he is my favorite.

I love my husband.
I just wanted to take a moment to brag on him.

Yesterday, the first words out of his mouth after I had shared a blessing of God's provision were, "We need to pray right now and thank God for this."

To have a man that turns to God in crisis is a blessing.
But to have a man that turns to Him in abundance is a joy beyond comparison.

And I can't believe I get to call this one mine.

Snapshots and a Few Thoughts.

Earlier this fall I had the privilege of spending an afternoon with a delightful five-year-old girl. We had just finished building a miniature log cabin with some wood scraps when the rest of her family ventured out to begin that evening’s bonfire. Not uncommon to most family activities, someone had brought their camera and began taking a few snapshots to remember the day. I was about to suggest a swinging door for the small front entryway when my play date tapped me on the arm and handed me a stick saying “hold this like this”. She then pointed in front of us to her mom who was about to take our picture. So we sat in close to each other and smiled and the picture was taken. Nothing too unusual except for what happened next. She asked her mom for the camera and walked it back over to me with the digital screen reflecting our pose. And then in the middle of a golden, September evening, that same five-year-old girl looked over and asked me, “Jessi, do we look cute?”

The question was a simple one and not something unlike what I would ask one of my sisters regarding a pair of jeans. But what caught me off guard was the age of this young inquirer and her acute awareness of self-imagery.

A few weeks later my husband and I were walking through the local mall and passed by a mother and three kids. Amidst a flurry of the youngest crying, and the two year old throwing Cheerios on the ground, the eldest daughter (around ten or so) kept insisting that her picture be taken mimicking the model in the store window. Now it’s been a few years since I was that age, but for the life of me I can’t seem to recall such urgency for documentation of my days. I remember a time when taking pictures of birthday cakes or catching a fish down at the dock meant we smiled because our parents told us to. Not because we were wanted to reassure ourselves of our cuteness.

It’s not just grade-schoolers. In fact, the more I come to know and love the Jr. High girls I am able to work with, the more I see this same way of thinking in their social mediums. Countless photos are found on Facebook of individuals taking their own picture from an arm’s length, all with various captions labeling each photo as “me”, “my new hair-cut”, or “just bein’ me”. I’ve even had a few girls come up to me with pictures on their phones saying “Don’t I look good here?”
You-tube is another venue where this line of thinking can be found. It is inundated with homemade videos starring the self. Just the other day one of our patients at work, after waking up from her surgery, insisted that her mother film her groggy antics for her to post on You-tube. Over and over again she mouthed, “film me, film me, film me, Mom”.

However it is not the self-portrait that I find particularly incriminating. Lots of the world’s great artists drew, sculpted, or wrote about “the Self”. But what is discouraging is the intensity and the frequency the adolescent mind seems to be consumed with their appearance.

True to my easily defensive nature I tried blaming this issue on several things. The first being Facebook itself. Such an easy target with tools to create ones own profile and publish images to validate that identity. But although this seemed to be an easy explanation it didn’t account for the fact that my 5-year-old friend was acquainted with this pattern of thinking as well and she is nowhere near a Facebook account. So that possibility was out.

Then there was the old standby- television. Older generations have been blaming behavioral issues on that box for years. Yet while the shows may have changed (arguably for the worse), the medium remains the same. Marshall McLuhan, philosopher and communication theorist, advocates an extremely convincing argument that the medium of television itself is in fact the message. On the basis of this philosophy it seemed that there was nothing new under the sun that would cause such a me-focused behavioral change.

Another possible scapegoat I explored was the digital camera. It could be argued that the digital age has only fostered an insatiable desire for instant gratification. But could the lack of film processing really be the sole culprit of a growing self ware, self-absorbed generation? It seemed too easy.

Truth be told, I’m not sure how long I would have gone on pointing fingers at anything or anyone other than myself, had one of my small group students not revealed a specific and humbling story. Over the course of one of our studies, she shared how her and her friends always sit in the upper balcony at church. One particular service she could not help but notice the deaf interpreter who always came to church to sign for just one woman. She shared how touched she was by his servitude and dedication and that it convicted her to emulate those same characteristics.

She “couldn’t help but notice.” I’ve always been told that those around us are watching what we do, but what I had failed to realize up until that point, is that it’s so much more than that. Not only do we have a younger generation noticing us, they are also processing and incorporating what they see into their daily lives.
So the answer then to where our youth are drawing their awareness of self-awareness, is not from networking system, machine, or digital immediacy at all. But rather those they are imitating on a daily basis. Me! My generation! Our youth are paying closer attention to us than we think. Which leads us to the sobering conclusion that the message we are sending out lately is the elevated importance of the question “How am I looking?” When in actuality, in all matters and at all times it should be, “How am I living?”

The Arctic Tundra.

I would like to take a few moments to discuss what I am assuming is an unspoken, but highly debated topic between married couples today. It is a conflict that, quite frankly, was not mentioned during our pre-marital counseling and as the seasons have changed, so has my understanding of this other human being that I live with. Now, I in no way, shape, or form regret the decision I made to marry my husband. I love and adore that man with all that I am. It is, however, my hope that other warm blooded, single individuals may learn from my naivete, so that they can prepare themselves for the all powerful and ever present angst of the wars that can rage within a home.

Truth be told, there were signs. All throughout our dating history. But of course at that time I did not see them for what they were. At that time the fact we were complete opposites in this realm was something I found endearing and (I shudder to think of it now) even "cute". But woe to the woman who is blinded all too long by loves hand. For her day will come. And when it does, she will find herself donning long johns and clinging to cupfuls of hot tea.

That's right folks. I am not talking about communication or finance arguments here. I am talking pure thermostat upheaval and what it is like living with a towering Yeti who apparently cannot survive in temperatures any higher than 50. I on the other hand, am a tropical bird-content to flit about in the heat and humidity of a well warmed, 75 degree home.

As you can imagine, abominable snowman would never survive a day in the rain forest any more than a Toucan would fair in the icy Antarctic. However, since our utility bill cannot afford to have the heat on with the windows open, this bird and her Yeti have resorted to a less sophisticated and often tumultuous strategy of attaining "optimum core body temperature".

There is no elaborate design to this dance. It mostly involves sneaking and turning things on. And off. And on again.

Take for example this afternoon. I walked in the door to temperatures mimicking that which I had just escaped outside and a husband who wasn't home. I can't be sure because I was mildly on the brink of hypothermia and hallucinations, but it appeared that many of our household appliances and foliage even had a thin layer of frost covering their surfaces. In order to save our plant's lives and my own, I quickly upped the thermostat to a balmy 80 degrees, threw on a pot of tea, and mummified myself in blankets.

But paradise does not last forever. I am not quite sure how he does it without me knowing. We have a one bedroom apt. with the kitchen, living room, and dining room all combined. If someone is clipping their toenails in the bathroom, you hear it while you are eating your dinner, this is how humble our abode is. And yet SOMEHOW, with a quick flick of the wrist, he always manages to kill my happiness and contentment with one turn of the dial. If we didn't go over our finances together each week I would invest in some sort of expensive alarm to catch him in his thieving ways. That and a large space heater.

Lately however, this temperature tango has escalated to new heights and has gotten flat out competitive. I know I am blessed to be married to a man with a sense of humor and most of the time he actually makes me laugh quite hard. But in situations dealing with such delicate issues such as this, there are certain things that I would not categorize under revelry or jovial banter.

Of of these new "games" consists of ambushing the down comforter off of the entire bed after I have just started to drift off to sleep and begin to think I will feel my limbs again. Every night I run from one cold room to another seeking sweet relief in the only sanctuary that always embraces me with warmth. And on occasions, those sacred moments of normalcy are met with cynical laughter and strong arm dangling the blanket over my icicle toes.

There are other tales I could tell of what it is like living in a large freezer involving things like ice cube attacks, restricted dryer using times, and fan wars.
But it is my fear that stories such as this would completely swear one of of entering into matrimony altogether. Which of course is not my intent at all. There are of many ways to prepare for these kinds of differences and to ensure for a blissful home-life together... such as registering for a fireplace instead of a cutting board.

And truly, if you end up lucky enough to marry your best friend, the thing that will make the arctic tundra temperatures wars so worth it is the fact that you have them there to cuddle up to on the couch at the end of the day. And that is one temperature adjusting tactic that neither of us ever seem to mind.

Easy as Pie?

There is a feeling of comfort that takes over when attempting to follow the traditions and secrets of generations before...

There is also a feeling of relief that none of them are in the vicinity to witness the aftermath.

Mind battles and distant travels.

You smell differently each time you return. Not of other women, but of other worlds.

I used to pretend you were my Odysseus of the open road. I told myself I was your Penelope and you were kept captive on a distant shore. It brought me a sense of purpose in the being left behind, that I was there to protect your home while you fought the gods to return. But this will be your 8th trip. Perhaps it is time to stop weaving this tapestry. I cannot bring myself to be angry, for it is your joy, and if it is yours than it is mine. But for so long I have been silent, and as the tears flow, so do my words.

You tried explaining it to me once over dishes. Your calloused hands dried each plate and you told me you could only compare it to the feeling of being chased, but by something good only what you did not know.

I know.
I know you need this. They say this is something every man needs. That it is the call. But can you hear mine?

You are good to me. You've shown me the maps. I've seen the coordinates and destinations and it's all wonderful. But I can never shake the feeling that you end up on a journey somewhere else. Somewhere beyond the logic of topography.


I read your journal before you left. Just a page. You stepped out to the garage and I came to bring you your tea. It lay there, open on the desk with it's oil stained pages. I feared confessions of a lost love. But instead there were only jotted names of towns, equations, and a quote in your scribbled penmanship "further up, further in". Further up and further in where I do not know. Only that it is where I am not. And there are no roads to get me there. Just as well I suppose. I have come to resent the Road as it is.

You hug her curves for months on end and mine are left untouched. Is this your gray eyed goddess? She is supposed to bring you back to me, not away! When she rises up to meet you in the morning does she shine more than these blue eyes? And are the tree lined paths that greet you with a thousand, welcoming limbs warmer than these two here? O that my words could take you places that she could not. Then I could go too, and we could be together-being chased by something good.

I wish you knew it was my heart at your heels. Because maybe then you'd fold up your shelter of nylon and sticks and make your destination our driveway...

You must forgive me. These accusations and lamentations are of no benefit to either one of us.These are the wave-tossed thoughts of a woman torn between jealousy and longing. I am sending them away with the wind, never to be uttered again. I beg you to forget these woes of mine and hear only this as you ride along the shore.

"We are waiting for you traveling man. Hurry home. For new adventure awaits you here. You are not Odysseus, and I am not Penelope, but there is a third character in our tale of love and leaving, and though I am terrified of one day being left times two, he needs to hear you whisper that the world is waiting. And I need you to hold my hand."






*********
Pulled together from:
biker brother and his supportive wife
Niel Peart
C.S. Lewis
drive home from MN
desire to explore all kinds of different stories and characters that have been left behind in one form or another

You are more than a sudden overnight of color and song.

These petals are the ending notes of your soulful concerto. The beginning is a symphony of sorrow and struggle few rarely stop to hear.

Next year, with scarf and hat, I will listen to you sooner. I will walk by your gray and naked limbs, with buds shut tight, and resonate with your cries of longing.

To have so much to say and no immediate outlet to say it. For visions of richness, depth, and purpose, to be contained in such a small space and for so long... How is it done without imploding inward? Without burning up? Without giving out? And how is it that the chaos of color beneath winter's armor is only let loose in millimeters, late at night without witness.

You are a rare breed. The books tell of many who have carried this burden before, only with the loss of sanity, family, or morality.

Yet each year you harbor this same,unbearable tightness in your chest and are brought through. Miraculously unscathed, just as innocent, and even more breathtaking.

Oh that this miracle were true in this heart. To trust this paralyzed state is not without meaning. To know that a flower's turn to blossom does not mean that it is mine. And to rejoice in this late night for what it is- an unobserved millimeter.

photo by Georgia B @ http://itsjusthowiseethings.blogspot.com

To say something new is by all means impossible. But to say something old in a new way...that is the stuff.