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.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Sunday, November 6, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, November 4, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Breath
Sometimes I just need a big ol lungful of mountain air.
Today we headed west of Denver to see if we could find some Aspens.
I could have driven for hours, but those with me were being so patient that I had my hubby turn off at the first Open Space sign I saw. I didn't want to push it.
The park had lots of power lines. The sound of traffic on the highway was too loud. But...
There were Aspens. There was sweet mountain air by the lungful. There was everything I needed. I came down the trail with a big grin and a lighter heart.
Today we headed west of Denver to see if we could find some Aspens.
I could have driven for hours, but those with me were being so patient that I had my hubby turn off at the first Open Space sign I saw. I didn't want to push it.
The park had lots of power lines. The sound of traffic on the highway was too loud. But...
There were Aspens. There was sweet mountain air by the lungful. There was everything I needed. I came down the trail with a big grin and a lighter heart.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Time
"But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near."
- Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)
Time Flies.
Time's up.
What time is it?
Too much time on my hands.
Time to go.
In no time.
Time is short.
Give me a little time.
Take all the time you need.
How much time do we have?
Never on time.
Time stood still.
Where has the time gone?
Time to think about time. Our culture is fixated on it.
Personally, I don't have a very good relationship with time. I would just as soon live in a culture that didn't keep track.
Time constricts me. But I bet if we were honest we would all agree. Why do we look at clocks so often otherwise?
Here's my thought: we weren't designed to live in time.
I believe we were made to be timeless. To be eternal. We were created to live outside of time like God does.
But we messed up. So now we have a limit to our time. We are cursed to die. Every minute counts now. They are numbered.
We are constantly aware of this. We are limited and our time on earth is limited. But I think we also know something else, we aren't supposed to be limited.
But we messed up. So now we have a limit to our time. We are cursed to die. Every minute counts now. They are numbered.
We are constantly aware of this. We are limited and our time on earth is limited. But I think we also know something else, we aren't supposed to be limited.
That is God's voice in us. We are created to live eternally.
We can, of course. He has shown us how. But even those of us who have that assurance of eternal life, we still feel hounded by time.
It just isn't the way things are supposed to be.
(This is an edited repost)
We can, of course. He has shown us how. But even those of us who have that assurance of eternal life, we still feel hounded by time.
It just isn't the way things are supposed to be.
(This is an edited repost)
Friday, August 5, 2011
Things About Summer
I'm not much for complaining...
Well, ok. I love to complain. But I'm trying to kick the habit.
Summer is my least favorite month. I have low tolerance for heat and I don't feel well most of the summer. But I've worked hard this summer to complain less about it.
So instead, I want to list some of the things that I appreciate about summer.
~ Greenness everywhere
~ Leaves
~ Shady places
~ Peaches
~ Watermelon
~ The smell of fresh cut grass
~ Thunderstorms, as long as they aren't too close or too scary
~ Cool evenings and nights
~ Foot freedom
~ Fewer obligations
~ Flowers
~ Hummy birds
~ Butterflies
Well, ok. I love to complain. But I'm trying to kick the habit.
Summer is my least favorite month. I have low tolerance for heat and I don't feel well most of the summer. But I've worked hard this summer to complain less about it.
So instead, I want to list some of the things that I appreciate about summer.
~ Greenness everywhere
~ Leaves
~ Shady places
~ Peaches
~ Watermelon
~ The smell of fresh cut grass
~ Thunderstorms, as long as they aren't too close or too scary
~ Cool evenings and nights
~ Foot freedom
~ Fewer obligations
~ Flowers
~ Hummy birds
~ Butterflies
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