Category: Learning

A couple weeks ago I ventured into a local import market and produce stand for the first time, and I did what I always do in situations in which I have no idea what I’m doing: I put my head down and marched quickly through the store. I couldn’t figure out whether the market was run by people of any particular ethnic group because there were people of many nationalities in there, but the handwritten signs on the deli case looked like some sort of middle eastern language. I think.

There was a woman in the produce section whose four year old was mesmerized by Thomas (as am I at all times), so I had stopped to let the little girl flirt with my son. I find that having children makes for great ice breakers, don’t you?

A little further on, when I noticed the handwritten deli signs, I asked the woman if she knew what language they were written in.

She did not know.

I am a terribly shy and self-conscious person around strangers and am terrified of making small talk. I’m much more at ease when there’s actually something meaty to talk about, but I know, I know, it takes some getting to know you to get to that point. It wasn’t until my third or fourth Divas Book Club meeting that I felt like I was truly being myself (the bottle of wine helped!).

So asking this woman about the signs was kind of a big deal. It was intentional. It was something I truly wanted to know, but I also felt it was a good conversation starter. I could have lived without knowing the language of the writing, I would not have lost sleep, but I was challenging myself to talk to a stranger.

Surprisingly, the woman asked me where I was from. “Just over there in Renton,” I stammered.

“Oh, from America, then?”

“Yes,” I said, slightly flattered that I looked so worldly.

“Where are you from?” I’m never sure if that’s a politically correct question to ask someone, but I figured since she started it….

“I am from Africa – Tunisia.”

Blink. Blink.

“In North Africa, near Morocco.”

“Ah, yes, Morocco.”

I stammered awkwardly through several questions, learning that her husband wanted to finish his education in the U.S., and that they had both been professors. Or teachers. Or something like that. I was too nervous about making small talk to actually retain any of the information.

When I ran out of questions I excused myself and went to stand in the checkout line.

On the way home my heart sank when I realized I never even learned her name. I never asked if she wanted to get our girls together to play. And I realized that I had really wanted to, but was too afraid.

I felt like I’d had the opportunity to make a new friend – one who seemed interesting, and educated, and probably full of stories to tell – and I blew it. I felt convicted. Not guilty or shamed, but convicted.

I had taken it this far before and failed. About a year ago when Ruthie was in her first tumbling class, there was a woman with a girl Ruthie’s age, and she was pregnant again. Since Thomas was just a month old at the time I completely sympathized with her, and offered to call her for a play date sometime.

The woman gave me her business card – she was a scrapbooking supplies consultant (right up my alley) – but I never called her.

I thought about her every day for months, but I never called.

I wondered how she was doing after her second child was born, and I thought about bringing her a meal, but I never called.

When I signed Ruthie up for her second tumbling class a year later, I thought of calling her to see if she would like to sign up her daughter, too. But I never called.

The other night there was a car accident on the street behind my house around 10pm, so I went out to see what happened. Many of my neighbors were out there as well, including the ones I pass by everyday and nod to, as well as neighbors I’d never seen.

After getting the skinny on what had happened, I excused myself and went back inside. I simply showed up, got the information I wanted, then left again. And I kicked myself again because I had not learned any of their names.

The last time we were all standing on the street together was two years ago when a house down the street burned down in the middle of the night. We were strangers congregating during a tragedy, offering to help, offering a bed to sleep on, though we had never met.

So, not wanting any regrets again, I went back out there. I met Megan, my next door neighbor, who I’d seen plenty of times but never actually met. And Candy down the street and her two teenagers. And the other gal (see? no retention) and her husband in the white house with the front porch.

I’m beginning to realize that I don’t talk to people only because I’m shy. That’s part of it, but the truth is, I’m also partly apathetic. In reality, I’m not sure I care all that much about you. I may say I do because that’s the Christian thing to do, but my actions and choices and the way I spend my time and money does not always reflect an attitude of caring about you.

But in the face of tragedy – car accidents, burning houses, earthquakes, tsunamis, and airplanes crashing into buildings – we are ready to jump in and do our part. But what about the everyday tragedies – like lonely people, or new moms who are overwhelmed? Or what about just connecting with the really cool people around me – tragedy or not – just because they are interesting and lovely?

I’ve been meditating on this passage in 2nd Corinthians lately, because it speaks to living generously. Bryan is making a comfortable living now, and while I enjoy owning all the fun toys that a comfortable living affords us, I don’t want that to be all I desire from having money. I desire to have a heart of generosity, and I desire to be a good steward of what God has given us so we can in good conscience BE people of generosity.

But even beyond the finances of it all, I desire to be generous with my time and with my emotional capacity, and to not be so engrossed in my own bubble that I don’t have the energy to open my eyes, look up, and notice all the interesting people around me.

And I desire to somehow do all that and still get my laundry done.

Is that possible?

I love this passage because it reminds me that God’s grace abounds, giving me all I need for every situation – whether it is my time, friendship, or emotional support. It reminds me that maybe when I start to feel overwhelmed again by my own life, maybe I should think about stepping out of it for a bit and learn more about who you are.

I complain a lot about my life. I may not complain outwardly, but inside I definitely struggle with contentment. Ever since I scored a 9 out of 10 on the Victim Mindset of a Beliefs Inventory, I’ve been much more tuned in to those times when I’m feeling somehow cheated of something.

This afternoon while on the Monotonous Machinery of Monotony at the gym I recalled an interview I watched of Sarah Jessica Parker on the Oprah Show. It was shortly after she’d had her son, and Oprah was oogling over how great she looked so soon after the birth.

Sarah blushed humbly and really tried downplay it. Then she said something to the effect of how she is fortunate to have the means to make it possible, that she can afford a nutritionist, and a gym membership, and a nanny to watch her kids while she works out (well, she said SOMETHING like that, anyway).

There was just something about the way she carried herself in the discussion that made her seem not so disconnected from normality — that she knew her reality was much different from the reality of many women who watch Oprah, and that at any moment she may NOT have the means to all these advantages. She seemed humble and content.

In regards to Bryan traveling so much, I’ve had a couple friends who also have small children gasp at times and say, ‘I just DON’T know how you do it,’ as if I am more capable of survival than they are. It’s funny how some perceive me as being strong, when I perceive myself as being weak for not having the strength to do everything a ‘good mother’ should be able to do.

For instance, I’ll share a few of my dirty little secrets so you, the Internet, will know that I am truly no Wonder Woman for living days at a time with two toddlers and no Bryan:

First of all, he is compensated well for his new position, affording me to hire a teenager who helps me out two afternoons a week. I pay her well, and she helps me with chores relating to the kids, such as laundry and keeping their rooms clean. Secondly, I work out at a gym several times a week, which is a great stress reliever, AND they have childcare available so I get an hour break from them for that. Also, I order a lot of take out because I often don’t have the energy to pull together a decent meal at the end of the day. And finally, I’m contemplating hiring a cleaning lady to come once a month because God save the Queen if I ever picked up a broom.

At any rate, the point of this reflection is that I am realizing how fortunate I am to be able to afford these luxuries that help keep me sane while Bryan is gone, and I recognized that I am not entitled to these things. They are not mine. They do not belong to me, nor do I have a right to them. These luxuries are a gift for today, and tomorrow Bryan may be unemployed and I’ll be selling all my wares on Craig’s List just to buy bread.

And you? If you ended up in my position, outnumbered by toddlers while your husband traveled, His grace would be sufficient for you as well. You would survive. You would find the means or the strength or the will to make it happen because it would be what you felt called to do. I only pray that you recognize his grace in that situation sooner than I ever did.

Today I repented for taking it all for granted, and for complaining so much about how bad I’ve got it.

I repented, because I really have it pretty easy. I know other moms who live in small apartments, or who have no car, or who can’t afford a babysitter so she can see a movie with her husband. When I think of that, I wonder what I have to complain about, and I wonder why these women seem so much more content than I feel.

When I think of this, I feel wretched for the way my mind has played tricks on me.

Lord, forgive me.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about lies and sneaking and how it’s become second nature to me.

My first memory of lying happened before I even started school: my mother confronted me about the crayon marks she found on the washer and dryer. She must have asked me who had done it, because I remember blaming my brother who was about 17 years old at the time. Not exactly the demographic for coloring on the appliances.

I suppose it’s not unusual to react by blaming someone else to get out of a pinch, but lying and hiding has become as necessary to me as breathing.

When I was fifteen I was busted for shop lifting. It was very 21 Jumpstreet, even down to the undercover security agent chasing me all the way through the mall. At home, when my parents asked me to present everything I had ever stolen, I came up with one tape and one book from my collection, though I had hundreds of dollars worth of stolen possessions.

When I was sixteen I let my friend drive my step dad’s Toyota pickup truck because she was better at using a stick than I was. At a stop sign she hit a patch of ice, slid through the intersection, and hit a parked car. I told my parents I was the driver.

In high school I lied all the time about boys, and where I was, and what I was doing with them. I once told my mom I was going to a friend’s house, but my boyfriend picked me up around the corner. When my mom confronted me later because that friend had called the house, I told her she must have called when I was on my way home.

I used to house sit for my neighbors across the street when they went to their cabin. She would leave me wine coolers in the refrigerator, and they had a king sized water bed. My boyfriend would park on the next street over, spend the night with me, then go to church with my mom and I the next morning.

There are literally ENDLESS stories like this from my childhood, but I’m starting to feel gross admitting it all out loud.

But lo, there is more: I’ve taken the lies with me into my marriage.

A couple years ago I made a banking error that caused several overdraft charges that I hid from Bryan. After Thomas was born I forgot to pay our life insurance premiums, and I hid the cancellation notices from him. And just last week I discovered a bill I forgot to pay, but failed to mention it when he came home from Palo Alto.

These mistakes were easy to fix, but they snowballed in my silence. Bryan spent HOURS on the phone trying to resolve my banking error, and we had to reapply for our life insurance. Had I just admitted my error at the time I discovered it, my husband would have a few less gray hairs.

This is as far as I got in my thinking. I can’t really unpack my theories behind why I do this. My day doesn’t allow me the time to think through that, much less write about it.

But these are all my confessions.