All We Need is Love

Page 165 struck me like a lightening bolt. I read it over and over. I practically memorized it. I scribbled it down, panic-stricken that the words were a mirage, soon to disappear as quickly as I saw them:

The Rabbi {Jesus} implores, “Don’t you understand that discipleship is not about being right or being perfect or being efficient? It’s all about the way you live with each other.” In every encounter we either give life or we drain it. There is no neutral exchange. We enhance human dignity, or we diminish it. The success or failure of a given day is measured by the quality of our interest and compassion toward those around us. We define ourselves by our response to human need. (emphasis mine)

I kept reading it. And the more I read it, the faster and louder my heart raced. A feeling of sobering conviction washed over me. It was as if I had unlocked the mystery of the universe…or at least of my own little world.

The book is Abba’s Child by Brennan Manning. It’s had a profound impact on my life. Lily told me recently, You need to read that book again. I’m glad I listened.

This book brings truth and perspective to the Voices and the Got Nothin’ days. Those days that are all too frequent around here.

Manning’s words inspired a revolution in my mind and soul.

What if love could be the motivating force behind every task, every human exchange?

What if I began to measure the success or failure of each day differently?

And I do, by the way, measure the success or failure of each and every day. Productivity. Efficiency. Tasks. Projects. My success meter is so much about works it makes me physically ill. And because I’m so easily distracted by fun and creative pursuits…and naps, I typically don’t finish each day well by my own standards.

What if a successful day is one in which I’ve loved well?

I’ve learned, painfully, that I don’t. Love well, that is. I forget. I offend. I neglect. I withdraw. I speak harshly. I serve begrudgingly.

And I’ve struggled to reconcile how I can love others so fiercely within yet that same loves fails to manifest itself in word and deed. I still don’t have an answer. I just know that I’m sick of it being that way.

What if love could be the underlying current beneath all the mundane tasks each day holds?

Laundry as love:

Yes, you hate laundry. But see it as love. Clothe your precious ones in clean garments. You don’t want them to have even a moment of anxiety over a drawer that holds no clean underpants.

Repetitive service as love.

Yes, the van is running and you’re already late…but run back in and fill their water bottles. Again. They’re hot and thirsty. Remember that they are forgetful and still-learning children. Don’t beat them up with harsh words and a scornful glare.

Planning ahead as love.

Yes, you could get a few more things done but start earlier than you usually do. Don’t make yourself vulnerable to yelling at children who have no sense of urgency.

Bedtime routine as love.

Yes, you’re tired…but so are they. They’re also hungry and dirty and you’re the one they look to. The one who offers them food. The one who gently washes them clean and has warm jammies set out for them.

Days managed poorly as love.

True, you haven’t loved well today. You’ve been selfish and harsh. And bafflingly inefficient. You’ve chased mindless distractions. But it’s okay. Tomorrow’s a new day. You are Abba’s beloved child. Quit beating yourself mercilessly. There was one already beaten on your behalf. Walk in beautiful freedom, unending love, and limitless grace.

Countless what-if’s played on in my head all day long. I realized that every conversation, every word, every bit of labor and seeming drudgery…could be different.

How I measured each day…could be different.

It could all be taken captive by love.

Not the sort of fleeting love conjured up by guilt and willpower and I’m-gonna-do-better-ness. That sort of love lasts about an hour, if I’m lucky.

I need to humbly and eagerly receive a love bigger than myself, gobbling it up like a ravenous beggar.

I need to know I’m loved well before I can love others well.

I’m praying for this love…to be filled up with it every day, for my Abba Father to pour it into me so that it gushes into every nook and cranny of my life.

Transformed.

A new creation.

One taken captive by love.

Red Door

I haven’t done much sprucing up around here lately. My bedroom re-do sucked all decorating juice right out of me. Last week, however, I was cruising the neighborhood with my kiddos and having a pity party about my no-curb-appeal house. Because I’m a deep thinker and all.

We bought our little house new. New has it perks…and its quirks. One such quirk is low-end builder landscaping. Translation: a few blah bushes in a row in front of the house. The end.

Some of you weekend warriors out there would view such a blank canvas as a blessing. But my husband and I are landscaping challenged. And energy challenged. And landscaping budget challenged. Not to mention that our property is about an acre in size with trees only lining the back of our property.

I’ve been trying to spruce things up in some of my “free” time but all I’ve accomplished is a bunch of weeding and the planting of some free bulbs from generous friends and family.

Upon seeing various neighbors planting vegetable gardens, trees, and flowers galore, I gave up. I can’t compete. I am limited by time, money, and expertise.

So I said to my neighbors, “I’ll see your gardens and foliage and raise you a red door.”

That’s right. I took that can of red paint I purchased two years ago for my front door and I went to work while Cupcake slept. Four coats of red paint and many flying insects in my house later, I had added a bit of curb appeal. This bit of sprucing will hardly land me on the cover of Southern Living but it’s a free and easy start.

BEFORE:

AFTER:

{Aluminum foil on hardware is easier than tape.}

{Painting my gold wreath hanger red makes it blend in with the door.}

GET. OUT.

I don’t get out much.

But Cupcake recently weaned and I’ve had a couple of opportunities to get out of town without a child growing in, suctioned to, or clinging against my body.

Last weekend The Man and I enjoyed our first night away, just the two of us, in nearly 3 years. It was heaven, a wonderful 24-hour slice of heaven.

We love the sweeties and we know how blessed we are to have them, but I truly underestimated the necessary “connecting” that does not happen when we are living real life, day in and day out. The connecting that is hardly possible when scared children are sleeping in your bed or suctioned to your body. The connecting that is not possible without “Can somebody come wipe me?” interrupting our cherished adult conversations.

We felt SO rejuvenated in our relationship with one another, resembling giggly, ridiculous newlyweds for days afterward. Sigh.

Only a week later, I got to take a trip to Cherokee Cove in the Tennessee mountains with two other moms for a scrap-booking getaway (which cost just a little over $100, food and all!) We joined other women (who also don’t get out much) and experienced pure bliss. Our weekend went something like this: Talk, laugh, coffee, scrapbook, eat, coffee, talk, laugh, ooh and ahh over photos, scrapbook, eat, laugh, talk, coffee…

You get the picture.

I am a lapsed scrap-booker. Once able to leap over stacks of completed albums in a single bound, I am now many, many years behind. I am waiting to morph into Scrapzilla. Scrapzilla’s super-powers make 40,000 photos on one’s hard drive reappear into completed albums.

I have not morphed yet. I did resolve, however, to take all the supplies to start Cupcake’s baby album. And guess what? It’s nearly done. It’s simple and lovely and written in. Amazing what you can do with 48 hours, much caffeine, great tunes, and a host of chatty women let out of their homes for the weekend.

And in case you don’t hate me enough, I ate the most delicious food EVER. We had our own chef. He would call us for each meal when it was ready and describe each dish in detail, using words like demi-glaze, fresh, organic, and homemade. I ate things like salmon and asparagus and cabbage rolls and chocolate dessert deliciousness.

And while some of you may eat things like this on a regular basis, my lunch du jour typically consists of cold mac n’ cheese chiseled off my kids’ plates. Having a happy chef cook the meal of my dreams every few hours nearly put me in a food coma. Honestly, I’m surprised to have anything to show for my weekend besides a few extra pounds and a great deal of bloating.

To top it off, the mama’s I traveled with (and who invited me) are awesome. I’ve known B as an acquaintance for 6+ years. I’ve known the other B for only a few months. We all ended up in the same Bible study small group this semester and I love them both…especially after a weekend of eating, laughing, crying, story-sharing, and an inordinate amount of potty humor. Because we’re classy like that.

I also enjoyed the company of other wonderful women and heard bits of their stories. I love peoples’ stories. I was chatting it up with one of the women and after making a series of connections, we discovered that she’s read my blog. We don’t even live in the same state. How’s that for crazy?

So what’s the moral of the post?

You’ve got to get out.

I feel refreshed, energized, equipped, and connected. I got a little bit of myself back. And I realize that I have greatly underestimated the power of getting out.

I’ve even felt guilty for feeling the need to get out. I mean, frontier women in the 1800’s never got to go on scrapbook weekends or get to spend a night at the frontier Marriott with their hard-working frontier husband.

But the fact is, I’m not a frontier women born into frontier culture and equipped in frontier ways. I am a twenty-first century woman with twenty-first century kids and twenty-first century stresses.

I learned that getting out is good for the soul and quite possibly a necessity for non-frontier types like myself.

Do you get out much?

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A HUGE thank you to The Man, who selflessly braved a weekend alone with our children and lived to tell about it.

Voices

For as long as I can remember, I’ve heard voices. The voices of anyone. And everyone. Friends. Mentors. Authors. Teachers. Family Members. I’m an equal-opportunity listener. The voices’ owners likely have no idea that I hear them. They never intended to inflict guilt or expectations upon me. I do that on my own.

It’s a curse. And while I know that everyone, to one extent or another, entertains voices, I’ve wondered lately if my condition is more serious.

The voices and I have cohabitated for so long now, I didn’t realize they were a problem until the last year or two. As I left various roles and opted for a simpler life, the voices became more noticeable. They were louder, sometimes so loud that I could hear nothing else. At times they virtually screamed, rendering me useless.

I love this simpler life, one focused solely on family and domesticity. But without my former roles and the occasional accolades which accompanied them, I began to feel small and insignificant. Like the layers of an onion gradually peeled away, I sat exposed and raw.

God, in His sovereignty, knew that it was time we do battle with the voices, some of whom I’ve toted around since childhood. And while the voices have always been with me, the mouths and messages have always been tailored to fit my season of life. I guess I have designer-voices like that. Couture actually. Custom-made just for me.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been home full-time for two years. Like many of you, I’m forced to do things every day that I’m not good at. Things I don’t want to do. Repetitive tasks that no one sees.

And as I task (or fail to task), I hear “this season’s” voices. The voices of all those books I’ve read on mothering and home-managing and being a woman of God. The voices of older, wiser women who were much better at balancing, at organizing, at preparedness. Or of younger, energetic women who are better at doing life than I am. Voices who only wanted to help and encourage. But instead, they pummeled me again and again with the reality that I am not doing all that I should be doing. Voices who remind me of how inconsistent and undisciplined and haphazard I am.

And I, in response, am no longer encouraged or eager or inspired. I am guilty and weary and less-than. Because I’ve tried, through sheer inspiration and willpower, to do what those many, many, countless voices have told me to do or be. And I have failed virtually every time.

I love the book, Blue Like Jazz, by Donald Miller. Toward the end of the book, Miller reflects on a session he had with a counselor. He too was tormented by voices and self-condemnation. His counselor told him that he was “letting other people name him, letting others decide his value.” That his value needed to come from God. And God just wanted him to “receive his love and to love himself too.”

Miller goes on:

And what she {the counselor} was saying was true. I knew it was true. I could feel that it was true. But it also felt wrong. I mean, it felt like it was an arrogant thing to do, to love myself, to receive love. I knew that all the kicking myself around, all the hating myself, was not coming from God, that those voices were not God whispering in my ear, but it felt like I had to listen to them; it felt like I had to believe the voices were telling me the truth…

…’I know God loves me.’ And I did know, I just didn’t believe. I had heard it before, but hearing that stuff didn’t silence the voices…I needed to believe it was true. I needed something to tell the voices when they started chanting at me.

(emphasis mine)

For Miller, he took this problem, that had never seemed like a spiritual problem, and he began to pray about it. And in time, God turned his knowing into believing.

And that’s where I want to be. At the point of believing. To be a girl who is finally free to receive love and to actually love herself.

And I haven’t arrived at that place. I’m in that crazy netherworld somewhere between knowledge and belief. Some days I’m closer to freedom than bondage. But on any given day, I return to my familiar shackles and the accompanying chanting.

I know that someday I will hear one Voice and only one. And that my own voice will no longer chant condemnation and guilt, but will instead sing in beautiful harmony with its Maker…

But I am not there yet.

Bauble Board

I love baubles.

I am nothing without my big hoop earrings or a giant beaded necklace. Or three. But baubles can become burdensome. Despite my best efforts to keep them nicely arranged in a drawer, the necklaces always ended up in a giant ball.

Maybe the baubles were bored…and the drawer was dark…so they tried to mate. I don’t know. But after spending 17 hours untangling the wad o’ necklaces, I knew there had to be a better way.

Behold the Bauble Board

I’m sure I’m not the first person to think of this. But I’ve recently had several people comment on the Bauble Board. Friends who were over and saw it and thought it was fab.

And I’m thinking there are many bauble-loving ladies out there who would love to untangle their wad o’ necklaces once and for all.

Here’s the tutorial:

Round up a bulletin board. Get some clear push pins. Hang the baubles. Hang the board. Enjoy eternal bliss.

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I’ve been on the hunt for a giant thrift store frame I can insert the Bauble Board into. I’m thinking that would look very chic and artsy.

You could also cover a bulletin board in fabric. That would be lovely.

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As for my earrings, I use ice-cube trays…except for the giant hoops. Ice cubes the size of my hoops do not exist…unless you are an iced-tea drinking godzilla.

And lest you think I am the queen of all things clever and organized, think again.

Cupcake loves my earring drawer. He thinks the baubles look good enough to eat…or at least to throw in the toilet (along with the ribbons and shoes.)

And because I’m a slacker and have not child-proofed these drawers (or trained my baby to stay out of them), this is what it’s come to: a haphazard array of trays and bauble clutter. And cotton balls. Now it takes me 17 hours to find a pair of earrings. Shameful.

Tales from the Tired

Tired. Weary. Nothing to give. No energy to even get out of this chair and do what’s on “the list.” I’ll be lucky if this post is even intelligible.

I’m at that place again. Of having nothing. Of needing desperately to receive something.

A holy whisper. A very real knowing that He is there. I’m desperate. I’ll take anything…

But only if I can just sit and rest and receive. Because I’m tired (did I mention that?)

Children are a blessing. They are also exhausting.

I am inspired by their energy, their curiosity, their laughter, their creativity. I am drained by their busyness, their questions, their noise, and their mess.

And while I’ve heard moms talk about how children and home-managing suck the spiritual life out of you (I’ve even read books about it), only now do I really and truly get it. I live it, more now than ever.

Only now do I get that there is virtually nothing left to give anyone else. Friends. Family. My precious and hard-working husband. God.

What I have left for Him is pathetic. Prayers tossed up in desperation…or out of obligation. Inconsistent and interrupted time in the Word. Random questions asked in the silent recesses of my troubled mind when I can’t go to sleep.

He gets the leftovers. And the skepticism. And of course I feel guilty about that.

I’m thankful that every day is not like this one.

I do experience days of energy, renewal, and offering. Days that are bursting with His presence. Days of undeniable Truth. Days when my coffers are overflowing with good things to give.

And I’m struck by the messed-up-ness of how I feel worthy and legitimate and lovely during days of generosity. And how I feel guilty and inadequate and less-than on the days of nothing.

I’m glad He sees me the same every day. And while I’m not to the place of living and thinking in light of that truth, I can grasp just enough of it to plunk it out on my keyboard. I can say it is true and I pray that my mind and soul will follow suit.

Thinking the truth. Living the truth. That is Freedom. And that is where I want to be. And I am so not there yet…

But I am on my way, one teeny step at a time.

Today I need to receive, even though there is nothing to give. To anyone.

And before I could even finish my post, this promise came to me. A “holy whisper” if you will:

Come to me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.

I guess God reads my blog…and He came through for me.

When Fabric & Plastic Collide…

I had a break last weekend. A break from my house. A break from my laundry. A break from two out of my three children. A break from the computer (more on that later.) And a break from small-town-ness.

Blondie and I took a girls-only road trip to the big town of Charlotte to see our BFF’s. Woo-hoo!

I met Lily 8 1/2 years ago in our natural childbirth class. We knew we were destined to be friends when we laughed uncontrollably at all the same parts of the cheesy birthing videos…while the other mama’s-in-waiting certainly did not.

Our girls were born exactly 4 weeks apart, after two long labors and two failed attempts at childbirth au naturale. They are best friends too.

Lily and I have collectively endured 6 childbirths, enjoyed 2 trips to Paris, cried a million tears, laughed a billion laughs, and talked a zillion hours on the phone.

We only lived in the same city 2 years.

But that hasn’t held us back from living life together.

{Paris 2006}

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And what in the world does any of this have to do with pretty plastic?

I gave Lily’s laundry room and craft closet a mini-makeover. I wish I’d taken before photos, but honestly, I hadn’t planned to blog about it. So she snapped a picture for me and e-mailed it.

Organizing is the one and only thing not in Lily’s repertoire.

This girl is so talented, you would hate her…if she wasn’t so darn lovable and endearing.

She paints murals without patterns. And sews (also without patterns.) And cooks amazing food with nary a recipe in sight. And she’s fluent in French. And she decorates like noboby’s business.

And she invented this. And you must buy one for every new mom you know.

I could go on but you get the picture. (Oh, and she cuts and highlights my hair when I visit. Love her.)

And while she is uber-talented, she admittedly could not organize a closet to save her life. And you can be sure that when you open up her freezer, something will fall out of it.

That’s where I come in. I could not paint a mural if my life depended on it. And the two times she’s taken me to Paris, I humbly followed her around and self-consciously muttered my Oui’s and Merci’s. And I would never have the guts or the creativity to invent something…and then raise three children and run a home while running a company out of my living room.

My home could grace the cover of any given month’s issue of Disarrayed Living. But oddly enough, I do love to corral clutter and organize the nooks and crannies of life when I actually have the time. Lily does not.

So while she spent the day painting murals of Paris cafe scenes for an upcoming school play and shipped out padalilies, I organized nooks and crannies. And we took breaks to eat chocolate and talk and laugh.

Here’s the crafty tutorial:

Purchase these small sets of flat, skinny drawers ($7-$10 for a set of 3.) You can see Lily has six. Here’s how I organized and labeled them:

miscl craft supplies (glue, scissors, hole punches, glue sticks, stapler, etc.)
stickers
painting
pens, pencils, erasers
crayons & colored pencils
markers

Kids can take out just one drawer at a time (like the crayon drawer), take it to the kitchen table, and then slide it back in place when finished.

The more segmented you group your craft supplies, the easier it is to find what you need. This system has worked in our home for about 3 years so I think it’s a pretty good one.

For the larger drawers (which she already had):

craft paint (Lily has tons seeing as how she paints murals.)
craft paint supplies
craft projects (like painting sets or jewelry kits the kids have gotten)
craft supplies (like play-doh, modeling clay, etc.)

To make them pretty:

Cut pretty fabric to the size of the front of drawer. Lily has lots of gorgeous fabric samples from her business, so these were free.
Spray the plastic with spray adhesive (can be purchased in craft section of WM or Target or at any craft store.)
Press fabric onto drawer.
Adhere cute adhesive labels or make your own and hot-glue them on.

Now I’m all inspired to glue fabric to every scrap of plastic I can find.

You may not be able to solve world clutter, but you can take strides to conquer your own. Not all at once, girl! You’ll do nothing but cry and cuss and retreat to a corner with chocolate in hand.

But I dare you to pick one little corner. Give yourself an hour. Maybe two. Clean it out. Throw stuff away. Spend $10 on some plastic and $5 to make it pretty.

You’ll smile and feel better about things. And then you can have some chocolate.

The Pretend Writer

Since last summer, I’ve longed to attend She Speaks, a conference sponsored by Proverbs 31 ministries.

It’s being held July 31st-August 2nd in the Charlotte, NC area.

She Speaks is an event for Christian women who feel called to influence the culture around them through speaking, writing, or leading. It’s life-changing, welcoming, inspiring, and nothing short of wonderful. This year they even have a track for bloggers.

You don’t even know how badly I want to go.

This post is my attempt to get there. For free. Because this She is strapped.

Several days ago I read this post at Chatting at the Sky. Immediately I was filled with nervousness and hope. Why? Because Emily, who will be speaking there, announced that…

She Speaks is giving away a scholarship! It covers the conference costs for one lucky lady. So here’s my shot.

And you can have a shot too! Go to Lysa’s blog (Lysa TerKeurst is the founder of Proverbs 31 Ministries) to get the scholarship scoop. It’s easy. Just post about it and include the appropriate links. But hurry! The deadline is March 27th.

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The Scooper’s “Story”:

Here’s the part where I tell you that I feel called to be a writer or a speaker. I don’t. Actually, I don’t know. The whole thing scares me.

All I know is that I’m a pretend writer who would love to someday be a real writer. I’m passionate about words. And I want to use my words in ways that are meaningful and honest and encouraging.

This is why I want to go to She Speaks, an event with real writers who mentor pretend writers in the art of real writing!

And while I have been known to do some speaking, in general microphones make me want to vomit into my purse. Believe it or not, I used to speak for a living. Out loud. In front of people. And sometimes with a microphone (gulp.)

I taught college students, a rather intimidating audience if you ask me. And my job called for speaking at lots of venues beyond the classroom. Big, scary, vomit-inducing venues. I perspire just thinking about it.

And while I loved my job, the balancing act of career and home took its toll on me. So, I left career behind and made the decision to be at home with my children all the time. It’s been two years now and I haven’t regretted my decision for a second.

But I miss the writing. And even the speaking a little bit. And the camaraderie I felt with others who did what I did.

I miss saying things besides:

Do you hear me?

Don’t make me come in there!

Make sure you flush!

Hence, my blogging and my journaling. I guess I still have a lot to say (even if it’s sometimes about pretend decorating and chocolate tortes.) But I’d rather pen it than speak it. In fact, now that I don’t have to speak and write about history and teaching and retention, I can speak and write about other stuff.

The stuff that keeps me up at night. The stuff I grapple with.

The stuff of being a modern-day wife and mom, a sister and a friend, a perfectionist and a slacker, a Believer and a skeptic.

A girl who wonders when she’ll finally be a grown-up.

A girl who struggles with contentment.

A girl who often trades pleasure for joy…even though she knows better.

A girl who’s trudged through shattered dreams…

And been awestruck by the Father’s goodness to bring forth beauty from ashes.

And out of all of this, a well-spring of thoughts and words.

These days I can’t seem to stop thinking and grappling and writing.

I even mustered up the nerve to submit an article to a fancy magazine as part of an essay contest. I didn’t win but I loved the process.

So I keep writing.

A friend in real life just told me,

I read your blog because it makes me feel normal.

Her simple compliment was the missing affirmation I needed.

Because on any given day, I am feeling just one foot on this side of crazy. And it makes feel better to know I’m not alone.

So maybe I’m called to write. Or maybe just compelled. Or maybe both.

And while I desperately want to go to She Speaks, thus far my family is not on board with the idea of fasting for a month so that I can attend this conference. (They are so hungry and self-absorbed like that.)

I thought I would watch this year’s She Speaks come and go. And I may. And if so, I’ll be glad for the one who is meant to go. And I’ll eat chocolate torte while the rest of the She’s are turning into better speakers, writers, and leaders.

But maybe I’ll be blessed and get to go after all.

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Have I told you I want to go to She Speaks? Have I told you that you should go too?

And may the ~~best~~ blessed She win!

Choosing Mary

As I write this, I’m overwhelmed by the state of affairs here.

A kitchen piled high with dishes, a living room strewn with overflowing and unpacked bags from a come-and-go weekend, the 11 plastic bins and baskets filled with clothes to sort and hand down or laundry to fold. {Not that these bins have been sitting here for exactly 5 weeks already.}

And then there’s me.

A much-in-need-of-shower, sweatshirt-smeared-in-snot-and-oatmeal, frumpy-pajama-clad-mama. Oh, and Brownie just discovered two of his sister’s hairs in his oatmeal. I gagged.

Shameful. All of it.

And we’re having a family over for dinner tonight. Fantastic.

{So after I indulge in this bit of bloggy escapism and reflection, I will put on my Super Woman costume and employ my domestic super-powers. After I down my second cup of Cafe Verona of course. Even Super Woman requires caffeinated reinforement.}

But today, I have a rare bit of perspective.

Last night at church, I told my 1st-graders the story of Mary and Martha. Mary, who chose to sit and listen at the feet of Jesus, while Martha (her dynamo sister) chose to busy herself with the domestic affairs of hosting the Saviour of the world. Martha, who was just a wee bit resentful that slacker Mary was too captivated to help. The nerve.

And I was sobered beyond measure at my Martha ways, day in and day out.

Too busy and stressed with the important tasks of keeping home and children.

Too busy to just stop and listen to the one Voice who brings peace in the midst of chaos.

Too busy to sit at the feet of the One who has the answers.

Too preoccupied with what all the other Martha’s around me are doing to make their homes and lives run much more efficiently and successfully than mine.

Too consumed with myself. My needs. My wants. My agenda. My guilt.

So today, even in the midst of more work than is possible to accomplish, I am choosing to be Mary. And tomorrow my default-Martha-setting will likely be there. And the next day. And the next…

But today, He is calling me to listen.

In the midst of all the legitimate and necessary tasks, He is calling me not to fret or worry or impress.

In the midst of my working, He is calling me to focus on Him as my source of strength.

In the midst of my own agenda, He is calling me to listen to the sweet little voices who need me to read to them, listen to them, help them, and have a cuddle with them. The ones who sit at my feet each and every day.

And today, I will.

I will listen. I will learn. I will not fret.

By His grace alone, I will be like Mary.

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Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World sounds like a great book. Have any of you read it? If so, what did you think?

A Few of my Favorite Things

I’m going to pretend I’m Oprah today and do a “Favorite Things” show. I mean post. Minus the free Viking refrigerators, digital cameras, designer purses, and slew of women hyperventilating and sporting mascara-streaked faces.

Here it goes…

The Coffee House station on Direct TV: This has changed my life. If you have Direct TV, see if you get this music station. It’s actually an XM Satellite Radio station that also plays through your television. Where I live it’s channel 848.

I enjoy smooth, mellow, delicious music all the time. Cafe Verona anyone? It features “coffee covers” of already-cool songs {made even cooler “unplugged.”} Best of all, I feel like I live in Starbucks.

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Fresh Herbs: A departure from music, I know. Clearly, my favorite things are all over the map. I’m a nut for really good (quick) food with layers of flavor. Fresh herbs are a super easy and inexpensive way to make regular food taste gourmet. Just swing by the herbs section of your produce department.

myrecipes.com

{You don’t honestly think I grow fresh herbs, do you? It sounds idyllic and I wish I did. But, I can only grow one thing at a time and right now that happens to be 3 children.}

Anyway, my favorites are cilantro and basil. I love to snip cilantro on top of Salsa Chicken, quesadillas, tacos, soup. It’s also great on Thai food.

When I was in grad school I waited tables at a swanky Italian restaurant that sprinkled fresh basil on almost all the dishes. It was love at first bite. Just last night I sauteed leftover angel hair with yummy stuff and topped it with fresh basil. Delish. And it took all of 5 minutes.

Fresh herbs are usually about a dollar a bunch and a cheap way to chic food.

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Sunless Tanner: It’s come a long way since the early days of stinky orange stain in a tube. Now that I’m a grown up and realize that wrinkles and sun damage are unattractive yet inevitable, I try to avoid “tanning.”

Not that my teenage self ever laid out in the sun on my black trampoline while slathered in Crisco. And not that I now have a bevy of ever-growing age spots on my thirty-something self as a result.

But let’s be honest. Wintry white legs are no woman’s best asset. And I believe stretch marks and cellulite are always improved with a tan.

Meet my new friend, L’Oreal Sublime Glow.

www.pics.drugstore.com

This brand works well and gradually turns your pale self into a believable bronze beauty. Because it’s gradual, you don’t have to worry about legs that look like they bathed in Tang.

{Tip: T.J. Maxx often has high-end and nicer drug store brands for way cheap. I just got a $10 bottle of Aveeno gradual sunless tanner for $5.99. It also works great. A friend got a super-expensive bottle of Clarins for 5 or 10 bucks. Another tip: Exfoliating in the shower before application gives you a smoother sheen. Yes, I have a part-time job selling stuff on infomercials.}

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Craigslist: Sort of like e-bay but free and local. Just list stuff you want to sell (or want hauled off) and you arrange the details with interested buyers in your area. A great way to sell unwanted furniture and stuff sitting in your garage. The Man sold two old sets of golf clubs for $80 each within 24 hours.

Likewise, a great place to find furniture or even free stuff (like plants or building materials.) Yep, they have a category called “FREE.” I shop there most.

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Restaurant.com: I just bought $100 worth of gift certificates to a swanky local restaurant for $8. No lie. Check it out. Great for date night with your man or to print out and give as gifts.

I could go on but I’ll keep you guessing and save more for another episode. I mean post.

What are a few of your favorite things? I’d love to know.