This year marks the midway point between my college graduation and my youngest child’s high school graduation. In other words, halfway between right-out-of-the-nest and empty-nester. I graduated in 1993; Camryn turns 18 in 2025. (I figured this out all by myself. Who says I can’t do math?) 1993 doesn’t sound like it was all that long ago, at least not to me. But when you consider that most of us had never heard of the Internet and Bill Clinton was just beginning his first term, it seems a bit more remote.
I was telling my teenage niece and nephew recently about my one and only hitchhiking adventure. I was in college, driving from northern to southern California, when my car broke down. When they wondered why I didn’t just call someone for help, I had to explain that in 1992, no one but the super rich or the super eccentric had a phone in their car. Yeah, it was a long time ago.
But 2025 sounds even further away. It even sounds science-fictiony to me to write it. And Camryn 18? The child who still sleeps in a crib and regularly reminds us, “I’m a beebee”? Almost impossible to imagine her in a cap and gown.
When I was a little girl growing up in Akron, the nearest town was a half-hour away. It was another one-stoplight town not much different from ours except it was notoriously windy and it had a steakhouse that we occasionally visited. When you’re seven and never ride more than a few blocks at a time in a car, thirty miles is a long, long way. There was a little landmark halfway between the two towns called Midway, nothing more than a dilapidated house and some rusting farm equipment, but to me it represented progress. It took forever to get to Midway, but once we got there, the rest of the trip went twice as fast. We were there before you knew it.
I have a hunch my life might be a little like that. The 16 years since my college graduation were monopolized by one big job and four small children. (And you, too, my Big Handsome Stud!) The demands of the four little children have pretty much consumed every waking moment of the past 10 years. I’ve loved nearly every minute of it (some I’d choose to forget), but it’s not exactly like they’ve flown by.
And now I’m at Midway. Uh-oh.
I can almost hear Pomp and Circumstance now.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Less Rabbit, More Pooh
Which Hundred Acre Woods character are you?
(From sex to Winnie the Pooh? Seriously?)
The kids and I are reading, for the fiftieth time, or something like that, The House on Pooh Corner. It’s my favorite children’s book of all time. It is one of my favorite pieces of literature of all time. The writing is some of the best you’ll ever find. It inspires me in my own writing to be real and quirky and thoughtful and deep without trying very hard to really be deep at all. And the character study there? Nearly enough to earn you a psychology degree.
There’s gloomy, poor-me Eeyore (the name alone is genius); unruly Tigger; wise and revered Owl; nurturing, common-sense Kanga; wide-eyed Roo who hates being too young to miss out on things; timid, insecure Piglet; and Pooh himself, A Bear of No Brain At All who humbly ponders life in the most simplistic and profound of ways. Christopher Robin, creator of this world, walks among them all, reminding me a little of God in the Garden of Eden.
And then there’s Rabbit: “It was going to be one of Rabbit’s busy days. As soon as he woke up he felt important, as if everything depended upon him. It was just the day for Organizing Something, or for Writing a Notice Signed Rabbit, or for Seeing What Everybody Else Thought About It. It was the perfect morning for hurrying round.”
There's more:
“ ‘After all,’ said Rabbit to himself, ‘Christopher Robin depends on Me. He’s fond of Pooh and Piglet and Eeyore, and so am I, but they haven’t any Brain. And he respects Owl, because you can’t help respecting anybody who can spell TUESDAY, even if he doesn’t spell it right; but spelling isn’t everything. And Kanga is too busy looking after Roo, and Roo is too young and Tigger is too bouncy to be any help, so there’s really nobody but Me, when you come to look at it.’ ”
I’m afraid I’m Rabbit. Bother! In fact, sometimes when Milne’s writing about Rabbit, it’s like he plucked The Thoughts Right Out Of My Brain. I wouldn’t come right out and say the things Rabbit says, but deep down, those kinds of thoughts are there. Maybe there’s a little Rabbit in all of us.
So when I read Pooh Corner to my kids, playing up all the voices and reading the very long sentences without taking a breath and emphasizing certain parts to be sure that they catch the subtle yet brilliant humor, I’m also thinking to myself, “God, as much as I love Rabbit, I don’t want to be like him. I wanna be more like Pooh.”
“And while he waited for Piglet not to answer, he jumped up and down to keep warm, and a hum came suddenly into his head, which seemed to him a Good Hum, such as is Hummed Hopefully to Others.”
That’s Pooh—one who hums hopefully to others. That’s who I want to be.
(From sex to Winnie the Pooh? Seriously?)
The kids and I are reading, for the fiftieth time, or something like that, The House on Pooh Corner. It’s my favorite children’s book of all time. It is one of my favorite pieces of literature of all time. The writing is some of the best you’ll ever find. It inspires me in my own writing to be real and quirky and thoughtful and deep without trying very hard to really be deep at all. And the character study there? Nearly enough to earn you a psychology degree.
There’s gloomy, poor-me Eeyore (the name alone is genius); unruly Tigger; wise and revered Owl; nurturing, common-sense Kanga; wide-eyed Roo who hates being too young to miss out on things; timid, insecure Piglet; and Pooh himself, A Bear of No Brain At All who humbly ponders life in the most simplistic and profound of ways. Christopher Robin, creator of this world, walks among them all, reminding me a little of God in the Garden of Eden.
And then there’s Rabbit: “It was going to be one of Rabbit’s busy days. As soon as he woke up he felt important, as if everything depended upon him. It was just the day for Organizing Something, or for Writing a Notice Signed Rabbit, or for Seeing What Everybody Else Thought About It. It was the perfect morning for hurrying round.”
There's more:
“ ‘After all,’ said Rabbit to himself, ‘Christopher Robin depends on Me. He’s fond of Pooh and Piglet and Eeyore, and so am I, but they haven’t any Brain. And he respects Owl, because you can’t help respecting anybody who can spell TUESDAY, even if he doesn’t spell it right; but spelling isn’t everything. And Kanga is too busy looking after Roo, and Roo is too young and Tigger is too bouncy to be any help, so there’s really nobody but Me, when you come to look at it.’ ”
I’m afraid I’m Rabbit. Bother! In fact, sometimes when Milne’s writing about Rabbit, it’s like he plucked The Thoughts Right Out Of My Brain. I wouldn’t come right out and say the things Rabbit says, but deep down, those kinds of thoughts are there. Maybe there’s a little Rabbit in all of us.
So when I read Pooh Corner to my kids, playing up all the voices and reading the very long sentences without taking a breath and emphasizing certain parts to be sure that they catch the subtle yet brilliant humor, I’m also thinking to myself, “God, as much as I love Rabbit, I don’t want to be like him. I wanna be more like Pooh.”
“And while he waited for Piglet not to answer, he jumped up and down to keep warm, and a hum came suddenly into his head, which seemed to him a Good Hum, such as is Hummed Hopefully to Others.”
That’s Pooh—one who hums hopefully to others. That’s who I want to be.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
The Final Frontier
Let’s talk about sex, baby!
If that line made you blush, this might not be the post for you. (Or maybe you’re just not a fan of Salt ’n’Pepa?) Tune in next week for a more mundane topic. But this week—and this summer, actually—I’m talking about sex. Married, Christian sex. And ladies, we’ve got issues.
We’re just not talking about them.
Women talk about everything. We share the intricate details of spats with our husbands, our childbirth horror stories, and the consistency of our kid’s poop. But our sex lives? Huh-uh. That’s sacred, taboo territory, especially for good Christian girls who were raised to keep that hush-hush. But what I’m finding, as I’ve gotten brave enough to broach the subject, is that many, many of us—especially us good Christian girls—are suffering in silence. Whether they’re physical, emotional, or psychological, we’ve got problems. And we think we’re alone. Surely no one else has these embarrassing kinds of problems—certainly not the Desperate Housewives or the women we read about in books. And my neighbor across the street—the one with six children? If that isn’t a sign of a perfect sex life, what is?
It’s fiction, that’s what it is. We’re not alone. Time and time again I talk to women whose sex lives are one of the biggest struggles of their married lives. They’ve been married five, ten, twenty years, have beautiful families and healthy marriages, yet this is their secret sadness.
This summer, a friend and I have pulled together a group of these women to begin talking. We have no magic formula, but we know there is hope and strength in bringing your secret pain and disappointments into the light. (No, it’s nothing like that scene in Fried Green Tomatoes if that’s what you’re thinking.) We talk about things that would shock our mothers and sometimes shock us. But we’ve found that when you provide a safe, comfortable environment and share your own struggles, women will talk. They’ll purge the most intimate, hidden details of their lives in a way that’s constructive and honoring to God. We don’t allow gossip, crudeness, or sex-bashing. We remember that what we’re talking about is a gift from God, whether we’re experiencing it that way or not.
Some are further along than others, and with that comes hope. Some bring years of counseling with them, and that brings new insight. And the Bible—which has a lot to say about sex—brings God’s voice into a subject that most Christian women would rather avoid talking about.
It can be intimidating, awkward, and down-right scary initially. One woman joining us for the first time walked up my friend’s long driveway feeling shakier and sicker by the step. She says it was the power of God and sheer obedience that got her to ring the doorbell, and there were times later in the evening when I thought we might have to heave her jaw up off the carpet. But like the rest of us, she walked away feeling more hopeful and less alone. My friend and I dream of Christian women all over the city getting together in groups like this. Please e-mail me if you’d like some ideas about starting your own group.
This is our final frontier, ladies. Let’s get talking.
If that line made you blush, this might not be the post for you. (Or maybe you’re just not a fan of Salt ’n’Pepa?) Tune in next week for a more mundane topic. But this week—and this summer, actually—I’m talking about sex. Married, Christian sex. And ladies, we’ve got issues.
We’re just not talking about them.
Women talk about everything. We share the intricate details of spats with our husbands, our childbirth horror stories, and the consistency of our kid’s poop. But our sex lives? Huh-uh. That’s sacred, taboo territory, especially for good Christian girls who were raised to keep that hush-hush. But what I’m finding, as I’ve gotten brave enough to broach the subject, is that many, many of us—especially us good Christian girls—are suffering in silence. Whether they’re physical, emotional, or psychological, we’ve got problems. And we think we’re alone. Surely no one else has these embarrassing kinds of problems—certainly not the Desperate Housewives or the women we read about in books. And my neighbor across the street—the one with six children? If that isn’t a sign of a perfect sex life, what is?
It’s fiction, that’s what it is. We’re not alone. Time and time again I talk to women whose sex lives are one of the biggest struggles of their married lives. They’ve been married five, ten, twenty years, have beautiful families and healthy marriages, yet this is their secret sadness.
This summer, a friend and I have pulled together a group of these women to begin talking. We have no magic formula, but we know there is hope and strength in bringing your secret pain and disappointments into the light. (No, it’s nothing like that scene in Fried Green Tomatoes if that’s what you’re thinking.) We talk about things that would shock our mothers and sometimes shock us. But we’ve found that when you provide a safe, comfortable environment and share your own struggles, women will talk. They’ll purge the most intimate, hidden details of their lives in a way that’s constructive and honoring to God. We don’t allow gossip, crudeness, or sex-bashing. We remember that what we’re talking about is a gift from God, whether we’re experiencing it that way or not.
Some are further along than others, and with that comes hope. Some bring years of counseling with them, and that brings new insight. And the Bible—which has a lot to say about sex—brings God’s voice into a subject that most Christian women would rather avoid talking about.
It can be intimidating, awkward, and down-right scary initially. One woman joining us for the first time walked up my friend’s long driveway feeling shakier and sicker by the step. She says it was the power of God and sheer obedience that got her to ring the doorbell, and there were times later in the evening when I thought we might have to heave her jaw up off the carpet. But like the rest of us, she walked away feeling more hopeful and less alone. My friend and I dream of Christian women all over the city getting together in groups like this. Please e-mail me if you’d like some ideas about starting your own group.
This is our final frontier, ladies. Let’s get talking.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
100
This is my 100th post. Release confetti. Cue guest stars. Roll out the cake. You guys deserve a party.
Thanks for sticking with me the past 100 weeks or so. There are a million other blogs you could be reading—and 999,990 are cooler, funkier, wittier, and flashier than mine. I am so not a blogger’s blogger. I’m not really a blogger at all. I’m just a person who thinks and writes. And I desperately want to believe there’s still a place in this world for quiet reflection and honest, thoughtful writing.
The online world scares the bejeebers out of me. First, it’s made me a 38-year-old dinosaur. I’m just a few wrinkles away from being one of those old ladies who has to call her children just to send a photo attachment. But I’m OK with that. I accept the fact that if I were an eager learner, I could keep up with the rest of the world. And maybe my bumbling hours of inefficiency will one day give me the kick in the pants I need to make online photo albums and upload my own videos onto YouTube. I sorta doubt it though.
My own technological extinction takes a backseat to my biggest fear about the online world. What I most fear are the effects of a world that communicates primarily for the purposes of self-promotion. Or a generation that mindlessly types code into a phone with no regard for well-formulated thoughts or good sentence structure. What will become of a society in which face-to-face communication is awkward, dull, and inconvenient?
Thanks for sticking with me the past 100 weeks or so. There are a million other blogs you could be reading—and 999,990 are cooler, funkier, wittier, and flashier than mine. I am so not a blogger’s blogger. I’m not really a blogger at all. I’m just a person who thinks and writes. And I desperately want to believe there’s still a place in this world for quiet reflection and honest, thoughtful writing.
The online world scares the bejeebers out of me. First, it’s made me a 38-year-old dinosaur. I’m just a few wrinkles away from being one of those old ladies who has to call her children just to send a photo attachment. But I’m OK with that. I accept the fact that if I were an eager learner, I could keep up with the rest of the world. And maybe my bumbling hours of inefficiency will one day give me the kick in the pants I need to make online photo albums and upload my own videos onto YouTube. I sorta doubt it though.
My own technological extinction takes a backseat to my biggest fear about the online world. What I most fear are the effects of a world that communicates primarily for the purposes of self-promotion. Or a generation that mindlessly types code into a phone with no regard for well-formulated thoughts or good sentence structure. What will become of a society in which face-to-face communication is awkward, dull, and inconvenient?
I'm not all gloom and doom. Actually, I like the challenge it offers.
As much as possible, we are choosing a tech-free lifestyle for our children. We have no intention of getting them iPods, cell phones, or Facebook accounts. I know it sounds self-righteous (not to mention impractical), but hear me out. I want their questions to be answered from the library as often as the Internet. I hope their friendships will grow through soul-searching, eyeball-to-eyeball conversations and shared experiences rather than text messages. I hope their teachers will explain Shakespeare to them in person rather than on a classroom blog. I pray they’ll be able to find friends who value the person in the room with them more than a plastic piece of equipment.
Yeah, easy for me to say. My oldest just turned 10. Who knows what technology will throw at us in the next 10 years? Internet access may be required for breathing. But until then, we’ll give it our best shot.
As much as possible, we are choosing a tech-free lifestyle for our children. We have no intention of getting them iPods, cell phones, or Facebook accounts. I know it sounds self-righteous (not to mention impractical), but hear me out. I want their questions to be answered from the library as often as the Internet. I hope their friendships will grow through soul-searching, eyeball-to-eyeball conversations and shared experiences rather than text messages. I hope their teachers will explain Shakespeare to them in person rather than on a classroom blog. I pray they’ll be able to find friends who value the person in the room with them more than a plastic piece of equipment.
Yeah, easy for me to say. My oldest just turned 10. Who knows what technology will throw at us in the next 10 years? Internet access may be required for breathing. But until then, we’ll give it our best shot.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Encouraging Freaks
Ever notice that the word “encourage” has the word “courage” in it? I went my whole life without noticing this, but I’ve heard it about ten times in the past six months. A simple definition of “encourage” is to put courage into another person. Who doesn’t need a little more courage?
Encouragement is one of my spiritual gifts, but not one I practice nearly as often as my gift of prophecy (not the telling-the-future kind of prophecy—helpful as that would be—but the hosing-people-down-with-truth kind). I’m still trying to figure out how these two work in tandem: “Can I just slam you with truth for a minute, and then I promise to encourage you”?
I want to focus more on encouragement. Christians, it seems, don’t have a problem encouraging each other until one of them wants to do something wild for God. Then all of a sudden we start talking about reality, responsibility, being sensible. Here, the prophet in me and the encourager in me have a tense encounter. Yes, people need to be rooted in biblical truth and practicality, but what if encouragement stepped up first?
Hebrews 10:25 says, “Let us encourage one another.” In other words, let’s put courage into one another. Let’s cheer people on. Let’s say, “Go for it! With God’s calling and His Spirit in you, you can do anything. You really can change the world.” Instead, most of us are quick to say, “Um, what about your mortgage payment?” “What about your kids?”
I used to think that people who did radical things for God were freaks. I still do, only now I want to be like them. I want to be a freak, and I want to be an encourager of freaks. In a world that does its best to suck the courage right out of us, I love the idea of putting courage into anyone who’s got a wild idea about serving God.
Encouragement is one of my spiritual gifts, but not one I practice nearly as often as my gift of prophecy (not the telling-the-future kind of prophecy—helpful as that would be—but the hosing-people-down-with-truth kind). I’m still trying to figure out how these two work in tandem: “Can I just slam you with truth for a minute, and then I promise to encourage you”?
I want to focus more on encouragement. Christians, it seems, don’t have a problem encouraging each other until one of them wants to do something wild for God. Then all of a sudden we start talking about reality, responsibility, being sensible. Here, the prophet in me and the encourager in me have a tense encounter. Yes, people need to be rooted in biblical truth and practicality, but what if encouragement stepped up first?
Hebrews 10:25 says, “Let us encourage one another.” In other words, let’s put courage into one another. Let’s cheer people on. Let’s say, “Go for it! With God’s calling and His Spirit in you, you can do anything. You really can change the world.” Instead, most of us are quick to say, “Um, what about your mortgage payment?” “What about your kids?”
I used to think that people who did radical things for God were freaks. I still do, only now I want to be like them. I want to be a freak, and I want to be an encourager of freaks. In a world that does its best to suck the courage right out of us, I love the idea of putting courage into anyone who’s got a wild idea about serving God.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The Big Reunion Decision
Can anyone convince me that I should go to my 20th high school reunion? It would be no problem for me to convince someone else to go to theirs. I’ve encouraged countless people to attend reunions with simple rationale: It’s lame not to go.
Who wants to be lame? Not me. But I also don’t want to revisit the person I was in high school—and I’m not sure how to avoid that in such a situation. It’s not like I was the pot head or the class hussy. I wasn't much of anything, actually, except self-righteous and self-absorbed.
Somehow, I managed to leave high school with some good relationships. I’ve stayed in contact with my closest friends. One I talk to several times a week. But I’d much rather meet those friends one-on-one at Chili’s without the pressure to lose five pounds, get a cute new haircut, and coach my children in the art of polite conversation.
Here’s a refreshing idea for a reunion: Come as you are! The only requirement is that you have be honest about who you are. (Could anything be more opposite from high school?)
“I had to double up on my Xanax just to be here.”
“Yeah, I married a babe, but you should hear her snore.”
“My house is being foreclosed on as we speak.”
“It cost me $120 to be this blonde.”
“These size 6 jeans are cutting into my stomach flab so badly that I want to cry.”
“I’m bribing my children with candy and a trip to Waterworld to appear this charming.”
“My resume’s impressive, but I’ve never felt lonelier in my life.”
“I’ve been in counseling for 10 years and am still so angry.”
“My marriage is on the brink of divorce.”
Or how about this one: "We feel called to live among the poor." Now there's a party starter.
The older I get, the less I can stomach superficiality. Can a high school reunion be anything but superficial?
Probably I’ll end up going, trying just as hard to impress as everyone else, and having a few pleasant conversations in the midst of dozens I can’t really hear and wouldn't care about even if I could. If all goes well, my husband won’t collapse from boredom and my children won’t whack anyone. And if it goes really well, maybe I’ll be surprised at how transparent and mature we've all become in our old age.
Or maybe I’ll just be lame and stay home.
Who wants to be lame? Not me. But I also don’t want to revisit the person I was in high school—and I’m not sure how to avoid that in such a situation. It’s not like I was the pot head or the class hussy. I wasn't much of anything, actually, except self-righteous and self-absorbed.
Somehow, I managed to leave high school with some good relationships. I’ve stayed in contact with my closest friends. One I talk to several times a week. But I’d much rather meet those friends one-on-one at Chili’s without the pressure to lose five pounds, get a cute new haircut, and coach my children in the art of polite conversation.
Here’s a refreshing idea for a reunion: Come as you are! The only requirement is that you have be honest about who you are. (Could anything be more opposite from high school?)
“I had to double up on my Xanax just to be here.”
“Yeah, I married a babe, but you should hear her snore.”
“My house is being foreclosed on as we speak.”
“It cost me $120 to be this blonde.”
“These size 6 jeans are cutting into my stomach flab so badly that I want to cry.”
“I’m bribing my children with candy and a trip to Waterworld to appear this charming.”
“My resume’s impressive, but I’ve never felt lonelier in my life.”
“I’ve been in counseling for 10 years and am still so angry.”
“My marriage is on the brink of divorce.”
Or how about this one: "We feel called to live among the poor." Now there's a party starter.
The older I get, the less I can stomach superficiality. Can a high school reunion be anything but superficial?
Probably I’ll end up going, trying just as hard to impress as everyone else, and having a few pleasant conversations in the midst of dozens I can’t really hear and wouldn't care about even if I could. If all goes well, my husband won’t collapse from boredom and my children won’t whack anyone. And if it goes really well, maybe I’ll be surprised at how transparent and mature we've all become in our old age.
Or maybe I’ll just be lame and stay home.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Waiting Still
Back in October—OCTOBER, nine months ago—I wrote this in a post called “Waiting for a Miracle”:
“Despite what my eyes and the newspaper tell me, I believe God will bring us a buyer [for our house]. I believe it in some indescribable, way-down-deep, all-is-right-with-the-world sort of way. Or, as I read in a book recently, I know it in my knower. The hard work—getting a family of flawed, harried, self-absorbed, fearful people to change the course of their lives and follow Him wherever He leads—has already been done. Compared to flesh and blood, a little brick and mortar are a piece of cake.”
And here we sit. In July. Still scrubbing those kitchen cabinets. Chasing our children around with a vacuum cleaner and scolding them about crumbs. Stressing out about fingerprints on the windows. Spending more time with Mr. Clean than with anyone else in my life. This is SO not the woman I want to be. But it sure looks like this is the life God has for me, at least for right now.
Why is it that He gives us a vision for something, lights a fire in our hearts, and then makes us wait? A friend of mine wrote in a card to me recently that “patience fruit” is one of the hardest to allow God to grow in us. This summer I have seen how truly hard practicing patience is and how very bad I am at it. Make me practice jumping out of a plane or walking on hot coals, just please don’t make me sit and wait!
So here I sit and wait. The vision is still there, although sitting has a way of dulling its clarity some. I’ve tried to be an active sitter; that is, venturing out into new territory even though I don’t live there yet. I’m also trying to pick up some good habits from all of this. If it only takes 21 days for an action to become habit, then I should be keeping a spotless kitchen floor for the rest of my life.
I still believe God will bring a buyer for our house. No matter how many times I read, “The house is too old,” or “The floorplan is awkward,” I still believe this is part of God’s plan and He will sell this house at just the right time. It would have been fun to see that happen in some cool, supernatural way instead of by sweating it out over every showing like everyone else does. But that’s OK. If this is what builds the patience fruit, I’m in.
“Despite what my eyes and the newspaper tell me, I believe God will bring us a buyer [for our house]. I believe it in some indescribable, way-down-deep, all-is-right-with-the-world sort of way. Or, as I read in a book recently, I know it in my knower. The hard work—getting a family of flawed, harried, self-absorbed, fearful people to change the course of their lives and follow Him wherever He leads—has already been done. Compared to flesh and blood, a little brick and mortar are a piece of cake.”
And here we sit. In July. Still scrubbing those kitchen cabinets. Chasing our children around with a vacuum cleaner and scolding them about crumbs. Stressing out about fingerprints on the windows. Spending more time with Mr. Clean than with anyone else in my life. This is SO not the woman I want to be. But it sure looks like this is the life God has for me, at least for right now.
Why is it that He gives us a vision for something, lights a fire in our hearts, and then makes us wait? A friend of mine wrote in a card to me recently that “patience fruit” is one of the hardest to allow God to grow in us. This summer I have seen how truly hard practicing patience is and how very bad I am at it. Make me practice jumping out of a plane or walking on hot coals, just please don’t make me sit and wait!
So here I sit and wait. The vision is still there, although sitting has a way of dulling its clarity some. I’ve tried to be an active sitter; that is, venturing out into new territory even though I don’t live there yet. I’m also trying to pick up some good habits from all of this. If it only takes 21 days for an action to become habit, then I should be keeping a spotless kitchen floor for the rest of my life.
I still believe God will bring a buyer for our house. No matter how many times I read, “The house is too old,” or “The floorplan is awkward,” I still believe this is part of God’s plan and He will sell this house at just the right time. It would have been fun to see that happen in some cool, supernatural way instead of by sweating it out over every showing like everyone else does. But that’s OK. If this is what builds the patience fruit, I’m in.
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