Whoa, Nellie!

From a book on prayer I’m reading during my devotional time:

“We often race through life without processing all that we are experiencing. We need to wait on God so our hearts can catch up with our actions.”

Efficiency and fast moving have always been two of my highest values. I’m not Type A, but I was raised by one, and it affected me greatly. I hate being late. I like things to clip along. The phrase “cut to the chase” ministers to my soul.

Kevin and I were newly married when we traveled to Texas with his family—10 of us at the time—to attend his grandma’s funeral. After driving all day, we arrived at our hotel a little before midnight. I was not driving or tending to young children like my sister-in-law, but I was exhausted. In my family, you check into a hotel, stroll your luggage briskly to your room, settle in as quickly and efficiently as possible, and fall into bed. Even if the only place we were going was to sleep, we made good time doing it.

This was not how it worked in Kevin’s family. We stood in the hotel lobby for about a half-hour. There was no trouble checking in; we were just loitering there in the lobby. We watched some TV. Some of the men went outside and tossed a football around. At midnight. Finally, we moseyed casually to our rooms, lingering again before shutting our respective doors, and at last called it a day. It drove me nuts, and I was sure all that lollygagging had caused my poor father to roll over in his grave—rapidly and efficiently.

As I’ve prayed for patience over the years, I’ve thought of it in terms of patience with other people and circumstances. It had not occurred to me that my biggest test of patience is with God.

I’ve been on a dead sprint the past eight or nine years. Certainly four children have slowed me down, but they’ve also contributed to my frantic pace. When you’re juggling kids, a husband, a home, friends, and a consuming—though wonderful—job, there’s not a lot of time for smellin’ the roses. I was thankful the roses were there and occasionally gave them a backward wave as I dashed by them on my way to a meeting. God did a lot of work in my heart in those years, and I was aware of some of it, but I didn’t give myself time to stop and rest in it. Even my lessons I want to learn quickly and then get on with it. (Whatever “it” is.)

I also read today: “What may look like a loss of time is really only time multiplied on your behalf. God is able to do things with more efficiency than you are.” (Really?!)

“It is in waiting that we make room for God.”

God is calling me to wait on Him. To be patient with Him. To unlace my track shoes, slow my sprint to a saunter, stop looking for the next big thing, and simply wait. Anybody need to join me?

Spring Break Jones Style

So I'm just wondering, is the term "poor white trash" offensive to anyone? 

The reason I ask is because I've been throwing that phrase around a lot lately. We're sort of a middle-class, suburban, evangelical, poor-white-trash family. We're the people in our "covenant community" who get annual citations for trashing our yard or having too many cars in the driveway. We're not above letting a stringy-haired toddler sit too close to the street in nothing more than a soggy diaper. Our dog isn't tethered to the house by a chain, but he only gets bathed every few years. He also does his fair share of barking and has been known to chase after the well-groomed Bichon who happens to pass by.  

We're a little PWT in our vacationing activities.  While our peers used spring break to jet off to Florida or ski Aspen—or even hang out at Pottery Barn—we went to Pueblo. This small city an hour south of us gets a bad rap. Yea, it's home to the state mental hospital and it's not a hotbed of culture or high society, but it's got everything a family like ours looks for in a vacation destination: cheap hotels that don't ask how many kids you're bringing, hills and open space for riding our go-kart, and a large body of near-frozen, stagnant water. 

That's right, we love playing in the mud, and we're not afraid to admit it. When I see my girls' beautiful blond hair caked in bacteria-ridden slime and their sweet fingers wrapped around a juicy worm, I love to think what a catch some man is gonna get some day.

We played in the Pueblo mud last spring break, too, when I was, oh, about 47 weeks pregnant, and I laughed so hard that I thought the baby would plop right out of me into the knee-deep sludge that I found so amusing. (I should be so lucky.)

We've also been known to rinse our hyper, muddy children off in the cheap hotel's swimming pool. To top it all off, we drive our Suburban/trailer/go-kart monstrosity to the local Golden Corral and gorge ourselves on fried foods and all-we-can-eat desserts. (I have observed that when you walk into Golden Corral, you witness all that is wrong with America, but I'll save that insight for another time.) 

You can keep Florida and Aspen. I wouldn't miss the PWT Jones Family Vacationing for anything in the world. It's the kind of fun you just can't buy. 

Wrestling, Writing, and Tea

Last week my eight-year-old son brought home an invitation to a special event to honor his school’s best writers. When he said he was the only one in his class who got one, I tore my attention away from my never-ending dishes and took a look. Celebrating writing? Cool. I’m all for that. I wish there’d been a little more celebrating of my budding love for writing, but people seemed much more impressed by my 50-yard-dash time back in 1979.

So what is this event Braden was invited to? The place where he’s going to be affirmed for his creativity and good grammar and build a lifelong love of expressing himself with words? It’s a tea. A tea! And as if that’s not bad enough, the “attire” is “dressy.”

More than anything, my little boy wants to get all fancied up and daintily sip tea in a room full of women. (Each student was asked to bring one “adult guest,” and I think it’s safe to assume mothers will be in abundance. Except for all those dads who just can’t get enough tea.) I’m sure that will foster his love of writing.

He’s a boy! He’s a wrestler! He’s also a wrestling boy who can write and illustrate and diagram a sentence—so let’s punish him by making him dress up and drink tea.

How about a Young Writers’ Air Hockey Event? Or a special reading of Star Wars where you get to bring your own light saber? At least something as mundane and gender-neutral as an assembly. But no, it’s not any of these. It’s a tea.

When I'm finished rolling my eyes over the absurdity of it all, I’ll be thrilled that my son is invited. And I suppose I'll go iron him a shirt. Whatever.

Sweet Springtime

In honor of the first day of spring, I bought a watermelon today. Watermelons aren’t known for being at their peak of ripeness on Good Friday, and this one was pretty disappointing as far as taste goes. But it was the symbolism—the changing of seasons and the long-awaited arrival of my favorite part of the year—that I celebrated with my pale, tasteless melon.

My mom told me yesterday that my uncle—who is also her pastor—has been teaching about the spiritual aspect of the new spring season. As we get more and more hours of light shining on our part of the earth, more and more issues come to light. I don’t know if this is true for anyone else, but it’s sure been my story lately.

I referred to last winter—loudly and repeatedly—as the winter of my discontent: pregnant all winter; annoying, useless contractions every half-hour for four months; relentless fear that the baby would die like the one before her; endless snow; icy roads. And then at last came the respite of spring.

This has been the winter of my deconstruction. I feel like God has pretty much leveled my identity, first with the loss of my work (and all that went with it) and more recently the realization that I wasn’t the wife and mom I thought I was while I was working.

Deconstruction sucks. But it has to happen for new construction to occur. To become the person God wants me to be—the one He created me to be—He has to chisel away the rotting boards and moldy walls I’ve allowed to become part of my foundation. This isn’t exactly a fun process, but it’s a healthy one. And I love how it coincides with spring, a time when new life pops up all around me (three of my babies were born in the spring), when I feel a surge of hope that summer is near, and when I celebrate the resurrection of my Savior.

The watermelon may be nasty, but I love spring anyway.

Computer Love

You can tell a lot about yourself by asking your kids questions about their parents. If you do it infrequently enough, the insight gleaned even outweighs the narcissism.

When Braden was learning to draw, I suggested he draw all the members of his family holding something. He drew himself, of course, holding Pooh Bear, and baby Addison had a bottle in hand. Dad had a screw driver. And mom? Mom was holding a hairdryer. Of all things. I didn't care to stop and think about what that might say about me. 

A few days ago, I was brushing Addison's hair before school. We had a little extra time, so I said, "So, Addison, tell me about your mommy. What's she like?" 

Slow to warm up to the game, she said, "Oh, you know."

 I thought a few questions would help: "Is she tall or short?"

"Oh, she's pretty medium."

"Fast or slow?" (As I briskly raked the brush through her sleep-matted hair.)

 

"She's very fast."

"And is she fat or skinny?

"She's pretty skinny." (Note to self: Raise Addison's allowance.)

"What does your mommy like to do?"

"She loves doing things with her kids." (Pause. Thinking.) "And she loves her computer."

She's right. I do love my computer. I'm glad she recognizes that I love my kids more—at least I hope that's what she meant by saying that first—but her comment also made me aware of how much of her time is spent looking at my back while I hang out with my 10-inch screen. My computer has become my connection to the rest of the world. It makes me feel involved, important, smart. I may be wearing oversized footie-pajamas and have boogers in my hair, but my computer transforms me into a relevant member of society.

But at what cost, I wonder? I'm considering giving myself limits. Maybe two hours total a day, limited to times when kids are sleeping. (Does anyone else do this? Let me know!) That seems like quite a bit, but I'm always amazed at how I can while away an hour in cyberspace. Kinda like being in Target.

 

In another six months or so, I'll ask Addison to tell me about her mom again. It'll be interesting to see if anything changes. I'm hoping she doesn't figure me out well enough to realize that my true love and devotion lie with my bed and my pillow. 

Compassion

Note from "author": Part of my intent for starting this blog was to share deeply and honestly about the things God is teaching me. While it's a lot easier to write about trivial things, there's freedom that comes from being vulnerable about the things He's doing deep within me. Today's entry is one of those soul-bearing exercises.

I’ve always had a bit of a crunchy outer shell. The tenderness is there, but you have to dig for it. Mercy-gifted? Not so much. Compassionate? On occasion. To someone whose child faced a life-threatening illness or whose husband walked out—or, more recently, someone who lost an unborn baby—my compassion flowed readily. But to those whose struggles were less tangible, less overtly life-altering, my general position was usually: “Count your blessings. Focus on the positive. You’ll be fine. Get over it.”

My inability to understand or identify with others’ internal struggles has distanced me from entire groups of people. Those I deemed too emotional or too sensitive I simply kept a comfortable distance from. (Interestingly, I’ve found that strategy can’t last forever since at least one of my daughters falls into this category.) I declared myself the judge of whether or not someone’s struggles were “legitimate” or not and therefore if they were worthy of compassion. (Ugh. It stings just to write it, but I know it’s true.)

I’ve been struck this week by how God is changing me. As usual, He’s doing it through the stuff in my own life. My circumstances are great. My health is excellent and always has been. My family life is the stuff 1950’s TV shows were made of. Our financial worries are minimal. And now I’m at home all day with my fun, healthy, well-behaved children. If the old me had caught someone daring to be sad under those circumstances, they would have received a stern pep talk on gratitude and blessing-counting. Compassion never would have crossed my mind.

Yet I know what’s happening underneath my idealistic circumstances. I’m feeling it. Internally, I’m experiencing some of the biggest struggles of my life. The issues I wrestle with today are completely intangible—questions of identity, calling, significance, place, connecting with others. Deep, emotional things. Things that make my thoughts and words seem crazy and irrational sometimes.

I’ve found the darkness inside myself that I never knew could exist in such a sanguine personality. In the process, I’ve also found some compassion for others. I am more drawn to emotional/sensitive/complicated types than ever before. Usually they’re the most real people you can find—and more than anything right now, I crave real.

Thirty-seven years old and finally learning something about true compassion! How many times have I read 1 Peter 3:8 without applying it to myself? Well, I’m doing it now:

“Be agreeable, be sympathetic, be loving, be compassionate, be humble. That goes for all of you, no exceptions. No retaliation. No sharp-tongued sarcasm. Instead, bless—that’s your job, to bless. You’ll be a blessing and also get a blessing.” (The Message)

I’m not just blessing others with compassion; they’re blessing me. It’s more than just accepting different personalities—it’s learning from them.

I love to see that God’s still at work in me and cares about making me a better older person than the younger person I’ve been.

Keeping up with the Jolie-Pitts

It's official. The Jolie-Pitts have surpassed us. Not in the obvious ways like recognizability or earning potential. I'm talking about number of children. Angelina is pregnant with their fifth. I find myself envious. I find myself surprised by my envy. 

When Kevin and I started talking about marriage, I told him I might not want kids. I don't remember his exact response, but it wasn't anything we discussed for long. I think he knew me better than I knew myself, at least in that area. We had Braden four years into our marriage, and my labor/delivery nightmare ranks about as high as anyone's. It ended with three hours of worthless pushing, a C-section, and a pledge that I would never get myself into this mess again. Yet my next "mess" came just 26 months later, a scheduled C-section that resulted in my beautiful Addison. 

You know the rest of the story—I ended up with five babies in all, although one's in heaven. And after each one, I said with great conviction, "I am SO done!" I believe my actual words, on the way to the hospital to get Brooklyn out of me, were, "I will slit my wrists if I ever get pregnant again." Silly me. 

A lot of women I know yearn for a baby once theirs begins to grow up. That's never been the case with me. I yearn for the child, the teenager, the adult. Babies are great because they grow into these things (and, truly, I've enjoyed each of my babies a little more than the previous one—probably because I think it's my last), but the actual baby phase is not my favorite. I just love who they turn into. And I love the role Kevin and I get to play in their lives. Parenting is what we do best together. We're a well-oiled parental machine at this point.

Since no woman in her right mind chooses to have five C-sections and every doctor advises against it, I won't be having another baby without divine intervention. Sometimes I pray, slightly halfheartedly, for that intervention. I also pray that little boys—just to balance things out—will fall from the sky. I have no idea what that means, but I figure God can do with it what He'd like. When my kids come running out of their room on a Saturday morning (the oldest three share a room for now), I count their little heads and think, "That's just not enough." I hear the little one jabbering in her crib and think, "Well, that's probably enough." And then I read about the Jolie-Pitts, and I think that sounds like so much fun—especially if you could sluff off your potty-training toddler to an overpaid nanny.