It All Comes Back Around

When I was in elementary school, I thought it was the coolest thing when my Dad starting teaching band, utilizing his college degree he had set aside for a number of years. A few years later I thought it was amazing when my Mom, armed with only a vocal education degree, went back to school and got her certification to teach band too.  I jumped right in and became a band geek myself in junior high and high school, and although I didn't particularly want to make a career of it, in the end it was really all I knew how to do.

So I got my degree in Instrumental Music Education compliments of Henderson State University in Arkadelphia, Arkansas.

After marriage and graduation, Wes and I moved to Northwest Arkansas.  Having just completed 4 1/2 years of intense schooling, I was sick of music so I applied for a secretarial-type job to bide the time until we started a family.  

I remember in my job interview I was asked what my degree was.  When I answered, I was told "Well, there aren't any musical instruments around here."

Although I still got the job, I couldn't help but cringe a little.

Meanwhile my parents were still team teaching band and choir at my high school and my brother, who had followed in my footsteps, graduated with his own band degree and was carving out a teaching career in Texas.

It has been roughly 14 years since that time, and although I have been involved in some sporadic music endeavors along the way, I have mostly been a stay-at-home mom; never have I taught officially.

Until now.  Where I am daily surrounded by musical instruments.

I am the Assistant Band Director at Shiloh Christian School and so proud to be using the gifts I have in the area of teaching and music.  I have no idea why now, but I am excited for the opportunity.  Although my parents have retired, my brother is now Head Director at his school in Texas.  Tyler, my oldest, is starting his second year of band and is quite talented if I do say so myself.  (He thinks he wants to be a chef when he grows up, but we shall see, won't we?)

It's funny how it all comes back around.  

A Job Made Just for Me

A simple conversation with someone in a hallway, within minutes on the heels of tears and prayer and the submission of my own will.

An awkward email to someone else composed hours later, me throwing myself out there, inquiring to the possibilities, if there even were any possibilities.

Me wondering what in the world I was thinking, sure it would come to nothing.

An immediate response that caused my knees to buckle.

A meeting. 

An opening I didn't even know existed that was now being silently held.

A conversation between two people, unknown to me, the converging of the earlier simple conversation and the awkward email set into motion without my knowledge or manipulation.

The creation and offer of a part time + part time = full time job, utilizing my best gifts to help two different people in a unique way, created just for me, just for now.

The wonder and awe that still hasn't gone away.

The Next Step

Malawi to...Shiloh??



So I thought I had my life all figured out.  I guess it's a common mistake to make, that arrogant settling into something like we're the boss of things.  Especially settling into a holy something.  Super especially settling into a holy something that you like and are good at (and bonus points that it involves widows and orphans halfway across the world).

But here's the deal:  I knew for a fact God had yanked me right out of my comfort zone three years ago and called me to Malawi--and I was energized.  Shortly after I got home, I went right back again--and I was on fire for the holy work.  After that, I threw myself into full-time volunteer Africa missons.  It seemed perfect for me.  I learned and grew and discovered good things about myself I never knew.  I helped people.  I helped the ministry.  But it was draining me, and I was struggling to find and maintain a healthy balance.  For I quickly grew to love the work and the attention and the satisfaction more than I loved anything else.

This past May, after a couple years of breakneck pace and some increasing instances of insight into the less flattering side of myself that literally brought me to my knees, I gave in.

Not gave up.  There's a difference.

I gave in to the possibility that maybe I was supposed to be done here, no matter how unfathomable it seemed (who decides to be done with a holy work they love and are good at??)  But I silently and with many tears agreed to open up a crack in the door of possibility.   Just like when this started, I surrendered to whatever God had for me.

Three years ago I knew it was Africa.

But the day I surrendered (literally within an hour), events were put into motion that undoubtedly and unequivacally confirmed within a matter of days my new calling.

God was calling me to Shiloh.

Rising from the Ashes

It's hard to write when you are struggling to simply breathe.  But sometimes life gets that way--the crazed striving, the struggle to go and do and do some more.  And in the midst of the whirlwind, when all the air and life and good is sucked out like a vacuum and you feel like there is nothing left to give and do--well, there is a choice to make.  Mine was a hard choice, agonizing and full of grief.  It was a surrender to myself, an acknowledgement that I am not made to be my own master.  It was a slumping of the shoulders, it was hot tears, it was a gaping hole in who I had identified myself to be as I opened myself to the possibility of allowing God to show me who He wanted me to be.

I just want to be me.

This was my heart's cry in the midst of the confusion.

Who am I and what am I supposed to do?

God answered, and with cautious joy I am trusting.


Isaiah 43:19 Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?  I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.

Unhappy Camper

We took our annual camping trip to Devil’s Den this past weekend.  The weather was fantastic, we didn’t forget anything important, and everyone in the family had a great time.

Well, everyone except one.

For Wes, there is always tons of work to do when camping.  He has to pack the truck.  He has to put up the tents.  He has to tie the knots.  He has to make the fire (except for last year).  He has to make sure the campsite is critter-and-fire-safe each night.  He has to “carry me, Daddy” for miles on hikes.  He has to act brave and hold the rock or the stick when someone sees a snake or a huge, gargantuan water turtle.  He has to pick the ticks off the rest of us.  (Yeah, gross, I know).  But even with all of that…the unhappy camper was not him.

Wes taking a break from the "Daddy duties"

The scary snapping turtle I'm glad nobody stepped on

For me, there is always a stress level even while camping.  For starters, I’m away from all of my tech which is both a blessing and a curse.  A forced and welcome respite, but hours in a row that I’m not working and getting further behind on stuff at home.  And then of course it is my job to make sure everything gets in the pile to get packed into the truck.  (One year I forgot a lighter or even a match.  Embarrassing moment having to go to the next campsite over and ask for a light…) While there, I do the cooking and the bed-making and the showering off of children and get to endure comments like “Why are we JUST having tacos for supper?  Why is that ALL we are having to eat?”  (Flour shells AND hard shells, warmed on the fire grate, with hot meat and cold grated cheese and sour cream and lettuce…ungrateful little wretch).  But even with all of that…the unhappy camper was not me.

The only picture with me in it (thanks, Tyler!)

Tyler has his own tent, but has to share with at least one of his sisters.  He brings his tech and movie player, but ends up having to fork his Kindle Fire over to someone else half the time and watch Aristocats instead of Star Wars.  Out in the wilds, he wants to act like a boy and be rough and mean but instead has to tame it down so the waterworks don’t start when one of the girls has all she can take.  He spends hours playing in the water, building rock bridges and dams.  He is my personal marshmallow toaster, making them all toasty golden brown on the outside and completely gooey and melted on the inside.  This year, he was the secondary photographer.   Even with the concessions, Tyler loves camping…so the unhappy camper was not him.

Tyler being the good big brother

Emily, crazy enough as it might seem, is perfectly at home in the wilderness.  She is the one that first spots the snakes and the turtle that looks just like the rocks all around him.  She was the finder of the ticks, carefully giving everyone the once-over and then calling for Wes to take care of the problem. She loves to hike, and usually walks ahead of everyone else, scouting the way.  She likes to sit in front of the fire and snuggle in the tent.   I can’t even pretend that the unhappy camper was her.

Emily perched on a tree

Lauren was the first to get her swimsuit on and bolt to the water. She was also the first one to be covered in mosquito bites and the only one sporting a bright white “X” on a background of deep red in between her shoulder blades.  She passed out both nights from sheer exhaustion and itchiness, in Tyler’s (undoubtedly stinky) “boy-tent”.  I didn’t allow her to take her skirts and cute clothes that she favors so much at home so she actually looked like that tomboy that she is.  Although the description sounds actually quite horrid to me, she had a wonderful time.  The unhappy camper was not her.

Lauren...being Lauren

This was Hannah’s second year to go camping.  She was the one on Daddy’s shoulders.  She was the one complaining about “only tacos”.  She was tired.  She was hungry.  She was itchy.  She freaked out if you even said the word “tick”.  (Luckily we found the one attached to her eyelid while she was still asleep…no, I am not kidding).  But she was out there in the water, and playing in the tent, and ready to go for a hike and content with her “just graham cracker and chocolate bar without the marshmallow” smore after her “just taco and nothing else”.  Even with all of the 4-year-old whining, the unhappy camper was not her.

Hannah is pleased with the water bottle

Hannah demands the offensive bottle be removed from her presence

Actually, the unhappy camper was Penny.

Penny pouting in the chair

Penny tethered at camp

This was the first year for Penny to go camping, since last year she was just a tiny pup.  The kids were so excited, and were so sure she would love it and have an amazing time just like they do.

Except not.

Penny hated the campsite.  She hated the tether.  She hated the hike.  She backpedaled when we took her down to the water.  She hated the ticks (I have to agree with her on that one), she hated the itching, she didn’t eat, she barely drank and when it was finally time to sleep she collapsed into her pillow bed and didn’t wiggle all night long.  The only things she seemed to like was this certain dog we passed on the trail…and I’m not sure if she really liked him or she hated him because she started barking (she NEVER barks) and whining and whimpering and lunging and acting really crazy until we pulled her away.  And then she pouted.

When we got home, we put her outside until we could give her a bath.  I looked out and saw her, face to the ground, scrubbing her face down the length of the yard in the grass.  Then she stopped, flipped her face of the other way, and went the other direction.  Then she flopped onto her back and scrubbed forever that way.

Apparently she was wiping off the camping stink.

It’s too bad, but I guess there is always one unhappy camper in every group.  At least this particular one can be left at Puppy Party next year.

April Showers bring (May) Flowers

It’s that time of the year again for me.  I don’t know what it is about “Spring” but I think it should be renamed “Sprint”. If I were using a mental pedometer, I know for a fact it would have combusted into a million pieces by now the way my mind is constantly spinning.  Every different aspect of life seems to be converging into a huge tangle, all dutifully notated on the calendar in a mash of dates and times and notes in a myriad of carefully designated colors.

Can anybody else relate?

And yet here’s the crazy thing…I really do enjoy everything I’m doing.  I sit around and try to think of what I could cut out, how I can take my mother’s advice of “You’re just going to have to quit doing so many things” and my mental exchange goes something like this:

I could quit being a mom.  Except not.  And I wouldn’t want to.

I could not have so many kids.  Except it’s a little too late for that.  So what, give one away in front of Wal-mart like a stray puppy?  How would I choose which one, anyway? Well maybe that wouldn't be so hard.  (Just kidding!) Not exactly a practical option at this point.

I could cut some of the kids activities.  Except what they do really isn’t unreasonable.  Maybe I should tell my 12-year old he can’t go to church activities every time they are offered just because he wants to so he can have more time to sit in his room and brood or watch TV or get hopelessly addicted to online gaming and have to go to Africa to break the habit one day? (Not that I would know anything about this by the way).  But…ah…I think not.

I could quit my volunteer mission work.  Maybe, perhaps only if God ordered me to for some completely silly reason that only He would understand and agree with.  But I would pout.  A lot.

I could quit staying up late to have any semblance of husband/wife and personal hobby time.  Which would be the emotional equivalent of, say, refusing to eat for the rest of my life.  It might yield some pleasant results in the short-term, but ultimately it would kill me.

I could never go to sleep.  An appealing option, and one that I have sort of tried.  But on a daily basis it doesn’t work much better than the quitting eating idea.

So I have come to the conclusion that the only option is to hang tight and continue to fight through the busy seasons.  The Aprils of life might bring showers (aka great deluges of precipitation that laugh in the face of a mere umbrella) but certainly the Mays (or July as it tends to be for me) will at least bring one day to watch movies and scrapbook while boycotting my email.

And one ultimate day, I will be able to un-scrunch my shoulders forever, wipe the computer-screen stare-frown from my brow, quit running from room to room in an effort to save 2 minutes, and hear the blessed words that I have done my job(s) well.

And I will laugh and sit surrounded in a field of shower-kissed, non-allergy inducing flowers.

Lost

No, not really the popular television series. Although I have to admit I enjoyed it very much (even though I didn't understand the ending at all). And I could probably find a lot of parallels between me and the show if I tried. Am I like Jack, trying to lead and feeling overwhelmed with the responsibility and the hassle of trying to make people fall in line? Am I like Kate, aloof and closed off and although wanting to build proper relationships, somehow missing the mark most of the time? Am I like John, setting off with his own agenda, flouting a confidence I don’t necessarily feel inside? Maybe I’m like Hurley, who just wants everyone to be safe and get along and would just prefer to get on with dinner. Or perhaps I’m like Sawyer? Uh, nah, can’t even really pull a parallel there although I’d love to have the killer lopsided grin. But it’s for sure I’m a little like all of them, with their past eating a hole in their hearts and affecting their every outlook for the future. I think we are all a little like that at times. A little lost.

So I loved it when I opened my blogger this morning and read “The Map and the Plan” on Stuff Christians Like by Jon Acuff. Because nothing is better than a map and a plan if you are lost, right? If you have never read Acuff’s blog, you really should. He can be funny. He can be silly. He can be borderline irreverent with his funniness and silliness. And every now and then, he can be right on the mark with something seriously profound.

Like today, when Acuff recounts something he wrote in his journal some time ago:

“God, I’m afraid of giving the Stuff Christians Like blog everything I have and getting my hopes and dreams tied up in it because at some point it will end. It will disappear and I’m afraid that when that happens I’ll be left with nothing.”

And the reply he felt back from God:

“Good, you’re right to fear that Stuff Christians Like will go away. Because that will happen. It will vanish and evaporate one day. That’s why I don’t want you to give your all to the site. I want you to give your all to me. I want all your hopes and all your dreams.

I don’t want you to give your all to the (fill in your own blank). I want you to give your all to me.

And there is the map, a simple scrawl by a child on a wrinkled sheet of paper. Some curvy dashed lines ending in a large X. There is the plan. Not a 10-step or a 5-step or even a 3-step. A one-step plan that is really quite simple in the understanding, even though we struggle in the doing.

Give your all to me.

I once was lost, but now am found…was blind but now I see –Amazing Grace