Looking Down Is Only One Way to Look

Winter is not my thing.

In fact, I'm sure I have been heard to say that I hate winter.

And, what I hate about winter is snow.

Snow is cold.  It's a nuisance to scrape, shovel, and drive over.  It makes simple things like walking to the car dangerous.  It makes getting to work sometimes as hard as the entire work day.  It brings letting your teenager borrow your car to new heights of terror.

And yet, looking down is only one way to look.

The other night, I had a bit of a duty to perform in my community.  That's how I was looking at it, anyway.

So, I pulled myself up off the couch and out of the comfortable scene of my immediate family watching a movie while enjoying popcorn and hot chocolate in my cozy living room, pulled my boots back on, and headed out.

I could so easily have just stayed there, enjoying the movie, enjoying my family, enjoying not moving a muscle, enjoying the delicious, rich, cinnamony cocoa my husband had concocted.  It would not have occurred to me that I was missing out on a single thing.

But as I walked up the sidewalk toward my church building, I saw that, inside my little nest of a house, I would have been missing a lot.

Two feet of snow had fallen, recently enough to be fresh on trees, lawns, and bushes, but long enough ago that it had been shoveled out of my way.  Twilight was falling.  Pinks, blues, and lavenders played on the air like fairies skating.

The beauty of my surroundings hit me full-on.  It was like being transported into heaven.  The mountain ahead of and above me reflected the sunset behind me.  The trees planted twenty feet apart along the avenue stood like sentinels in a cotton candy world. 

My heart soared upward, expanded outward.  My eyes tried to take in the glory of my surroundings.  But there was so much beauty all around me that I knew I could never--even if I had an hour to gaze at each spot--see it all.  I had to walk swiftly through it, get to my destination.

I took in as much as I could, my soul in a state of joy, my thoughts prayers of gratitude.

I thought about God having stirred up that wonderful scene for me and few others to see.  I thought about Him having done that whether or not I came out of my house and saw it.  I thought about all the marvelous things He must do, just because of the kind parent, masterful artist, and creative being He is, that His children may or may not notice, and certainly cannot fully appreciate.

I thought about the many things parents do for their children, just to create a lovely environment for them--like smocking a blessing gown, decorating a nursery, writing or singing a lullaby, fussing over a birthday cakes and menues--that the children cannot even begin to comprehend.

Just out of love.  Just because of who they are and what they want to create out of their love.

I thought about the hot chocolate my husband had lovingly created, enhanced, and enriched for us, when something lesser would have done just fine.

And I felt uplifted, enraptured, thrilled to be a small part of it all, a part of this world, where so many things are lovely, where so many evidences of beauty, grace, and love abound.

My living room where my family huddled together in warmth was a good place to be, too, but I felt shock at what I would altogether have missed, and even more shock to think that I would never know or sense I had missed a thing.  The enormity and complexity of the earth and our lives and God's love and plans for us filled me with something that, in that moment, made me a better person and transported me outside of my usual small circle into something great and vast and spectacular.  So much is here for me.  So much more than I could ever see, or do, or witness, or take part in, or be.

And, even in my thrall, I mourned that I can only be in one place at a time, and only enjoy each moment once, and that they pass by swiftly, and are gone, whether I am looking or not.

And I thought, what sense does it make for such greatness to be shown to so few, last so few moments?  There must be a way that such moments are captured.  There must be a place for everything to go as it passes by.  There must be a place for such moments to be relived, a place where time is endless and so can our enjoyment of its wonders be.

That God would create all that beauty, even if I were the only one looking, or even if I didn't look, told a story of such love, such greatness, such devotion to His work, that I was changed.

And I think, after this, it would be a sin to use the word "hate" when I speak of winter, or snow, or any other part of the breathtaking and few moments that are my life.

When the Exception Should Be the Rule

So, picture this.  We are all sitting in the living room on a weekend morning, watching the old classic, "Singing in the Rain."

We get to the part where Gene Kelly kisses his new sweetie goodnight, and heads off into a rainstorm with only an umbrella and his wool suit to protect him.

But it's been a great night for him.  Not only does he have a new sweetie, but she and his best bud have hit upon an idea to save his career from what seemed like an imminent crash.

So, he starts to sing.  And dance.  And twirl the umbrella around.  And jump in puddles.

The rainstorm is nothing to him.  The joy inside of him is impenetrable to anything outside of him.  You can just see--in his face, and in his movements--that he feels completely invincible.

Clearly, it is a moment in which the exception is the rule. 

But, somewhere near me, a little voice says, "He's getting all wet."

Another says, "His suit might get ruined."

I smile slightly and keep watching, but another child pipes up, "He might get strep throat."

And another says, "He is going to be soooooo sick!"

"He's not using his umbrella," another one observes.

"His suit is going to be ruined!" a daughter calls out.

"Will it shrink?" another one asks.

"He's splashing!" the baby points out.

I turn to look at my husband, who looks back, reflecting my amusement.

"I've been too present in their lives," I ruefully observe.

He chuckles.

Maybe my children are saying these things for my benefit--to assure me they know the rules.  Or maybe they would say them even in my absence.  Part of me is glad they care about rules, possessions, and health enough to be alarmed.

But, I feel alarmed, too.

Not at Gene Kelly's behavior, but at that of my children.  And my own.

Have I repeated such rules so much that they cannot see beyond them?  Have I squashed out of them the ability to know when there should be an exception?  Can they not see beyond his rule-breaking to the joy in his face?

I think about finding my baby outside this morning as I pulled into the driveway coming back from the gym.  He had his nice warm, red coat on, with the hood up, but it was unzipped.  He was clutching his toy broom with red, mittenless hands, and I had promptly sent him inside.

"What are the kids doing outside?" I'd asked my husband as I'd hurriedly changed laundry loads before taking my shower.

"Whacking the snow off the bushes and then shoveling it up."

"He's still on an antibiotic," I had said.  "I sent him back in."

"Good point," he'd said, a little abashedly.

But, sometimes, in our effort to make a good point, we can miss the point.

What if I'd not seen his tummy hanging out of his coat and his cold hands, but his glee at whacking snow off of bushes with his little broom?

What if I'd imagined not another round of ear infections, but his pride in "helping" like a big boy?

What if I'd stopped thinking for a minute about getting all the clothes clean, and thought about more ways the kids could get them dirty?

I've spent their lives drilling my children on keeping my rules.  And my efforts have apparently sunk in.  That's not all bad--saves me time and effort and teaches them good skills.

But maybe that's only one half of the skills they will need for a smooth life. They also need skills in flexibility, seeing the big picture, understanding both sides of a story, when a rule should be bent, and how to find and express joy.

I think we're going to have an interesting dinner conversation tonight.

What Do You Want for Your Birthday?

I recently had a big birthday.

Big enough that it had me hyperventilating that morning. 

In spite of that, I decided to be brave and own it.  But every time I heard my voice announce my new age, it felt like I was telling a lie.  Or like I was saying, "I molest kids."  It just seemed so wrong. 

I guess I half expected people to recoil in horror.

This, even though I realized almost half my life ago that people my age aren't old.  And even though if you were this age, I wouldn't think you were old.  I would, in fact, reassure you that you weren't.

And it's not like I didn't know it was coming.  In fact, what this post is most about is the fact that I did know it was coming--and what I did about it.

You see, I have known myself for. . .quite a while now, and I knew I would do better with this change if I were doing better with my life in general.  I didn't want to hit that morning of hyperventilation (although that reaction was honestly a complete surprise to me) without feeling good about myself.

Good enough to say, "Hey, I"m [whatever], and I'm happy to be at this place in my life."   

Have I reached all my goals?  No.  I suppose if I had, I wouldn't need the future part of my life.  Which I do need.

But I have reached some milestones and I have made some progress toward others.

Two of my most important goals depend partly on other people, who aren't ready.  So, I did what I could, and, when the time is right, I'll do the rest of my part.

One thing I did was to make a plan and significant progress toward making my home environment what I would like it to be.  Physically, emotionally, and spiritually.  I'm not all the way there, yet, but good progress has been achieved, and I have a plan that is working.

Another thing I have done is work hard to reclaim a healthy body.  It was nice to hear people tell me that I didn't look (whatever) age and know they probably meant it.  It's nice to be able to put on some of the clothes I haven't worn for years, and to see muscles in my legs that I never, and I mean NEVER had before, even though my legs have never been my problem spot.  I got within three pounds of my weight goal.  Three pounds!

In fact, when I went back to the gym on my birthday for the second time that day (I weight-lift on some of my lunch hours), one of the two young guys behind the counter asked me how I was doing that day.  Armed with my new bravery, I told him it was my (whatever) birthday, and he said, "I've going to high-five you!" with some sincerity that told me that this goal must be worthwhile.  I took it as a congratulations for being where I was, literally and figuratively, when I was.

And, I finally freed myself from the invisible chains in my mind that kept me from taking my licensing test and took it two weeks ago.  And passed it.  Like, why on earth didn't I do this before? I was afraid of failing it--as though I'd ever failed a test.  I was afraid of wasting money my family needed--like, I didn't waste it getting a degree I wasn't using?  Things at work were changing and getting painful enough that I finally thought, "I have a golden ticket out of here," and looked up what I would have to do to get my license, and then made myself take those steps.

Why do we hold ourselves back?  Why do we waste time, focus on what doesn't matter, fail to identify and pursue what we really want?

Well, I'm old enough now to tell you that it is worth it to stop all that nonsense.

What place do you want to be in your life by your next birthday?  What present(s) will you give yourself that no one else can give you?

Here's a challenge: identify, map them out, and pursue them--in baby steps if necessary.

As long as we have life, we should pursue our happiness in it.  Then age becomes an ornament that swells in preciousness and worth for the benefit of ourselves and others.