Happiest Moment in 5 Minutes or Less

The premise of this post is yesterday’s Facebook status update (this reminds me of Mr. A, my 7^th grade social studies teacher, who criminally taught his students to write “The purpose of this essay is…”):

So this morning on the way to school, my eldest child (age 12) asks, "Mom, what was the happiest moment of your life?" YOU try answering that question on a 5-minute drive before 7 a.m. ... before coffee!

SF responded: So? What did you say?

LB: "Right now. Because you cared enough to ask." That would have stopped her in her tracks ;-)

BE: Too many to choose just one? : )

First, I told Viv that I would probably need a full week to ponder all the possibilities (including in my ponderings the definition of the word happiest, as compared to most relieved, excited, elated, joyous, etc.) before I could determine how best to answer the question.

Then, I said that of course there are the obvious times: Our wedding day, the birth day of each child, the day I got my braces off…

But, to satisfy my daughter’s query, I came up with this one, top of mind:

Viv was about 2 years old, and I was utterly overwhelmed by life. I was working full time, enrolled in grad school full time, and still foolishly attempting to fit into my mental mold of what an All-American wife/mom/superwoman should be like.

image from mommytracked.com

After many months of trying to juggle it all, and several weeks of crying myself to sleep each night, I went to my boss and said: “Look, I can’t do this anymore. I need to try something different. Could I possibly cut back my hours, just temporarily, until I can catch up?” My speech was longer than that, and delivered with extreme care — mainly because of the tremendous effort required to prevent myself from breaking down into tears, but also because I still needed the job. I was, after all, the main breadwinner of the family, and we were thoroughly invested in that community, 30-year mortgage and all.

My boss was a man who had juggled and accomplished a great deal in his life, even though he himself was still quite young. He listened very intently (likely also willing me to spare him the discomfort of a weeping woman in his office) and then said this: “Finish out your current project and then take six weeks off. Come in once a week to check email and take care of any necessary correspondence. But your main task for the time off is to get back on track and return a healthy, happy employee.”

He stopped short of urging me to see a physician for clinical depression — advice I also needed at the time. But a friend pointed me in that direction not long after this “happiest moment.”

That night, I went to sleep smiling. Reflecting on it, I remember the saying: “Always be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting a harder battle” (which, based on my Internet research just now, appears to be an amalgamation of sayings from Plato and the man who invented Peter Pan). 

Most of us don’t have the power to grant a stressed-out person a 6-week leave of absence. But we do have the power to be kind in lots of little ways, which can make a huge difference in the bear-ability of others’ everyday lives…and our own.

So, that’s my “Happiest Moment in 5 Minutes or Less” What’s yours?

An Addendum to My Aspirations

This morning I awoke with a burst of creative energy, neurons firing madly. My first thought: Better lighting! Improving our household lighting should be another aspiration for the new year...

Ah, the delights of double entendres (the clean kind)! Because a little while later this morning (yes, I'm writing this at 7:30 and referencing "a little while later" -- hey, I'm an early riser), I read the enlightening blog of my fellow Christ-follower Melanie, a new friend in the past year. You can read my response in her Comments section, but I'll also post it here, as a confession of my heart's deeper desire:

Even as I wrote my own somewhat-silly entry on the new year's aspirations, I too thought of a surrender song: "All my ambitions, hopes and plans / I surrender these into Your Hands..." and also: "All the vain things that charm me most, I sacrifice them to His Blood." Beyond my surface "dreams" for the coming year, I mostly and truly yearn for "A Closer Walk With Thee." Thanks for the much-needed reminder.

I am weak, but Thou art strong;
Jesus, keep me from all wrong;
I’ll be satisfied as long
As I walk, let me walk close to Thee. 


Just a closer walk with Thee,
Grant it, Jesus, is my plea,
Daily walking close to Thee,
Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.

Through this world of toil and snares,
 If I falter, Lord, who cares?
Who with me my burden shares?
None but Thee, dear Lord, none but Thee.

[Refrain]

When my feeble life is o’er,
Time for me will be no more;
Guide me gently, safely o’er
To Thy kingdom shore, to Thy shore.

[Refrain]

What do Yoda, LisaHas2Cats & Hogwarts have in common? My New Year's Aspirations!

A new year and I ask myself: To blog, or not to blog? I really don’t have the time for it. But I’m slightly miserable without a (non-work-related) creative outlet, and this one doesn’t saddle me with do-or-die deadlines or fundraising imperatives. I like that. I think I’ll keep it. (So much easier than a puppy.)

I’m not normally a numbers person (I tell people that part of my brain has atrophied since marrying Tom, the human calculator), but I can’t help noticing that Blogger tallies my entries. It shows a steady decline since I started: 131 my first year, 65 my second year, 32 in 2011. If I only log 16 in 2012, will it be worth it? To me, yes. Just to keep this option open. And that decision made, I begin the new year with a sigh of relief. (Decision-making is an arduous process for people like me. Just ask my friend Mary — she’s a personality assessment expert…and when it comes to decision-making, my opposite!)

Next: Resolutions. I’ve never been a big fan. That’s a lie. I make them all the time. I psyche myself up for major life changes at the slightest excuse for a sticker chart: New week, new month, birthday, anniversary, obscure saint’s day… I start counting the days, weeks, months it would take to achieve thus-and-such a goal. Usually weight loss. How prosaic, right? But the problem with my resolve is that it usually desolves (dissolves, that is).

So this year, I choose Aspirations instead. Another friend (who, by the way, lost a ton of weight a couple years back — okay, a 20^th of a ton, but still…) — he  quotes Jedi Master Yoda: “Do or do not, there is no try.” I realize this kind of thinking lights a fire under some people, but it makes me shut right down. I need to be able to “try, try again.” Even if it means postponing achievement indefinitely. Because, the way I see it, “Do or do not” means failure is a dead-end. And my life, demanding as it is, does not involve any light-saber duels to the death. As long as God gives me breath, I can keep experimenting and endeavoring to do and be better. It’s like LisaHas2Cats on SparkPeople.com wrote a while back:

If you forgot to brush your teeth last night, did you decide this morning to throw in the towel and never brush your teeth again? Since you're obviously a slob who doesn't have enough self- discipline to remember to brush your teeth, why bother brushing them at all if you forgot to last night? Of course not. So if you had ice cream for dinner last night, or didn't exercise yesterday, or gained a pound this week: Don't throw in the towel! Make a healthier choice for dinner tonight by eating something lean. Go for a short walk. Weigh in again next week. Just do NOT give up.

By the way, it looks like LisaHas2Cats could use a little encouragement. If you’re a SparkPeople member, consider leaving her a good word. If you’re not a SparkPerson, why not give it a try? It’s free, and if you tell ’em I sent you (I’m DeepBreath33), I get a bunch of bonus points. Which is almost as good as a sticker chart.

OK, so what are my New Year’s Aspirations?

1) Slim down a bit. If this were Hogwarts, I’d say 40 pounds slimmer. But in A-Town, 20 pounds will do. (Thirty would be nice.)

2) Scale back a bit. I’m leaving a big box at the base of our stairs and I’m asking my family to pitch in. The Goal: In 2012, we will get rid of at least 12 items per week. As in Goodwill, Goodbye. (I did an e-haul this morning, deleting 947 stale from my Gmail account — woo-hoo! I feel so light!)

3) Write a bit more. A modest goal of 16 blog entries this annum? Nah, I’ll quadruple it and aspire to 60! Five per month. (Tom did the math for me.)

Happy New Year!

In defense of unreasonable behavior

My aunts, Margie and Velma, with their daddy, late 1930s

Sometimes, I do unreasonable things. When traveling, I choose out-of-the-way bed & breakfasts over handier hotels. When home, I secure Craigslist "deals" requiring Herculean retrieval efforts. Am I driven by the chase? Or am I, by nature, enchanted by convolution? (I recently reflected on Facebook that I "habitually complicate matters by exploring multiple options." My best friend suggested this would be a suitable epitaph for me.)

Whatever my issue, it often yields eternal blessings in the form of unforgettable experiences. Case in point: My insistence on visiting my aunts last June, with an overpacked truck, plus a tween and tot in tow. Let me unpack...

Last fall, my oldest daughter joined our church's Bible Quizzing team. Like many milestones in my firstborn's life, this precipitated a heap of nostalgia, since Bible Quizzing was a meaningful part of my own youth. I enthusiastically volunteered to help coach the team, another instance of  unreasonableness. As a working mother of four, the youngest of whom was a wee 6-week-old when the quizzing season started, I was hardly in a position to volunteer for anything "extra." Pish-posh -- I signed on anyway ... and "helped" to a greater or mostly lesser degree throughout the first 9 months of the quizzing year, September to May.

Come June, Nationals. Each summer one of the Free Methodist colleges, on a rotational basis, invites Bible Quizzing teams from throughout the denomination to gather for a grand tournament, testing teens' knowledge of the designated Scriptures (last year, the Gospel of John). It's really rather intense. Elite quizzers have memorized the text, word for word, from the New International Version of the Bible. Even rookie quizzers, like my Viv, have developed an impressive familiarity with the material, having been exposed to the questions and answers all school year at monthly, regional quiz meets.

That I fathomed it feasible to stroll my Delia-Doll into super-quiet quizzing rounds in stealthful support of our 2 teams was, well ... unreasonable. But I went anyway, and I did a lot of strolling -- outside the quizzing rooms, zig-zagging across the campus of Spring Arbor University, very thankful for the mild weather. (Summer in southern Michigan is not always so.)

When the long week of walking finally ended, I wanted to go home -- we all did. But, instead, I did something unreasonable: I packed up my stuff, Viv's stuff, Delia's stuff, plus some stuff the other quizzers couldn't quite cram into their car, and I went to visit my father's older sisters. I knew it wouldn't be easy. Several nights away from home had tired me out -- the girls, too -- and I knew there would be logistical challenges. By Saturday, seasonal temperatures had returned. Packing, unpacking and repacking the vehicle ... escorting both elderly aunts in and out of the truck ... guiding them safely to their lunchtime destination of choice, good ol' A&W -- frankly, it was a hassle. In the heat. But, I figured, how could I not? Aunt Marge and Uncle Dave lived a stone's throw from the route back to Albion; Aunt Velma lives a half hour beyond that. Note the verb tenses. When I went to see my aunt and uncle in Ypsi, I had no notion it would be the last time this side of heaven. Both -- yes, both! -- passed away last week.

I'm still shaking my head in disbelief, but it's true. I just returned from their double funeral less than 24 hours ago. Uncle Dave died on Monday, and Aunt Margie went to be with him on Wednesday, the physiological circumstances of which are unclear to me, as a non-medical professional. Dave had been ill for a while, but Marge seemed likely to follow in her mother's footsteps and reach her 90s. Other than her failing eyesight, she seemed reasonably healthy for her 76 years. But life is not always reasonable. And neither am I. The former truth leads to all sorts of pain and confusion. My own unreasonable act, in this case, leaves me with a precious memory.

Did we visit Aunt Velma one more time before we ended our surreal trip to Michigan? We'd have been crazy not to!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My condolences, especially, to my cousins Mark and Michelle and their children. (Imagine losing both parents and two grandparents at the same time!)

Major life lessons learned -- from Uncle Dave: Enjoy life, and for goodness' sake, keep your sense of humor! ... from Aunt Margie: Treasure your family and friends, and always send birthday cards (preferably with a few bucks tucked inside).

The Tercel Saga Continues

Marsha & Cordelia on "Farewell, Tercel" day...6 weeks ago!

The Tercel loves us and does not want to leave. Evidence:

On the advice of our mechanic, after a 246k+ mile relationship, we announced in early September that we would part ways with our “Trusty Tercel.” We decided to donate the vehicle to our local Care Net pregnancy center.

We had trouble tracking down the title (spent far too long looking), but then ordered a replacement through the Department of Motor Vehicles—20 bucks, no big deal.

Then we waited…and waited…and waited.

I was about to call the DMV when our former landlord showed up on our doorstep with the coveted piece of paper. The title had been mailed to our original address (our first apartment—only about a block from where we live now), and she hadn’t got around to delivering it for about a week after it arrived. (I don’t begrudge her busy life. I’ve “been there, done that”…am there, doing that, actually!)

Once I had the title, I went to the Vehicles for Charity website, registered our car for their program, then played phone tag with the administrator, until yesterday.

Yesterday, I discovered that there’s an outstanding lien on the vehicle, even though we paid off the car 13 years ago. So, whose lien it is, ours or the previous owners’? This mystery sent me into the labyrinth of Key Bank’s customer service phone system. Lacking an account number with which to slay the touch-tone dragon, I lingered in limbo-land, intermittently pressing “pound” and “zero” until the robot voice bade me: “Goodbye.”

Eventually, I spoke with a pleasant and competent-sounding woman (for real), who helped me apply for a lien release letter, which is supposed to reach my house in 3 to 5 business days.

I have my doubts. This car loves us.

My own little 'faltering preface'

I am SO on my C-Minus Game that I couldn't even manage to post this on the right day. So it starts out, "It's Sunday evening..." and it's NOT. It's Monday morning. (sigh) However, I read the most encouraging thing today, posted by a Facebook friend: "A person does not need to be anything other or greater than his own little faltering preface — in the confidence that at some point in eternity God will surely bring order out of the individual's divided and piecemeal tale and write an emphatic postscript." — Joakim Garth

It’s Sunday evening. I should be sorting socks. When I’m really playing my “A Game,” that’s what I do between supper and bed on Sundays. But I am not on my “A Game.” I’m not even sure I’m on my “B Game.” My psyche is a little threadbare these days — more like a C Minus.

But blogging might help. I hope blogging helps. I miss blogging. And I’m genuinely touched that my brother-in-law Scott, a faithful A-Town reader, kindly complained about my dearth of posts of late. I’m sorry. And inspired. So here goes: A stream-of-consciousness explanation of my extreme busyness these days, and a moment’s thought to how I might regain control of my schedule and my assorted socks.

My organization’s final fundraising event of the year occurred over the weekend. (Whew!) Plus, we’re about 80 percent settled into our new place. My memory’s foggy. Did I mention our move before my latest hiatus? Yes, the pregnancy center recently relocated — landed a sweet lease: Five times the space for less rent. Pretty amazing, huh? There are “strings attached” — we have to pay our own utilities, shovel our own sidewalks, and manage security of the premises in ways we never had to worry about before. But for the elbow room and exposure the new site affords, it’s worth every extra ounce of toil.

Speaking of toil, I just had one of those “Where’d s/he learn that?!” moments with the children. Reuben and Lucy were sharing chips and salsa in the dining room. The spicy snack somehow inspired my son to bust out with the Albion Alma Mater: “Albion, may thy sons ne’er forget thee and to thy name we ever will be loyal / And through all our days, we will sing thy praise — in times of vict’ry and in times of toil / We’ll cheer for Albion and our song will re-echo, as high above the sea our colors fly / One-two-three great big cheers for thee, dear old Albion!” (Yes, I typed out those lyrics from memory, but no, I don’t recall teaching them to the kids, who typically shush me when I croon corny tunes such as that one.)

Tom is kicking me off the computer, so I am abbreviating my insights this go-’round. It’s a start. Some wise person once said that the hard part’s to begin, but for me, it’s persistence that’s problematic. Perhaps if I perceive it as starting over repeatedly, I won’t feel so discouraged about my various unfinished projects or inconsistent track records. They’re in stages of completion — that’s it! As am I, as am I.

Fewer fish, less stress

Fortuitously, the fish died. The second day of school. Which also happened to be the day our mortgage refinance went through, and our home equity loan, both of which I welcomed as answers to prayers for relief from debt and overall middle-class money malaise.

I didn’t mean to finish off the fish—really. In fact, last Wednesday evening I spent a half hour or more carefully combining the “old” water from their tank with the “new” water, some of which I had allowed to distill for a day ahead of time. I say only “some of which” because when I poured the new water into about a quarter of the old, it left the tank looking pitifully low. (Why I bought a 10-gallon tank off Craigslist for two measly Koi now escapes my recollection. Like so many of my How-did-I-get-myself-into-this? situations, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”)

Actually, “at the time,” you might say I purchased the pucker-faced pets as penance for having forgotten Lucy’s Pre-Kindergarten carnival. It was a late June morning when I received a friendly phone call from the school secretary, informing me that Lucy was sitting sadly on the side of the playground while the rest of her classmates merrily escorted their parents through two-legged races, bean-bag tosses and face-painting stations. Doh!! My stomach lurched with self-loathing. The carnival had completely slipped my mind, and apparently I was alone in this heinous oversight. My little Lu was the sole soul left looking for her mother to join the celebration of early childhood education.

I quickly packed up the baby and dashed out the door, drove to the school and galloped to the rescue, hefting a 27-pound carseat like it weighed nothing. Lucy saw us coming (as did the entire playground-full of people). She ran to meet us, arms outstretched, and jumped into my one free arm. “Mommy!” she heartily exclaimed. “You didn’t forget me!” But of course, I had. So after we indulged in our fair share of popcorn and sticker-winning fun and games, we went to Walmart. To buy fish. The fish I had promised Lucy we could buy “some day.” (“Some day” when Mother needs a little retail therapy to assuage the chaos that is our family schedule.)

Fast-forward two-and-a-half months. I was the only one tending to the fishes’ survival. And I resented it. Tom had not so much as glanced at the creatures. Lucy tried feeding them a few times, dumping far too many flakes into the oversized tank. She and Reuben would watch the fish in short spurts, but get bored after a couple of minutes. Last Thursday morning, Lucy went to bid the fish farewell before boarding the bus. She gasped and shouted, “The fish are dead!!” Indeed they were. 

Whether it was the chlorine or the cold that killed “Shiny” and “Goldy,” I’ll never be sure. All I know is: The same day I wrote off a bunch of bad debt, I also flushed the “guilt fish” goodbye. Coincidence?