as soon as I learned what covet meant)
* Note - this was before I learned to swear like a sailor...still working on that
**Note - I gave myself a pass on this one at the time based on a "more often than not" judgment
***Note - I determined that I only rarely told lies against my sister and, really, if God knew how difficult she could be, He would give me a pass.
To this day, twenty years later, coveting still gives me the most trouble of all the commandments. Especially lately, it feels like I'm struggling a lot to keep myself from coveting what others have. I will try to resist the urge to defend myself to cyberspace; not justifying myself by protesting that I'm not coveting mansions, or a Porsche, or some kind of designer clothing. Mostly I find myself coveting things which most of my peers take for granted on a day to day basis. A house, health, a career, a child....the ability to wear size 4 jeans. (Ok, so this is where coveting thy neighbor's ass takes on a whole new 20th century connotation.)
The worst thing about coveting what someone else has is that it tends to make one bitter and impedes upon the ability to celebrate others good fortune and joy. For example, when a friend of mine has a baby, I don't want my first thought to be discontent about my own inability to have a child. I want to rejoice in the new life. I want to be glad when someone I care about gets a promotion or lovely place to live for their family. I don't want to be envious.
Envy seems to bring out the worst in people, at least it does in me. I morph into this narcissistic beast who dwells only on what she doesn't have. People are always searching for the secret to happiness, and although I don't have that secret, I am pretty sure that the secret to unhappiness is to indulge yourself in coveting the possessions of others. So what's there to do about it? For me it's a daily exercise of looking at what I DO have, which sometimes works and sometimes doesn't. For example, as I type these very words, I can't help but be very grateful for the furry companion who has slowly inched her way down the couch so that she can nap with her muzzle resting against my arm. To touch me gives her comfort, and I must admit that the feeling is mutual. I am thankful for that
Finally, I resolve instead of being enviousness, to go out and get the things I want....as least as much as I can. I will keep writing, keep dreaming, keep working out. And hopefully fit into my own skinny jeans one day.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
A Dress, a Wink, and a Prayer
I made a classic girl error. Let me rephrase that. I made the classic girl error of anyone who has ever needed to lose some weight. You make an unreasonable goal. For example, you decide that you're going to lose 50lbs in 2 months, or that you'll get back to the size you were in high school for your 20 year reunion. You know, that sort of thing. Which brings us back to me. When I decided to try and lose weight, I set an unreasonable goal for myself. To fit into a bridesmaids dress for my sister's wedding (in June) which was two sizes smaller than what fit when I ordered it (February). Stupid. A word to the wise....don't ever do this. It's easy to have a dress taken in or wear a dress that's a little big for you. The other way around, i.e. having a dress that's too small, is bad. Very bad. I've done this not just once, but twice. I bought a slightly smaller size than what fit for my friend Maryann's wedding and I just barely squeezed in it, and I swore I would never do it again. Even I don't listen to myself.
If I was going to be completely honest I would confess that I actually originally bought a dress that was 3 sizes smaller than what fit in February. Not just stupid. Really stupid.
Ultimately, when the dress came in in April, I took one look at it and knew that there was no way I was going to make it into that dress by June. A fitting confirmed my worst fears. My husband calmed my hyperventilating panic by telling me to order a bigger dress, and so I did. We back to the dress that was 2 sizes smaller. Now, this dress zipped, but just barely, right before I began a whirlwind of traveling before the wedding. This was a little disconcerting because we all know that it is nearly impossible to stay on and diet and exercise plan when you're traveling about to an fro. But I thought, surely if I just maintain or lose a little more, everything will be fine.
In the month before the wedding, I flew to Dallas for a bridal shower, back to California for another wedding, and the back to Dallas to get ready for the wedding. By the time that it came to the week of the wedding, I had managed to lose a couple more pounds which made me feel secure in the fact that it would fit. Until I tried it on....and the zipper opened from the bottom. I got the zipper back down, but I failed to realize that there was a flaw in the zipper and that it was never going be able to bear the pressure of a snug dress. Mistake. Then, on Friday night, the night before the Saturday of the wedding, I tried on the dress and the zipper refused to stay zipped. When Justin tried to move zip it down, the zipper ripped off one side. At that point, I began to gag and hyperventilate at the same time, which is not a good combination. At this point, things got wild. I was panicking, Dad was incredulous, and Justin was coming up with hair-brained plots to fix the dress. The plans ranged from sewing hooks and eyes up the zipper line, sewing me in it, duct tape, and safety pins. None of these things engendered much confidence.
Then, Dad called our family friend, Sherry, and after a short conversation it was decided that we should head down to Waxahachie and let her see what she could do. So at 10PM, Dad and I got in the car and headed down there. When we arrived, Sherry was there along with her next door neighbor who just happened to be, miracle upon miracles, a seamstress. (Cue angels singing from Heaven) I turned over the offending garment and they set to work. After about 30-45 minutes of fiddling with the zipper, they determined that they were not going to be able to fix it. It was decided that Dad and I would drive to Walmart (Thank God for 24 hour Walmarts!) and buy another zipper whilst Sherry and her neighbor ripped out the old one. Dad and I did what we were told and we bought a normal zipper as well as a heavy duty metal zipper, like the ones you find in ski jackets and such. When we returned, the ladies decided to put the industrial zipper in the dress, and the time was nearing midnight. We headed over to the neighbor's house and she spent the next hour replacing the zipper. When she was done, it was time for me to try on the dress again. Problematically, as the new zipper was put in , it appeared to take up and extra 1/4 - 1/2" of fabric. Fabric that I didn't have to lose in an already snug dress. It took two people holding the dress closed and a third person to zip it up. It was bad. I couldn't breathe. I could barely move. It was really bad. I could tell by assessing the looks the others were exchanging that they knew it was bad too.
We decided that I should probably have a plan B.
The next morning I told Marla what had happened the night before, mostly to explain why Dad was so late in getting up. She did not take the news terribly well. It was decided that I would just try and make it through the ceremony in the dress, and have another dress to change into for the reception. During pictures before the ceremony, I would simply safety pin the dress so as not to test the zipper. As I showered that morning and put on my underwear, I thought to myself, "Is this the underwear I want to be wearing before God and the Arboretum if this dress explodes off of me?"
As it turns out, the miraculous took place. After the pictures were taken, Justin zipped me up in the dress by himself, and the darn thing didn't explode. Not during the ceremony or the reception or lunch or cutting a rug. I remember at one point when I was cutting a rug with my cousins and I caught a vision of Sherry on the edge of the dance floor shaking her head in what I can only imagine was shock/awe at the miracle that the dress was still in one piece.
Most importantly, Marla was beautiful, they got married, and the wedding was lovely. That's all that matters. But I'll never forget what was most certainly the most amazing miracle at a wedding that has occurred since Jesus himself turned water into wine in Cana.
If I was going to be completely honest I would confess that I actually originally bought a dress that was 3 sizes smaller than what fit in February. Not just stupid. Really stupid.
Ultimately, when the dress came in in April, I took one look at it and knew that there was no way I was going to make it into that dress by June. A fitting confirmed my worst fears. My husband calmed my hyperventilating panic by telling me to order a bigger dress, and so I did. We back to the dress that was 2 sizes smaller. Now, this dress zipped, but just barely, right before I began a whirlwind of traveling before the wedding. This was a little disconcerting because we all know that it is nearly impossible to stay on and diet and exercise plan when you're traveling about to an fro. But I thought, surely if I just maintain or lose a little more, everything will be fine.
In the month before the wedding, I flew to Dallas for a bridal shower, back to California for another wedding, and the back to Dallas to get ready for the wedding. By the time that it came to the week of the wedding, I had managed to lose a couple more pounds which made me feel secure in the fact that it would fit. Until I tried it on....and the zipper opened from the bottom. I got the zipper back down, but I failed to realize that there was a flaw in the zipper and that it was never going be able to bear the pressure of a snug dress. Mistake. Then, on Friday night, the night before the Saturday of the wedding, I tried on the dress and the zipper refused to stay zipped. When Justin tried to move zip it down, the zipper ripped off one side. At that point, I began to gag and hyperventilate at the same time, which is not a good combination. At this point, things got wild. I was panicking, Dad was incredulous, and Justin was coming up with hair-brained plots to fix the dress. The plans ranged from sewing hooks and eyes up the zipper line, sewing me in it, duct tape, and safety pins. None of these things engendered much confidence.
Then, Dad called our family friend, Sherry, and after a short conversation it was decided that we should head down to Waxahachie and let her see what she could do. So at 10PM, Dad and I got in the car and headed down there. When we arrived, Sherry was there along with her next door neighbor who just happened to be, miracle upon miracles, a seamstress. (Cue angels singing from Heaven) I turned over the offending garment and they set to work. After about 30-45 minutes of fiddling with the zipper, they determined that they were not going to be able to fix it. It was decided that Dad and I would drive to Walmart (Thank God for 24 hour Walmarts!) and buy another zipper whilst Sherry and her neighbor ripped out the old one. Dad and I did what we were told and we bought a normal zipper as well as a heavy duty metal zipper, like the ones you find in ski jackets and such. When we returned, the ladies decided to put the industrial zipper in the dress, and the time was nearing midnight. We headed over to the neighbor's house and she spent the next hour replacing the zipper. When she was done, it was time for me to try on the dress again. Problematically, as the new zipper was put in , it appeared to take up and extra 1/4 - 1/2" of fabric. Fabric that I didn't have to lose in an already snug dress. It took two people holding the dress closed and a third person to zip it up. It was bad. I couldn't breathe. I could barely move. It was really bad. I could tell by assessing the looks the others were exchanging that they knew it was bad too.
We decided that I should probably have a plan B.
The next morning I told Marla what had happened the night before, mostly to explain why Dad was so late in getting up. She did not take the news terribly well. It was decided that I would just try and make it through the ceremony in the dress, and have another dress to change into for the reception. During pictures before the ceremony, I would simply safety pin the dress so as not to test the zipper. As I showered that morning and put on my underwear, I thought to myself, "Is this the underwear I want to be wearing before God and the Arboretum if this dress explodes off of me?"
As it turns out, the miraculous took place. After the pictures were taken, Justin zipped me up in the dress by himself, and the darn thing didn't explode. Not during the ceremony or the reception or lunch or cutting a rug. I remember at one point when I was cutting a rug with my cousins and I caught a vision of Sherry on the edge of the dance floor shaking her head in what I can only imagine was shock/awe at the miracle that the dress was still in one piece.
Most importantly, Marla was beautiful, they got married, and the wedding was lovely. That's all that matters. But I'll never forget what was most certainly the most amazing miracle at a wedding that has occurred since Jesus himself turned water into wine in Cana.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Finding a Way to Move On
I remember when I was a teenager, young, naive, and idealistic, and totally unaware that I was any of those things. The world was my oyster, full of possibilities and hope for what would be and what could be. But now, as I round the bend toward the home stretch of my 20's, I find myself in some ways disillusioned about where my life is. The highlight of my adult life would have to be meeting and marrying my husband. There do not exist enough adjectives to fully describe how wonderful he is, how amazing just having him around is, and so I won't do myself the disservice of even trying. I am incredibly fortunate that he has taken care of me...through grad school, cancer, and now....whatever phase you call this. Maybe, picking up the pieces? Taking stock of my losses? Determining what next? His patience and understanding for me, almost inhuman really, overwhelms me if I think too deeply on it.
A year and a half into remission, I find myself both eternally grateful and shamefully bitter. I am so glad to be alive, but the devastation that cancer has wrought in my life sometimes doubles me over. My mother is gone, and now, it seems very possibly, the chance that I might some day be a mother, or at least naturally. The pain of that fact stabs and aches, moving over me in waves that rise and ebb but never fully subside. Just another one of those things that you never fully understand until you experience it. I know people say, you can have a family in other ways, and I resist the urge to lash out at them. Especially when the person proffering the kindly meant advice has their own biological 2.5 children.
I suppose I am grieving right now what might not be. Of course, then I have people who are prodding me, not so gently, to submit my PIF (a resume that gets you jobs in the Presbyterian church), and I just don't know how to explain to them that I am working stuff out with God right now, and I don't exactly feel authentic seeking a position being a pastor to others when there are so many answers I am seeking myself.
So, I am writing. I'm sure no one checks this blog anymore, so it just shoots out silently into cyberspace, and I'm ok with that. Mostly, I've decided to blog now as a daily exercise; a warm-up before I start my writing on my book. So if you are reading, hopefully I'll perk up a here in a few days. Tomorrow I plan to blog about Marla's wedding. It's way funnier than today....promise.
A year and a half into remission, I find myself both eternally grateful and shamefully bitter. I am so glad to be alive, but the devastation that cancer has wrought in my life sometimes doubles me over. My mother is gone, and now, it seems very possibly, the chance that I might some day be a mother, or at least naturally. The pain of that fact stabs and aches, moving over me in waves that rise and ebb but never fully subside. Just another one of those things that you never fully understand until you experience it. I know people say, you can have a family in other ways, and I resist the urge to lash out at them. Especially when the person proffering the kindly meant advice has their own biological 2.5 children.
I suppose I am grieving right now what might not be. Of course, then I have people who are prodding me, not so gently, to submit my PIF (a resume that gets you jobs in the Presbyterian church), and I just don't know how to explain to them that I am working stuff out with God right now, and I don't exactly feel authentic seeking a position being a pastor to others when there are so many answers I am seeking myself.
So, I am writing. I'm sure no one checks this blog anymore, so it just shoots out silently into cyberspace, and I'm ok with that. Mostly, I've decided to blog now as a daily exercise; a warm-up before I start my writing on my book. So if you are reading, hopefully I'll perk up a here in a few days. Tomorrow I plan to blog about Marla's wedding. It's way funnier than today....promise.
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