Treat Yourself: goodies for your weekend

Happy Saturday! Here are some treats for your weekend.

/////

I finally made The Nester’s pizza dough last night and it was fab — very easy and super yummy.

Sometimes store-bought pizza dough springs back and I can’t roll it without wrestling the dough for 20 minutes. And totally homemade dough can be fickle or require a long process of rising and kneading. But this one seems pretty foolproof. I think the precooking and high oven temp are part of the secret. Give it a try this weekend.

/////

The Bible Gateway app has a “Listen to the Word” feature.

People, you can listen to Max McLean narrate the whole Bible. For FREE. When I first got my iPhone, I downloaded a free Bible audio app and it was not good. It sounded like a Spanish-accented robot. This app is way better, kind of like Gandalf reading Genesis for you. I do a lot of driving during the week — far too much in my opinion. But listening to podcasts and sermons and stories makes it more tolerable. I know what you’re thinking: “Wow, Marian drives around town listening to the Bible. She is so righteous.” {If you only knew.} Seriously, I just think it’s a good way to listen to the Bible as a narrative. I started in Genesis and pick up where I left off whenever I want to listen.

/////

I finished reading The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls a week ago.

It’s been out for quite a long time but I am usually late to what’s cool and noteworthy. If you haven’t read it, get thee to the library or to amazon or your local bookstore. It’s a memoir that reads like a novel. It’s sad and it’s hard, but not in a despairing way. I laughed and cried and sometimes got so angry that I wanted to throw it across the room. Not since I read Richard Wright’s Black Boy during my senior year of high school, have I read a book that makes you experience poverty and hunger in such a raw and real way. Truly, I can’t recommend this book enough.

Now I’m reading Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston. I’ll tell you about it when I finish.

/////

We have fancy plans this weekend to do laundry, mow the yard, and watch a flag football tournament game. What are your fancy plans and weekend treats?

On the blog this past week

When Mother’s Day Crashes & Burns {and a movie}

Dear Me: A Letter to My Teenage Self {a favorite repost from the archives}

Making Friends With Mess {a favorite repost from the archives}

/////

*Book links are amazon affiliate links. {That means I get a teensy commission if you purchase anything through the link.}

Making Friends With Mess {a favorite repost from the archives}

I would die of shame if you came to my house right now.

But because y’all tell me that you love it when I show pictures of my real home and I’m feeling extra generous today, here’s a gift: photos of my crazy house. You’re welcome.

The garage looks like it threw up into my kitchen.

Stacks of folded laundry have been patiently waiting to be put away but the boys’ closet is so full of wadded-up clothes that putting the laundry in the drawers means first clearing a path through a mountain of dirty clothes and super-hero costumes.

Dishes and dirty pots continue to breed in the kitchen even though I run the dishwasher every day.

The hallway is lined with stuff to put….somewhere.

The driveway and side yard have been littered for four days with junk from the garage that my littlest guy configured into a bakery.

My lamp broke. Again.

And my threadbare sofa cushion finally ripped.

Much of this mess is kind of my fault.

I decided to clean out the garage a couple of days ago and what I thought would take a few hours is actually going to take a few days. Story of my life. At 5:00 yesterday, dinner came ’round like she always does, mocking me with her demanding daily-ness. I was covered in garage dust, had not a single clear spot on my counter, and felt the weariness of the day begin to wash over me. My husband was teaching late so I was shouldering the evening’s responsibilities by myself. I considered the very messy, disorganized state of affairs and contemplated running away.

Much as it pained me, I left the undone garage for the next day, rolled up my sleeves, and jumped into dinner prep. I stacked up all the dirty, soaking dishes and got busy, knowing that cooking would only add to the mess but also knowing that my kids needed dinner and that my hard-working husband would be starving when he got home.

In the midst of so much chaos and undone-ness, I was making more mess. But I was also choosing life. Real life.

Mess is my enemy. My Myers-Briggs type is INFJ. That “J” means that I’m a fan of order. It means my orientation to the outer world is one of structure and decidedness. Sure, I have a rogue spontaneous and creative streak that threatens to keep the order at bay on any given day but generally speaking, I appreciate a certain level of environmental peace to be able think and work and breathe.

But yesterday? There was not an ounce of order to be found anywhere. I felt the familiar anxiety rise up from within and I knew I had a choice: I can give in to the freak-out and run around like a lunatic subduing my tiny world so that I can make dinner in a more peaceful environment OR I can just make the soup in the midst of too much mess, do what I can about the dirty dishes, still read to the kids before bed and know that I’ll slowly but surely catch up on the rest throughout the week. And if life interrupts and I don’t get to the rest of the mess like I want to, well, so be it. That’s why God made wine.

As surely and quickly as I processed these thoughts and resolved to soldier on, I realized that the wildfire mess spreading throughout my home mirrored the deeper stuff of hope and perseverance and choosing life even when it’s falling apart. I considered these things as I stirred the loveliest soup in my dirty kitchen.

Mess, both the literal kind and the less tangible kind, has always felt like the worst kind of adversary. Much as I hate to admit it, I’m a recovering perfectionist, a lover of order, a pursuer of the ideal, a romantic dreamer, a chaser of expectation. When I was younger, I really thought that all of my big sparkly dreams would come true. I did. And I figured that if I just did all of the right things and worked really hard and married the right person, we’d live in the Kingdom of Perfect happily ever after.

But Mess came calling again and again. Despite my best efforts to clean him up, smother him with a cute throw pillow, deny that he existed, and fist-fight him out of my life, Mess kept walking through the back door, dirtying up my house and toying with my life and blasting my little Kingdom of Perfect to smithereens before I could even finish building it. The nerve.

Over many years and through a myriad of circumstances I could have never predicted, I gradually befriended Mess. I’ve learned that he’s not the enemy. Without Mess, I’d still be chasing Perfect and kicking Grace to the curb.

I’d think I was better than I really am.

I’d believe that my sweet life had everything to do with my sweet effort and stellar performance.

I’d think judgmental thoughts about addicts and squanderers and cheaters and anyone who just couldn’t get it together.

I’d have no use for those who’d made epic fails.

I’d have no reason to receive grace and forgiveness for my own epic fails.

Mess has taught me that there’s not a dime’s worth of difference between any of us and that self-righteousness is more insidious that in-your-face sin.

Mess has shown me that I can’t get it together. And also? Why is “getting it together” the goal? I don’t even like people who have it all together.

Mess has reminded me that Jesus did not come for those who are well; He came to heal and befriend and live among the sick and lowly. That’s code for messy people. And in case you’re wondering, I’m in the latter group. So are you. But you may not know it yet.

Mess has grown compassion where there used to be puffed-up pride, has allowed me to enter into the dark and embarrassing places in others’ lives because I’ve been there and it takes one to know one.

Mess continues to teach me that the worst circumstances may ironically give way to a better life. Not a perfect life, but a real one. A redeemed one.

It’s a crossroads I seem to return to time and again. I can wait until things are all better and tidied up before I really start to live. Or I can survey my very imperfect life like I survey the ridiculous disarray of my house.

And as it turns out, one can make a beautiful and delicious pot of soup in a really messy kitchen.

If your own life is looking particularly messy at the moment, here are some related posts from the last couple of years about living real in the midst of mess:

The Unfixable Life

A Home Well-Spent

{Day 30} Real Marriage Part 7: Choose Life, Even When It’s Falling Apart

/////

As I mentioned Tuesday, I’m reposting from the archives this week. With a writing deadline right around the corner, I’m reissuing a couple of my favorites. Apparently my new blog doesn’t like the formatting of my old posts so my photos and spacing are wonky. I’ve given up trying to fix it…which means I’m keeping with the theme of the post and publishing messy, imperfect material anyway.

I’ll dish up a “Treat Yourself” post for the weekend and be back with fresh material next week.

Dear Me: A Letter To My Teenage Self {a favorite repost from the archives}

I’m reluctant to repost things; it sort of feels like cheating. But I’m busy with a writing project this week and the deadline is right around the corner. Since I’ve got almost six years of blog content, there’s a good chance this is a new one for many of you. So today’s post is a remix from the archives.

I picked this one because I’ve been thinking quite a lot lately about the “angsty” and complicated season of life known as adolescence. I’m sure it’s because I have a teenage girl in the house and I’m remembering so much about my own teenage years all those decades ago. We all have things we wish we could do over. And even though I filter everything through the lens of grace and acceptance, I still think about those years.

Having a teenage daughter is a bit like having a living, breathing, fun-loving, Instagramming, eye-rolling, temperamental mirror walking around the house. Sometimes I hear the stuff that comes out of her mouth and then I hear the stuff that comes out of my mouth and then a little voice reminds me of truth: “Marian, she is you. She just has less of a filter and 28 years less life experience. For the love, show some grace. Also? You can learn a thing or two from her.”

Without further adieu, here you go: “A Letter to My Teenage Self.”

When this post was originally posted, it was to celebrate the release of a book for teen girls, Graceful, by author {and friend} Emily Freeman. She extended an invitation to write a letter to one’s teenage self. So I did.

/////

Dear Me,

You are 15. Your limbs look like chicken legs and for this you are often teased. Your teeth are still gappy and you don’t know what to do with those ever-thickening, unruly tresses of yours. Just hang on. Everything has a way of sort of coming together eventually.

Because you will never know as much as you do right now, I doubt you’ll listen to this advice from Future You. But just in case, here’s some stuff I want you to know:

Be glad that the internet and cell phones have not been invented yet. Your silly and impulsive antics, unrestrained emotionalism, utter foolishness, and love of crazy photos {like the one of you stuffed into a locker} would have come back to haunt you.

Dads will one day put bullet holes in their kids’ laptops for such senselessness. {A laptop is a computer that’s small enough to hold on your lap. For real.} You came of age and got a clue after the advent of social media and for this you should be eternally grateful.

Going out for the track team in the 7th grade is one of the smartest things you could have done. Keep at it.

Right now running provides safe community, fun competition, a sense of identity, a voracious appetite, and ridiculous nylon shorts. But in a few short years it’ll provide the love of your life. You’ll meet him on your college cross-country team. Don’t worry, you’ll know who he is.

The gifts of running won’t stop there. When you’re a mom, running will provide some much-needed sanity. And also low blood-pressure. Seriously though, invest in good running shoes now. Do not run in Keds, navy blue or otherwise, ever again. Your future knees will thank me. Don’t be too discouraged that you’re not really very good good at running. You’re determined and in the end, that matters more than sheer talent. You’ll be 40 years old and still running. No, you will not be a grandma by that point. Forty isn’t as old as it sounds.

In the words of Stonewall Jackson, “Don’t take counsel from your fears.” When I think of the one word that best describes how you feel most of the time, it is this: afraid. Track and adolescent antics aside, the stuff that really matters is on the inside and girl, there is a lot going on in there. Bless your heart. I sense that most teenagers feel afraid but they’re too busy trying to cover it up with attention-getting foolishness or withdrawal or striving.

You’re afraid of so much — afraid of failure, afraid of disappointing anyone, afraid of what they’ll think, afraid of going unnoticed, afraid of being too noticed, afraid of the strong and powerful ideas and feelings that pulse within but have yet to find a way out, afraid of pain, afraid of your sin, afraid of God or even worse, afraid that He’s not there at all.

Learn to share your heart with those who are closest. They’re safe, I promise. You don’t need to carry this fear around day in and day out. Open up to your parents even though the thought of it kills you. Maybe even ask them to find you a counselor, not because you’re crazy but because your well runs deep. You live in the depths rather than in the shallow end. For this reason, you could use a bit of gentle guidance as you navigate those overwhelming waters.

Not everyone needs this sort of thing but God made you this way and it’s okay. It is so okay. Believe it or not, it’s actually a gift, even though it’s a tough one to carry and to steward. But one day you’ll be able to speak into the human experience in a way that will encourage others and make them feel a little less alone.

Write in your diary as much as you can. It may seem like a waste of time but for you, writing down your insides has a way of calming you on the outside.

Let’s talk about God for a second, shall we? I’ll keep it brief. I know how much your teenage self hates sermons. He is there and He is okay with all of your questions. He is not offended or angry that you secretly struggle to believe He exists. He wove your DNA so of course He knows you came into this world a bit skeptical.

Embrace your questions the way God embraces you.

You don’t have a clue yet about his boundless love and amazing grace; you haven’t really received them yet. You’re too busy striving and this breaks my heart. The Christian life is not about duty; it’s about delight. The delight that your Abba Father takes in you. Yes, you — the one who feels so insignificant and so unworthy and so unimpressive. Rest in his love. I have so much more to tell you about this but you’re already rolling your eyes so I’ll stop.

A few more random pieces of advice:

In many ways, you will never feel like your outside matches your inside. You will always appear more conventional than you really are. For Heaven’s sake, take some risks while you’re young and can still get away with it. It’s okay to indulge that artsy, bohemian spirit of yours. Let people think what they will. In the words of Madonna {who you listen to under the radar when your parents aren’t paying attention}, Express Yourself.

Quit hoping to be important and let your gifts be your guide. You’re not going to law school after all so when you get to college, ditch the Economics major and maybe the Political Science one while you’re at it. Keep the History major though. This will be your livelihood and you’ll love it. Maybe add in Journalism and French instead. Or Art. You’ve got creative gifts that don’t feel legit to you; therefore you ignore them. This is a crying shame. Your gifts should always be your guide. Don’t pursue something because it’s big and important; pursue what makes you come alive.

Boys. Be glad they don’t notice you yet. They are a complete waste of time at this stage in their development and yours. Enjoy your friends. Go to the prom with a group of girls and dance ‘til you can dance no more. Boys will eventually come into your life and it just gets complicated after that. You’re simply a late bloomer and this is a blessing in disguise. Trust me.

Accept how you look and be patient. You’ll get braces next year and you’ll love your smile a lot more after that. That curly hair of yours will get wilder every year until the end of college. Your friends are paying $100 for spiral perms yet you rage against the curls you got for free. Oh my word, stop it. It is 1989, the pinnacle of huge hair. Your hair is in its glory day, so rock that curly mane of yours! One day you’ll have babies and pregnancy hormones will be the death of your bouffant tresses. Love your big hair while it lasts.

Celebrate scarcity. It is making you quite resourceful. I know the budget is tight and you resent that every girl in the world {except you} has Guess jeans and expensive loafers. You’re forced to raid the closets of everyone in the whole house but you somehow leave for school each day looking relatively put together, albeit running late. But guess what? One day you’ll be the girl your friends call to help them maximize their wardrobe and redecorate their houses using what they already have. Limitations aren’t always a bad thing.

Love your family. They are a treasure. Your younger siblings are mere children right now and you sometimes long to be an only child in order to have more attention. But one day you’ll all grow up to be amazing friends. You’ll vacation together and love them {and their families} like crazy so how about loving them a little bit more right now?

Okay, so you’re not actually a teenager in this picture but it’s Future You’s favorite family photo. Look how you’re toting a matching purse and Emily’s clutching a Bible the size of her head. Your perfect accessories had nothing on her righteousness.

I’m almost done but just hear me out on a few more things:

Solitude is your friend. You’re not actually an extrovert; you just get all of your worth and value from people and that’s why you “need” to be around them. You don’t. But you won’t figure this out until you’re in your 30s. Spend more time buried in books, journals, and sketch-pads. Take a walk by yourself. These are the ways your contemplative soul recharges.

Busy-ness and stress are killing you. Slow down and rest — please. Rest is more important than attending every single youth activity and skipping a social event won’t kill you. Learn to say no. Naps are your friend. Staying up crazy late to study is so not worth it. Every so often you have a breakdown and I suspicion it’s simply exhaustion. Sleep equals sanity. Please believe me on this.

Your mom has given you some profound advice but you already know everything so you’re not listening. Besides, it sounds too simple to be profound:

You be you.

Camp out in this advice. Talk to her about it. You’ll spend the next twenty years trying to be everyone but you. Identity will always be a struggle but it doesn’t have to be. There are clues all around; you just need to take some time to notice the becoming.

But first, go take a nap. You stayed up too late finishing homework while watching The Love Boat. Again.
Love,

40-year-old You {And quit rolling your eyes…it’s not as old as it sounds.}

/////

I’ve found that remembrance is often the gateway to grace. When I remember the insecurity, the fear, the awkwardness, the emotional volatility — I’m so much better at picking my battles. I’m better at absorbing the unwelcome behavior and seeing what’s driving the issues my child is struggling with. Remembering has a way of supplying wisdom and tendering my own frustrated spirit.

What would you tell your teenage self? And for those of you with teenagers in your house, what do you want them to know? What life lessons do you hope to pass on to them?

*book link is an amazon affiliate link

When Mother’s Day Crashes & Burns. {And a Movie}

Mother’s Day 2013. Also known as The Day Mom Snapped.

I’m really not the sort of person who has high expectations over Hallmark holidays. I don’t expect diamond heart pendants or fancy gifts or gourmet meals. Valentine’s Day, for example, has become more about our family than about a romantic evening with just the husband and me. We buy chocolates for the kids and a heart-shaped pizza from Papa John’s and all watch a movie together. I’d rather go out for a grown-up date on a night when every restaurant in town doesn’t have a line out the door.

But Mother’s Day is different. It sort of morphed into something important for me over the years. Back when I was a working mom, I got paid for my work. Institutions compensated me with actual money. And then I took “early retirement” at the age of 33, had another baby, and decided to professionalize motherhood by homeschooling my kids for the next five years. The institution known as my home did not compensate me with actual money and though I doubted my qualifications and sanity each and every day, I was still working full-time as an educator. My identity therefore seemed legit.

And then I took early retirement for a second time, this time at the ripe old age of 38. I kissed my babies goodbye in the morning and sent them off to public school. For a year I rested and recovered. I was still a wife and a mom and writing here on the blog, but for the first time in forever, I was a woman without a professional label.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re a mom and it’s the “most important job in the world.”

You’re raising up the next generation.

You’re keeping tiny humans alive.

True. True. And true.

I also realize that idolizing my own identity is all sorts of wrong. But I did it anyway. Performance is woven into my DNA and guess what? No one is going door to door handing out awards and paychecks for being a mom.

And all of this means I may have put just a tad too much expectation on Mother’s Day 2013.

The day started out just fine. Coffee and breakfast in bed. Going to church with my family. We also made plans to go out to dinner with my grandparents, parents, and sister’s family. I always enjoy time with extended family, especially when food is involved. But this particular restaurant {that none of us had ever been to} was not exactly conducive to a quiet Mother’s Day brunch with culinary and aesthetic appeal. Because our party was so large, they stuck us in a back room with frightful paneling, long tables with folding chairs, and electricity that kept going out. For real.

Also? It was a buffet.

Buffets are fine and good. They can even be fancy. I don’t always have ill will toward the buffet. But I’m a mom and that means I fix several meals for my family of five each and every day. I stand in the kitchen until my back hurts. So when it’s a special occasion, I prefer that the food be delivered to me. How do I say this diplomatically? I prefer to be served instead of serving myself with community serving utensils. {I’m aware of how bratty that sounds. Raise your hand if you want to nominate me for sainthood.}

As we headed home, I just knew that there would be more celebration coming later in the day. Cake or going out for ice-cream and a gift or three. But as the evening wore on, I sensed that breakfast and church and the crazy buffet place was all that was going to happen.

And this Mama lost it.

There I was, standing in the kitchen crying the ugly cry and asking my bewildered husband,

Is this really what you think of me? All that I’ve given up and nobody pays me anymore and I suck at being at mom and feel like I’ve lost my identity this past year and a half…and what you think of me is the equivalent of coffee and toast and fried food on a buffet line eaten in a room with PANELING?!?

{If you didn’t cast your sainthood nomination ballot, there’s still time.}

I don’t remember what he said and I don’t remember any more of what I blubbered on about either. What I do know now is that this husband of mine was neck-deep in planning a surprise 40th birthday party for me just a week and a half after Mother’s Day. He had secretly gotten me the best gift ever and collaborated with my friends on everything from food to how the surprise was going to go down to all of our friends getting in on the big gift.

After the party he told me that the plans almost became un-secret in that ugly moment when I roasted him over the coals for a Mother’s Day that was less than I’d hoped. Let’s be honest, he’s really the one who deserves the sainthood nomination. I can’t believe he even remembered Mother’s Day in the midst of the many details of the upcoming party.

I don’t know how you plan to celebrate Mother’s Day this year or how you hope to be celebrated. But I do have a tiny suggestion. Well, three tiny suggestions.

1. Be honest about your expectations. My husband had no idea that a “perfect” Mother’s Day for me is a picnic of yummy food from the grocery store deli enjoyed at the local botanical garden. Gifts can be simple: cards and cake and maybe time by myself to read or watch a movie in bed. My expectations were simpler than he realized but he can’t read my mind. Just like I can’t read his.

2. Don’t be a brat about the whole thing.

3. Go see Mom’s Night Out, the movie.

You weren’t expecting that last one were you? I’m sneaky like that. Mom’s Night Out opened in theaters yesterday but I was lucky enough to attend a special screening {with my sister} a few months ago. We experienced our own Mom’s Night Out hilarity and may have stuffed Wendy’s cheeseburgers in our purses to eat during the previews. Things don’t always go as planned when you’re a mom. You can freak or you can find the funny. Sisters are good at keeping it funny.

This film is hilarious and heart-warming and just delightful, one of those movies that’s relatable and familiar but with crazy far-fetched chase scenes that make movies fun — like moms hanging out the windows of speeding cars and Patricia Heaton getting tazered at the local police station. Yep, she’s in it — as well as Sarah Drew, Sean Astin, and Trace Atkins.

So grab a girlfriend or even your whole family and treat yourself to this movie on Mother’s Day weekend. You’ll be encouraged. And you’ll also laugh a lot. That’s a winning combination. Throw in a box of Junior Mints and it’s a Mother’s Day Treat Trifecta.

But before you go on with your Saturday plans, watch this video. Grab a Kleenex because you’ll tear up a little at the beginning. And then you’ll laugh so don’t watch while you’re drinking your coffee.

And now, a Mother’s Day Blessing: May you enjoy a day with those you love. May you not have to fix anyone’s lunch or clean up their dishes. And may the food be brought to you.

How Death Breathes Life Into an Everyday Wednesday

It’s been five days since I’ve penned a single word here or in my journal or anywhere really. Save for a few e-mails, the word well has been dry.

At the exact time I published my last post, I received word that my cousin passed away. It was unexpected and much too soon. So many are grieving — his wife and three children, his parents, his brothers and their families, his friends, his extended family. The funeral was Monday. I’m home now but I feel in a fog. Though my day to day won’t change and though we cousins won’t experience the extreme void and grief of his immediate family, we grieve over this cruel reality and we grieve for those who will miss him most.

And so this sort of heavy haze, this dealing with mortality and grief and so many tears — it makes writing about the everyday seem meaningless and trite and terribly superficial.

I suppose it is and it isn’t.

I returned at one in the morning Tuesday. Drained and exhausted, I slept late and did absolutely nothing until I had to pick up kids at school. But then real life resumed and we had appointments and a flag football game and a late night at the urgent care due to a wrist injury. The oldest is stressed over testing and looming cheer tryouts. The youngest and I are soon on our way to the doctor this morning because I fear he has strep. There are groceries to buy and bills to pay and e-mails to return. And for once I don’t make my way robotically through the ordinary or resent the inconveniences.

Death has a way of breathing life into the seemingly mundane.

We are here. We are alive. We are storing up moments, everyday and superficial though they seem. Though big events and milestones dot the landscape of a lifetime, I’m learning that life is mostly a string of the simple — meals and messes, conversations and clean-up, rest and work, laughter and tears.

Death has a way of showing me that the simple is actually the sacred, that I would mourn the loss of any one of these ordinary tasks or interactions if snatched from me today.

And so I give thanks. For the trips to the doctor and the matching of socks and the conversations about cheerleading and the earthworm we dug up when we pulled the weeds.

I give thanks for the extraordinary gifts bursting forth in the simplest of moments. This is the sacred stuff of life.

Treat Yourself: Goodies For Your Weekend

“Treat Yourself” may become a weekend series I do. Or not. We’ll see how it goes. Either way, here are some reads and listens and yummies for your weekend.

/////

This book arrived yesterday. The Nesting Place: It Doesn’t Have to be Perfect to be Beautiful, by Myquillyn Smith {“The Nester”}

I read half of it in one sitting and then had to put it down to fix dinner. It’s absolutely delightful. As my friend Ellen told me, Get ready to cry and smile and love The Nester more than you thought you could. She’s so right. The Nester was the first blog I ever followed. She had me at high-heel hammer. {Up until that point, I thought I was the only one lazy enough to forgo the hammer and use the bottom of my cute shoes to nail stuff up on the walls.}

This book is equal parts story, permission, and inspiration. I’ll probably chat more about it after I actually finish, but please — treat yourself and get this book. Whether you rent or own, love your house or hate your house or somewhere in between, get this book. It’s beautiful enough for your coffee table and full of glossy, gorgeous photos. {And only $12.23 on amazon right now. What?!?} You’ll never look at your home in the same way and you may just be inspired to mistreat your windows and move the furniture around.

/////

This song keeps playing over and over in my head. {If you’re an e-mail reader, you’ll have to click over} “Destination” by Nickel Creek.

Nickel Creek has been around forever but I’m sort of a newbie listener. They just had a new album come out and it’s official. I’m a fan.

/////

This link: 23 Signs You May Secretly Be An Introvert

23 Signs You're Secretly An Introvert — {via}

It’s no secret to me that I’m an introvert but it often surprises other people when I tell them that. I was talking with one of my pastors last week and he said, “Really? You’re an introvert? I never would have guessed that.”

This post demystifies a lot of our stereotypes about introversion and shows that it’s more nuanced than most people realize. Here’s an excerpt from the beginning:

Think you can spot an introvert in a crowd? Think again. Although the stereotypical introvert may be the one at the party who’s hanging out alone by the food table fiddling with an iPhone, the “social butterfly” can just as easily have an introverted personality.

“Spotting the introvert can be harder than finding Waldo,” Sophia Dembling, author of The Introvert’s Way: Living a Quiet Life in a Noisy World, tells The Huffington Post. “A lot of introverts can pass as extroverts.”

People are frequently unaware that they’re introverts -– especially if they’re not shy — because they may not realize that being an introvert is about more than just cultivating time alone. Instead, it can be more instructive to pay attention to whether they’re losing or gaining energy from being around others, even if the company of friends gives them pleasure.

/////

And for your last “treat,” this meal has quickly become a family favorite. Easiest gourmet-ish dinner ever: Breaded Tilapia Tacos.

{image via Silk Routes} because we gobbled ours up before I could snap a photo

Here’s the “recipe”:

Buy these breaded tilapia filets from Costco {or anywhere else you can find breaded tilapia filets.} Trader Joe’s sells them too.

Cook according to package instructions.
Slice into strips.
Grab a package of tortillas, shredded cheese, lime juice, cilantro, salsa, cabbage or lettuce — anything you like with your tacos — and then congratulate yourself on a yummy dinner that took 10 minutes of prep time. Bam.

That’s it, friends. Whatever your weekend holds — soccer games, family time, housework, homework, joy or grief or a mingling of both, take time to treat yourself. I give you permission.

And if you think “Treat Yourself” would be a fun, weekly-ish addition to the blog, I’d love to know. Thanks!

/////

On the blog this past week

A Simple Question to Start the Week {or any day}

5 Things I Learned in April

Diary of a Well-Loved Sofa

/////

Interested in receiving each post via e-mail? It’s easy. Just enter your address in that box below. If you’ve subscribed but your posts aren’t showing up or if you were a subscriber at a la mode but you’re not getting posts from the new blog, please let me know and I’ll fix it. In the meantime, if you’d like to see what you may have missed, all of my recent posts are listed up there on the right.

The commenting system is still under construction around here. If you’d like to leave a comment, scroll back up to the title of this post and click on comments.

*book links are amazon affiliate links

5 Things I Learned in April

How is it the end of the April already? And why do we ask non-sensical questions about the passage of time like that? I’m waiting for someone to say, Well, it’s the end of April because the vernal equinox is ten degrees closer to blah, blah blah, and then actually explain from a scientific perspective how it is the end of the month or the end of summer or whatever. Also? I have no idea what the vernal equinox is and it if has anything to do with seasons. But you know what I mean — this spring seems to have flown by and it’s the end of another month and that means it’s time to share the things we learned in April. The What We Learned posts are hosted by Emily Freeman as a “monthly community link-up to share the fascinating, ridiculous, sacred, or small.” Mine is usually just ridiculous. Want to know more of what I’m talking about? Go here. In no particular order, here are things I’ve learned in April.

/////

1. @HistoricalPics is one of the best things on Twitter. I’m not really on Twitter very much but I’m a huge fan of these pics, probably because I taught American History and used loads of photos and other images in my courses. They post everything from pop culture icons in their more candid moments to Kennedy family photos to Ronald Reagan. In sweatpants. On Air Force One. You’re welcome for that one.

Here’s just a recent sampling of their pics.

BmPJsHACYAEilak — Beauty product ad from 1891. And now everyone is wishing it was still 1891.

BmRIldkIAAAlUdz — On the set of Star Wars. It’s almost like a cast selfie. Maybe Harrison Ford is holding up a camera in his right hand?

BmIf3d_IEAAT2gm — MJ and Mr. T. I pity the fool who doesn’t think these pics are totally awesome.

BmQmQCpCIAAVbGf — Ronald Reagan wearing sweatpants on Air Force One. Words cannot express how much I love this picture. I die every time I look at it.

2. Having a 13-year-old on social media means that I have fewer secrets. I recently posted this photo on Instagram with the caption: “The jar was full yesterday.” #irony.

Three minutes later my daughter came busting into my room asking for Jellybeans. Moms, be careful when posting photos of treats you don’t want to share.

3. And speaking of that book in the picture? Apparently I have a history of fuzzy and even non-existent boundaries. This explains a lot. I also wish I’d read this book about ten years ago. That’s all I’m going to say about it for now but maybe I’ll do a little review of it when I finish. It’s good but I’m not gonna lie, it’s messing with me a little bit.

4. There is always cash in the attic. I’ve been keeping my eye out for a “new” sofa for a while. And by “a while,” I mean about three years. I needed a deal but I didn’t want to scrimp on quality. A couple of weeks ago, I came across a listing on Craigslist for a $1,000 Rowe sofa priced at $150. I knew it was too good to be true. I was wrong. The sofa was just one of many lovely furniture items sitting in a gorgeous lake house. The couple was moving and getting rid of their extra furnishings. Needing to pay cash and being a bit short on it at the time, I sold a coffee maker, a mirror, some stamping sets I never used, and a collection of cookbooks. Junk in my attic = a new sofa in my living room. It’s been a good reminder that there are always things we can let go of in order to reach a goal.

Here’s a cell phone pic of the new sofa {and a bunch of junk I need to clean up.} I am all kinds of giddy. I’ve snagged some sweet deals in my life but this one may be the winner.

5. Spinning is not just something I did as a child on the merry-go-round. It is also not for babies. I mentioned in my last post that I haven’t run in six weeks due to an injury and how I reluctantly joined a gym in an effort to restore my mental health and add some civility back into my disposition. So far I’ve done some weights and the elliptical machine. This morning I did a spin class customized by a friend of mine, a fellow runner who swears by cross-training. I’m not sure why people make such a fuss over waterboarding and stuff like that. Just have the not-in-shape prisoners do some weights and take a spin class. They will spill all their secrets and then beg for mercy.

/////

So there you have it, the life-changing stuff I learned in April. Now I’m going to go look up what the vernal equinox is so that I can feel dumb. On top of feeling sore and wimpy.

What about you? Anything amazing, life-changing, or ridiculous you’ve learned in April?

/////

As a few things are still under construction around here, if you’d like to leave a comment, scroll back up to the title of this post and click on comments. Interested in receiving each post via e-mail? It’s easy. Just enter your address in that box below. If you’ve subscribed but your posts aren’t showing up or if you were a subscriber at a la mode but you’re not getting posts from the new blog, I sincerely apologize. Please let me know and I’ll fix it. If you want to see what you may have missed, all of my recent posts are listed up there on the right.

*book link is an amazon affiliate link

A Simple Question to Start the Week

This week’s Monday morning began while it was still dark and entirely too early for a human being to stir, let alone muster the motivation to sweat. I’ve been injured for probably six weeks, unable to run or do anything really. Honestly, I’m not really that ambitious. I’m a runner because running releases endorphins and endorphins are good for mental health and I will take mental health over physical health any day. I’ve always joked that I’m a runner and a writer because they’re cheaper than therapy and usually safer than meds. {Truth be told, I’m often a runner and a writer who may also be in therapy and on medication during any given season. What can I say? I have issues.}

But when I’m not running and when I’m sad about not running, the people I live with are not loving me so much. I can hardly blame them. My endorphins packed up weeks ago and are probably vacationing in Aruba and sipping margaritas and reading People magazines. Meanwhile, the barely-there muscle mass I once possessed has now turned to mayonnaise. Aaaaand I feel like a crazy person. We had a wee bit of drama in our house over the weekend and I finally cracked under the pressure of it all. Unable to cope for one more second, I finally sat down on the kitchen floor last night, leaned against the sticky cabinets, and wept for at least fifteen minutes. Yes, in front of the whole family. {In my defense, all the other places in the house were taken.}

This is probably not good. And it’s just one of several causes for self-pity at the moment. Self-pity is really just the worst place to be, isn’t it? It has a way of catapulting me onto the throne of Self and treating my tiny world like it’s my tiny kingdom. As you might imagine, this has gone well. Quite well. Who doesn’t love an overwrought and emotionally unstable tyrant in the house?

Back to this morning. I’m driving home from the gym I just joined today. {And by the way, I’m so not a fan of gyms. In fact, it’s safe to say I’m terrified of them. I’m intimidated by the fancy machines and the fancy buttons and the fancy exercise experts and worker-outers who seem to know exactly what they’re doing. There’s just something about people wearing ginormous leather belts and special gloves, something about the sound of clinking metal and words like “spinning” and “squats” that makes me want to run for the hills.}

I digress again.

As I drive home from the intimidating exercise place inhabited by people wearing large belts, I’m thinking about the reason I’m doing this. I’m thinking about the people I live with and how I’ve been a rather rotten housemate lately — selfish and sad and snappy. I confessed all of my yuck and asked God for help and grace and compassion. I prayed for them. And then I walked into the house and chatted with my husband while he tightened up his tie and prepared for the day. I was extra mindful of all that he’d already done this morning to assist each person who lives here.

Normally I would’ve rattled on about the things happening in my little world or jumped into my own agenda. But this morning I did something different. I needed and wanted to shift my focus off of me. I wanted to love him better and this required feedback. So I looked at him and asked a simple question: What do you need from me this week? What can I do that would help you?

I’ll tell you the first thing he said. It wasn’t what I expected.

Don’t add anything else to what you already have.

Um, really? That’s the number one thing? Apparently it is. He wasn’t rude or bossy about it; he was gentle but forthright. He asked me to love him and help our family by saying no to other endeavors that may indeed be good things but that will deplete me or add unnecessary stress. When I say yes to good things that shouldn’t be the priority things for me or for my family, right now, in this season, it has a way of affecting the stress level of the whole family. Or so I’m told.

I wasn’t actually saying yes to other people all the time. I was simply saying yes to a host of little endeavors, projects, and goals — good things, all of them — that have subtly been whittling away my capacity to give to the better things, the needful things, like marriage and the hearts of my children and staying sane{ish.}

This is invaluable information when you think about it. Now my husband and I have clear expectations of one another and we’re accountable to those. His answer doesn’t mean that all of my energy pours into serving my family. If it did, I wouldn’t be writing this post or working on a current writing project that we both support and want me to pursue. But he’s lived with me for over 18 years and he knows my limits better than I know them. For most of our marriage I haven’t given him enough credit for this. He’s observed that when I try to stretch those limits or pretend they don’t exist or make other people more important than the ones who live in my own house, we all suffer in a bigger way than I realize. And that’s not loving or healthy or as it should be.

Some people naturally have wider limits, more social energy, more physical energy. But there are universal truths we have to accept: we all have different life circumstances, unique marriages, special health issues, children who who aren’t identical to any other children on the planet. It’s good to own these truths and to live out of them. It’s easy to compare and then live our lives according to someone else’s expectations, threshold, lifestyle, parenting, bank account, or marital dynamics. This is a bad idea. You’ll end up exhausting yourself or people-pleasing or harboring resentment or all of the above.

I wrote a post last summer called 18 Things I’ve Learned About the Not-So-Simple Art of Marriage. I’ve learned the hard way about the importance of valuing my spouse’s opinion above anyone else’s. {All things being equal of course. This does not apply if your spouse is a psychopath or sociopath or evil dictator.}

Don’t value anyone’s opinion above your spouse’s. Not your best friend’s or your mom’s or your sister’s or your mentor’s or some expert. This is your life partner, the person with whom you are one.

His opinion matters not because he is perfect or even right. His opinion matters because he’s your #1 person.

Value him by valuing his thoughts and ideas. And then stand back and watch what happens.

I’d be wise to revisit my own words more often. I feel like I have “life-lessons amnesia.”

Beginning the week with a simple question and conversation about one another’s longings and needs might just be a game-changer. The question can even be a fruitful one to ask of your kids or even your boss. {Maybe not your boss — you decide.} You might be surprised by the answer. And it might be more loving and life-giving and clarifying than you expect, both for you and for the ones you love.

Maybe you’re spinning your wheels trying to love and strive and manage in ways that they don’t even care about or in ways that may actually be hurting instead of helping. Maybe loving well is simpler than you think.

You won’t know if you don’t ask.

And one more thing. Don’t ask if you’re not ready to hear the answer. But I have a feeling, I really do, that it’s not going to be as complicated as you might imagine. I also have a feeling that they’re going to appreciate the fact that you love them enough to ask.

Wouldn’t you?

/////

As a few things are still under construction around here, if you’d like to leave a comment, scroll back up to the title of this post and click on comments.

Interested in receiving each post via e-mail? It’s easy. Just enter your address in that box below. If you’ve subscribed but your posts aren’t showing up or if you were a subscriber at a la mode but you’re not getting posts from the new blog, I sincerely apologize. Please let me know and I’ll fix it. If you want to see what you may have missed, all of my recent posts are listed up there on the right.

Diary of a Well-Loved Sofa

I am hopelessly sentimental and a historian by training — which sometimes leads me to horde things like letters and cards and all my origami-folded notes from middle school and my kids’ artwork and books and twelve-year-old sofas.

Our beast of a sofa has served our family since my teenager was a year old. Because I was an idealistic idiot, I bought an off-white, slipcover-“style” sofa from Value City Furniture in Charlotte, North Carolina for $449. I wanted the one from Pottery Barn but it was much too spendy for our budget back then. Off-white slipcover sofas are wonderful. I daresay they’re even practical. Anything removable and bleachable is a win-win when you have children.

The operative word here is “slipcover-style,” not to be confused with an actual slipcover.

The Value City sofa did not have removable upholstery and I did not have spic-and-span children. You can see where this is going.

I told myself and my husband that we would not allow our child or any future children to drink apple juice from sippy cups on the sofa and we most definitely wouldn’t allow food or dirty hands on it. When you are 29 years old and a mother of one wee daughter and clueless about the depths of screen-time / juice-sipping / lunch-eating on the sofa to which you will resort in order to get just 23 minutes of peace, you make silly decisions about cheap off-white sofas that look just like the ones from Pottery Barn.

It wasn’t long before the pristine dreams of an off-white sofa crashed and burned before my very eyes. Between the sippy-cups and the 40 months of nursing babies and the 40 months that said nursing babies spit up and the twelve years of tears and sleepless nights and the daily grime of daily living pressed into its fibers — the Value City sofa is a literal topographical profile of the Vischer family’s existence.

More than any other possession, that grimy sofa holds our very DNA — our history, our secrets, our dreams, our boo-boos, our read-alouds, our forts of days gone by.

I’m putting it on Craigslist today. If I can bring myself to it. Honestly, I can’t imagine that anyone would want it. Sure, I’ve cleaned up the spills and spit-ups and hand-prints across the years but when you can’t throw an entire off-white sofa into the washing machine, it shows. It really shows.

But maybe there’s some poor college student out there who needs a super cushy, still comfy sofa and doesn’t mind spending some extra cash on a slipcover for it. I’ll be tempted to tell her to take good care of it, to treat it with reverence because our very life has been lived and spilled and remembered on that sofa. And she will probably look at me like I’m crazy, unload the sofa into her apartment, and commence to watching Gossip Girl while texting all of her friends. I am literally tearing up just typing these words. What is wrong with me? {Also, if you are a college girl, I’m sorry I just stereotyped you like that.}

Sometimes the thing we can’t wait to replace because it’s old and dirty and superceded by newer and better is the very thing we struggle to let go of. I think that applies to more than just sofas.

What’s the moral of this sofa story? I honestly don’t have one.

Take pictures of your furniture?

Only buy sofas with actual slipcovers?

Don’t settle for the Value City knockoff?

Perhaps for me, the moral of the story is this. Appreciate what you have. Don’t be afraid to fully live in your home and on your furniture. Know when it’s time to let go but be mindful and grateful for the pieces that have held your tush and your children’s tushes, your books and your blankies, your movie nights and your sleepless nights.

Myquillin Smith {“The Nester”} says It doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. In fact, she’s written a book with that very line as the subtitle. Over the years it’s become one of my favorite mantras, probably because stealth perfectionism is always lurking and waiting to strike, sabotaging my gratitude for the messy, beautiful, real gifts of today.

Like well-worn, well-loved sofas.

//////

And for inquiring minds who are wondering why I’m replacing the sofa…

Well, I finally got a new one — an off-white slipcovered sofa with actual removable and washable slipcovers. It’s from Rowe, the company that makes sofas for Pottery Barn. How ironic. But you know me, everything has a story and this new sofa is no different. It’s a too good to be true Craigslist find and I even got it for a third of what that Value City sofa cost twelve years ago. I know, go ahead and hate me. I promise to tell you about it soon.

//////

As a few things are still under construction around here, if you’d like to leave a comment, scroll back up to the title of this post and click on comments.

Interested in receiving each post via e-mail? It’s easy. Just enter your address in that box below. If you’ve subscribed but your posts aren’t showing up or if you were a subscriber at a la mode but you’re not getting posts from the new blog, I sincerely apologize. Please let me know and I’ll fix it. If you want to see what you may have missed, all of my recent posts are listed up there on the right.

*amazon books are affiliate links

When a Chapter Ends the Same Way It Began

In May of 2011, I strolled the meager office-supply aisle of Walmart in search of a pretty and inexpensive journal, preferably one with a large stack of pages. I had plenty to say. Plen-ty.

Yesterday, on an everyday Monday, I filled up the last page of that blue and red floral journal with the paint-by-number bird on it.

I haven’t written in the journal every day since May of 2011. Not even close. Sometimes I wrote in it a few times a week and sometimes several months would pass before I’d crack it open again. I mostly opened it when my emotion was bubbling over so furiously that I needed a place to pour it out. That’s pretty much what this journal is — angst that I spilled out in ink instead of tears, though sometimes it was a mixture of both.

The first entry was on May 23, 2011 and the final paragraph of that first entry claims what I really did believe but struggled to grasp:

…this is what it means to rest in Christ, to really live (though I’m just beginning) as if my life is hid with Christ on high. He is my shelter, strength, and provision. He is more than enough. I still don’t have answers for this unfixable life — no manual, no map to tell me how to get from Point A to Point B and what road signs to look for. It is so hard, the not knowing. One day at a time, trusting in Christ and not in myself. That is the way home.

If you asked me before yesterday, I’d have had no clue what that May 23rd entry said. I’m almost surprised that I was able to write those words way back then; I feel like such a different person. In three years time, one would think that I’d have moved along to very different themes by now. After all, so much has changed. I’ve changed. Others have changed. Circumstances have changed. Opportunities have changed. So many things are for the better and it’s okay to celebrate that. I’m a big believer in having a party for the stuff we never celebrate.

If three-years-ago Marian could peek into the life of three-years-later Marian, she’d probably make a lot of untrue assumptions. She’d probably hand me a pile of decorating magazines and nail polish and iced coffees because of course. What else would I be doing? No more trips to the counselor. No more days of homeschooling. No more days of napping on the sofa because exhaustion is a bully and she’s too tired to function very well. Okay, sometimes still napping on the sofa. But still, life has done a much-hoped-for 180 over the last several years.

Sort of.

If three-years-ago Marian read three-years-later Marian’s journal entry for April 21, 2014, she probably wouldn’t expect her to still be scrawling out the same words as three years before. Words about anxiety and rest. Words about cluelessness and hope. Words about living a life mired in condemnation versus a life defined by Christ — and how her default self has a way of clinging to the former but her hopeful self is clinging to the latter.

Circumstances change. Obviously. Change is inevitable — sometimes welcomed and sometimes scorned. Always, we trade out one set of issues for another. I’m 40 now. I’ve been married 18 years and I’ve been a mom for 13. I’ve cycled through career and being at home, experienced life as a home-school mom and now a public-school mom. I’ve experienced seasons of joy, walked robotically through seasons of denial, crawled through seasons of grief, and tasted days of redemption. I’ve thrown perfectionism out to sea and traded in the ideal for the real. I’ve learned that sometimes God re-routes us in ways that feel like failure but are actually grace.

And though these days right now are brighter than some of the days in the past, I laugh at the prospect of perfect. Like, slapping my knees, snorting, belly-aching laugh. Actually I even laugh at the prospect of “manageable.” Because just when you think you’re at a place to stand firm and knock out a home-run, life throws a curveball. Again. {Baseball metaphor? Really? Who am I?}

After 40 years of living — 40 years of turning ideals into idols, of chasing after perfect, of sticking my head in the sand, of trying to wish away the uninvited, I now know {but don’t always embrace} that our hope is never found in circumstances. Never. It’s never found in relationships. It’s never found in knowledge. Though admittedly, I will bend over backwards trying to prove myself wrong in every. single. one of these areas. I fear I may never learn. Good things may genuinely bless us, but they may also numb us, entertain us, placate us, and postpone the inevitable. Good things will never heal us from the inside out. They will never bring lasting joy or unswerving hope.

When I think about it, the used-up journal holds a story that is simply the slow unfolding of the Real, the evolution of Hope. Capital H — Hope. And though trouble continues to roll our way and roll your way, because that’s just the way it is in this world, an “overcoming” Hope continues to roll our way too. That’s not pie in the sky talk. Even as I type this, there is mess. You can be sure. Mess that keeps me awake and still keeps me spilling my ink-stained emotion on spiral-bound pages.

But by grace, I am learning ever so slowly but surely to receive my own life. If anything is the story of my life, it is this. It’s why I “write the real.” It’s why I write at all.

In my grace-saturated moments, I want to look the Real square in the eyes — the beautiful, hilarious, mundane, messy, unfixable host of Real — and I want to say,

Hello there. Some of you I invited and some of you simply had the nerve to show up unannounced. But guess what? You are all a gift. You are all characters in my story. You are all part of my redemption. Through laughter, tears, anger, grace, and pure grit, teach me to keep receiving each of you as a gift, to not resent you as Cousin Eddie sort of houseguests. May I even have the audacity to be grateful for your presence.Teach me to bring you ALL into the truth-revealing light of Jesus and to see you as you really are.

Real life reminds me I’m not in control. Real life kicks pride out from under my feet. Real life introduces me to those “guests” I needed but never would have invited. Real life steers me away from my contributions and planning and “where-with-all” and points me to God alone, to his redemptive and ongoing work through Christ, to his faithfulness.

And really, what is the Father’s faithfulness if not Hope realized? Often not in the way I’d anticipated but always in the way He’s orchestrated. There can be comfort in that reality, even though I’m still prone to fight it, to wrangle and flail about and demand my version of what should happen next.

As one chapter closes itself, as I tuck it away and stack it on top of the chapters that came before it, Hope skips ahead into the pages of the next, waiting with expectation and promise and an outstretched hand, reminding me of how far we’ve come, inviting me to receive what’s next, whatever that may be.

Every season ushers in new beauty and new brokenness. Long, exhaustive chapters end. New ones begin.

And with each stop and start, I’m learning that we find the fruitfulness of Real Life and the promise of Real Hope in just one place, one person — The Real Jesus. We definitely don’t find it anywhere else. Believe me, I’ve searched. But real life keeps circling me back around to the same place.

Like the words of that very first journal entry, words that didn’t know the full weight of their truth, words that could have never predicted the very real journey they narrated.

One day at a time, trusting in Christ and not in myself. That is the way home.

And it is — the way we look back, the way we live today, the way we lean into tomorrow, the way we are led to our true home.

////////

As a few things are still under construction around here, if you’d like to leave a comment, scroll back up to the title of this post and click on comments.

Interested in receiving each post via e-mail? It’s easy. Just enter your address in that box below. If you’ve subscribed but your posts aren’t showing up or if you were a subscriber at a la mode but you’re not getting posts from the new blog, I sincerely apologize. Please let me know and I’ll fix it. If you want to see what you may have missed, all of my recent posts are listed up there on the right.