The first Ebenezer was a place of upheaval, distress and defeat. But God transformed it into a place of victory, remembering and thanksgiving. You can read the full saga in 1 Samuel 4-7.
It ends with Samuel setting up a stone memorial, calling it Ebenezer, and saying, “This marks the place where God helped us” (1 Samuel 7:12 The Message).
My friends Nicole, Katie and others have reposted significant blog entries to remember the places God helped them and their families. Fabulous idea. One I need to employ as it’s too easy for me to forget.
So here’s an Ebenezer in July. It comes not from this blog which is only five months old, but from a July 2007 email. Some of you received the original email or read the story in our 2007 Christmas letter.
A little background. Our only child Theo was born with an ASD or atrial septal heart defect. This condition usually heals on its own. Theo’s did not. He had open heart surgery four years ago when he was only two years old…
A Sigh of Relief, July 16, 2007
Hello, everyone. I am home to get some sleep after this long and truly amazing day. Theo’s surgery went very well and very quickly—only about two hours. He was away from us for a little more than four excruciating hours. Being separated from him was the hardest part for us—like holding your breath, stepping off the high dive, and waiting, waiting for the water to break your fall.
Theo has been resting with us at his bedside in the cardiac intensive care unit since lunchtime. Our incredibly compassionate and capable surgeon kept Theo’s incision small…“neat and square” comes to mind, like one of Mike Mulligan and Mary Anne’s corners. Theo is being kept sedated because when he wakes up, he immediately requests to “go bye-bye, please,” and then tries to sit up and pull out his IVs. What a relief to see his spunk has not faded one bit, nor have his manners.
I will relieve Jeff early tomorrow morning. Jeff insisted on staying the night, saying he is used to being up to all hours working and sleeping in strange places like airplanes and hotel rooms. He made me, the morning bird, come home to rest while he, the night owl, keeps watch by night. What a good daddy and husband he is!
Thank you for your prayers, calls, emails, visits, gifts and concern for us. It is not a coincidence that Theo was born in a time when this surgery is accessible to us and the technology exists to support its success. Nor is it a coincidence that he lives in a house 15 minutes away from a top 10 children’s hospital. That is the tip of this iceberg. How humbling to realize we cannot begin to understand all the connections and repercussions of God’s purpose.
Breathe then a sigh of relief with us that the first and highest hurdle of this race is past. Tomorrow will be a challenging day as Theo is weaned off the sedatives and strongest pain medications. His doctors hope to move him to a step-down unit, which in layman’s terms means a step-closer-to-going-home unit. Please pray that God will quiet Theo and help him to remain as calm as a two-year-old boy can remain in such a situation, and that He will give Jeff and I an extra measure of strength and wisdom to comfort Theo. Pray God protects him from infection or other complications, so he can come home soon. Please.
I leave you with one of Paul’s doxologies from Romans 11:33-36. It sums up our elation, amazement, and gratefulness. I see this short update is getting lengthier as I my mind spins and treads around the events of the day. Humor me as I cannot resist also including a verse from Charles Wesley. I read it early this morning in the near dark before we left our house, and it still seems appropriate as the sun sets on this evening. Good night, and sweet dreams.
Love,
Aimee
our heart breaker made a quick and full recovery. he was released from his cardiologist's care last year.
Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God!
How unsearchable His judgments,
and His paths beyond tracing out!
“Who has known the mind of the Lord?
Or who has been His counselor?”
“Who has ever given to God,
that God should repay them?”
For from Him and through Him and for Him are all things.
To Him be the glory forever! Amen. Romans 11:33-36 NIV
Other refuge have I none;
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;
Leave, ah! Leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me.
All my trust on Thee is stayed,
All my help from Thee I bring;
Cover my defenseless head
With the shadow of Thy wing.
Charles Wesley, from Jesus, Lover of My Soul
While my husband traveled for work, my son and I tagged along, toured museums and rode public transportation in America’s finest cities. Each time we came to a new place or experience I thought to myself, “This is my favorite part of our trip!”
That was true until we came to the next destination where I thought, “This is my favorite part of our trip!”
Themes emerged. American history. Aeronautics. Waterways. Jellyfish. My brain is heavy with ideas. Watch for fresh stories on the blog.
We negotiated a contract on the road in Illinois, finalized it somewhere in Michigan, endured inspections in Pennsylvania and Maryland, received the buyers’ signoff before leaving Virginia, and placed change orders for the utilities in North Carolina. Today we closed back in Missouri.
With our real estate agent’s help, we found a place our family can rent for the next few months. Signed the lease agreement in an Outer Banks hotel lobby.
Also while we were away, everyday epistle seamlessly churned out posts. Thanks to many of you, one post entitled Milk Wars sparked a small but exciting viral episode. Readership spiked to set a new personal record for the little blog that could. Count on more from the farm side in the future.
Other things happened too, other stirrings in thought and action. A likely partnership in one case. A necessary breakup in another. An overarching resolve to press on with new ideas, ventures and stories collected along the way.
We left town in one place and have come home to another, not by our own doing. We left determined to take a break from the concerns. Put life on cruise control. Engage autopilot.
We set it aside, but God didn’t. He never does. As Henry Blackaby and Claude King write in Experiencing God, God is always at work around you.
Wonder what He’s up to next?
Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior,
who daily bears our burdens. Psalm 68:19 NIV
The Waltons, image used with permission from sitcomsonline.com
Much as I hate to admit it, we don’t have daily family devotions. We don’t live on Walton Mountain either. Great if you do. I confess we don’t.
But we do love God and the Bible at our house. We’ve shared Bible stories with our son since he was itty-bitty.
Noah’s ark was his favorite for a long time. I told him how God brought two of every animal to the ark, a mommy and a daddy. He wasn’t satisfied.
“And the babies,” he said in his tiny three-year-old voice. “The mommies and the daddies and the babies.”
“Well, the Bible says a mommy and a daddy of each animal,” I said.
“And the babies,” he said. I dropped it, granting him liberty. No sense arguing with a three-year-old. Certainly there were babies when they departed the ark.
He’s six now. The Bible stories he likes are the bloody, gory, fighting ones.
We were running early one morning, so at breakfast I said, “I’ll read you a Bible story. You pick!”
“Read about when Queen Jezebel died,” he said.
I turned to 1 Kings 21, the story of Naboth’s vineyard. How King Ahab wanted it for a vegetable garden, but Naboth wouldn’t sell it to him. How King Ahab pouted and refused to eat.
My son’s favorite phrase these days is It’s not fair! No matter what it is, if he doesn’t like it, we hear the refrain It’s not fair! My husband and I are about to pull our hair out over It’s not fair! No sense arguing with a six-year-old.
So that morning I read the story my son had picked: His wife Jezebel came in and asked him, “Why are you so sullen? Why won’t you eat?”
As my child listened and munched cereal, I smelled a teachable moment.
In the whiniest Ahab voice I could muster, I said: “Because I said to Naboth the Jezreelite, ‘Sell me your vineyard: or if you prefer, I will give you another vineyard in its place.’ But he said, ‘I will not give you my vineyard.'”
Then—God, forgive me and grant me liberty, I said: “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see my son’s head pop up from his bowl.
I continued reading: Jezebel his wife said, “Is this how you act as king over Israel? Get up and eat! Cheer up. I’ll get you the vineyard of Naboth the Jezreelite.”
As it goes, Jezebel had Naboth killed, Ahab took his vineyard, and Elijah caught the king and queen red-handed. Elijah spelled out God’s judgment against them saying dogs would eat Jezebel’s body. Told you it was gory.
We turned to 2 Kings 9 where the prophesy came true: But when they went out to bury her, they found nothing except her skull, her feet and her hands.
My son was quiet.
“It came true,” I said, “because God does everything He says He will do.”
The Whetstines
Then I dropped it. No sense arguing with that either.
As the rain and the snow
come down from heaven,
and do not return to it
without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish,
so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
so is My Word that goes out from My mouth:
It will not return to Me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire
and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. Isaiah 55:10-11 NIV
Proudly presenting The Waltons Theme Song by Jerry Goldsmith. Loved that show. What a week and what a way to end it!
My man is a bit of a messy. Not filthy, rather blissfully cluttered and unaware.
I asked his parents prenuptually, as we searched for an empty spot to sit in his living room, if he’d always been like this.
“Yeah, pretty much,” said my future father-in-law. Then he looked at me, a glint in his eye, and said, “You know he’s not going to change.”
Without hesitation I said, “Neither am I.”
Smug in my neatness, I relayed this story to my husband all these years later.
“Oh, really?” he said. “That’s funny, because around that same time your brother pulled me aside and told me you’re a perfectionist.”
What? My brother knows I’m a perfectionist?
“Yeah, he said, ‘You know she’s going to want everything to be perfect.’ I think he wanted to prepare me and protect you,” said my husband.
A perfectionist? My brother told my fiancé I’m a perfectionist? How did he know? Who told him?
Perfectionism is akin to chicken pox. And messiness. Can’t be hidden really. That’s its main imperfection.
I like to think my perfectionistic tendancies have mellowed with the years. Same way my husband likes to think his messiness has. I like to imagine my Myers-Briggs Super Feeler personality has no qualms with my Super Thinker husband. My J and his P can live together peacefully.
Seems truer though, our greatest strengths and weaknesses are two sides of the same coin.
The optimism that so attracts me to him drives me to the brink when it runs up against my realism. My emotion that so touches his heart often leaves him flailing alone in his logic.
How do we survive? Somehow we work it out. Temper one another. Genuinely like one another. Struggle and fight to love. Pick up day after day and maintain a disciplined loop, a quiet repeat of what works, a layering of commitment and time as circumstances spiral up and down.
Where I bring organization, he brings spontenaeity. Where I bring order, he brings fullness. Where I am prone to panic, he is even-keeled. Where he is tempted to inaction, I hold ground and press on.
Not sure how it works, messy and imperfect though it may be, but thank God by His grace it does.
Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. 1 Peter 4:8 NIV
we three
You Take Me the Way I Am by Ingrid Michaelson is one of the sweetest songs ever. Some people don’t like the video. Must be the clowns. Normally I don’t like clowns, but I do like this video. Reminds me of a certain married couple I know.
If you’re just tuning in, we’re trying to sell our house. One evening following our 500th open house event, I went to remove the remains of the day, also known as my makeup.
My routine is simple. Step one, cleanse. Step two, moisturize. That’s it. Every now and then I add exfoliation between steps one and two. We’ll refer to it as step 1.5.
That evening, step one went off without a hitch. I reached for my jumbo size bottle of Dramatically Different Moisturizing Lotion, the linchpin of the Clinique skincare regimen.
It wasn’t in its place on the shelf. In the rush to prepare for the open house, where did I stash it? Hamper? Drawer? Basket?
Checked the other bathroom. Checked the trash. Looked everywhere, but it was nowhere to be found. Then it dawned on me: someone had stolen my Clinique during the open house!
The scoundrel walked into my bathroom, opened my medicine cabinet, plucked out my jumbo bottle, dropped it into her purse, and slipped out the door making a clean getaway. A smooth criminal with a silky complexion.
My real estate agent was devastated. The princess part of me felt like crying too. That bottle—the jumbo size offered only once a year, set me back $35!
All I could do was laugh. You can smile too, people. This is progress.
“How could you take someone else’s moisturizer?” I said to my BFF. “It’s a personal product. That’s just gross.”
“I’m sure,” she said, “the person who took it was thinking, ‘Oh, what a lovely house. What a clean bathroom. This moisturizer is so well taken care of. How nice it will be for my skin!'”
This is why she’s one of my BFFs. Extreme optimism with delicate peaches and cream skin to boot.
The thief was probably thinking more like, “This rich lady won’t miss a thing. And who cares if she does?”
First of all, we’re not rich. Did I mention we’re trying to unload our house?
liquid gold
Second, I did miss my Clinique and I do care. But I am no longer a princess. I am now the Queen and I will not die on a hill of department store cosmetics. It’s just a bottle of moisturizer. As my good friend Greg’s mother would say, God rest her soul, it’s not fatal.
Assuming a thief will return to the scene of the crime and our villain is a stylista, friends suggested we offer fragrance samples at our next open house. Do skin consultations at the door. Maybe set up a manicurist in the dining room.
We laughed. I bought more moisturizer. All was well with the world.
Until a few days later. As I progressed through my routine, I realized my Clinique 7-Day Scrub was missing too! Exfoliation step 1.5 down the drain.
I stared at myself in the mirror with my freshly washed, squeaky clean face. People are unbelievable, I thought. Just as depraved as I am.
For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. Romans 3:23 NIV
Did you like the link to Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal? Then you must see this version by Luka Sulic and Stjepan Hauser. Amazing. And on cellos! Thanks to my friend Jared for the lead to catch these guys.
Today’s post was supposed to be funny. It’s all finished and ready to go. You’ll see it next week, I promise. But something’s happened that takes precedence now.
Late Wednesday afternoon, I got word that the mother of one of my son’s schoolmates died Tuesday evening.
She was the picture of health, yet her body failed her. Unexpectedly. Tragically. And less than three weeks before her only child graduates from our little pre-kindergarten through sixth grade school.
Her son was the reason we considered the school in the first place. I’m not sure she knew that. When my son was two, we saw her son and his friends at a neighborhood playground.
My son was and still is fearless, climbing and running underfoot of the big kids. Before I could get to him to protect him that day, this woman’s son shielded him. He was only in second grade himself.
While other children ran wild and oblivious, he and his friends gently steered my precocious cub out of harm’s way. My heart melted as I heard him tenderly speak to my baby, “Be careful, little guy.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Where do you go to school?”
I tucked his answer away. That’s what I want for my son, I thought. That’s what I want him to be.
School may have a lot to do with it. Family has more. His family is noble, kind, gentle, handsome, generous. You could see it in this woman and her husband. You can see it in their son.
two pink peonies
Now is a time for stillness. A time to hold my own husband and son.
Now is a time to be shaken. To be reminded we were not made for death.
It’s a time to watch clouds and notice peonies. See a friend. Eat dessert. Walk the dog. Go to church. Open the Bible. Wrestle with God and be held by Him.
A time to pray for courage for this family, for this husband and son. Courage for them to carry on, and then for the rest of us as well.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Matthew 5:4 NIV
God is not silent, apathetic or cruel, but in situations like this it can seem so. Face the feeling that God Says Nothing Back and bring it to Him.
I imagine them thinking: There she goes again, writing about bitter pants. Why can’t she write something nice? Just show us some innocuous pictures of your sweet husband, your cute child, and your little dog too, my pretty!
My husband is sweet. My child is cute. My dog is little. There are days I am pretty. I’ll throw in a few pictures, but in case you missed it, I turned 40 this year.
With the fourth decade comes several startling revelations. Among them this: Nice is the new mean.
Clarification: Nice is nice when it’s kind. Nice is mean when it’s superficial.
There are no scientific studies I know of to back this up, but here’s an anecdotal theory. It seems as women age they lose their edit function. No more worrying about what the nice thing to say would be. Not enough time for that nonsense.
In the words of my cousin’s beautiful wife Sue, the can of worms is already open. Might as well let ’em fly.
Some of the flying worms are nice, some are not. The un-nice worms aren’t rude. But they’re not sugar-coated in shallow diplomacy, political correctness or Christianese either. They are direct little boogers because remember, we’re not getting any younger.
I’m not advocating bad manners or speaking the truth without love or sniping at folks with petty, evil comments. However, I spent years going out of my way to keep my opinions and the truth to myself so no one would be offended.
And I wasted a lot of energy in self-reproach because, another fourth decade gem, I can’t please everyone. Neither can you. Surprise!
nice picture of my pretty and her little dog too
With these conclusions, a sad observation. Some people would very much like me to be someone else. It would make them more comfortable.
You may know them too. They sound like this: Keep your emotions to yourself. You need to do God’s work. What’s with you and the truth? Just be content. Write something nice.
Is this the example I want to set for my child? It’s best to go along and get along? We should be nice at all costs even if the greatest cost is to one’s integrity?
No way, José. My life is imperfect, a work in progress. But I hope what’s important to me shines through now and then.
Be honest. Be kind. Address what’s wrong.
Be who God created you to be even if it is different than the people around you. Even if it makes some of them uncomfortable.
And by the way, when you belong to God, it’s all His work.
King of Anything by Sara Bareilles makes a fitting song. Perhaps we’re related.
image with permission from alexandraferguson.com
Alexandra Ferguson
Alexandra Ferguson started a “sassy little pillow company” on Etsy in 2009. Her pillows, featured in this post, are “American-made manufacturing from recycled materials that any side of the aisle can be excited about.” Check out more of her fun and gutsy designs at www.alexandraferguson.com, like this one with a super hero’s silhouette. Love it!
Disclaimer: I’m not being compensated to promote Alexandra Ferguson.
Just put my bitter pants on. Hmm. Looks like they still fit.
So read my friend’s Facebook status. Splendid term, bitter pants. I promptly commented: What are you doing with my pants?
I wondered. Did she steal my pants last time she visited my house? Thought they were hidden away where no one could find them. Deep in my closet, behind my collection of silent, toothy skeletons.
See them there? Hanging next to my pink pity party panties and my emerald encrusted envy glasses. Pink and green. A preppy girl at heart. Where did I put those Tretorns?
My yellow slicker o’ slander hangs there too. Covers me well when the rains of gossip fall in fluid torrents.
There’s my angry red wool scarf and my grudgeful orange leather jacket. One poor, beautiful Guernsey died to make that jacket.
But the bitter pants? Those are silk. Thousands of white mulberry worms sacrificed themselves in Shanghai. Boiled or baked in drying ovens for their spun cocoons, for filaments twisted into strong, continuous threads.
as seen in Ann Taylor
Wine-soaked artisans in the alleys of Paris caressed and worked the silk, dyeing it a glowing chartreuse. It radiates the ghosts of the caterpillars and Parisians. A matte luster of fogged up windows and lipgloss on glass rims.
The silk was whisked away to the house of Versace or Givenchy, I can’t remember which, and fashioned into the bitter pants. Haute couture, not because of their rarity but for their expense.
Oh, how they fit! No matter when I put them on, they are snug as a bug in a proverbial rug.
Lots of women have them, tucked away like mine for special occasions, or flown daily like a flag. A crisp shock of citron popping in the wind.
Men have them too, though they are harder to spot–usually look sullen or vengeful on men. On women you can see them a mile away. Cool. Sharp. Lean and mean. These girls wear the pants as much as the pants wear them.
I’ve thrown mine out several times. Somehow they keep finding their way home. Magic, homing, bitter pants. Destined to climb back into my closet of tricks. So for now I still own them should I choose to wear them again.
They’ll suffocate me if I do. Squeeze my life like a boa constrictor squeezes prey. Devour me, bury me, render me a useless, angry, forlorn frame of a woman.
as seen at The Limited
I plead with God for protection, for the will to take off my pride and find something else to wear. Hand me my linen robe. Bring me my coat of arms.
The bitter pants. Magnificent zombie of my sin. Scary but lifeless. Dead with the old woman. Condemned to burn in a hot blue flame and boil in a river of fire. Then I will dance, finally completely free of them.
Look after each other so that none of you fails to receive the grace of God. Watch out that no poisonous root of bitterness grows up to trouble you, corrupting many. Hebrews 12:15 NLT
Little known fact: I hold a master’s in education for agency counseling. Not because of all the time I’ve spent in therapy, but a real degree. Could qualify me to counsel people in a clinical situation. Scary, huh?
I say I hold the degree because I do nothing with it professionally. Never completed the gazillion practicum hours for licensure. Adored my psychology classes. But after a couple years interning I figured I didn’t make a very good counselor and ran back to marketing.
At the end of the day, all I could do was empathize. Even armed with my degree, I never felt qualified to tell people what they should do. I know that’s not exactly the job of good counselors, but I didn’t understand how to help clinically.
They might get better, or not. Some did, some didn’t. Some moved toward wellness quickly. For most it was a long, slow journey. Too long and slow for Little Miss Impatient me.
Hearing the clients tell their stories was the silver lining. Through them I learned we’re on a continuum of mental health, just like we’re on a continuum of physical health. Degrees of wellness may vary during our lives.
They had problems, yes. But when I actually talked to them, including those diagnosed with serious disorders, I found they weren’t so crazy after all. They were a lot like you and me.
The wounded healer model made perfect sense. Not an expert who would sit in judgment and dictate the means for recovery. Instead, someone who could get in the boat of hard knocks with folks because we all sail in it sometimes. Through empathizing, I thought I could help.
Who knows if I did? My foray into counseling stops short. Human solutions do.
We can suggest, support, command, plan, medicate, care, counsel, advise, intervene, intercede. We are responsible to do whatever is in our power to help. In the end, however, we are powerless to change ourselves or anyone else.
Easter lilies
Sound hopeless? Don’t mean to get all religious on you, but I would be irresponsible if I didn’t remind you today is Good Friday.
Christ died on Good Friday. He met the end every human will face. He can empathize. He can go deep.
He didn’t stop short. He got in the boat, living and dying with us, only without sin. Then he did what no one has done or can do except Him. He lived again.
That’s why it’s Good. He opened the way for us to be changed and to follow.
No doubt the struggles and infirmities we face–the sins we commit–are wickedly bad. But this is Good Friday, and Sunday’s coming.
The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay…” Matthew 28:5-6 NIV
In this video on YouTube, Lead Me to the Cross by Hillsong United is set to scenes from The Passion of the Christ. A moving song and depiction of the historical events that changed everything, it is not for children or the faint of heart. Happy Easter, everyone. He is risen. He is risen indeed.
despised, rejected
An Answer to a Friend
In 2004 when The Passion of the Christcame out, a friend said she didn’t understand the part with the woman in the sand. That part opens the video mentioned above. Read the chilling story for yourself in John 8:1-11.
Is it wrong to thank Jesus I have finally been added to the Sephora mailing list?
Sidebar: For those of you whose mailboxes were also graced with the spring catalog, does François Nars look a lot younger than you expected? In my head I pictured him more like designer Valentino. Imagine my shock to see he’s such a PYT (that’s Michael Jackson-ese for Pretty Young Thing).
Back to the question at hand. Is it wrong to give thanks for the catalog?
Or to thank God when I find a parking place at the mall close to the door?
Or when the snow melts quickly because I’m so sick of snow I could scream?
Or when I see a collection of robins hopping around my yard, so I know even if it doesn’t feel like it, spring is here or they wouldn’t be?
Well-meaning people may imply these are trivial, silly, selfish things. It is disrespectful to thank God for such drivel.
How dare I be so trite with the Holy Almighty God. He is God and I am not.
And for that matter, I should not pray with my eyes open or when driving or doing anything else, but only during a scheduled quiet time first thing in the morning. I should not wear shorts either.
Okay. I’m kidding about the shorts. No one has implied that to me. Yet.
God is God. He is Holy. Almighty. Perfect. I am not. Agreed.
But I am His child.
And if He sees me at all like I see my child, nothing is drivel really. What matters to my child matters to me. Big or small. Important or trivial. Serious or shallow.
The One who made all the stars and calls them each by name, who sees even the smallest sparrow fall, who knows the number of hairs on my head, He is my Father and He knows. He knows. He knows.
Be it day or dark of night, whenever I am blessed with the slightest tinge of joy or troubled by the most fleeting of worries, He says to me, “Bring it, child. Bring it.”
And when I do, it is well with my soul.
How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! 1 John 3:1 NIV
brave heart
To listen to Children of God by Third Day on their website, click here. Grab a box of tissues. They have quite a message to share.
Ordinary Saturday, stuck at the dealership while the truck’s being serviced.
One final shuffle through the magazines brings me face to face with an old issue of Fast Company. The guy on the cover looks vaguely familiar.
Then it hits me. A classmate from undergrad has made the cover.
Now I haven’t seen him since graduation. We were friends, but we didn’t date or even talk to each other that much. I may have invited him to a social at my sorority once.
Okay. I did do that. He declined because he had a girlfriend. He’s a good guy, handsome to this day. No wonder he made the cover.
Anyway, he was in my program. We competed in class. Often I won.
But not today. After I picked myself up off the floor, I read the article.
Welcome to my lair.
If my eyes were green they would have turned three shades deeper and glowed.
I might have sprouted horns and a tail too. Imagine an X-Men transformation right there in the Ford waiting room.
Thankfully, my eyes are brown so only God and I knew what was happening.
Ivy League MBA, internet commerce, gazillion dollars, CEO. Somebody stop me.
Still in shock later that evening, I recounted the event to my husband.
“He was on the cover!” I said. “Of Fast Company! He is the CEO of @#$%!”
That wasn’t a curse word. I chose to use symbols instead of the company’s name for fear of embarrassing us both.
“He sat next to me in our advertising campaigns class. He’s not all that!”
Well apparently neither am I.
This brush with fame stalks me. Let me brag on my friends for a moment. One of my best friends from college advises presidents of the United States and not as an intern.
I told you she knows Robin Williams.
Another has a brother-in-law who is arguably the greatest athlete of our generation. She hobknobs with Robin Williams.
Then there’s my friend who’s a regular on Squawk Box. My several friends who are published authors, esteemed professors, powerful attorneys, brilliant surgeons.
My husband the optimist, who incidentally has logged a nice set of accomplishments in his industry, says I’m using the wrong standards to measure success.
When I keep my eyes fixed on doing the best I can with what I’ve been given, this stuff doesn’t faze me. When I compare myself, I’m in trouble.
God help me, I will live another day to slay the green-eyed dragon.
So what if my dashing classmate enjoys well-deserved success? I can be happy for him. There’s plenty to go around.
Turning his head, Peter noticed the disciple Jesus loved following right behind. When Peter noticed him, he asked Jesus, “Master, what’s going to happen to him?”
Jesus said, “If I want him to live until I come again, what’s that to you? You—follow me.” John 21:20-22 The Message
To watch Hey Jealousy by Gin Blossoms on YouTube click here. I had to include this video because 1) the title and 2) it’s the only music video I know that includes rolling a tree (giggle).
There’s a park across the street where I take the dog to run.
Once we make it to the sidewalk bordering the park, a huge hill drops into a field. Then another drop where there’s a pond and a playground.
It’s lovely all seasons. St. Louis winters cover it with fantastically white snow.
As soon as the snow falls and the schools close due to weather, the hill fills with a patchwork of colors. Parkas, mittens, waterproof boots, disks and planks of bright plastic sleds.
One morning a few weeks ago after the sledders were called back to class, the dog and I ventured out.
Mountain climbers at the summit, this was our hill, silent and packed with muddied snow. Marred from dozens of children’s boots and sleds.
No sooner did I let the dog off the leash than she proceeded to run as if the hill were covered in tender spring grass.
I started my descent much slower than she did. No matter. Unless I stood perfectly still, it became apparent I was going to fall.
The dog skidded and turned to go back up. Her toenails clicked, grasping for ground but only sliding on the slick surface. I watched her dance around in a little circle, slipping, grasping, turning, prancing.
Memories of ski lessons on icy North Carolina slopes tumbled back. Snow plow, bunny ears, parallel side steps. Not the same result in Adidas as in skis.
I thought of the impending, embarrassing emergency rescue, ambulance and all. Then I noticed the dog.
She’d stopped her desperate jitterbug and was running down the hill again. So I followed her in the same manner.
When we ran full speed down the hill, our feet were light and had no time to slide. Laughing, screaming, I ran after that dog and remembered sometimes it’s wiser to plunge headlong into whatever I’m facing than to spin in a hesitant, futile reach for safety.
This ordinary morning, there was life more abundantly for a common girl and her dog on a steep snowy hill. Oh, that my heart could hold on to that moment.
David ran toward the battle line to meet Goliath. Lord, may I run like that too. Fearlessly, may I run.
As the Philistine moved closer to attack him, David ran quickly toward the battle line to meet him. 1 Samuel 17:48 NIV
This post was first published on February 23, 2011, here.
