Tag: humor

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Courage is Not the Absence of Fear

courageI feel pretty confident as a writer –it comes naturally and it’s in my wheel house, but public speaking on the other hand, has been a long process over the last ten years of trial and error, practice and more practice and an unfailing trust that God has got my back even when I’m TERRIFIED.

I used to be one of “those” people they quote in statistics; you know the ones who would rather die than get on a stage and open their mouth?

Clearly God has a sense of humor about my current occupation as writer/speaker.

So, I’m finally to the point where I’m mostly comfortable up front and can laugh and joke and poke fun with the crowd, but I’m still learning how to handle the unexpected without getting my feathers flustered.

Like last Monday night at Frister’s when the powers of evil tried to take me out in the women’s restroom.

I pulled up to Yorba Linda Friend’s church a few minutes early and managed to get lost in the massive worship center before I located the area I was to speak for the young women’s group.  Then I searched for the bathroom. 

Not to be too graphic…but I had to tinkle –BAD.

Yep, I was doing the potty dance and when I finally located the long bay of restrooms I ran in with great relief. 

And since I had a really full bladder, I figured I had a minute or two to check the Twitter feed on my iPhone for the Boston Marathon bombings.

(No judgment please)

Within a few seconds, I was totally engrossed in the news and pictures and terrible sadness when all of a sudden the lights turned off.

And it was pitch black, darker than dark.  

I’m not kidding –it was the absence of all light.

No windows existed in the cavernous ladies restroom of the Friend’s Church and I couldn’t see an inch in front of me except for my trusty iPhone.

I managed to button up and stand, slightly panicked, when my tiny source of illumination and hope flickered out.

My iPhone died.

Seriously?

Now real panic set in.

I figured I was in one of those bathrooms where the lights are triggered by motion.  So I frantically waved my arms around like a crazy person.

BAD IDEA SAM.

This resulted in bone crushing pain to my right arm but still no light.

Clutching my arm and purse I finally got the lock open on the door, staggered out and crashed into the sink. 

As I howled in pain, jumped up and down and dropped more BAD words than the FRIENDS probably ever heard, the lights FINALLY turned back on.

I glanced in the mirror and groaned. 

There I stood, three minutes before go-time, with black mascara and tears streaming down my face, hair and clothes completely disheveled and an arm I couldn’t lift.

How was I supposed to pull this train-wreck together?  I was pretty sure my arm was fractured. 

And then I thought about the marathon runners in Boston who gave blood after running 26 miles and the rescue workers trudging on and the people fighting for their lives with blown off limbs.

And I knew the power of a God who raised Christ from the dead could get me through the next hour.

Seconds later I walked out of the bathroom from HELL and did the job God called me to do. 

Fast forward sixty minutes and now I’m praying with a young girl in tears convicted to end her life of promiscuity.  It was humbling and healing and so REDEMPTIVE.

And I thought about our responsibility as ministers and representatives of Christ.

My job is not to entertain or put on a show or dazzle with words. 

It’s really just to show up –real and wounded and raw. 

And somehow, in spite of all our fears and clutziness and epic bathroom debacles he uses the scared and the weakest of these to show HIS glory.

 

How does God show up in your weak moments? 

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Finding Peace in a Mother’s Chaos

Christmas 2012

Almost a year ago I made the jump from working at the office full-time to freelancing. 

One day a week, I pull out my old work clothes and attempt to de-Momify.  One day a week I am a professional.  The rest of the week I wear yoga pants.

Here is what I learned about working mostly from home –it’s (insert bad word) hard. 

There are no boundaries between work and home, just blurry lines and lot’s and lot’s of compromise.

I erroneously thought it would be easier to be at home more.

Even though I used to be a stay at home (for the first six years with Kyle and Faith), I forgot how managing a home and toddlers and teens will suck a woman dry. 

Kind of like the Dementer’s from Harry Potter. SWWWOOOOOSSSHHHH.  Can you picture it?

Sometimes I feel like I have an identity crisis.  I work outside the home and inside the home.  It’s like two-full time jobs competing for my attention.

I still have to clock in the 20-30 hours of paid work so we don’t starve.  But now I have no housekeeper to take the edge off.  I still have to cook meals and make lunches and drive 21 trips to or from the kids schools a week.  I have to maintain sports schedules and wash stinky football clothes and bring snacks.  I am still a team mom-although I really shouldn’t because I am so NOT that mom)

Some weeks I manage it all and sometimes I want to sit on my dirty floor and cry.

As I sit down to write I see dust bunnies floating by –taunting me as only a dust bunny can do.  My bathroom is messy and the laundry piles up and out the door. 

No guest is allowed to enter the upper chambers.  I can keep the downstairs immaculate but I’ve pretty much given up on the upstairs.  It’s a disaster in progress.

I have friends that joke about how I can do it all.  I just shake my head and drool.

A mother of a large family simply survives.

Mom’s simply work and work and work until they fall down from exhaustion and then they watch HGTV or the History Channel (because their husband has canceled all the good channels to save money) and they lie like a zombie on the sofa until their kids throw things at them and demand to be fed and taxied to the next event.

Every day I am forced to choose between keeping up with the house or making enough money to have a house. 

I read the other day that although work equality has “come a long way baby,” (since the 1960’s) household management has not seen any change.  This means most women now work and carry the full load of housework and kids.  Dads might help more with baby and kid’s activities but guys feel completely entitled to park their butts in front of a football game and let mom serve them.

Of course I’m talking about national averages here.  My husband is the exception.  When he is home he always pitches in.  Unfortunately, until he finishes graduate school and juggling a million pastoral duties…well you get the drift.

But even though I still feel overwhelmed with motherhood, being at home more is well worth the struggle.

Because there is a place in my heart now that used to ache and now the ache is gone.

A year ago, I missed my kids desperately and day after day being gone for ten hours at a time was killing me.  (Along with the commute)

I really don’t think you can put a price tag on peace.  And a mother’s peace is different from a man’s.  There are certain desire’s of the heart only a woman understands. 

For the first time in ages, I am home when my big kids get home from school.  I am home with my toddler more often than not.  I get to go to the park and the pool and take bubble baths and read books and watch Mickey’s Twice Upon a Christmas four hundred times. 

I get to be present with my kids. And even though it’s really HARD it’s good. 

So…although my house is dirty and I have to squeeze in work and writing assignments during nap time and at zero dark thirty, I know I am not missing a thing.

And for a modern mother it doesn’t get much better than this –identity crisis and all.  (Although if anyone knows a free housekeeper…it could be a teeny-tiny bit better)

What things in your life do you need to change to find peace?

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Formal Drama

It’s been a week of ‘formal drama” –Winter Formal to be exact.

My freshman son asked a girl to the dance.  This isn’t a big deal normally, but the girl he asked is kind of a big deal.  She is a gorgeous professional surfer and model currently living in Hawaii. 

Clearly my boy has no problem aiming high with the ladies.

Kyle asked her through Facebook and amazingly the blond beauty said yes.

Until she said no.

Her dad, also a professional surfer decided to add a competition on the day of the dance and therefore delay their families return.  The mom (did I mention she is a model too?) did not want the family flying apart and so the hopes of my boy were crushed.

The girl texted him to let him know she wouldn’t make it.

In the back of my mind I always doubted this date would occur.  When I look at the Facebook photos for their family I see stunning celebrities partying on the beach and living the high life.

I struggle to understand how THAT life intersects with ours. 

Pastors and Pro Tour Surfers?  Sounds a bit complicated…

In our “Catholic school reality” we have STRICT dress codes for dances.  No cleavage, no short dresses and no skin allowed.  From what I’ve seen of her skimpy wardrobe and itty bitty bikini’s, I’m guessing this girl doesn’t own a dress that would get past our Nuns.

Now I can understand why my son would want the golden girl to accompany him. 

But I can’t understand why the super awesome family wouldn’t rearrange their entire life so my darling son could take their daughter to the dance. (Yes…this is me being sarcastic)

Kyle took it well, but I was bummed. I might have even cried a little when no one looked. 

But because my son is a fighter, he got right back up in the saddle and asked another beauty to accompany him.

And this one said yes!

Not only did she say yes, she filled out the permission form within twelve hours and had her principal sign it.  She and her mom hand delivered it to my son’s school, bought a dress and ordered a corsage within a day.

I love this girl! 

This lovely young lady attends Santa Margarita, another Catholic high school in the area.   And…I didn’t even have to explain the stringent dress code.  She already got in trouble at another dance so she knows the routine.

Although Kyle’s initial dream date didn’t work out, I’m proud of the way he handled his disappointment. 

And who knows?  This one might be the real catch…

Have you had a recent disappointment turn into a blessing in disguise?

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Fred, George and Goldilocks

Christmas 2012 Kolby 4

Fred and George still haunt me.

Not in the way they used too, I mean I’m not afraid of ghosts anymore, but their names still bring back delicious terror.

You see…daddy told me when I was a wee tot that two ghosts lived inside the walls of my bedroom and if I dared to climb out of my bed they would get me.

Let’s not even bring up how demented this is.  When I’ve suggested it was a form of child abuse to my dad he still falls over laughing. 

But one day I realized, like Jim Carey in the Truman show, that no apparition appeared if I defiantly stuck out a toe or a limb.

I caught on pretty quick that my reality was not REALITY.

Eventually I worked up the courage to run like a bat out of hell out of my room and sneak over to my mom’s side of the bed who always let me in for a cuddle.

I thought a lot about Fred and George last night because my toddler refuses to stay in her bed.  And after two weeks of not sleeping and now fighting off illness (probably from massive sleep deprivation) I’m almost ready to ask Fred and George for some advice.  They keep appearing in my feverish hallucinations taunting me with a whole night of un-interupted slumber.

Kolby moved into the BIG GIRL BED a few weeks ago.  We took the crib down, stored it in the garage and unknowingly kissed sleep goodbye.  Most of the time I take the hit for Tim, because out of the two of us I do better without sleep, although he had to step up last night as I borderlined pneumomia.

It’s the second time we’ve tried the BIG GIRL BED.  After a failed attempt a year ago, we aborted mission and put her back in the crib.  Last time it was because she potty trained and needed help to use the restroom in the middle of the night.  I couldn’t handle waking up every three hours to help her tinkle, so up went the porta-crib again in our room so I could at least keep the lights off as I guided her tiny butt to the potty.

But now she is physically too big to stuff in the porta-crib.  The fact that she was complaining about her legs and arms hurting might have been an indication we had played out that card a little too long.

In goes Kolby into the BIG GIRL BED and within one hour she has snuck back into our bed to go horizontal on us and kick one of us in the head or the kidney.  She lies on me, throws elbows in my chest and breathes her sweet baby breath in my face.

I put her back to bed.  Tim puts her back to bed.  Press repeat over and over until we are so exhausted that Tim goes to the sofa around 3:00am to salvage any sleep whatsoever and then Kolby kicks the crap out of me until 6:00am when I have to get my teenager ready for high school.   

I am a ZOMBIE and I am way too old for this.

I’d toss her out like a sailor if not for the fact that I love her soooooo much.  This third baby of mine has both daddy and I whooped, sucker tied and wrapped around every phalange. 

She is terrifically spoiled and we are wimps when it comes to her little grin and Goldilocks.

Is bribery the next option?  Will it take a puppy to get her to sleep in her bed?  I’d gate her in but she shares a room with her sister with an adjoining bathroom to her brother’s room.  She’ll just walk right through into his room and find us.  She’s smart like that.

This kid needs incentive…

What makes a toddler want to stay in bed?

All advice will be considered except ghosts and spanking.

 

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The Agony of Finals Week

P1020004

It’s Finals week and all the crazed and neurotic mothers have come out of the woodwork.

I know I am not alone.  I can see it in their eyes and Facebook posts.  Mom’s are on the edge.  (It’s when kids secretly text that mom has turned into a big bad word starting with a B)

Somehow we mama’s must make our kids buckle down and STUDY, a challenge not unlike removing a wad of sticky gum plastered to the bottom of the dryer.

Help! How do I channel the vision of a first-class college degree and the impact of a strong GPA onto a fourteen-year-old who just wants to get buff so he can sack quarterbacks and score hot chicks. 
 

I see him graduating from Stanford.  He imagines himself running out of Autzen Stadium in Oregon.  I see Summa Cum Laude.  He sees Grabba Thigh Beta.

I suggest he is a student/athlete,  while Kyle see’s himself as an athlete/student. 

Don’t get me wrong, my son is a sweet and Godly kid but puberty has hit hard.  He weighs 182 lbs and is just shy of 6 ft.  He looks and smells like a burly man.  And yet he is still an impressionable child in many respects.

Can someone tell me how to get through the layers of muscle and hormones to reach the logical side of the brain?  I’ve heard teenagers are  brain-damaged (AKA immature) until they reach their early twenties.

How do I teach rational thought to Jello? Every nugget of wisdom bounces right off him. 

“Mom, barely any of my friends even study for finals.  Stop stressing.  I’m way ahead of the game,” he says with a laidback smile.

Inside I freak out some more.

Right now I’ve improvised with complete and utter bribery.  I ply him  with food, protein and what we call “party grades.”  This means Kyle has to get good grades to attend all social events.  There is no iPhone this week. FaceBook is off limits.  We force him to make flash cards and actually review them.

So far it’s sort of working although it’s a VERY painful process.

We’ll see how he (and mama) survives Finals week.  Two more days of torture!

How do you motivate your teen to study?

 

 

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Doomsday Eve

I feel a little discombobulated today.

The protocol of Doomsday Eve is a bit uncertain. I’ve never experienced the last day before the last day of the world –unless you count Y2K and I recall that evening as REALLY anticlimactic. Nothing exploded, NORAD didn’t go off, and the champagne fizzled. 

But back to today…should I do anything radically different? 

I’ve considered going big.  Maybe downloading some new books on my Kindle, charging a few items on my credit card (since I’ll never have to pay the bill, right?) and topping off the evening with lots of kisses and cuddles to my munchkins and hubby.

Since we are starting a new tradition here, now that the end of the world seems to be predicted every ten years or so, maybe we could light a few candles and say a few prayers to all the doomsday Jackwaggons who have profited by instigating mass paranoia, hype and fear among the nations.

I read today that the real Mayans aren’t stocking up on food or guns.  Since half of the prophetic tablet is broken, they aren’t looking for decimation but instead towards a new season where they can fill in their own calendar with soccer games and Mayan celebrations.  I like their simplistic philosophy –while they happily live in huts and avoid the rat race, we in the more developed nations read their ancient antiquities and freak out.

A comment on one of the Doomsday sites from Mike Vidovich had me in stitches.

“Calendars change throughout history.  Caesar added leap year in 45BC. The Mayan calendar didn’t account for it. That added 514 days (1 every 4 years). By the Mayan calendar, today should be near the end of July 2013. Technically the world should have ended 7 months ago by the Mayan calendar.”

Mike, that’s comforting.

If one was to predict a real Doomsday, I think we might all be better off keeping our eyes on the nukes in the Middle East, preparing for more super-storms and taking earthquake and tsunami preparedness a little more seriously. I’m more afraid to send my kid to school these days then to worry about aliens coming down to some mountain in France tomorrow.

None of us is promised another day.  Lord willing, we will all have one more day to love and serve and make the world a better place.

So today, I will write, I will love and I will finish my Christmas cards.  I will clean my house which has gingerbread cookies crumbs everywhere and I will find the time to buy more presents that I can’t really afford for my beloved family.  I will snuggle my kids and wrap my arms around my darling husband.  And if this is my last day, then I will have no regrets.

And Saturday morning I will try not to mock the people who are disappointed to see another sunrise. “Try” being the optimum word.

 

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Terrible Two’s and the Grocery Store Meltdown

Kolby Keller (AKA “Lamby-Pants”)

It’s a hard sell after a long day at pre-school to get little Kolby anywhere near the grocery store.  I’m afraid to even suggest the appalling word –Pavilions, knowing it will bring on growls and whining.

All Kolby can think about is driving straight home, noshing on MACANONI, plowing through eight or nine books, taking a bath with her Dora shampoo and falling into mommy’s arms exhausted by 7:45pm. 

My two-year-old loves routine.

But mommy had to pick up dinner for the family and the pain of a cranky toddler was a necessary evil.

In we trooped to the store and quickly made our purchases.  Kolby commented on the balloons, the cards, and the Christmas decorations.  She pointed out the green bananas, offered her critique of pepperoni vs. sausage pizza and spelled out the letters on every sign. 

In the checkout line Kolby noticed the man behind her.  She smiled at him and struck up a conversation.  I felt a tug on my leg.  “Mommy, who is he?” she whispered.

Overhearing her, the man replied, “My name is Garrett.  What’s yours?”

Kolby stuck out her tiny hand.  “I’m Lamby-pants, nice to meet you.”

I corrected her and giggled, “Her name is Kolby and sometimes Lamby-pants.”

Kolby’s smile vanished.  “Mom, I am Lamby-pants!  That’s what you call me,” she shrieked as only a small child can. 

(It’s the scream from Hades every parents fears and it ALWAYS happens in the checkout line)

All commerce stops.  All eyes turn to the parent to see how they will react.  After three kids I know the routine.  If I freak out, I can guarantee someone will recognize me as the pastor’s wife and make a thinly veiled comment. My only option is to ignore the pounding in my head, offer a firm but calm response and to flee from the scene ASAP.

“Mr. Garrett my name is Lamby-pants,” she spitted out, glaring at me with all the hostility she could muster.

Mr. Garrett nodded at my small child who morphed into Carrie, afraid her head would spin around and spew out green vomit if he disagreed.

I raised my eyebrows, shook my scarlet cheeks, and paid for my frozen pizza and wings.  “Ok Lamby-pants, let’s say goodbye and get the hell out of here,” I muttered under my breath, trying not to look at anyone.

I tried to knock off the big L on my head as I ran out the door, but it refused to budge.

Note to self * After 5:30pm, Dominoes is always WORTH the cost of delivery*

What’s your most embarrassing moment as a parent?

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Paybacks are Hell

I grew up as an SC fan.  Not many people know this about me.  My father finished his graduate work at the University of Southern California and went on to become a Dr. of Optometry.  Our home was a bastion of all things crimson and gold and as season ticket holders –we never missed a game.

I dreamed of becoming a USC song-leader and leading the “Fight On” song with bouncy curls and overpriced pom poms.

Until the day I applied to the prestigious school and daddy balked.  When costs were considered, my always frugal father had second thoughts.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to spend so much money on a “girl child.”

So the pissed off girl child retaliated.  She became a Bruin and graduated from the enemy school.  From that day forward, the rivalry in the James home began.

We tease, we jibe and we call from games and leave voice mails with the roar of the crowd.

When I was in college, (class of ’98) Cade McNown was in his QB element and the Bruins were on a roll.  We ruled the hoops (back to back NCAA champions) and ranked high in the BCS. 

But as we all know…it’s been a long time since the glory days and I’ve been the recipient of years of brutal bombasting.

Until now…finally, I sense a glimmer of hope.  Coach Jim Mora is staging a comeback! 

So when our USC neighbors covered our lawn and trees with toilet paper in broad daylight right before kickoff, we figured it was game on in the rivalry department.

They left a USC sports drink on our porch as a nice little jab.

I love pranks and thought this was classic.  I laughed and laughed.

After a FANTASTIC game, which UCLA pulled out (thanks to about 17 errors from USC) we scraped by and won.  The Keller home exploded in cheers.

Then we took our UCLA flag down to our neighbor’s home and quickly replaced their USA flag with our tattered Bruin’s flag and took a picture.  It hung right next to their large USC flag.  We posted it on Facebook and chuckled all the way home.

The payback was awesome…until we received a message from the owner of the home expressing his dismay. 

He was not a happy camper.

Confused, I quickly apologized to the wife and groveled. 

(It didn’t make any sense…why would the neighbor be so upset when he and his kids had trashed our yard?)

She then explained they weren’t the ones who toilet papered our home.  It was another neighbor WHO LET US BELIEVE it was the other family.

Oh Shiznet!

We were FRAMED by a stealth USC fan.  And we bought it hook, line and sinker.

Paybacks really are hell when you screw up the payback.

Now who feels like the JACKWAGGON of the century!!!

It’s time for more groveling.  A large case of beer and cookies will soon be delivered along with more apologies.

UCLA may have won the game, but in our neighborhood, USC came out on top. 

 Have you ever experienced a misunderstanding of epic proportions? 

Photo Credit: LA Times

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Party Pooper

I wanted to help a new friend.  So I broke my own cardinal rule and hosted a jewelry party for her at my home. 

It’s never a good idea to stray from core values and it didn’t go well for me.

There may be something to picking a bad event date.  Note to self  *Nov. 7th SUCKS!  Most of my good friends were previously engaged with kid’s activities and work and board meetings. I should have canceled the event or picked a new date.

I get it.  We are busy, busy people. But almost a dozen ladies agreed to join me, so I went ahead and forged on with the party. 

Some cancellations are explainable.  My sweet neighbor has a three day old baby.  She gets a pass.  Another dear friend is moving –she fell asleep accidentally early in the evening.  I hate moving.  I understand.

But the other ten people who RSVP’d to my party and didn’t show… I need a note from your teacher.

Because I felt like a BIG loser. 

It’s like waiting for your date to show and waiting and waiting and waiting.  And then you take off your makeup and try not to look in the mirror to see your sad face.

I did however have three of my daughters friend’s over.  We played Just Dance and ate all the food I prepared.

We ate a lot.  Hey ladies…the appetizers were awesome.

I sat on my barstool next to my jewelry friend and tried not to panic.  But we both knew by 8:30pm the party was a disaster.  My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

It stinks to feel unwanted and discarded for the “Voice” or something better that came along.

My pride prickled.  I wanted to cry but I honestly didn’t have it in me.  I was too exhausted from cooking and cleaning. 

It was a great opportunity to be reminded of my true worth and value which is not dependent on a room full of women purchasing jewelry.  I spent some time in Psalms this morning refreshing my wounded spirit.

“Although you and your circumstances may change dramatically, I remain the same throughout time and eternity.  This is the basis of your confidence.  In my presence you live and move and have your being.”*

I’m guesing Jesus had some parties that didn’t go over too well either.  It brought back my smile.

Next party…no jewelry. And just so you know, if you no-showed, I still love you.  A lot!

Have you ever had a party where no one came? 

 

*(Taken from Acts 17:28 Jesus Calling)

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Dreading the Evil Christmas Card Photo

I went cold-turkey for a while.

I just couldn’t take the pressure.  I didn’t want to play the suburban game of my kids are cuter than your kids.  I didn’t want the pressure of feeling inadequate as a single mom.  So I just said “to heck with it” and stopped taking the dreaded picture altogether.

What dreaded picture you ask? 

Oh right…I’m referring to the DREADED Christmas card picture!

The one that gives a mommy shingles just thinking about it.

Now that I am married and added another munchkin into the mix it seems like the card thing is necessary again.  Our extended family wants to see images of the kids and it’s expected that I make the effort.

The truth is, I shudder with anxiety just thinking about trying to get my family to match. 

My son wants to spike his hair up in a faux-hawk and look edgy, my tween girl wants to wear lip gloss and roll her shorts, and all my two-year old wants to wear is her lion costume.

Help!

When I try to get some love from daddy he’s already ticked because I booked the picture on Sunday afternoon (his only day off) and he is missing his favorite Seahawks game. 

Everyone is grumpy when I bark out orders and turn into Scrooge Mom for the perfect picture.

Look happy or mommy will have a MELTDOWN!

Seriously, Pinterest has screwed us all when it comes to photos, parties and crafts.  No one just schleps anything together anymore.  Every kid’s party is a cutout tribute to graphic design.  Every sepia card and Martha Stewart wannabe has upped the stakes. 

I just can’t engage in this virtual game of crafty awesomeness anymore.

For crying out loud, I’m still six months out on my thank you notes.

Man I miss the easy days of ice-cream and cake and Polaroid’s.  A few balloons, a dash of streamers and we were rocking.  I bought my pre-made Christmas cards at Target and threw in a few school pics. 

But then the game changed and everyone’s cards got really cool.  My pride prickled at my measly offering.  So I bought the Pinterest lie to be more creative than I really am.

So how do I wrangle my family to look joyful, be hip and cool and wow my friends?

I think I don’t. 

I think I might let my family wear whatever they want to. 

I’ll just let them be themselves and maybe their smiles will be genuine instead of fake like some poster child for Stepford-ville.  

Maybe we won’t match. 

Maybe one of us will be a LION.

Rebellious?  Possibly…

Then again, Kolby was the only lion this year for Halloween in a sea of princesses.  Maybe she gets it from me.

 

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