Don’t Put Me On A Plane.

/in

I don’t dislike flying.

Or even hate it really.

I completely and totally
despise it.

A few months ago Eric (my
soon to be hubby) went skydiving with a bunch of his buddies. He brought home a
DVD of his experience and as we were all watching it, someone made the joke
that, for me, jumping out of the plane would be the easy part. Good luck
getting me on it in the first place.

To whatever family member
said that…touche

But pretty much that sums up
the greatness of this fear. I would rather jump out of a plane at 12,000 feet,
than sit on one watching the newest blockbuster.

Now that I’m 23 I can throw a
couple back and, if I’m flying with someone, just let them carry my unconscious
body onboard.

I’m kidding.

Ok not really.

My favorite Lizz plane
experience story to tell is about 6 years old (If you do the math I was 17)…

I was on my way home from
boarding school in Arizona. I flew home every two months and each time was
quite a surprise for all the flight attendants. But this one was a special
treat.

As the plane took off I had a
jolt of panic, one my anxious little brain couldn’t ignore. I unbuckled my
seatbelt and literally ran screaming down the aisle to the back of the plane.

At this point I may have been
hyperventilating, but I’m sure I looked absolutely hilarious in my plaid skirt
and sweater, running around the plane like the crazy person I am.

On this particular flight
there was a HUGE bouncer type flight attendant who happened to catch me on my
second lap around the plane.. He kindly asked me what my problem was and that
was when I DEMANDED that they land the plane.

“we’re not near an airport”

“so land anywhere. Somewhere.
I need to get off this ungodly contraption NOW”

We went back and forth like
this a few time until I think he felt sorry for me. I think that because he
actually took my seat on the plane and let me sit in his cool back of the plane
seat with the other stewardesses.

AND I got to spend the whole
entire flight giving out peanuts to the other people on the plane, who were
still probably just hoping I didn’t go psycho again.

It may have even been my
calling…except for the flying part.

Not Perfect, Never Will Be.

/in

When I was a little girl, I loved
to color. What little girl doesn’t? I remember coloring for hours on end with
my cousin Shyla, plastic trays on our laps, markers and crayons on the couch between
us. She was such an amazing colorer. Everything she did was detailed and
intricate. I would catch glimpses of her beautiful creations and immediately
crumple my own drawing and toss it to the floor. I would sneak glances at her
work, copying everything she did in hopes that I would be able to create such
beauty as well. I never quite mastered her talent.

Years later, however, I am still
tossing things to the side at the slightest hint of imperfection. My mom calls
it “throwing out the baby with the bath water” (a horrible saying if you ask
me…). One thing out of place and the whole thing goes. It has somehow seeped
into every area of my life, this need for perfection, all my ducks in a row. I’ll 

get this idea in my head about
how something is supposed to be and I can’t let go of it. I’ll keep going until
I attain it. Sometimes this trait of mine is fabulous, and sometimes I find
myself burdened with project after project, trying to perfect all aspects of my
life.

Maybe you’re saying “I’ve been
there”. Or maybe you have just decided that I’m crazy OCD and are about to X
out of my blog and never read it again. Either way, you have been there. Some
more than others, and some even more than that, but we are creatures constantly
searching for perfection. After all, that is what we were created for ultimately. However,
like many things, we attach our perfection to things like clothes, or
relationships, or experiences, social status, the car we drive, our career.
Somehow it seems as if we can just get this one thing right then everything will
be okay.

Here’s my slightly embarrassing example of what I’m talking about:

About 5 months ago a very dear
friend of mine got married. As her wedding approached I realized that I didn’t
really have any nice dresses that would work in April. So, my boyfriend agreed
to go with me to look for one. {I must add here that he is
such a brave soul,as any of you who have ever been shopping with me know}.
Anyway we shop for about 2 hours and I still have found nothing that “works for
me”. At this point we have been to H&M exactly 3 times already just to “make sure I
didn’t miss anything”. We make a pit stop at the food court where Eric gets a
pretzel and a lemonade and we sit down so he can eat and I can mope. A few
minutes later after too much time inside my own head, I decide I am done and
want to go home.

On the way home I burst out crying.
Confused and probably exhausted at this point, Eric gently asks me what is
wrong. Then off I go explaining that I never look put together enough and for
once I want to have a dress that everyone is jealous of and that my sister
always looks so cute and next to her I look like a bum. When I am finally
finished, I have reached an epiphany: it’s not about the dress, it’s about this
need I have to feel completely put together in all aspects of my life in order
to impress others and self soothe the emptiness in my heart that only my Savior
can fill. 

How many meltdowns will I need to experience before can rely on him
for the restlessness in my soul. He is one patient dude.

#Blessed.

/in

I see a lot of these declarations
in various forms all over Facebook. Usually referring to the healthy birth of a
baby, a wedding, a fulfilling relationship; all of the things in life that we
feel are wonderful gifts from God. And they are. But I have begun to wonder.
What about babys born unhealthy (or not at all), a wedding that never happens,
a relationship broken. Have you ever seen #blessed under a relationship status
changed single? Or under a picture of a hurricane? Nope. For obvious reasons
right? But that begs the question, why are some people “blessed” and others are
not?

Disclaimer here. I am not out to
get all you folks out there who feel so strongly blessed in some moments that
you have to get it out there. In fact, I think it’s awesome to declare those
moments when God’s presesence feels so overwhelmingly evident. It just makes me
wonder about the times when we don’t feel his presence in such an evident way.
We have begun referring to ourselves as blessed largely at times when we feel
blessed.

What if we go through our whole
entire lives without one “good” thing happening to us? I know that seems very
unrealistic, but what if? Are we still “blessed”?  See, like with many situations here on earth, we believe
something is true only if we feel it. For instance, “I feel God’s presence in
this moment so he must be here, I don’t feel his presence in this moment so he
is absent. I don’t feel like I love my husband anymore so I guess I don’t. Get
the idea? If we feel it must be there, if we don’t it must not be.

I often wonder how the world would
be a different place if we could really step out of believing feeling as truth.
Could we feel blessed during tragedy? Wrapped in the warmth of the Holy Spirit
in the midst of a natural disaster? Accepting our life as a blessing even when
situations don’t feel that way?

 I’ll leave with
this exercise: Try to think of one thing that doesn’t feel like a blessing but
is.

I’ll go first… “I have to be moved
out of my old apartment exactly 13 days before I can move into my new one. I am
so blessed to have a place to stay in the meantime for free, with room for all
of my junk that I’m bringing along.” The important thing to remember is that
even If I didn’t have a place to stay and was homeless for the next 2 weeks, I
would still be blessed. AMEN TO THAT!!!!!

Livin’ On A Prayer.

/in

Prayer is an interesting thing. I, for one, have always struggled with the idea of prayer. Sometimes it seems so pointless to fold my hands and ask the God of the Universe to “answer my prayer”. I am wary of the times when I dutifully fold my hands, bow my head, and “pray”, all the while thinking about a million other things. And that is why I choose to keep prayer undefined. The idea of prayer the way it was presented to me in church (hands folded, eyes closed, kneeling) feels stiff and impersonal to me, so unlike the God I claim to be talking to. For me, prayer is anything from looking up to the sky after one too many things gone wrong and saying “seriously?” to kneeling beside my bed in a meditative state. And frankly, I don’t think it matters to God, as long as we’re letting him in.

Last night I talked on the phone for 2 straight hours and loved every minute of it. I went upstairs, got comfy and had some amazing conversations with two amazing people. I set apart a special time in my evening for them. I set apart no special time with God yesterday.

So I got a little mathematical about it. I picked the person I set apart the most time for: Eric (my boyfriend) and calculated the number of hours I spend with him on an average week: 40 (the number of hours considered full time at most jobs). Then I calculated the number of hours I spend with God on an

average

good week: 3. Then just to really prove my point to myself, I put that against the number of hours I spend watching TV: 7. Well, there you have it folks, I watch more TV then I spend talking with my Savior.

So naturally I had a huge conversation with myself concerning my recent mathematical findings, and I came to this realization:

It is absolutely absurd for me to believe that I can have a relationship with my God if I don’t give Him the time a deep, rich relationship needs.

TV may seem like just the thing I need after a long day at work and a strenuous walk with my puppy Max, but without fail, every time I choose to spend time talking to God, I am refreshed in ways that

Law and Order

and spending time with Eric will never refresh me. He has got to be my center, my everything, the relationship that is before all else.

I want to be an active member in my relationship with my creator and my friend, seeking and loving Him to the best of my human ability.

“Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all of your heart.”

{Jeremiah 29:12-13}

Listening Ears.

/in

Two-year-olds don’t listen very well when there is only one of them, and they listen even less well when there are six of them. In those instances where two kids are crying, two more are hitting the crying ones, and the other two are pulling all the books out with no intention of putting them back, I muster up all of my patience and say, “friends, where are your listening ears?”. Some days they all look at me immediately upon hearing this, but usually I have to ask them each individually. They reach up and put their little hands on both their ears, showing me that “their listening ears are on”. In all honesty, I sometimes like when they are not listening just a little bit because it’s so incredibly cute to watch them “put their listening ears on”.

It had never really occurred to me that there might be instances where my listening ears aren’t on. Then a few days ago reality hit. My small group was doing an exercise in listening to God where we were supposed to ask him for a symbol of our relationship with him and let him lead us to it. Well, once I remembered the assignment a few days later, I asked him to show me what my symbol was. Then I went about my life, taking care of Max, working, trying to fit my relationship with Eric in there somewhere. Finally, this week, I had to admit that I hadn’t heard back from God about my symbol. “I waited,” I said, “he didn’t give me anything.” My small group leader assured me that was fine and asked me about what the whole process was like for me. I ended up talking all about Max and how he wakes up a lot at night and needs a lot of attention and on and on and on. “Do you think Max might be your symbol, Lizz?” she asked. CRAP! How could I have missed it?! Max is the symbol of everything God is trying to teach me at this stage in my life, I even blogged about it earlier this week! Crap Crap Crap. He’s been trying to tell me this whole time! WHERE ARE MY LISTENING EARS?!!

I had to face the facts. When it comes to my relationship with God, I can read my bible 24/7, pray unceasingly, and love others with all that I have, but If I do not have my listening ears on, I am missing a HUGE part of a relationship with Him. How can I possibly know what He wants for me if I am not listening? How can I overcome fear, and temptation, and just plain evilness if I am not listening to Him? Well I pretty much can’t. So it’s time to put on my listening ears.

Messy Moments.

/in

In the middle of life’s little speed bumps, I usually go right to “shut down” mode. I tend to forget every good thing that ever happened me to me in my whole entire life. I’m the kind of person who grabs ice cream and a big blanket at the first sign of discomfort. Deep down I think that I may actually believe that I’m not going to be able to handle whatever pain I know is coming. I brace myself, ready to fight. It never really occurred to me to put my fists down until very recently.

I can look back on my life and remember many nights sitting on my floor in my ninja turtle Snuggie, waiting for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. I’ve been told that I am a tad bit dramatic, but regardless, I’m sure many of you can relate to my messy moments. And I am a firm believer in the healing properties of pity parties, although mine tend to last a little bit too long. They would go on for months if I let them, and sometimes I do.

When I was little and frustrated, my messy moments consisted of sprawling myself out on the cold kitchen linoleum and crying or just lying there motionless. My mom might have called it a tantrum, but I think it was more than that. The floor was the only thing that felt real to me in moments of child distress, like we had an understanding. I could just lay there with the dust mites and the crusty macaroni under the refrigerator and nothing was expected of me. But the floor wasn’t just where I fell to pieces; it was also the place where I healed. And once again, my childhood has taught me something so valuable. To crumble to the ground and rise up renewed, leaving the pain right there on the floor.

Not to say that is always the easiest thing. I still try to combat all emotions with my own strength before I crumble. I have always wished for a life without pain and maybe I still believe that experiencing pain makes me weak. 

It often seems like it would fix everything if we just didn’t experience suffering, if we never “hit the floor”. But man oh man; if I never had any floor moments I would be a complete shell of a person. All those times I’ve fallen and gotten up again, those moments of complete heartbreak and those moments of pure joy. They go hand in hand; you can’t have one without the other. So while I experience moments of deep pain. I also experience moments of deep, deep joy. And because I feel pain so deeply, I also feel joy in its purest form. I’m learning to be thankful for those bittersweet moments. The ones that come in like a lion and go out like a lamb. The moments when I’m on my knees, not because I’m praying, but because I feel as if I can’t go another step. Those moments of excruciating pain where I find the peace that passes all understanding.

I’m Selfish And I Know It.

/in

Selfishness-is placing concern with oneself or one’s own interests above the well-being or interests of others (Webster).

I recently found myself in possession of a small puppy that a neighbor of mine found wandering in the street. He is the kind of puppy that is cute without even trying; but he is also the kind of puppy that poops everywhere, humps all the living room pillows, and doesn’t respond to “shut up” when he’s barking at 3am. He needs constant attention and when he doesn’t get it he bites or finds my favorite shoes and entertains himself. But oh the moments when he curls up on my lap with his little puppy head on my chest and watches Dawson’s Creek with me; they are too sweet to bear.

After I bawled my eyes out two nights ago about Max’s inhability to tell the difference between my carpet and the grass outside, I came to the realization that I generally don’t want to be bothered with things that upset my quaint little life. Max is a major upset in my life because he is forcing me to think about something other than myself basically all the time. Interestingly enough, I recently moved into the position of 2 year old teacher at the childcare center I work at and have found myself faced with the same challenge at work as I now have at home with Max. It cannot be all about me anymore.

I have never been a parent, but I imagine that being one would have a similar effect on someone. It is suddenly about someone else’s needs way more than your own. You may not have time to eat lunch or sleep through the night or get to relax on a Saturday anymore. So maybe I am learning this lesson a little bit earlier than some people, which must mean that I really need to get a handle on this particular area of my life.

*****IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT ME*****

And I mean that in many more ways than one. Not only is it not all about me because I am in charge of six 2-year-olds and a 2 month-old puppy, but it’s not all about me because I am one person in a big big world.

Usually when I buy coffee I scout out the cheapest brand that has a vanilla type flavor and leave it at that. I am not a coffee connoisseur, I just like to get through my day without losing my mind. Anyhow, the other day as I was picking up my coffee I noticed something. I felt guilty about buying the cheapest brand of coffee without any thought to the farmers who are paid next to nothing for all their hard work. I even began imagining their family of seven; kids in bare feet, very little food to eat, dirt floors, one room shack. Then it hit me; I am worried about spending a few extra bucks on fair trade coffee when there are people out there relying on those few extra bucks in order to live. I was a little bit ashamed of myself.

This is just one small example of my day-to-day selfishness. At times I am unaware of it, which is so much more dangerous than the times when I am able to realize it.  Selfishness is often seen as an evil quality, one that bad people have and not good people. But I disagree. We are selfish; it is a human quality. We just have to be willing to admit that and take whatever steps we need to take to be a little bit less selfish. For me that starts with buying fair trade coffee.

“It is a trait we hate in other people but justify in ourselves.”

Stephen Kendrick

The Point.

/in

I spend a lot of time wondering what is and is not a waste of my time, energy, and money. I somehow picked up on this belief that it’s up to me to make sure that there is “purpose” in everything I do, say, buy, and everywhere I go. But I am starting to realize more and more that while I can do my best to listen and follow, but no matter what my life has purpose.

By now you should be recognizing a slight theme in my blog posts. I struggle with finding purpose in the day to day of life. Now don’t get me wrong, I find life very enjoyable, but I still manage to stress myself out by this idea that I can’t find a greater purpose in everyday situations like changing 20 poopie diapers or watching NCIS. Fortunately for me I am dating someone who is awesome at finding purpose in everyday life. Unfortunately for me, I seem to be a slow learner at this one.

Over Easter this year I went to visit my aunt and grandma in Virginia. On Sunday morning we got up and I had some candy for breakfast (naturally) and we headed off to their church. I was wearing a new dress, one that I had bought a few weeks before and kept the tags on until that day just in case I wanted to take it back. The pastor spoke about a trip he had taken a few weeks before. I want to say that it was somewhere in Africa. Anyway, He talked about how the team he was with loaded up a truck full of food to take to a community of people living amidst the town dump (literally). Half of the group prepared the food a little ways off as the other half explored and met the people. As soon as the meal was ready all the men and boys came over excitedly ready to eat, the women did not. Upon further investigation, all of the women and girls were crowded around a few college students who were painting their nails.  The pastor said it was one of the most touching things he has ever seen.

I heard another story once about a soldier in a hospital during WWII. He had many injuries and was in a lot of pain. The nurse who was caring for him propped him up on his pillows and helped him take some medicine. As she turned to leave she asked him if their was anything else that she could do for him. He nodded and said, “Can you put on some lipstick while I watch?”

Both stories are situations where there are great needs, but the things that seemed to comfort most are the simple, beautiful things. Where food seemed most important, it took a back seat to the excitement of painted nails. The pain of many injuries was great, but the normalcy of watching makeup be applied was greater. There is something to be said about the things in life that seem extravagant. Some might have said that Bibles should have been given to those girls instead of manicures. But those girls will never forget that.

Sometimes we miss the point. We go off looking for purpose and forget all the important things around us. Because no matter where we are or what we do, we have a purpose far beyond what we see. 

Everything Grows Towards The Light.

/in

Today I was talking to someone very
dear to my heart about making “bad” choices. I use “bad” loosely because I
don’t like the word, I feel that it encourages shame. But for the sake of this
post, I am going to use it. After I hung up the phone, I found myself making a
mental list of all the bad choices I’ve made in my almost 23 years on planet earth.
I was just getting to the bad choices of my 18th year when I caught
a glimpse of myself in the mirror on my wall. This mirror is a really cheap
plastic framed one that the last tenants left in my room, one I really only
ever use it to make sure that my shoes go with the rest of my outfit. So you
could say that up until today it was the least important of all of my mirrors.
But today as I looked into the eyes staring back at me, all I saw was a blonde
haired, hazel-eyed young woman wearing old running shorts and a t-shirt that
badly needed to be made into a rag. I didn’t see any of my past choices or the
people that may have judged me too harshly or even the hammer that I keep in my
own head to come down on myself in guilt and shame. All I saw was the same
face, eyes, and knobby elbows and knees that have been there all along.  And It dawned on me, not only am I the
me I have always been regardless of the places I’ve passed along the way, but I
think that I am a better version of that self because of what I’ve been
through.

I began to wonder how many other
people this is true for. How many more screw ups are there out there who look
at all the different paths they have taken and come to the same realization,
that those things have only made them a better version of themselves. You see,
I have come to believe more and more in this idea that everything grows towards
the light, including people. Some may argue that you are only growing towards
the light if you are a good person right then, not ________(fill in the blank with a “bad” thing). But I am not sure if I would agree with that. I think that in
every moment we are growing towards the light. Even the murderers imprisoned
for life. And that is God’s great plan. No matter how hard we think we’re
screwing things up, and no matter how evil other people may think that we are
or how evil we may think that others are, we are all still growing towards the
light in a way that is unique to us.

Mailbox Missionaries.

/in

“Never worry about numbers. Help one person at a time and always start with the person nearest you”-Mother Theresa

When I think about all the people in the world in need, I either watch an episode of FRIENDS so I don’t have to think about it, or I think about it and come to the conclusion that the world is screwed.

 I am big thinker. I want an end to hunger and war and pain before lunch, and I want it in one big miracle. The problem with being a big thinker is that once you realize that you’re thinking too big you get so discouraged that you immediately lose hope in the little things, those things close to home. Those things that may matter more than we think. 

I may never go to Africa or Guatemala or Mexico. I may never go on a ‘mission trip” (as defined by the Church) in my entire life. But I want to make a difference in the lives around me, no matter how small and insignificant it may seem to my big thinking self.

Sometimes when I think about investing in other people I just get really tired. I make all sorts of excuses for myself, like, Dr. Phil is on, or someone else will probably send them a card, or the mailbox is too far away. But when I really stop to think about it, there’s no reason great enough to excuse me from encouraging and loving others especially those so close to us. When it comes to being the hands and feet of Jesus, maybe that can simply mean writing someone a card of encouragement and walking your butt to the mailbox. 

So let’s love in a real, everyday way. Let’s meet people where they are with some ice cream and a movie. Let’s sacrifice ourselves to bring others healing and love in all sorts of contexts. Let’s go where he sends us, knowing that sometimes that may simply be to the mailbox.