Stop and Smell the Chicken

I remember clearly when I got the word that my grandpa was dying. He was my step-grandpa, actually, but my most dear and real grandpa. At the time, life was just plain busy. I had a new job, and I additionally worked part time doing medical transcription. I spent a lot of time at church, and I was in the thick of wedding planning (woot!). Aaron and I somehow managed to get a last-minute four days off our combined four jobs, and we headed down to Virginia. We made it in record time - from Chicago(ish) to almostNorthCarolina in something like twelve hours. Then we raced back. Like, literally raced... aaand I got my first speeding ticket in West Virginia. Super traumatizing. And expensive. I highly recommend getting all speeding tickets in one's home state.

There's a point to this story, really.

I'm in a small group right now, studying the book 7: An Experiemental Mutiny Against Excess.  Today we talked about stress and how to intentionally find rest, even in the middle of our crazy. One question we discussed was, "how does our culture go against the grain of observing a time for rest?" We naturally segued into how we live and drive in Chicago(ish) and how it can make us rushed, impatient, and even angry. I had a memory wash over me from that trip to Virginia...

We were on our way back from Grandma's church on Sunday morning. My grandma was driving her car in front , and Aaron and I were in my car behind her. We stopped at a red light and watched as Grandma's door swung open, she stepped out of the car and shuffled her way back to our car. "JENNI!" she hollered as she approached us (She's slightly hard of hearing, which explains the hollering. She is in her seventies and was wearing her church-heels, thus, the shuffling.) You should know that my sweet Grandma is extremely Southern. Not prim-and-proper-Southern-belle, but Blue-Ridge-mountains-directly-related-to-moonshiners-with-residual-hill-folk-drawl. I'm not saying one brand of Southern is superior to the other. I just want to paint a picture for you here of my Granny-ma in her skirt-suit and pumps, hustling back to our car and calling out, "We're gonna git some chicken! Ya'll go on home and we'll meet you there!" 

IN THE MEANTIME, there were several cars pulling up behind us. The light turned from red to green. We had a conversation about lunch with my grandma, fairly certain the drivers behind us would unleash their Southern fury upon us and we would never actually make it to lunch. (Everyone knows that no one will shoot you more politely than a Southerner, but we weren't terribly comforted by this knowledge.) Grandma headed back to her car just in time for the light to turn red again, and there we sat for the longest red light in the history of mankind. The seconds ticked by, and we braced ourselves. To our amazement, no one even beeped. No one threw their hands up dramatically. No one in that long line of cars hollered out their window at us. They just waited. Clearly, they were not in a hurry and they respected the importance of fried chicken.  Since this day, my admiration for the South and the Southern is so great that I give them forever proper noun status, alway capitalized, never merely an adjective. This admiration falls just short of attaching any form of rebel flag to anything that belongs to me. Also, I will not be participating in Civil War reenactment. I will not do it. Not even for a gallon of sweet tea and a slaw dog (A hot dog with chili, onion, mustard and coleslaw. I want to weep just thinking about it, it's that beautiful).

But I digress. For me, this week is about intentionally pausing six times each day, even if the moment feels more green-light than red-light. I thought Jen Hatmaker put it well, "Stress is the calling card of our generation, the proof of our productivity, evidence of our important lives. We're busy. We're incredibly taxed. We're involved in worthwhile and stunning activities. We ensure our kids follow suit, keeping the schedule of a first year trial-lawyer, and the line items sacrificed are family dinners, unplanned afternoons, breathing space, rest." My pauses will include a short reading (from the Psalms), prayer and stillness. I'm a little concerned about how very weird this seems to anyone reading who isn't "in" this study. If you're my friend already, I assure you this is no more weird than any other thing I do on a day-to-day basis. If you're not a friend yet, I hope you'll just assume the best of me! I'll check in with 'all ya'll' on how my week went in six days or so!

Until then, please don't forget to respond appropriately to traffic signals, and to sometimes just stop and smell the chicken.

rose-colored glasses are so-oo 2011...

These thoughts are egregiously hijacked from people who... well... aren't me. Family, friends, Jesus... hopefully not in that order. :)

Lots and lots of years ago, I was in a musical. It was a low-to-no budget production and there were some things that were sacrificed (like maybe safety). One day when we were on stage rehearsing, a board worked its way loose from one of the really tall props and fell onto a girl's head. I remember watching it topple and fall toward this poor girl, it all felt like slow motion. I absolutely had time to push her, holler, try to catch the board - SOMETHING - but I didn't.

I was frozen.

I think back to this sometimes. I so wish this wasn't a reflection of my personality, but it totally is. I see something bad happening, and I'm seized with this pathetic paralysis, caught in indecision until the crisis has passed and the point is moot. I hate it so much, so I decided about a year ago to do something about it! I decided to defy my natural instinct and act. It didn't matter if at the moment my life was good and theirs was bad, I would choose to see the need and try to find a way to help. I happen to have landed in a church with a whole lot of like-minded people when it comes to this, and I LOVE it. Here are some things I am learning from them and from others.

1. Empathize and give yourself permission to act even when what the hurting person is experiencing is more than you can wrap your mind around.

2. Get practical and do what you can do. Cook food, give rides, bring coffee, cry with them. Don't say "Let me know if there's anything I can do," and expect that to actually be helpful.

3. If you just don't know what to say, listen and let your words be few. You don't need to be a licensed psychologist to be there for them. Put your arms around them and shut the heck up.

3. If you do know what to say, wait for the right way and the right time to give your input. People in traumatic situations don't need to be bossed.

4. Let others help, too. It's not about you or me. For some reason, it can be really tempting to 'hog' the hurting person when you're positioned close to them. Maybe it's ego? I don't know, but I think I'm learning how important it is to let others come in and bless in ways they are gifted to bless.

I can't end a post like this without a shameless plug for be(LOVE)ed, a group I am honored to be a part of. They ROCK at caring for people in practical ways during times of sickness, loss, or other need. If you're looking to be a blessing, find other people who are doing it and MOVE with them. I'm looking forward to intentionally "move with the movers!"

Wearing your husband's clothes (and other slippery slopes)

"Can I wear a pair of your dress socks?"

These are actual, non-dramatized words I spoke to my husband a few days ago. As I uttered them, I just knew I had hit a new low. There were two things that brought me comfort, though. First, said socks did not even come close to fitting me - the proper heel of the sock stuck out awkwardly mid-calf. Second, I did have a legitimate need. Upon assessing my sock-drawer situation, I realized I have exactly ONE pair of 'dress' socks, and ZERO pairs of the brown persuasion. I almost had rationalized how completely not-weird it was for me to wear my husband's socks, when, without missing a beat, Aaron cheerfully and non-judgmentally said, "Sure!" This had become so commonplace in our relationship that he didn't even bat an eye.

It's official. I have a problem.

I'm actually kind of normal. I have my very own closet as well as my very own dresser, which contain clothes that both fit me and belong to me. I just find myself increasingly turning my back on my own clothes and going to my husband's closet. It started years ago with one innocent item, a Chicago Bears hoodie he first offered me when we were ALMOST dating. You know the story...the girl is all, "oh dear me, it's just so-oo cold in here" so the guy offers her his big, manly sweatshirt. The girl conveniently 'forgets' to give it back until he officially asks her out,  (in retrospect, she realizes he probably just did this in an effort to get his shirt back) at which point she might as well just keep it forever because they will be married and she will need it as a maternity shirt before he can even blink... I'm sure it makes perfect sense to you that this hoodie now possesses some nostalgic power over me and I keep returning to it. One time, Aaron put it in the Goodwill pile. Upon finding me crouched in the dark closet, clutching it and hissing "my preciousss...", he promptly returned it to its hanger. He's a good man.

I guess this probably WAS cute when we were dating. I paired his shirt with my size 4 ultra low-rise Aeropostle jeans, sitting snugly on hips that resembled those of an 11-year-old boy. It's somehow not as endearing now when the other half of my outfit is the pants I slept in, resting a comfortable seven-and-a-half inches above the hips that have borne two children. Go ahead and throw in whatever-I-fed-Landon-last smeared on my chin and eye makeup from yesterday that appears to be making its pilgrimage from my eyes to my cheekbones. I imagine I must look like a live recreation of Lindsay Lohan mug shots... with birthing hips...

(I just need to admit here, my flair for the dramatic MAY have caused me to exaggerate some of that.) 

I will always-and-forever remember one bridal shower I went to where one of the bridesmaids was offering some words of wisdom. She talked about how her mom would make sure her hair was fluffed (I'm assuming this was in a fluffy-hair era) and she put on fresh lipstick just before her dad came home from work. I think that's so sweet! How awesome would it be to reclaim this slippery slope and work harder to look cute for my sweet hubby when he gets home? It won't always happen, but, by golly, today I will NOT have pumpkin puree on my face when he walks through the door... because I love that man!

Downton Crabby

Let's talk Downton. Everybody loves to hate a certain character - be honest, you're not above it and neither am I. Here's my dilemma - I can't decide who is THE WORST character in season three. Just when I think that one character (O'Brien) can get no more reprehensible (O'Brien), they come back and redeem themselves just enough to confuse me (still O'Brien).

So, shall we lay out the facts to determine who is the chiefest of the Downton villains?

1. O'Brien.  

A typical day in the life of O'Brien might include sabotaging other household staff members, empty flattery, and/or chain smoking.

O'Brien's most heinous offense was leaving a slippery bar of soap outside the tub for pregnant Lady Grantham to trip on. This led to the tragic miscarriage of the unborn Grantham son who would have solved Downton's pesky heir problems.

Her redeeming qualities include an ability to think on her feet, fierce loyalty to those she cares about, and her ability to keep Thomas at bay.

2. Thomas

"Hide yo' kids, hide yo' wife, hide yo' husband!" Or maybe just that last one.   On a typical day, you may observe Thomas making unwelcome advances toward house guests, staff etc. Since he is forever an unrequited lover, a failure at black market entrepreneurship, a petty-thief, a coward on the battlefield and a dog-napper, we may be able to overlook his tobacco addiction.  Taking these into consideration, I can't even begin to narrow it down to a most heinous offense. He's sneaky and manipulative. I mean, just look at that face.

A redeeming moment happened, in my opinion, when he wept over Sybil's death. Perhaps he has a soul after all. Perhaps.

3. Branson

A typical day in the life of this former chauffer would undoubtedly include heated political debates, "marrying up", attending nationalist rallies, and occasionally burning down the homes of wealthy noblemen.

Branson's most heinous offense was leaving pregnant Sybil to fend for herself and sneak her way back to Downton while he ran from the law.

Seasons two and three show few redeeming qualities for whiney Tom, but your heart goes out to him when his sweet wife dies after childbirth. We all really liked season one Branson, too, so that has to count for something.

4. The (late) Mrs. Bates

A typical day in Vera Bates' life would show that she is a vengeful wife, a thief, a blackmailer, and a murderer of true love. In a word - she's SCARY.

Her most heinous offense is allegedly suicide with the intent of framing her husband, John Bates, for her murder. The jury is still out on that one.
Pun intended. :)

I can't tell you if she has any redeeming qualities, but she certainly can't get any worse from here on out!

5. These Guys

A typical day in the life of these guys would involve a collaboration for running drugs in prison. I think. I'm super confused about them, actually, but they seem menacing. FREE BATES! (Sorry, had to say it.)

Most heinous offense - stashing drugs in Bate's bed to frame him.

Their inadvertent redeeming quality is that Bates is totally manning up under the pressure they're putting on him!

6. Molesley

A typical day in Molesley's life would probably render you comatose. Just the name "Molesley" conjures feelings of "bleh". He's so blasted boring and occasionally sniveling. I feel for Molesley what Michael Scott feels for Toby Flenderson. This probably means I'm a closet bully or something, but he needs to be stuffed in a gym locker for the rest of the season.





I honestly think I'll have to wait until the end of the season to truly know. Will Thomas and O'Brien get on the patch and change their ways? Will Branson mellow now that he's a father? Will Molesley detect dangerous levels of radon at Downton and save them all? Is it next Sunday yet so I can see what happens next?!