Waiting for Christmas

We're trying an experiment this year, or a new tradition (it remains to be seen). Forgive me if I get a little preachy, I don't mean to criticize anyone else's Christmas traditions or say that it must be done a certain way, but I am really excited about this, folks. I keep finding myself explaining it to people who probably have no desire to know just because it feels kind of life-altering.

So Thom and I have been mostly Anglican for five years now. The introduction to and delving into liturgy, church calendar, and traditions has been a rich addition to our faith. We like it and we hope to continue in a place where we can combine all of that with an active and living community of believers. We're currently searching for where we will eventually settle. In the meantime, we are attending church with friends during this particular season.

As most of you know, we're in Advent right now. Not Christmas, not "Christmastime", but Advent. Advent is a period of waiting, of contemplation, of groaning, of expectant darkness.

The modern take on the Christmas season is this: there's this day where we all stuff ourselves with turkey and then the next morning (or late that night) we rush off to consume - it's Christmastime! We shop like mad, we quick get the decorations all up, we bake, we attend office parties and friend parties and church parties and small group parties and school parties, we exchange gifts, we sing carols, we watch heartwarming movies to get in the spirit, and on and on. In essence, we celebrate! For five weeks leading up to this one day, Christmas, we celebrate and celebrate and celebrate.

When we finally get to the day, we're so sick of celebrating we can hardly enjoy another feast. The presents get unwrapped in haste and suddenly all of the work you've put in for weeks before is over, it's effects fleeting. We sit in a pile of new belongings and dirty dishes at the end of the day and we think, "Thank God!....that's over."

Um, I'm sorry but that is NOT what Christmas should be.

I love Christmas - I've talked about it before. The scene described above is something I've lived out for several years now. I've been trying to recapture the joy of my childhood, and trying to fight for the celebration of actual Christmas (Christ coming to earth as a baby, God in the flesh, for the purpose of saving us) to prevail. But I keep losing.

Every year, I fill the weeks preceding Christmas with as much Christmas as I can, thinking it is getting me in the mood to celebrate, thinking it is preparing my heart. But celebrating can't prepare you for celebrating. That's like spending thousands of dollars in expectation of a raise at your next review; you just can't possibly get excited about the money when it comes if you've already spent it.

Instead, it encourages an attitude of "creating Christmas". If only I can spread enough cheer, make the right cozy atmosphere, eat all the right foods, and plan enough events to keep the excitement alive, then we can all make it to Christmas with a smile on our face. By the time we've done all this other stuff, we'll be ready to really focus on Jesus.

Well, here's the news: I'm not responsible for the joy of Christmas. It's there whether I put decorations up or not. It's not going to lessen if I don't go window shopping at the Macy's downtown. We're not going to miss it if we never get around to making cut cookies.

This has been a long introduction, but here finally is the experiment: We're not celebrating Christmas until Christmas Day and we are going to celebrate for 12 days for the entire season of Christmas. This means, in general, no decorations, even tree - we're planning to get it the weekend before and decorate it on Christmas Eve (however, Thom did put up outside lights), no Christmas music or movies - although we have been teaching the girls some carols each night with an Advent reading, no baking, no indulging in Christmas treats (but there have been a few, I will admit), and no piling on the pre-Christmas outings.

We're holding these rules loosely, not legalistically. We've "broken" them already to some degree as I mentioned. And make no mistake, we will be doing all of these and more for the full 12 days once Christmas begins. The main difference is not putting these activities on as if they are some necessary force in order to usher in Christmas, but instead (the hope is) that they will be a natural outpouring of the celebration that grows from first encountering the birth of Christ. Honestly, if I get to Christmas Day and making peanut brittle does not feel like a desire of my heart to celebrate Jesus, than I won't do it. But I think it will.

It's no wonder we get to the year's end and want to throw off any remembrance of the holidays; we embrace January 1st, turn our backs and move on - to a better year with better resolutions! We've been eating ourselves silly, indulging every celebratory whim under the label "Christmastime" for five whole weeks. Letting Advent be it's own season, a preparatory one, for sure, but distinctively different from Christmas itself does more than just lead up to the celebration, it gives us a break and a rest and wonderful stillness and lets us actually enjoy the celebration when it comes.

Before you contradict, absolutely I believe that Christians can acknowledge, even celebrate, the birth, death, and resurrection of Christ on any day of the year. We do and we should. I'm not suggesting we pretend we don't know about Jesus until December 25th comes around (and yes, I do know that's an arbitrary date), and then act all surprised. But if there is something to distinctively celebrating this event, a day apart from other days, and I'm fairly certain that historical Christianity feels there is, than let that celebration be distinctive! Don't let it get lost in a month-long frenzy to embrace warm, fuzzy feelings.

So far, for me, it seems like I've done myself a huge favor. Every time a thought comes into my head like "I have to get a wreath for the door!" another thought speaks louder, "Wait for Christmas!" And I promise you, all the pressure is off.

Update on Twelve for '12

Since we are nearing the close of this year 2012, I thought I'd do a brief update on where I stand with my goals. Now let's see:

 1) Finish Betsy's wedding present. Not a chance - I maybe stitched on this one hour so far this year, with no foreseeable time to do so in the next five weeks.

2) Stop using shampoo.  We'll give this one a 2/3 complete.  I did this almost exclusively up until September when we moved, but, like almost everything else, it dropped by the wayside in the midst of the stress and busyness of getting settled into our new place. I have a post on more detail about losing shampoo that I haven't published yet. Perhaps I will someday.

3) Make couch pillows.  Nope, but it looks like I may finish another spontaneous sewing project - a tree skirt.  

4) Finish baby books.  Nothing.  Pathetic.

5) Placeholder financial goal.  Even though I never fixed what it was, we didn't meet it anyway.  But, oh did we try!  Let's just say that with the unexpected loss of my job (although I did get another one) and the approaching end to Thom's job, we haven't been in the best position to do what we wanted with our money.

6) Sleep through the night.  Done!

7) Learn how to knit.  Who was I kidding?

8) Travel.  Done!

9) Paint bookshelf.  Done!

10) Read five books that I already own and have never read before.  I've pretty much done this one, although everything I've read can count as "juvenile fiction".  It was my only hope.  I read Henry and the Paper Route, Harriet the Spy, The Hunger Games trilogy, and Tales of Beedle the Bard.   I hope to eek out one or two more before the year ends.

11) Cook a whole chicken.  Done!

12) Volunteer at Community Pregnancy Clinic.  No, but this is no longer a realistic goal based on moving out of the state.  Plus, it was a little optimistic to think I'd have the extra time and someone to watch the kids to make this happen.  Put on hold until kids are in school!

But at least I made up for it, by doing this:

13) Go to the dentist.  Done!  Only two cavities. :)

So that means I got about 6-7 out of 13. Fail.

I'm not going to beat myself up about this though. I can see, looking back over my year, why things played out the way they did and which ones of these were me being an ever-eager over-achiever. I think I'll do it again for 2013. I mean, why not? At least there's some record of what I've done. And something to try for if I ever do find myself with time on my hands.

Twelve for '12: Much Needed Rest

It's been over two months since I met this goal:

6) Sleep through the night. I'll define this as 8 hours straight with no interruptions from children.

And the magical formula for making that happen? Further crossing off this goal:

8) Travel. To Illinois? To California? Just somewhere that requires me to board a plane.

In early June, I got the chance to spend a few days on my own, away from kids and all other demands on my time - except the necessity to admire my new niece Vianne which wasn't very taxing, with a high priority for sleep.

I was not disappointed. For three wonderful nights, I basically slept for as long as I wanted (10 hours at the longest). I went to bed mid-evening, read in the quiet of the guest room until I got too tired, and then woke to the warm California sunlight falling across the bed in the morning, and dozed off again a few more times as needed.

It...was...heavenly.

And you know what else? Just between you and me, I didn't even worry about my kids while I was away. Thanks, Thom!

Twelve for '12: Blue Bookshelf

You cannot even imagine the kind of satisfaction I have in reporting that I have now crossed another item off of the list. This item, to be exact:

9) Paint bookshelf. The paint was already purchased months ago.

This was one of those things that I honestly felt like I would never be able to do back a few months ago when I was in a baby fog. We bought the paint at least a year ago, maybe more, and Thom had even started sanding at one point, but then the winter hit and the bookshelf went into storage. More money spent on unachieved dreams. Sigh.

Well, my little Margot turned one today and a couple weeks ago the sun came out and I painted the bookshelf. Seems like we're accomplishing milestones left and right.

It really wasn't even that much work once I got started. I borrowed my mom's power sander to take off some of the thick previous paint, then got to work covering the entire shelf with two coats of blue.

A couple days to dry and voila! I finally decorated something in our home!

Life and Death (Cont.)

Further news and reflections:

- On Saturday evening, ten years to the day after my dad's death, our friend Greg died. He was on the elder board with my dad when I was a kid; he taught my Sunday school class one year; he was an elder at the church where Thom and I attended when we were first married; he interviewed Thom for his ministry position there, and advocated for that position to be created for him. He was a tender-hearted man, a man of great faith and conviction, and a strong leader. His wife was my mentor partner as a teenager. Then Thom led the youth group while both of Greg's kids were involved. His daughter Shawna is just about the age I was when my dad died. My heart goes out to the family, especially as they walk this similar road.

- My niece, Vianne Rose, was born in the wee hours of the morning on Easter Sunday. I haven't gotten to see her yet, but I hear that all is well. Vianne's name means "alive" which seems remarkably fitting for the events surrounding her birthday, and for the miracle that took place on the first Easter. Congratulations to the new parents, Amy & Patrick!


"You came to take us
All things go, all things go
To recreate us
All things grow, all things grow"

-Sufjan Stevens, Chicago

Matters of Life and Death

Today is April 6, 2012 which makes tomorrow April 7, 2012. And tomorrow is a pretty significant day, or at least it marks one: the day my dad died, ten years ago.

The day is full. I'll tell you why.

- My sister is currently in the hospital being induced with her baby girl three weeks early due to possible complications from a liver problem and preeclampsia.

- Today is my best friend's due date (another baby girl) and she was experiencing contractions all morning.

- We're in the midst of Holy Week. Thom is off to a Good Friday service as I write and Sunday morning we will celebrate Christ's resurrection.

- Another friend has just arrived from Ohio. We will be having a birthday party for her two-year-old daughter (two weeks younger than Beatrix) tomorrow morning. Her husband flies out for training on Easter morning; he is deploying to Iraq at the end of the month.

- An old family friend is currently in hospice care after battling cancer for many years.

- I turned 32 one week ago.

And in the midst of all of this, I'm trying to find space to contemplate, to celebrate Dad's life, to reflect on my process of grief, and to appreciate the hope of heaven.

It feels like too much and I'm tempted to just go watch TV instead of think, but I know that I need to focus and live through this. So here goes.

***

The last time I saw my dad was my 22nd birthday. It was Easter Sunday. I had flown home for Easter break at the urging of my mom who did not think that Dad had long to live. I don't remember anything about those few days at home except for the morning I left. We went to the sunrise service, my dad in a wheelchair and towing an oxygen tank.

At home, before leaving for the airport, I went into our family room alone to say goodbye to Dad. I sat perched on the armrest of the recliner, in a side embrace with him. He spoke words to me, which seared into my brain. I have them in a journal still, but paraphrased, he told me he loved me, that I needed to finish school, that I needed to help my mom make decisions, and that, most importantly, I needed to keep my faith in God.

It was a lonely flight back to school. I sat next to the window and let the tears fall silently, a deep hollowness - sorrow - settled in. At O'Hare, my roommate picked me up at the curb. She was distracted and stressed by driving in unfamiliar Chicago traffic; she greeted me coldly. I remember leaning away from her in the car, staring out the window, my insides just screaming out the injustices: It's my birthday! My dad is dying! I will never see him again!

He died late at night the following Sunday. I was awoken in the middle of the night in my Wheaton college apartment, two thousand miles away from home, with a phone call. I remember leaping out of bed, knowing it was bad news. My roommates didn't rouse, maybe because I got up so quickly it didn't wake them or maybe because they knew, as I did, it was for me.

On the line was my brother; he told me the news. I don't remember talking much. I just remember the feeling afterward, the sickest, darkest, heaviest feeling I have ever had. It could only be told with sobs and groans. I curled up on the spare bed in our study and cried. My roommates came to me then and held me while I wailed and rocked and writhed.

I relive that moment often and it never fails to bring tears.

The following day was Monday and I had to get excused from classes and arrange for extensions on my work. My roommate came with me to one English class to explain to a professor why I wouldn't be there; I couldn't bring myself to walk into the classroom and talk to her. There in the hallway of Armerding Hall, I ran into another close friend. I saw her, rushed to her, clung to her neck, and sobbed while students in an hurry filled the hall around us.

Very few people at school knew my dad had cancer. I was involved in a ministry on campus when we found out the diagnosis (early summer of '00). The people involved in the ministry knew and had been praying. My roommates knew, a few individual close friends knew, a few professors knew, and that's all. Lots of individual, even close, friends did not know. How do you tell people who don't know that your dad has been dying that your dad died? I couldn't. So I didn't talk. I spent a good amount of time playing Nintendo 64 games just to keep my mind occupied.

I flew back home within a few days to attend the burial and memorial services. My arrival at the Portland airport that time was one of the most beautiful-sad memories. All my siblings were waiting for me as I walked out of Concourse E. One by one, I fell into their arms grateful to be with them all. Their hugs said, "You're home, we understand, we feel the same way as you." Those were honest hugs.

Some relatives were in town for the funeral. I remember one of my uncles was sitting in the living room when I came downstairs one morning. It was late morning, maybe ten, and he made some annoying comment about me sleeping all day or something like that. I wanted to kill him. Another time, another uncle stopped me to tell me about the stages of grief. I knew he meant well, but I couldn't possibly understand what he was talking about, I couldn't even understand my own actions.

At the church for the funeral, my family all waited in the back rooms, like actors offstage, to enter together in a procession when the service started. I gripped my sister Amy's hand as we went down the aisle. I remember feeling pretty exhausted, with no more energy to cry. Many kind and joyful testimonies were shared that night about my dad's life. I was and am so proud of him.

I had to go back to school to finish out the year. The day Dad died was exactly five weeks before my graduation. There were lots of gushing goodbyes and rekindling camaraderie among classmates at the time. I remember vividly running into one of the girls from my ministry on the sidewalk one day. She told me with great enthusiasm that she was engaged. I could not respond to her cheerfulness with the truth about what was going on with me. Dad's death was only a few days old, and I acted like everything was fine.

Another time, I tried to spit it out awkwardly. A boy who had had a crush on me - he had asked me out earlier in the year; I refused, but we had remained friends, stopped me in the hall one day. He asked me casually how I was as anyone might in normal conversation. I said that I wasn't doing well actually, that my dad had died. He laughed in response. I guess he thought I was joking. He was one who should've known my dad was sick, but he didn't remember at least not in that moment. That encounter certainly didn't encourage me to be more forthcoming with my emotions.

A friend who had already graduated, but was still living nearby, went for a walk with me to the park one day. I had seen her regularly over the two years since I knew my dad had cancer, but I never mentioned it. For whatever reason, it never seemed like the right time to say it or I didn't know how. At the end of the walk, my friend asked me if my family was coming to graduation. I said that my mom and my brother were coming and she asked, "Why not your dad?" I shifted uncomfortably on my feet and replied that he had died. She was shocked and mystified. I was miserable and embarrassed. My hasty, stammering explanation could not recover any trust; I felt false and shallow.

Eventually, one of my friends caught on; I was not seeking any help and was receiving as much. She informed the chaplain's office of Dad's death. The college chaplain called me directly to ask how I was doing. I remember it feeling very strange to speak to someone whom I had been watching on stage three days a week for the last four years, now, at the end, because my dad was dead. I don't think I was very honest or else I didn't know what I was feeling so I just gave the expected answers.

Later, they inserted my name into the prayer requests in front of the entire school. There had been students' parents with cancer in the regular prayer list for months if not years, but my dad had never been one of them. One girl in particular, another senior, had been in a couple of my classes. Her dad also had cancer, but she was loud and outgoing. In both classes, she shared all about it and asked for prayer. I remember sitting in those classes, watching her with bitterness and awe. There was part of me that wanted to jump up and say, "Me too! My dad is dying too! Pray for me!", but that would have meant attention and vulnerability. Silence always won.

When my time came, it was (I believe) the very last chapel service of the year. All of us seniors were sitting on the stage. They prayed for me, calling my name out for everyone to hear, and I felt my friends nearby reach out and place their hands on me. Afterward, descending from the bleachers, a couple of my ministry friends (one was the girl who got engaged) approached me with searching, sad eyes. Why hadn't I told them? I don't know why, because I couldn't.

***

None of this really speaks about Dad, about who he was or what he meant to me. No, to do that I'd have to write volumes. These are just the glimpses I have, the montage on repeat that plays in my head this time of year, little painful flashes and memories of a time I cannot go back and change. All of this was so formative for me, and yet I think over them now with a definite outsider's eye.

To be honest, I can't even quite remember the girl who didn't know how to talk about her pain; I've had ten whole years to do that. I know this pain so well, it is with me every day. It dulls as life moves ahead, but comes back sharply whenever I give it just a minute to sink in, like when I consider raising my girls without them ever knowing their Grandpa except in pictures. Just one minute and my insides start screaming the injustices all over again: My dad is dead! I will never see him again!

However, I would be remiss to leave it at that. I was attempting to give up complaining for Lent this year, and in doing so have realized just how prevalent complaining is in my life, so it would be easy for me to just leave off with a big whiny cry for pity. But it's Easter weekend, so how can I think on my dad's death and his separation from me, without glorying in the victory over death that we have through Jesus Christ?! The pain that I feel here on earth is just one part of the story, the present part, sure, but not the most significant part.

I will instead scream out this wonderful injustice: Christ has died for me! I will live with him!

Twelve for '12: Crock Pot Chicken

Another item to check off my list:

11) Cook a whole chicken. I've had this chicken in my freezer for ages and I have no idea what to do with it. Suggestions welcome.

In early March, I finally pulled my chicken out of the freezer and put it to work. And by work I mean letting it slow cook in its own juices for half a day in order to become a very tasty dinner for me and my family.

[Just lost my vegan/vegetarian audience.]

[Audience, what audience?]

I used the recipe found here at the 100 Days of Real Food blog at the suggestion of my friend Meredith. It was really so incredibly easy, I am ashamed to have kept that chicken frozen for as long as I did.

Here's what the chicken looked like with rub applied, before cooking. Whoops! I forgot to take an "after" picture; I was too busy eating.

We ate about a third of it that night along with a salad of penne, grape tomatoes and fresh spinach tossed in an olive oil and vinegar dressing. It was my first experimental "real food" meal which was received by the whole Blair clan with enthusiasm.

After that, we used the leftover breast meat for cold chicken sandwiches and a homemade bbq chicken pizza. The rest of the meat was frozen for an eventual pot of chicken soup. Plus, I used the further instructions from the recipe to make my own overnight chicken stock which has come in handy for several meals since.

Definitely a big thumbs up to this recipe, plus the blog is worth reading. We've been incorporating some of the ideas and recipes around here for the last month and it's been a good change. I'm not 100% sold on following all her guidelines, but there are some of them that I can really get behind, like only eating things with ingredients that you can identify and choosing homemade over store-bought whenever possible. I've definitely got a lot to learn, and I'm no food snob (yet), and I will kick and scream if you dare call me a "foodie", but having two impressionable little mouths to feed has forced me into rethinking some of our food choices.

It's funny how long I fought this, actually. I've known that sooner or later I'd have to address this nagging voice in my head that kept telling me to change, but I'd been so turned off by other condescending food-worshippers that I wanted nothing to do with it. I think I know exactly what it feels to be an atheist who finally accepts Christ but swears he'll never be called "born again". It's like tapping into something that is so ancient and true that it precedes all modern trends and labels. Somehow you want to capture the eternal message without all the contemporary trappings (judgmentalism, arrogance, insensitivity, political persuasions), but sooner or later you've just got to accept you're "one of them".

But you don't have to be a jerk about it.

Twelve for '12: Family Vacation

It's the end of February, which means we're one-sixth of the way through the year already and I'm wondering where the last six weeks have gone. But at least I have successfully crossed off one thing on my 2012 list:

8) Travel. To Illinois? To California? Just somewhere that requires me to board a plane.

Last week we returned from a nine day family trip to Illinois. Planes were boarded, there and back. And guess what? That's enough traveling for me, thank you very much. At least with children. I'll take any trips alone or with Thom or other adult company that anyone wants to throw at me (with all expenses paid), but I don't think I need to travel again with small children for, well, as long as I have small children.

They did fine, really. It's not their fault that they picked up some sort of stomach bug halfway through the trip and spent the last four days throwing up. And it wasn't their fault that they were being driven all over the Chicago metropolitan area, eating in weird places, meeting new people every day, and missing their naps most of the time. They were really wonderful for the first few days, adjusting well to the new surroundings and generally being social and pleasant.

But that last half of the trip - oh boy! If we hadn't had the comfort of our friends the Mitchells' home to wait out the last few days, I don't know what we would have done. And the plane ride home? The three-weeks-until-two year old threw the most epic tantrum of her life (around two hours in length) before collapsing in exhaustion for the last twenty minutes of the flight. Meanwhile the nine month old contracted a cold all of a sudden and was throwing her body around feverishly with intermittent cries of pain (we found out when we returned that she also had an ear infection).

I'm not complaining (wink, wink, Lent), just describing what actually happened.

Everyone's much better now after a few days at home. Antibiotics are doing their magic, and symptoms are down to just a lingering cough. Was it worth it? I'm not sure.

We got to see some wonderful friends; there are so many amazing and dear-to-us people in that part of the world, even friends who drove hours to come see us. The time could not possibly have been long enough to really enjoy diving back into those relationships. Mostly it was rushed and kid-centered and felt incomplete. It's so hard living your life in two places all the time. When we lived there, it felt always like our home was in the West, but in a lot of ways we have more roots there than here, like a great church home, both of our jobs, and incredibly understanding friends.

I thought I had sufficiently low expectations for the trip going into it. I was pretty certain I'd get very little sleep (which was true) and that the girls might be out of sorts (which was sometimes true), but I did not expect to spend three days confined indoors while I tried to figure out how to be a mom to vomiting children. This was the first time I've ever dealt with real sickness as a mom; the girls have only had a couple of minor colds before this. And I had to figure it out in front of other people and away from the comforts of my own home. Yes, there was more than one occurrence of saying a curse word at the top of my voice in the middle of the night. It was challenging to say the least. So I find myself on the edge of disappointment when I reflect on completing this item on the list.

Overall, the trip seems like merely another reminder that my goals, my desires, my plans are not what's important here. Can I be given this lesson enough? It's not sinking in, apparently.

Brief Thoughts on God as Father

Parenting will do an astounding thing for you, if you let it: open up your eyes to what it means to have God as our Father, and to be his child.

I have been realizing this in waves over the last (almost) two years with my girls. I've written much more eloquent posts than this one about it in my head on several occasions. But it's worth mentioning, if only in a paltry few sentences.

God is a much better Father than I am a mother. And, boy, am I thankful for that. Watching a toddler scream and fight and cry for her own comforts and pleasures (milk, tv, cookies, juice, Angry Birds) as well as at her own inabilities (dressing, undressing, climbing up, opening doors, fixing toys) really shines the spotlight on how similar my fits to God are.

I come to him daily, asking for more comfort, more rest, more peace, more time to myself, more energy, more of something that will make this all easier and more pleasant to me. I'm usually pretty pissy when I ask God for these things. And I am endlessly battling my own frustration at my limitations. Some days I could punch a hole in the wall just for spilling something on the floor. Mostly I'm just consumed with my lack of time and what feels like too much to do on top of that.

I throw temper tantrums. They feel more grown up when I'm doing it, because they're about things like adult responsibility and mental health and personal well-being, but they are really no different at their core than the ones Bea throws. I've got 30 years of perspective on her trials; they seem silly to me. Imagine God's perspective on my own complaints. And yet he doesn't treat me like I'm ridiculous.

That's one of the ways you know he is good.

I told Thom tonight that if I catch myself whining at God like this (as I am sure to), I will try replacing what I have to say with something Bea says to me, like, "WATCH BACKYARDIGANS?!" I'm hoping that will snap me out of it.

New Year: Twelve for '12

My friend Julie recently blogged her list of goals to do before her next birthday: 30 by 30. Julie is my first and only official "cyber friend", meaning that we met online (in a forum for women trying to conceive) about 2 1/2 years ago and have met once in person since then. And there have been four baby girls between us in that time frame! Her second little one is due in a few weeks.

Anyway, I got inspired to create a list of my own. (Have you noticed how much I like lists? They are my chief organizational tool. Great at writing them, not nearly as good at crossing things off of them.) This is my list for the New Year - resolutions, assignments, goals, or what-have-you. Not that anyone cares about my personal betterment, but...

In 2012, I would like to:

1) Finish my wedding present for my friend Betsy, who was married in 2009.

2) Stop using shampoo. (This one is actually stolen directly from Julie. You can read more about it here.)

3) Make couch pillows. The fabric was already purchased months ago.

4) Finish Bea's baby book. Buy/Start/Finish Margot's baby book.

5) Placeholder financial goal. (This one is hinging on secured employment and is intended to be the amount I hope we will pay off in student loan debt. I have a number in mind, but am not committing until further information about our future is unveiled.) My backup financial goal is to get the newspaper each week and clip coupons.

6) Sleep through the night. I'll define this as 8 hours straight with no interruptions from children. And I just mean that I want this to happen for one night. If many nights, great!, but I'm not expecting too much here.

7) Learn how to knit, specifically in order to make amigurumi which I've been admiring all year while following this blog.

8) Travel. To Illinois? To California? Just somewhere that requires me to board a plane.

9) Paint bookshelf. The paint was already purchased months ago.

10) Read at least five books that I already own and have never read before.

11) Cook a whole chicken. I've had this chicken in my freezer for ages and I have no idea what to do with it. Suggestions welcome.

12) Volunteer at Community Pregnancy Clinic in Camas. I've already submitted my volunteer application and met with the wonderful people at this place twice. This is a lovely organization that believes in supporting women in unplanned pregnancies all the way through the birth of their children and beyond. They are truly the hands and feet, doing good in this community, not just holding a strong political or moral position, but getting in there and doing the dirty work: helping those in need.

Okay, and here's one more for good measure and because I desperately need some accountability on this one:

13) Go to the dentist. I haven't been in...awhile.

Happy 2012 to all!

Shameful Memory #...Oh, Thousands: Foot In My Mouth

It's back to this. Allow me to empty out my head a little more. I've got to admit, it's therapeutic. My previous Shameful Memories have pretty much all faded to Amusing Memories which I consider a resounding triumph in my mental health.

But here's the thing: I have so many more! The shame creeps out all over the place. Over the past months, I have felt that old familiar twinge - the one that urges me to 'Quick! Go hide yourself, flee the country, or die quietly!" - many, many times. Most of these memories are so minor, brief one-liners uttered in haste. Perhaps I can't even remember the context; I just remember the moment of horror when I said the wrong thing.


I have:

- Collectively made fun of the girls on the high school dance team to one of its members.
- Mocked Amway to a girl who had Amway salespeople for relatives.
- Criticized the dental industry to an aspiring dentist who came from a family of dentists.
- Complained about how I was spending too much money on other people to someone for whom I had just bought dinner.
- Made a seemingly degrading comment about Baptists to people of that denomination. Twice, two different sets of people.
- Been blatantly size-ist in front of an overweight person.
- Said how terrible it would be to have twins to a twin.
- Whined to friends about having too many baby clothes to deal with moments before opening their present (which was clothes) for my baby.
- Scoffed at tea time to a British person.
- Acted horrified at the thought of someone (else) being gay to someone whose mom is gay.
- Used the adjective 'colored' in a sentence to a black man (not referring to race, but when do you ever use that word? Honestly!).
- Talked about how I wish we could just cut the states between Oregon and Illinois out of the United States because 'nobody needs them' to someone who was from Iowa.
- Complimented two people with wigs (because of hair loss) on their hair cuts. Two separate occurrences!
- Talked enthusiastically about a baby's small size to her mom who was concerned because she was dangerously underweight from not eating.


Please note that none of these were intentional. It's not like I was seeking to criticize or even to be honest only to regret having said something later. I simply forgot to stifle, misspoke, didn't remember the one thing about the person I was supposed to remember before talking. Maybe I didn't even mean what I said, I was just making conversation. I'm sure I'm not alone here. Right? This is something that everyone goes through, talking without thinking. (Please, tell me it's true.) I'm curious, though, whether everyone else catalogs these episodes the way I do.

I'd love to hear your "foot in your mouth" moments too. Anyone got some they can share? We can all have a good laugh together and shake it off. Consequently, if you were the recipient of any of my above foolish words, I humbly apologize.

Watch Your Mouth

It happened yesterday. In a moment of frustration, I yelled out the queen-mother of dirty words while driving and Beatrix repeated it a second later.

Gulp.

I knew this was coming, of course. She's been learning new words left and right these days and copying other harmless phrases. But though my slip-ups have been frequent as little sleep and caring for two needy little ones has taken its toll on my patience, we'd managed to avoid this particular problem until now. A few days ago, she picked up, "Come on!" from me, but that was just cute. This, this is not cute. This is a one and a half year old with a potty mouth.

For the record, the conversation was quickly diverted to ducks in which I called out, "Duck! Quack quack!" about a dozen times to make sure she understood it's just something we adults say loudly. She laughed appreciatively and responded with all the appropriate animal noises when requested. I don't really expect her to say the word again - the F-dash-dash-dash word - but she might. If something really bad happens, she might. And I'll be very, very ashamed of myself.

This whole ordeal reminded me of a post that I wanted to write way back when Bea was born, but that I never got around to. Perhaps I can prevent further damage to my poor daughters' ears if I get this out now.

Everyone knows they should watch their mouth around little kids. It's a natural thing, "ear muffs" and all that. We see children in their innocence of the world around them, we think maybe they don't have to know all the garbage we know, maybe they can live differently, maybe they can keep their mind clean for a little longer. Now, I don't believe that children are sinless, but I do believe that many sins, or just bad habits, are taught and most often by the people closest to them, their parents.

This is not rocket science, of course. We all know that our children are learning from us, but realizing the enormity of the responsibility of how much they are learning from us is terrifying. In the early days of being a mom (ha ha, as if I'm so far into it now!), I thought a lot about my words and what they could be conveying to Bea as she learns and I realized there is a whole lot more to "watching your mouth" than just avoiding profanity. This is what I mean:

"8 Other Ways to Watch Your Mouth"

1) Don't lie. When you tell your child you'll do something, follow through. That goes for discipline, rewards, promises, plans. If you have to change what you said you'd do, explain why.

2) Don't triangulate. New parents will find how easy it is to slip into a constant rhythm of baby-speak where everything you say is directed to the baby, probably from some healthy motive for good interpersonal skills and language development. However, what's not so good is how easy it is to also talk to your spouse through your child, and sometimes it's downright passive-aggressive. "Mommy has to take out the garbage because Daddy didn't do it when Mommy asked." or "Oh! Is Mommy too distracted on the internet to play with you? Come sit with me!" Don't do it. It's ugly. Practice good, straightforward communication with your spouse. You'll need it if your marriage is going to stand a chance.

3) Don't be self-deprecating. One of my worst habits, which Thom is helping me correct, is that I always say something like, "I'm so stupid!" or "I'm an idiot!" whenever I make a mistake. I have a real problem with this, holding myself to impossible standards. I do not want my kids to inherit that way of thinking or speaking. Along these lines, degrading your appearance is right out, especially in front of little girls. Don't talk about your body in a negative way. The whole world will be feeding that junk to your daughter. Please, be the one voice that doesn't reveal discontent, jealousy, or self-loathing about the skin God has given you. If someone pays you a compliment, take it well. Don't brush it off with false-humility or by pointing out unseen flaws.

4) Don't be judgmental. (Of your kids too, but just in general.) I am terrible at this, have been my whole life. And when I look into my family history, I see a line of judgmentalism that runs deep. We're snobs, let's face it. I'm not sure where we got it from, we're certainly not bred from aristocracy; we're just a family with strong values and a lot of black-and-white where others might see grey. My greatest prayer as a parent, apart from the salvation of my children, is that my own judgmentalism will not be passed on to them. I want my girls to grow up with strong values, knowing right and wrong, but I want that to be cultivated with a grace and compassion for others. I could write volumes on the ways this plays out in everyday life, but simply put, this may just look like not pointing out others faults simply as a means of feeling superior, or being generous with compliments towards others.

5) Don't be sarcastic. Okay, not forever. I like sarcasm too much to throw it out completely. I'm just not that sincere of a person. But with children, I think it's best if you let it go. Once they start developing their sense of humor and vocabulary, you will get a feel for what sarcasm they understand, but besides that it's just kind of cruel and brings you back to #1. Say what you mean; your kids need to learn to trust you.

6) Don't talk badly about your relatives. One of the best ways to screw your child up is to let them in on all of the family drama too early. Don't. They don't need to know about who's fighting with whom, or who's being financially irresponsible, or who's headed for divorce, or whose political or religious beliefs irritate you, or who's being overbearing and manipulative. Children should be allowed to love their grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins freely without the weight of all the family stress we know as adults. Let them love the holidays and save your debriefing until you and your spouse are alone after the kids are in bed, not in the car on the way home where they can hear every word you say.

7) Don't disrespect your spouse. Remember your marriage is a model of Christ and the Church.

8) Don't talk about money like it is your god. I previously thought that you shouldn't talk to kids about money or money problems because you wouldn't want your kids to suffer from the guilt or stress of money; something like "We can't buy that toy because we don't have enough money!" might make some poor child worry about the welfare of his family. I don't think that anymore. While I probably wouldn't say that exact sentence to my child, I think we should be teaching our kids about money whenever possible and be extremely open with them about where it comes from, what we do with it, and how to use it responsibly. Part of this is making sure that we talk about God's provision for us, being contented and trusting in Him, and that we don't emphasize panic, fear, or remorse about not having "enough" money. Part of this is not talking excessively about wanting 'things' or disparaging the things that we have. Another part is not idolizing the wealthy. And yet another part is giving generously.

A Good Reminder

¹ And God spoke all these words, saying,
 ² "I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery.
 ³ "You shall have no other gods before me.
 ⁴ "You shall not make for yourself a carved image...
 ⁷ "You shall not take the name of the LORD your God in vain...
 ⁸ "Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy.
 ¹² "Honor your father and your mother...
 ¹³ "You shall not murder.
 ¹⁴ "You shall not commit adultery.
 ¹⁵ "You shall not steal.
 ¹⁶ "You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
 ¹⁷ "You shall not covet your neighbor’s house; you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or his male servant, or his female servant, or his ox, or his donkey, [or his car, or his tv, or his iPhone, or his Nikon camera, or his furniture, or his yard, or his glasstop stove, or his investments, or his job, or his salary, or his vacations, or his family, or his talents, or his personality, or his sense of humor, or his clothing, or his designer boots, or his nose, or his haircut,] or anything that is your neighbor’s."

Exodus 20:1-4, 7-8, 12-17 (ESV)
Words in brackets not in original text, obviously.

Some Whining & Wisdom

I hate those annoying "Helpful Tips for New Moms" lists that say things like, "Sleep when your baby sleeps!" or "The dishes can wait!" or "Give yourself a break!" or "Make sure to take some 'Me Time' each day!"

Pardonnez the français here, but that is such a bunch of bull.

Sure, you've got to take care of yourself. You've got to cover the basics. Sure, you need sleep and you need to eat and you need to get help when you feel like you're going insane.

But, seriously, you can't sleep when your baby sleeps unless you a) are home - i.e. not driving a car while your baby sleeps in the car seat, b) are not working - because when my baby gets to sleep, I still have hours to put in at my job; this is not optional, c) only have one child - because when you've got a toddler to chase around all day long, you'll just be grateful if the baby falls asleep at all, or d) employ a full-time cook, maid, chauffeur and/or nanny. Honestly, sometimes the dishes really can't wait, like when your toddler needs to eat and there are no clean bowls left and you've started serving yogurt in shot glasses, or when you need to make dinner and all the pots and pans are piled in the sink and you're left wondering if you could cook ground beef in a waffle maker. And no, you can't always just "give yourself a break" and order a pizza because you're already broke and that would be irresponsible and likely to put you in an even worse place of exhaustion and self-loathing the next time you balance your checkbook.

And 'Me Time'? Uh, it doesn't exist. It could exist, I guess, if I was completely self-centered and wanted to say, "Yeah, Thom, I know you are working 10 hours a day to provide for our family, but the minute you get done with that, how about you take care of the kids? No, really, it's fun...it's not hard at all." [Run out the door.] I'm sorry, but the closest thing to 'Me Time' in this family is the shared-responsibility hours between 5 and 7pm where Mommy and Daddy both continue to work at getting the kids fed, bathed, and in bed, but are just happy they get to do it together. This is our break.

Those annoying lists also usually include things like "Don't forget to cultivate your relationship with your partner - go on a date night!" and "Regular exercise helps fatigue!" So which one is it? Go easy on myself or try to fit more things into my life that I wasn't even doing before I had a baby? Great. Now I feel guilty that I haven't taken the time to plan a romantic night out with my husband. Let me just add that to the list of things I'm not able to do, right after 'clean food off of carpet' and 'change underwear'. And how's this for exercise? I lift and carry two weights - one about 15 lbs, the other 25 lbs - all day long. Sometimes both at once, sometimes add 10 lbs for the car seat, sometimes more for however many bags I'm carrying at the same time, grocery or otherwise. Oh yeah, and sometimes the weights are kicking and screaming and doing their best to get away from me. That'll just have to be good enough because I'm not going to even pretend that 5am neighborhood jogs are an option.

While I do understand that there's a possibility to over-do it, it seems to me that most of the time we know our own limits, and no one else better expect any more than that. In fact, I think most of the stress of having young children is simply realizing our limitations; not because we refuse to limit ourselves, but that it is unavoidable. Every day holds up a big fat sign that says, "You can't. Now go to bed." Perhaps we need more reminders to just keep moving, instead of one more voice directing us to call it quits.

What I really think these lists should say is:


"Helpful Tips for New Moms"

 1) Feel sorry for yourself.
 2) Okay, are you done? Get over it.
 3) You need to learn to live on less sleep than you used to get.
 4) You are not going to get anything done or enjoy your life unless you w-o-r-k. Sorry, there's no getting around it.
 5) Don't feel like you have enough time? Try cutting out the internet and television for starters. Then say no to things that you don't want to do...and I'm not talking about changing diapers. Then stop shopping.
 6) Love your kids and love your time with your kids. Being unselfish with them is going to bring you much more joy than any time you "take" for yourself.
 7) If someone offers to help, by all means, take them up on it!
 8) And for heavens sake, sleep, eat, bathe when you can.


This post brought to you by some selfish and irresponsible 'Me Time'. What do you know? I feel better.

Life Alterations

I've been just itching to get back to blogging here, and after my brief hiatus (read birth of second child), I think I might be ready to do it. In January, I wrote about our winter cleaning. It wasn't nearly as thorough as I would have liked, but we have sold around 40 books on Amazon (making something in the realm of $300 doing so) and sold our hutch and our loveseat on Craigslist. We bought a large couch which didn't exactly help to lighten things up, but certainly made sitting down a lot more comfortable. And since sitting down is what I do a good portion of the day (read feeding second child), I am grateful daily for that purchase.

Anyway, fast-forward eight months and we find ourselves in September, our motivations re-awoken, eager and alert. The Blairs are ready to tackle life. I don't want to bore you with specifics, or maybe I do, but I can't right now because I've got other things to take care of, but I'll just say big things are afoot in the Blair household.

Over the last several weeks it has slowly been occurring to me that my life just doesn't fit right. It's a little too baggy in spots, loose around the middle, and I like things put together - trim and orderly. I've decided to happen instead of letting all the happening happen to me.

Here are some of the alterations in the works, in no particular order:

- Drinking more water
- Losing weight
- Paying off all of our student loan debt
- Not watching TV
- Getting off of Facebook
- Reading more
- Not spending money out of boredom
- Not "rewarding" myself, giving myself a "break", or thinking I "deserve" food or other purchases
- Drinking less pop (soda, for all you soda-sayers)
- Practicing delaying my stress (each day has enough worry of its own)
- Having a garage sale
- Budgeting monthly, and sticking to it
- Making intentional menus/grocery lists
- Not eating out, or only eating out with a purpose, like a date with my husband
- Not using credit cards
- Drinking coffee

"Drinking coffee?" you ask.

Why, yes! I have never been a coffee drinker before, so for me it is not a nasty habit or addiction. And let's hope it remains so. Instead, I have recently discovered the pure joy of allowing a good cup of coffee (mine severely milky and sugary) to usher in my day. It's a way for me to say, "Hello, day! I greet you and invite you to stay." This is in contrast to what I did for the entirety of my pregnancy which was to try to keep my eyes closed as much as possible while Bea played on the floor next to me in order to pretend I didn't actually get out of bed yet. Some days I would keep that up until lunch time. Not a good way to live.

I have a theory about life alterations. It's that you should do them all at the same time. If you choose just one, like "I'm going to lose weight this year!", but don't change the way you treat food, money, or your time, you will not change at all. But if you realize that all of those things are linked together and that in order to start making good, healthy, responsible life choices you need to rethink your whole philosophy on life, you will find the ability to change areas of your life you never thought possible. It's a theory. I haven't exactly proven it yet.

Internet Poisoning

It happened again: a certain social-networking site ruined my perfectly good - and sunny! - Saturday afternoon. I just wanted to pop on for a second, see if I had email, you know, and there it was: one of those posts...on parenting.

I don't know why I read it; the same thing happens every time. I guess I justify it by thinking that if I know what people are saying, I'll be better at arguing my own points of view. But instead of just taking an objective interest, it got me all worked up and I began typing a quick-fire comment about why I disagreed with the article. I had six or seven points to start, but now, after an afternoon of dwelling on it, could maybe fill a short best-selling book with my thoughts.

I didn't leave the comment, at least. I'm usually smart enough (or cowardly enough) to know I don't really want to invite controversy into my life. It still bugs me though. I mean, the article still bugs me and I still want to post a counter-argument for every illogical, foolish, emotive sentence in the thing. But more than that, it bugs me that it bugs me. I hate that I can't let go of stuff like this. And I mean that sort of in a "live and let live" kind of way - but not that generously open-minded - more in a "don't let other people's opinions ruin your day" kind of way.

My annoyance about a post on parenting should not distract me from enjoying my own sweet daughter's face and laugh. I may not be a fool, but clearly I'm the loser here.

It's Winter Cleaning Time!

As of January 2nd, Operation De-Clutter is officially underway in the Blair residence. Already, we have cleared out over 50 books (hopefully, to sell) and have posted our hutch on Craigslist (and got 3 bites today!). I am encouraged. I'm sure there's no way I could manage this on my own right now, so I am extremely grateful for my husband's motivation. It's just so exciting to think about simplifying our lives a little, letting go of things that need it, and maybe making some money in the process.

I'll keep you posted on our progress.

A Christmas Resolution

It's the battle of the season: on one team we have Love, Joy, Peace, and great Hope; on the other, Busyness, Stress, Anxiety, and Depression.

I have always adored Christmastime. Historically, I love holiday baking, holiday smells (Christmas trees in particular), holiday lights, holiday movies, and holiday decorations (except those blow-up lawn ornaments which should be banned, obviously). I love Christmas carols - the ones which actually talk about Jesus; I love the advent season in church; I love it when, in fleeting moments, my mind takes hold of Christ's first coming and celebrates. These are all parts of cherished memories of a very happy childhood full of happy Christmases.

But then came adulthood, and with it a large dose of sadness, and in-laws. Christmas changed.

The sadness relates mostly to my dad's death (but also partially to my own skepticism and realizing that people aren't very nice on the inside). Dad loved Christmas too, I'm pretty sure. Every year I would help him put up our outdoor lights around the eaves of the house. He'd take us driving some nights into neighborhoods, on the way home, just to look at the lights on other people's houses.

Most years, we would drive up to the woods to chop down a gigantic Noble fir to haul home. It was usually a couple feet too big, even for the vaulted ceiling in the living room. Dad liked to take time with decorating the tree; he was so patient and careful with checking the strings of lights, then winding them in and out, then he'd painstakingly drape beads in scallops along the branches. For an outdoorsman, I think it was a bit of heaven for him to have the sight and smell of the forest inside our own living room for those few weeks each year.

Dad also made peanut brittle every year. My mom did lots of decorating and baking too, but it was Dad who always had a quiet contentment with these activities. Like, you'd never hear Dad say, "And I've GOT to make the peanut brittle, and put up the lights, and decorate the tree!" in an exasperated tone that made them seem like chores. He just did them, because it was that time of year, and because he liked to.

He was a last-minute shopper, always asking me and my sisters to accompany him to the jewelry store to pick out something for my mom on December 23rd. But it was never panicked; I think he had the task boiled down to its simplest, most genuine gesture: buying something nice for my mom because he loved her. He didn't scour ads for weeks, watch sales, and exhaust all his options. He'd just show up at the store of his choice, with a dollar amount in mind, and buy whatever he thought was pretty.

Christmas will forever have a huge painful hole in it for me, now that Dad is no longer with us. Each year, it lessens as the family grows and adds new members - by birth and by marriage; Christmas changes and so Dad's place in it is not so apparent any more. But it still hurts. And will it ever not?

Secondly (apart from sadness), I mentioned in-laws but not to complain about mine. (In fact, my in-laws do up a great Christmas. My mother-in-law reinstated stockings into my life which hadn't been a part of the Gustafson Christmas at least since the birth of my first niece. The woman is an expert stocking stuffer!) Rather, I just mean that marriage signifies the joining of families, and traditions, and expectations on your time, and the doubling of names on your Christmas list.

The past four Christmases Thom and I were traveling from Illinois and, in a mad frenzy to see and do, we'd hop around to family function after family function trying to please everyone. It got complicated, and less relaxed. Gone were the days when my siblings were all sleeping under one roof, able to stay up until 3am playing games or doing puzzles if we wanted. Instead, Christmas became crowded by schedules and restrictions of time and navigating hurt feelings (whether it was just in our heads or not). We were lucky to get one day with everyone together for a meal.

I certainly don't blame my in-laws for any of that. I just mean to say that, here in adulthood, things are different. This is where Christmas can very easily be crushed by all the complications if you let it. You can turn your heart cold and brace against the onslaught of tasks and demands on your time; you can wait for the whole thing to pass so that you can just go on with your normal life; you can go through the entire season without ever believing that Christ came to save us from this very mess we find ourselves in. I could do that, and I could make it easier on myself, but I don't want to. I want to feel the joy and fear and awe that the shepherds felt on the first Christmas. I want the unnecessary things to fade away and the significant things to shine. And mostly, I want Beatrix to experience Christmas as I did, as pure joy, for as long as possible.

The battle is most assuredly raging on my heart this Christmas. For two straight days this week Busyness, Stress, Anxiety, and Depression had me pinned to the floor, but I think I may have won in the end. This round, anyway. We still have a few more days to go...

Shameful Memory #5: Tacky T-Shirt

It's been a while since I've written and, if you were to come inspect my organizational progress over the last month, I would be ashamed to admit there has been very little. Still Bea's closet is overwhelmed with my junk. Still the pile on the table in our bedroom sits untouched. Still the taunting boxes of file folders rest at my feet as I type, with an ever-growing amount of paperwork on top.

I have reasons - excuses - and they are good ones, but I won't bother explaining. Let's just say I've got other demands on my time right now.

However, despite my inability to let go of the tangible cluttering around me, I have more stories to tell, more memories to divulge, more shame to dump out and bury forever. Here's one that came up recently:

I was digging in storage last week for my box of fall decorations (which I never found, by the way - our apartment is going pumpkin- and turkey-less this season, sadly). I did find a box marked "Emily - Clothes" though. Inside were such treasures as the electric blue '80s full-length spandex jumpsuit that my friends gave me as a teenager, the hot pink dress I made for one of the (many) school dances I attended without a date, my old tennis uniform, and about 20 t-shirts from various events, places, and organizations of my past.

I figured the t-shirts were doing no one any good sitting in a box and that I might as well use them as sleepwear, if I never wear them in public. So I unloaded the lot into the laundry basket and they are now filling up an entire drawer of my dresser.

These t-shirts are each a memory in themselves; they represent a time of life for me that I want to remember even though I don't necessarily want to wear something that is men's size XL, roughly the shape of a major appliance, with sleeves that hit about two inches above my wrists. They all have stories, the kinds that tell "I went there" or "I did that".

One shirt in particular, though, tells more than just that story. It's the YHM t-shirt from 2001. YHM (Youth Hostel Ministry) is a program that I participated in while I was a student at Wheaton College. In 2000, I was part of one of the teams that went to Europe and worked in a youth hostel in the Red Light District of Amsterdam for two months. In 2001, I served as the Secretary for the leadership team, helping to train and equip the next year's travelers for their summer abroad.

As part of my duties as Secretary, or because I asked for the responsibility - I can't remember which - I was in charge of designing the t-shirt. Pretty much every organization imaginable on campus had a t-shirt. It was kind of a pain. I mean, as if you needed any more reminders that you came from significantly less money than most of the student body, you'd have to shell out $10 or $12 for a t-shirt every time you turned around even though you'd probably never wear it and it would one day just end up in a box in your storage along with the 20 other t-shirts you accumulated while you were there.

This didn't stop me from relishing my design task. It was so much power: people would be required - at least once when we had to host a chapel service - to wear my t-shirt. I would probably design the coolest t-shirt ever created in the history of campus-organization t-shirts and probably everyone would wear my t-shirt long after it was thread-bare. I was thinking big.

I got too conceptual. See, I had this whole idea about how you go out there [into the world] and your life is on display for everyone to see, you travel, you work, you play, you meet people, you live, and meanwhile all the things you do are speaking the Gospel. I thought of living life "on the air" as in, live from New York, as in everyone's listening, as in, whether we like it or not, we are broadcasting the name of Christ to the world all the time. So I dug up a nice clip art radio tower for the back of the shirt, and a cute little corresponding "ON AIR" tag line for the front. A relevant Psalm 73 verse completed the look. I thought I was very clever.

No one got it. As soon as the t-shirts were distributed, I started getting questions. I had to print up an explanation for the design and hand it out at our next group meeting. That was dismaying for certain, but the really critical thing wasn't my failure to communicate, it was the shirt itself. You see, I couldn't find the exact image of a radio tower that I had in mind. I was picturing something kind of simplistic - that "less is more" kind of thing where a few seemingly careless brush strokes magically form a jovial version of your object of choice.

Just now, I did a search for "radio tower" in MS Clip Art. Apparently, the clip art catalog has expanded dramatically since 2001:

Instead, I chose an image that had six colors. Six filled-in colors that must have been transferred onto the t-shirts via industrial-level paint rollers and were encrusted an eighth of an inch thick, giving the entire backside of the shirt a plasticky, immovable feel to it. I had also opted for long sleeves which, of course, were two inches too short on me. The combination of six printing colors and long sleeves made the shirts cost $18 a piece. People grumbled. I didn't blame them; I didn't even want to own that shirt when I saw it.

So now, it's years later. The shirt is not that bad. It's not a style I'd like to wear, but I doubt that anyone was as critical of how it turned out as I was. Yet I still feel kind of nauseous when I see it. And, like all my other Shameful Memories, it's mostly because of the pride that went before the fall. At least I'm beginning to see the theme. Maybe there is hope for me.

"A Confession on Thank Yous" Undo (Again)

Okay, okay. If the last time around didn't do it; this had got to finally cure me of my obsession over tracking thank you notes: yesterday, we received a thank you from our friends who I had previously listed here (but have now deleted).

Written on the outside of the envelope was a note that said the card had been penned a year ago and never mailed, apology for the outdated content, smiley face. Inside was the proof: it was all about how we were moving away from Illinois.

I think a late thank you note is actually much more charming than an expected one!