It's okay to be imperfect.

One year I decided to make a pecan pie. I followed the recipe exactly, except when it came time to take it out, it was still jiggly. So I put it back in and baked it some more. It took a long time, but finally that pie was cooked through and no longer jiggled. Turns out, it's supposed to jiggle, I guess. I couldn't even get a knife into it. We banged it on the counter just to see if we could break off a piece.
We couldn't.

The holidays are a lot more enjoyable when we realize they aren't going to be perfect and we can laugh at ourselves.

Got any laughs you want to share?

Mysterious

Five Minute Friday meme. Todays prompt is Grow.

My mom had a garden when I was growing up. I didn't like helping. But I was fascinated to see things grow.
I remember the bean seed I planted in a cup in school. How I could see it grow from both ends. It's like magic that all that green, all that plant, even new beans, all contained in that tiny shell.
When my kids were born, they were tiny. I mean, in hindsight. At the time they seemed like normal babies. They were normal babies, but they were so small. My daughter is now as tall as I am. My son is but a head shorter than me.
How does that happen? How does food and water make stuff appear where it wasn't before? Growth is weird. It is mysterious. Something from nothing, really. It is a daily act of mini-creation. There was nothing, now there's something. The finger just a bit longer. The shoes just a bit tighter.
And on the inside.
Growth. Something where there used to be nothing. I have confidence I didn't have even a decade ago. I have courage and strength and so much that used to not be there. Faith. Deeper faith.
But all this growth hurt. Well, a lot of it did.

Time's up. But I'm just getting started...

I Wanna Be...

I know people who have always wanted to be one thing. From the time they were little, they had one passion. To be a pilot, a writer, a nurse, whatever. That's not me.
Through my life I've wanted to be many things. Often at the same time. Even now, there are several things that I'd love to do.
Here's a list of my lifetime aspirations.

Wonder Woman
Rodeo Queen
Rancher
Farmer
Veterinarian
Astronomer
Archaeologist
Biologist
Pilot
Airline attendant - I filled out some kind of interest form. Got a phone call. He asked me all about how I looked. How tall I was, how much I weighed, what color eyes I had. Then he said I would be fine and told me what to do next. But I was only mildly interested, so I let it drop.
Nutritionist
Doctor
Nurse Practitioner
Nurse Midwife
R.N. - this is the one I got a degree in, planning to become one of the above, but then I changed my mind about advancing.
Nurse for INH in Alaska
Lactation consultant
Doula
Owner of a B&B for pregnant and new moms
Florist
Wound specialist
Counselor
Teacher of kids with autism
Neuroscientist

And so... I am a writer.

Thankful I'm Me

I'm very good at picking on myself. I spend a lot of time digging around and poking at my own insecurities. My insufficiencies and inadequacies are constantly circling through my head.

I say this to make it clear that I'm not the kind of person who dwells on how wonderful I am. I'm too busy beating myself up for not being perfect.

So I found it strange last night, as I lay on the verge of sleep, when prayers of thanksgiving started going through my mind. "Thank you that you made me to be such a lover of God. Thank you that you put in me a desire for you that I can't remember ever being without. Thank you for giving me a sense of humor. Thank you for making me empathetic. Thank you for giving me a unique way of seeing things..." I didn't even feel like the thoughts were coming from me.

But this morning as I was thinking it over, I realized that we really should be thankful for who God made us to be. It's His work. Not ours. It feels like boasting or being conceited, but it's not. Not if we realize that we are what we are only because of His creative skill and His grace.

I think to focus on the negative, on the things we dislike about ourselves, does Him a disservice. Where is the glory in that? How does He receive glory from us beating ourselves up?

This is a new thought for me. I'd love to hear yours.

Hiding

I saw this prompt style meme on Michelle Pendergrass' blog and thought I'd give it a try. The rules are to write for five minutes, then stop. No editing, no over-thinking. Just write. Here goes!
Five Minute Friday
The prompt is Remember:

I remember when I used to play outside on summer evenings. Hiding amongst the shrubs and trees. Hoping not to be found, yet hoping I would be.
I remember when the entire neighborhood was our hiding and seeking place. Cars, trees, the park. We hid, we sought.
I remember hiding notes and secret things in the curtain rod of my room. The little end cap was removable and I thought it the most sneaky thing ever that I had discovered that and I kept my secrets there.
I remember hiding my thoughts in diaries. Thoughts too personal and precious for the world to know. I read them now and laugh. The deep secrets of a twelve year old girl with some serious boy-craziness.
I remember hiding who I was. Hiding my self-doubt and insecurity. Or did I hide it? I was so shy, perhaps everyone could easily see how uncertain I was.
What am I hiding now? I try to be open and authentic, but I wonder if secrets are still lurking in there somewhere.

Funeral for a Writer

I recently joined the funeral ministry at our church. Yesterday was the first funeral I attended in this position.

It was for a woman who had lived nearly ninety years. She seemed to have had a good life.

I didn't know her. But I learned that we had a common bond. She was a writer. Not anyone that we've heard of. Her book won't be at the library. But that's not what it means to be a writer.

Her family found large sketchbooks filled with handwritten records of the family, events, life stories. She wrote a book with all this information and had it published somehow in a hardback version.

A treasure for her family.

The pastor at the funeral said, "She looked for the story." As we writers tend to do. Even as I sat there listening, I was finding a story.

On the program from her husband's funeral, she had taken notes. In the margin she had written a description of the young soldier who presented to her the flag from her husband's casket. In the time of her deepest grief, she wrote.

Writers are people who write.