I ran out of gas this morning. I figured it was sign that maybe God wanted to chat about something. I’m guessing it’s the “hey girl, you might want to slow down and take some time to refuel conversation.” (You know the one all I want to do is avoid)
I sat on the side of the road, with the baby in the back yelling, “mama, car broke,” and sighed.
“Ok God,” I thought, “you’ve got my attention.”
And this is what I sensed him saying.
Make the call. Ask for help. Let me love you.
It’s been a repeated theme ringing in my ears for the last few weeks after my husband and I got in an argument and he suggested that though I give love well I am woefully lacking in my “love receiver.”
To which I replied “maybe you’re a suck giver” (OK… I didn’t actually say that even though I wanted to)
But if I’m honest, Tim’s probably on to something.
I hate to ask for help. I struggle to accept gifts and I feel like I have to prove my worth (by working, writing, cleaning, ministry, etc…) before I am allowed anything good-like time with a friend, or a margarita, or a nap.
I run around all week like a chicken with my head cut off yelling (difficult to yell with no chicken head-but play along with me here) “have I earned my keep?”
I guess what I’m really asking is… “Am I valuable? Do I have worth beyond what I do?”
And when I stop (for more than a minute) God whispers “yes.”
So I made the call. I asked for help. I leaned in.
My husband showed up like a knight in preppy armor and rescued his damsel and baby damsel in distress. By the large goofy smile on his face, I realized, he was born for this “hero” job.
Sometimes I think God allows these break-downs so I will be forced to scream “uncle.”
And recognize that my greatest need is to allow Him (and my husband) to simply love me.
I’m in a wistful mood. Nostalgic. Teary. Reflective.
I lost a loved one today. It makes me want to hold onto my babies a little tighter, linger over beauty a bit longer, and enjoy the blessings I have been entrusted with.
A lovely tableau
Like antiqueing with my husband in Carlsbad on a surprise getaway.
Or snapping this shot of my friend Keri in her Halloween costume. (Seriously, she got this at Target and I am in awe. She looks like a regal princess)
Like finding just the right pumpkin.
Kyle's blowing out his birthday candles
And celebrating the best thirteen years of my life with my cherished boy.
Like stopping on the side of a busy road to smell the flowers and look at a bug.
Or watching a beautiful bride float down the aisle toward her beloved.
And then taking a picture with her so I can remember how much it moved me.
Like my first-baby girl turning into a young-woman, despite me wanting to keep her locked in a castle far away from all the ogres, and dragons and eager suitors.
And I’m not even ready to acknowledge how fast the baby is growing up. (Amazing block skills for a 1 yr old, right?)
And then there is romance.
Like my husband who still courts me, despite the busyness of life.
And my Father in heaven who pursues me with His relentless love.
Let’s face it-guys need a place to get away from the madness of life and chill. It might be a garage or a rumpus room; but it needs to be semi-isolated and have a door to shut.
Now the goings on in this elusive environment is a mystery to the female species and we scratch our heads in bewilderment and wonder, “what the heck you boys do in there?”
We suspect games are played, Sportscenter is watched , and maybe even video games-but we don’t really know and the evolved wife doesn’t usually care because the man is content and out of her hair.
In our house we lack a traditional Man Cave. The garage is too full of man stuff (i.e. a large Caddy) and tools, so my husband has forced himself out of the only potential extra space in our home; so the poor guy had to improvise, and this is what Tim came up with, the “He-Restroom.”
For Sale
In the He-Restroom, Tim hides out on a daily basis with his iPhone. I was concerned for a while because I didn’t think it was healthy for anyone to be pooping for a few hours a day, and suggested maybe we have his colon examined, but then he reassured me he wasn’t pooping the whole time, he just likes to be alone and play Words With Friends and read the news.
What? (Deep breath and process)
And, I think I’m ok with this and it’s a totally valid need and I respect his quest for solo male time. I even honor his ingenuity in creating a little man cave in the lavatory.
And maybe I’m a little jealous. Because when I go potty the kids barge in and talk to me, the baby sits on her little potty and it’s like a stinking fiesta every time my butt hits the porcelain; which is why I generally try to keep my restroom time as short as possible.
But a dude can shut the door and check out for an hour and it’s no big deal. So unfair!
My son admitted he was tardy for school the other day, and that his social studies teacher (a guy) loudly confronted him in front of the class, “Kyle, you better have a good reason for being late.”
Kyle replied, “Sir, my step-dad had to use the rest-room.”
And the teacher replied, “Ok,” and nodded his head like it was perfectly understandable.
So I’m driving to work, shooting up some popcorn prayers to the big guy, when I turn my head and see these cool signs. I roll down the window, grab my iPhone and snap a shot.
I’m transfixed. There’s a sign that says ONE WAY with an arrow that got a wee bit cut-off in the picture and another sign proclaiming WRONG WAY.
It’s like God is whispering to me (maybe because he knows I’m attracted to danger).
Sam-You can go down the wrong way, the long way and the hurts like hell way to find me or you can jump straight into my arms baby girl.
I sat at that sign until the cars honked behind me.
Each day I get to choose between life and death, beauty or destruction, love or selfishness…
Choices, decisions, judgements…
I can choose to make the extra effort and snuggle into to my husband’s arms tonight or pretend to be asleep. (Yes…I’m referring to sex for all of you scratching your head about what snuggling means)
I can bite back my critical comments when I come home to a ginormous mess after a long day at the office and instead simply say, “Hi there kiddos, I missed you.” (Breathe in peace, exhale bitchy mommy)
I can make the effort to call my friends when I’m sad or I can park my butt in front of a basket of chips, salsa, and a skinny margarita nursing my emotional boo-boos all alone at Casa Ranchera (Not that I would…just saying I might).
I can choose to take baby Kolby to the park, rub Faith’s back, or listen to my son Kyle go on and on about expensive blue Nike’s until my head spins or I can check my Email and be distant mommy.
I can choose to not launch back verbal abuse to my co-worker after he has just asked me to cut up his steak for him at an office luncheon. (Ok, maybe that’s too much to ask of anybody?)
I turned my car towards the ONE WAY sign. At least for today, I’m heading in the right direction.
From somewhere deep within dreamland I hear the distinctive cry of my eighteen month old baby,” Maaaaaa Maaaaaa.”
I rouse and stumble to her room, pluck her out of the crib, and gently lay her down on the changing table for a fresh diaper. Slowly we make our way down the stairs to the fridge.
Kolby desperately cries and moans, “milka, milka, mama,” over and over. I grab her sippy cup and pour the kiddie liquid gold. She claps and squeals in delight. Then I put her on the counter and we grind the beans, and make fresh Starbucks coffee.
The house is quiet. It’s a stillness so fragile, soon to be broken by the clambering steps of the older kids and daddy down the stairs.
With my treasured cup of coffee in hand, I hold Kolby close as we move to the sofa for morning snuggles.
I take my first sip…”Ahhhh” while Kolby slurps her sippy cup in delight.
I look at her and crack up at the absurdity of our morning addictions. I need my coffee and Kolby craves her milka milka with a fierceness that border lines cranky. We are two peas in a pod, grasping our cups like they are a life force.
But today Kolby has a treat for me.
She places her chubby little hands on my face and cradles it. She looks deeply into my eyes and says, “Happy… Kolby happy mama.”
Did my tiny little girl just tell me how she felt? (I know right? The kid is brilliant and reflective no less)
It took me about thirty years to be able to articulate my feelings and express them. Quite frankly, I am still an emotional stuffer. And now here’s my verbal toddler teaching her mama to stop and smell the roses.
And then it hits me, our morning ritual is far more than milk and coffee, it’s a snapshot of our relationship.
A stolen moment of bliss between a mother and her child.
And though I am a little bit sorry, like the kind of sorry you are when you accidently lock your husband out of the house in the wee morn in his boxer shorts (because you are a neurotic door locker afraid of wolves) and then you get in the shower and can’t hear his cries of distress and see his sad little moans and shivers from the cold. And he’s mad, really mad and you genuinely try to look sorry but inside you are laughing so hard pee is trickling down your leg.
So, it’s sort of like that, not a real big sorry, because I seriously enjoyed myself on my vacation and I can’t wipe the cheesy smile off my face, but I did miss updating my blog and feel a teeny tiny bit sorry for being a flake, sort of.
But hey, now that you have forgiven me… let me tell you about our AMAZING cruise adventure to the Caribbean islands, rainforests and beyond!
But it’s going to have to be in segments, because I am long winded and have cool pics to share.
-Miami-Day 1
After the longest known flight from here to there, compliments of frequent flier miles on Alaska airlines, (Orange County to Seattle then direct to Miami…a mere 8 hours of air time with another three hours of layover), we reached the sultriest place on earth-Miami. I could have flown to Europe in that amount of time, but I’m not complaining dear.
Because it was a red-eye and I suffer from severe apoplectic plane anxiety, I didn’t sleep at all, not a wink, despite taking an Ambien. Sadly enough, it just made me sleepier and still paranoid. Try to imagine me eyeballing potential terrorists, whispering scripture verses, random body tremors, laying hands on the plane and anointing it with oil…get the picture?
(And yes, I am aware I some minor have control issues)
But despite my freakish fears, we miraculously survived and our dearest Honeymoon besties, whom we met on our Mediterranean cruise, Paula and Donnie picked us up at the airport and whisked us off to their beautiful home on the barrier island of Key Biscayne.
After feeding us breakfast, we climbed into their souped up golf cart and whizzed around the island. With low profile tires and a modified engine it can reach speeds of forty miles per hour. I had to hold on tight!
We dined at the Key Biscayne Yacht Club for lunch, and then went for a tour of the island, popped our toes in the warm Atlantic Ocean and then headed to South Beach for people watching and sushi.
So here is my impression of Miami-possibly skewed by exhaustion, organic vodka and lemonade, three Starbucks and my artistic tendency to exaggerate, but this is what I took with me.
Everywhere you look there is water-ocean, lakes, swamps, and canals. I’m guessing it’s probably because the city needs an entire ocean to itself cool off. It’s that hot, and it’s not just the temperature I’m referring too. Skyscrapers perch on the edge of the ocean, interspersed with grandiose mansions, cruise ships, boats and about a gazillion people all jumbled together simmering in this torpid heat.
And it’s not just hot, it’s stupid hot. It feels like a hundred degrees with a thousand wet dogs licking me. The heat is a tangible thing here. It encompasses me. I feel languid and sensual with little rivers of sweat running down my back and chest.
I am overdressed, for Miami standards, in my modest floral sundress. I should have worn the bikini (just kidding!!!).Women walk around practically naked in booty shorts with stilettos and miniskirts and the men are dark, flamboyant and metro. It’s culturally diverse; to say the least and I can’t tell who is what. It’s like the colors of people merge into a South American, Cuban, Latin, black and white hodgepodge of tan bodies and samba music.
South Beach is like hot sauce to the senses.. You can see it, smell it and feel the intensity. I am overwhelmed by exposed skin, the scent of sweat laced with spicy cologne and stares from both men and women. People check each other out here. It’s hedonistic, highly sexual and a little scary to me, like a jungle of wild untamed animals.
I keep my eyes down and follow my husband like a mouse, scared of my own fascination with the scene playing out in front of my eyes. I keep looking for Don Johnson around every corner and the music from Miami Vice plays in my head.
When Paula introduces my husband Tim and explains he is a pastor, people here stand up straighter and start confessing. Tim looks at me with mirth in his eyes and that “oh boy here we go” smile.
A guy in Starbucks buys him a drink. Paula says it’s the Jesus thing, because Tim is so open and relational. They are standing in line talking about patience and laughing. I love how my husband can turn any conversation into a ministry moment, but, I am more skeptical and think the guy might be gay trying to hit on my man, so I stand my ground and make myself known. “Pastor boy is mine,” I tell him with my eyes.
We board the ship tomorrow, headed for the Cayman’s, Isla Roatan, Belize, and Cozumel; but for tonight, it’s all about the magic of old friends, the thrill of Miami heat, and the longing to escape our life so we can better appreciate it when we do return.
And ultimately, isn’t that what vacation is all about?
People are prone to memory lapse, some more so than others (hint, hint honey). We lose the car keys, the iPhone” (ok maybe I hid it), and leave our sunglasses everywhere but on our face.
But often in the marriage realm, we forget something even more important…the person we are, or better yet, who we were before life moved into fourth gear.
Long ago, in a seminary class filled with very spiritual people (ok…not so much), I learned how personalities operate differently under stress. There is our natural personality, the person we are when life is good, and then the shadow personality, the person we are when life gets overwhelming. Looking back, I guess it was one of those red-light warnings suggesting the life of a minister might not be all sunshine and roses.
It seemed like once my husband and I were outnumbered by kids, then deluged by work stress and ministry, this shadow personality started to emerge in full force. It wasn’t an obvious body snatching, but a more subtle transformation amidst a whirlpool of snotty noses, interrupted sleep and a leaky church roof.
Slowly, we lost the best parts of our personality in survival mode. It wasn’t intentional, but it was there, in the unspoken sighs and the little comments like; “Remember our Honeymoon?” (translation “Remember when you used to be fun?”)
When my husband approached me and said we needed a mini-retreat desperately, it was as if God’s voice broke through the busyness cloud and shouted, “Go for it! You are not the job, a mommy martyr, or the pastors wife…you, my darling girl are Mine.”
Deep down, buried under layers and layers of stress, I vaguely remembered underneath all the burdens I carry, there is a whimsical and frisky girl who loves romance, goofy humor, and spontaneity with her man.
“Ok,” I said, faking nonchalance, “When do we leave?”
After two days and two nights with the in-laws, which included one of the best gifts of all…sleep, we were ready and rejuvenated enough to venture out on our own for a whole twenty-two hours of freedom. We got lucky on Priceline and scored a beautiful resort room for a fraction of the cost.
I was shaking in my flip-flops with excitement when we pulled up to the glamorous Hyatt Grand Champions Resort in Indian Wells.
Now I knew the expectations of this mini-retreat. My husband’s idea of vacation is unlimited sex, (sorry to shock all of you who think pastors are celibate) and my idea of vacation is unlimited rest, but I figured somewhere in between the yawns and negligees, we could find a nice compromise.
But a funny thing happens when a woman cuts the cord from her kids, even for just a short period of time. Without the backpack of motherhood weighing me down, I literally felt lighter. My spirit rejoiced in being with my husband and the walls which often separate began to crumble.
When I glanced over at him, he didn’t look like the demanding “horn-dog” I secretly make him out to be when overwhelmed. He looked handsome and content to simply be with his wife and go on an adventure. Maybe it wasn’t just physical?
And all of a sudden, a wave of appreciation rolled over my heart. I saw my husband’s love for what it is…tender and gracious. I could see adoration in his eyes. And so, my heart turned a proverbial corner and leapt with joy and longing for the man God had given me to care for.
As we headed to our room, my emotions crashed around in a crescendo of desire for my husband. Unbeknownst to him, I pilfered his “intimate” agenda. Like Marvin Gaye said best, “Let’s Get It On” played on my internal iPod as we headed to the room. He didn’t know then what my little smile insinuated.
The rest of the story is private, though I can say we both have stupid smiles plastered on our face three days later. But, more importantly, I learned a few things from our mini-retreat that I don’t want to forget.
First, my husband’s overwhelming need for intimacy is not an issue in our marriage. The issue is the busyness in life that becomes overwhelming, and makes even good things, like intimacy, a chore. (That being said, we do need to have realistic expectations dear…)
I also need to remember the man I married, and conversely the woman he proposed to still exists, even during stress and extreme exhaustion. Sometimes I just need a little coaxing, or better yet a crash course (AKA “vacation”) in remembering my identity when the darkness of life turns my light into a mere shadow.
And sadly, I had almost forgotten what it felt like to just be me; without a baby pulling on my leg, writing deadlines, or my son’s never-ending pile of athletic paraphernalia needing to laundered right “now.” I’m so glad my husband loves me enough to help me remember that the girl he married is just a vacation away.
My interest has been peaked, like most Americans, as the passengers of the Carnival Splendor cruise ship, finally disembark in San Diego Harbor after a four-day ordeal of being stranded at sea and then towed back to shore. One comment in particular caught my eye chronicling a pair of traveling Honeymooners because my own husband and I celebrated our Honeymoon in a similar fashion.
Here is what the bride’s father– Paul Patrick, who purchased the trip as a gift to the newlyweds, had to say about their interrupted vacation.“They’re hungry, very hungry and very eager to get off this ship,” Patrick said. “You can’t ruin a honeymoon, but this came close.” He added: “My son-in-law wishes he’d brought his fishing pole. What else can you do four days on the sea?”
Now, I don’t debate that they are hungry, I mean eating spam sandwiches pretty much stinks, but I do have an issue with the next line. What else can you do for four days on the sea? Ummmm… how about have sex?
Now that might sound crass, but if the couple had walked down a road of purity before marriage, their “ruined” trip might have been a fantastic reason to stay in bed and revel in the joys of intimacy, designed by God for marriage.
Oh, it’s such a sad story. The poor husband wishes he had brought his fishing pole to fight off boredom. When my husband and I traveled to the Mediterranean for our Honeymoon and cruised the seas on the Norwegian Jade for 12 days, we did some fishing all right, and strangely enough it didn’t involve any fish (though there was a fantastic sushi bar on the Jade that we enjoyed). After waiting for almost a year and a half to be sexually intimate, we practically skipped down the aisle and into each other’s arms.
This is the difference between shacking up, premarital sex, and all the compromise the world tells you is great…it steals the joy of true intimacy. It robs the bride and groom of a night to remember. It makes four days at sea with your beloved… a yawning bore.
I can always tell the difference at weddings. It’s obvious to me if the bride and groom have had premarital sex. It’s all about the “event” for the jaded bride, it’s a rite of passage, and a big hoopla over the details. For the couple who choose to be pure, it’s all about the relationship. You can tell in their eyes, their smile, their posture…they have waited for a true treasure and they will celebrate and protect something so valuable.
I know the difference. My first marriage started and ended in compromise. But, the next time, God was gracious and gave me a second chance to walk down the path of purity, restoration and healing. When I married my darling husband, a Godly man and a pastor, I knew he loved me for my heart and not for how I made him feel physically. Our relationship, though by no means perfect, stands on a foundation of trust.
So, though I am truly sad for the vacationing Honeymooners whose trip was derailed, when my husband and I slip away for our next cruise, the “Please Do Not Disturb Sign,” will proudly hang on our door!
I ran out of gas this morning. I figured it was sign that maybe God wanted to chat about something. I’m guessing it’s the “hey girl, you might want to slow down and take some time to refuel conversation.” (You know the one all I want to do is avoid)
