The Good Ol' Days

I'm sure we all have those small-town traditions that we get weird looks for when we mention them to friends.  Like that Gator Fest my sorority sister went to once, down in the hollers of Texas.  They just string up gators off a pole and don't think twice about it being odd.  It's odd to me.  Or the Rattlesnake Fest.  I don't need a festival to celebrate snakes.  I realize, however, that we all have our favorite events that we attend in our hometowns - or wherever - that conjure up great memories. 

I think I have gotten my share of such Smalltown USA moments as of late.  Last week I went down to the county fair to watch the annual rodeo.  I remember the clown being much funnier.  I imagine you can only be so funny, though, when a 1200-lb animal is about to poke you in the fanny.  (Okay, it's probably more than a poke most of the time.)  But my cousin and my brother's soon-to-be mother-in-law had never been to a rodeo.  When you go to things like that, it's always great going with people who have never witnessed the spectacle before.  It's way more fun to see it through their eyes.   

Then there was the Steam Thresher parade.  Granted, this year I missed the parade, but I have spent more than enough years at that parade to make up for missing a year or two.  I always thought it was the world's longest parade as a kid.  Pretty much if you had a tractor you could get in line.  And two hours later, that line was still going.  

Now, I come from a family of tractor pullers.  Tractors are great.  Good for all sorts of things.  But I'm okay without them.  I have just learned how to cope accordingly.  I can speak the lingo and can tell you that diesel tractors blows black smoke while alcohols burn clear.  I can tell you that some tractors have Allison jet engines on them (those really are pretty spectacular to watch, I must admit).  I can tell you that there are modifieds, light super stocks, pro stocks, light pro stock, etc.  Am I going to be driving one anytime soon?  No.  Could I write a book on it?  No.  But if I'm going to take part in family conversations, then I gotta have a clue.

But my favorite part of the Steam Threshers was always the draft horse pull.  For some, that doesn't sound that entertaining, but I loved it.  Well, years ago, the Threshers stopped having the pulls.  But I discovered last week that another local county fair was hosting a draft horse pull.  It was hotter than blue blazes yesterday but I was determined to go.  

Draft horse pulls are typically divided into two classes - lightweights and heavyweights, heavyweights being anything over 3200-lbs, give or take.  Some of the heavyweight teams were weighing in at a combined weight over 5000 lbs.  Talk about some big boys.  I'm pretty sure their necks were six of me combined, and their bellies would have been the size of a Smart Car.  But it's kinda crazy to watch those teams pulling 6, 7, 8000-lbs of cement bricks and doing it like they were out for a Sunday stroll.  And what for?  Just to say my horse is the best.  

I love Smalltown USA.                

Enough

Once upon a time, horses were my life.  I had no identity apart from them, no identity apart from riding, showing, training.  I was that little girl that always wanted a pony for my birthday.  The only difference was that I actually got one.  And I still have her, 16-17 years later.  She'll probably live to be 40 just for spite.  

There were a lot of lessons learned from the back of a horse.  When you're riding a 1,000-pound animal, you better have a pretty good idea of what you want and when you want it.  Horses are not dumb animals and they know when they can take advantage of your fears and hesitancy.  A few tumbles down their backsides taught me that lesson.

But one of the hardest lessons I ever learned took me nearly 10 years to figure out.  

I started riding when I was about 9 years old.  Some trainers had moved into the area, having just built a new facility, so I started taking lessons with them.  I would never use the word "natural" when it comes to describing my riding abilities.  I wasn't one of those people who intuitively picked up on proper riding form from the get-go.  I had to have it drilled in me, time and again, lesson after lesson, year after year.  After a year or two, I started showing in some academy shows and down the road, I eventually started showing with the amateur and professional ranks.  

Summer after summer, I would go to horse shows, entering this class and that class. Junior Exhibitor.  Open.  Show Pleasure.  Country Pleasure.  Western Pleasure.  Morgan English Pleasure.  Equitation.  Maybe over 50 classes that I was in over the years. 

But do you notice what's missing from the picture on the right?

There isn't a single blue ribbon.

And no, I don't have them stashed on the side somewhere just to prove my point.

There are literally no blue ribbons of mine to be had.

I never won.

In all those years of showing, not once did I leave that arena with a blue ribbon and garland of flowers draped around my horse's neck.  Even if there were only two entries in the class, I still managed to lose.

I poured my heart and soul, blood, sweat, and tears, into that sport, convinced if I did everything just right, I would hit the big time and then actually be "somebody," convinced I would somehow "be enough."

I used to be so angry at myself, at God, at my horse, for never winning.  I think it's the primary reason why I am not a competitive person today.  I literally had it beaten out of me.  I won't fight for people's attention, I won't fight in board games, I won't fight in simple games of volleyball.  Ten years of showing horses and never winning took any and all desire out of me to ever win again.  

But you know what dawned on me several years back?  I had this really profound epiphany while watching Cool Runnings.  I know, not the kind of movie you would think such a moment would come, but it did.  There's a scene when John Candy, the coach of the Jamaican bobsled team, is talking to the driver, Darice.  They are getting ready for the Olympic qualifier and Darice is in his hotel room studying all of the turns in the course.  They are talking about winning the gold and how bad Darice wants it.  Then John Candy very quietly says to Darice, looking him right in the eye, "If you're not enough without the gold medal, then you'll never be enough with it."

I don't pretend to understand the ways of God, but there is no doubt in my mind that He specifically withheld any success in the show ring for me to learn this very simple, but difficult lesson: If I'm not enough without the blue ribbon, I'll never be enough with it.  

For so long, my self-esteem, my confidence, my life hung on that one little thing: a blue ribbon.  And when I never got it - bitterness would probably be an understatement to describe what I felt.  I felt worthless.  I felt like everything had been in vain, years wasted.  I used to think about how my trainers, my parents, my family, must be so disappointed with me.  Always a failure.  I felt like I wasn't enough. 

But then God began pulling back the curtains and revealing to me just how valuable that lesson would become. 

Because I realized that it wasn't just the blue ribbon. 

If I am not enough without a boyfriend or a husband, I will never be enough with him.

If I am not enough without the dream career, I will never be enough with it. 

If I am not enough without the accolades and the pats on the back, then I will never be enough with them. 

Because the simple truth was that without Christ, I would never be enough.  No matter how hard I tried, no matter how bad I wanted something, apart from Him, everything was and is futile. 

It just took a lot of broken dreams to figure that one out.  But I wouldn't trade that lesson for anything.  I used to be so ashamed of my ribbons.  For awhile I had them all displayed in my bedroom, hung from every ledge possible.  Then I got really angry one day, just looking at them made me sick, so I took them all down, stuffed them in a box, and put them in the basement.  I don't think they had seen the light of day in over 8 years until yesterday morning when I went to find them.  

But now, I'm a little older and a little wiser.  I can look at those ribbons, and instead of seeing all that I wasn't and all that I never became, all I see is this:

I am enough. 

Summer Sunsets

There are just some images of which I never tire.  Sunsets overlooking our fields is one of them.

Doggie-Paddling

As you may well know, I love journals.  Love writing in them, love going back and reading them, love selecting just the right one at the store.  I even started the habit of writing in a journal for each of my nieces and nephew. I have no idea when I will give each to them, but some day down the road, I will when I think they can appreciate the significance. 

I recently got out all of my old journals, going through each one and reliving the years.  It's always a little scary to flip through the early ones and see "I ♥ NSYNC" written all over the place. (I have since moved on.)  Or to see the list of Beanie Babies I happened to buy that day. (I got rid of those long ago, thankfully.)  Or all the reasons why I hated the horse that I was currently taking lessons on. (Some of those horses used to make me so angry.  Why can't you just do what I want, you big tub of fat?!)  Or which guy I had a crush on (those are always embarrassing, especially ones from high school and before.  What was I thinking?!).  I try to flip through those pages quickly.  Some moments in life you just don't want to relive.

But other moments, you want to linger over and savor just a bit more.  Sometimes I take notes on my own notes, because I'll read an entry and think, "Dang - that was a good line." (Clearly those lines did not include N SYNC.)  There was one line in particular that recently stood out to me, written exactly three years ago today:

It's like trying to doggie-paddle in a mud puddle when the whole ocean is on the other side of the hill. 

I don't remember the exact context of the entry.  I'm sure it was relaying thoughts on my then-spiritual state of my mind, this feeling that I'm somehow always missing something, somehow, somewhere.  But it's as true now as it was then.  Sometimes I feel like I'm doggie-paddling in that mud puddle, completely missing the fact that the ocean is just on the other side.  How often do we do that - get so wrapped up in what is right in front of our noses that we all together miss out on the flip side?  I clearly must have been channeling C.S. Lewis as he once stated a similar concept:

It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half hearted creatures, fooling around with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy in offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.

Doggie-paddling can be so exhausting, though, after awhile.  It's not a very efficient use of energy.  But some days that's how I feel in my attempts at following Christ, like I'm somehow missing the greater work because I'm so wrapped up in making sure my mud pies look just the way I want them to.  

I think it's time to find the ocean.     

Living Bent Low

There are sometimes in life when you recognize that you are not the right person for the job, or not the right person who needs to be doing the talking.  Someone else can say it or do it better, so let them.  This is one of those times.  I have followed a young woman's blog now for quite some time - her name is Katie and she is pouring out her life admist the dusty roads of Uganda.  I have never met her.  I only know of her devotion through her blog entries.  But every time I read them, I am encouraged, convicted, and challenged.  And every time I walk away thinking I want to live like that.  And I don't mean that solely in the sense of I want to live in Africa, I mean that in the sense of I want to love Jesus and others like that, to live with this deep, deep desire to make Him famous, no matter the cost to my own life.   So because Katie says it better than I can, I'll let her do the talking.

Around here, we live bent low.


Tuesday morning ladies from Masese stream through my front door. We have moved our weekly meeting from the slum of Masese to my living room because I have been up all night with new foster baby and can’t imagine getting all 14 of these little people out of the house. Excited about a change of pace and my sweet friends in my home, I enlist the help of darling Tamara and 13 eager little girls to give these ladies pedicures. We wash and we rub and we paint. I rub lotion into old scarred feet and think of the journeys they have traveled. I whisper thanks for the ways they have blessed me and the things they have taught me, and here in a puddle on the hard tile floor, Joy overflows.

It is on this same cold, smooth tile that I kneel hours later, face inches away from the burn on Makerere’s calf. The stench doesn’t even bother me anymore. And while it looks horrific to outside eyes, I remember what it looked like months ago and ever so slowly, I can see the healing. I can see the healing in the blood red life that spills out as I bandage and in the smiling eyes that tell me stories as I work. Laying on my belly with a surgical blade I scrape out the dead and do my best to preserve the new pink tissue that is starting to form around the edges. He laughs and says, “I have told you now all the stories I have! It must be your turn.” And I tell him a story of a Heavenly King born as a pauper and of a Body broken for me and for him and for each one of us. And I don’t even realize but there are tears on the tile and I sit astonished that messy, inadequate, ungraceful me would get to share such a story.

We sit in the dirt, not worried about the red stains and serve 400 plates of food to sponsored children on Saturday. I look into these faces and remember them nearly 4 years ago, destitute and hopeless and starving. Afraid of my funny white skin. We feed them lunch and we feed them God’s Word and we watch them transform. We feel like family now, no one noticing these skin differences. The suns rays beat down the glory of God and covered in mud and chicken broth I know that this is contentment.

Our family sits on the street corner down town sharing ice cream and laughter. My daughter bends low to offer a homeless man her popsicle and as he cries that no one cares about him she looks straight into his face. “We will be your family,” she asserts, and she means it. We kneel on the pavement and we pray and people stop to look but we hardly notice because we were made for this.

We bend.

I bend to sweep crumbs and I bend to wipe vomit and I bend to pick up little ones and wipe away tears. I bend over a big pot of stew and I bend to fold endless laundry and I bend over math books and spelling sentences and history quiz corrections. And at the end of these days I bend next to the bed and I ask only that I could bend more, bend lower.

Because I serve a Savior who came to be a servant. He lived bent low. And bent down here is where I see His face.

He lived, only to die.

Could I?

Die to self and just break open for love.

This Savior, His one purpose to spend Himself on behalf of messy us. Will I spend myself on behalf of those in front of me?

And people say, “Don’t you get tired?” and yes, I do. But I’m face to face with Jesus in the dirt, and the more I bend the harder and better and fuller this life gets. And sure, we are tired, but oh we are happy. Because bent down low is where we find fullness of Joy.

Bed Spectacles

This past week hasn't been a whole lot of fun.  My back decided that now would be a convenient time to be in a constant state of pain, leaving me frustrated and limited.  For whatever reason, I woke up last Monday morning and pretty much ever since it hurts to do just about anything - walk, stand, sit, drive, etc.  Although, as my friend Alex pointed out - it could be worse.  This could have happened a year ago when I was moving back from Missouri and getting ready to catch a plane to Africa.  Good point, my friend.  My cousin and I had plans to go to Kings Island for the day on Friday but I told him there's no way I'm getting on a roller coaster at this point because I'll probably never be able to walk again if I do. 

But amidst all the pain, what I have wanted more than anything is a pair of bed spectacles.  What are those, you ask? Well, if you have ever seen the movie The Bucket List, you know exactly what I'm talking about.   Jack Nicholson wears a pair in the movie and nearly every single time this week when I've been either flat on the floor or laying on my bed trying to watch TV, I always think, "Man, those bed spectacles would be so handy right about now."  No matter how crazy they make you look.   I mean, who doesn't need a pair of bed spectacles at least once in their life, right? :)

You Want ANOTHER picture?

Taking photos in our household is an ordeal usually.  Every Christmas - and I do mean every - my mother insisted on getting a photo of my brothers and I in the stairwell before we could come down and see our presents.  It used to drive us insane - and probably still does if we're totally honest - getting these photos taken.  Not because we were in such a sure-fire hurry to get to your presents but because my brothers and I are not fans of making a fuss of things and my mother can be quite the opposite sometimes.  Maybe "fuss" isn't the right word.  We just don't like having our picture taken, quite simply.  It's an extra step we could do without.

However, that inevitable moment comes when I've had to look at my mom and genuinely say, "I'm glad you took all those photos."  Trust me, I've had to eat my words on more than one occasion regarding the matter.

But if I didn't like taking photos, then my brothers definitely did not like having their photo taken.  For any reason.  At any time.  But something strange happens when you get married, when you have kids, when you buy your first house.  You suddenly want to have your pictures taken and maybe don't mind it quite as much.  Because maybe you know how important those photos are and will be.

So, in the spirit of engagements and weddings and all that that entails, my middle brother, Josh, recently had to shoot his engagement photos.  An entire photo shoot of just him and his fiancee.  The things we do for the ones we love.

But either way, after the shoot ColumbusBride.com picked up a recent article that featured Josh and Megan's photos, their story, and the photographer behind the shoot.
     

Even before the dress search, cake tasting and honeymoon planning get under way, you and your fiancee likely will head out to pose for an engagement portrait. You'll want some great shots of the two of you to send to friends and family, you'll need a photo to send to local newspapers along with your engagement announcement, and you'll definitely want some keepsake shots that will always remind you of this special time in your life.


For many couples, the engagement-photo session is the first time they've ever posed for an official portrait together. But don't worry — it doesn't have to be a stuffy affair.

"We had so much fun with Courtney on our engagement session," says bride-to-be Megan, who was photographed with fiancee Josh by Courtney Mason of Courtney Mason Photography. "She truly has a talent; we really felt like she captured our love for each other. Courtney captured our personalities perfectly also. We are two country kids who just like to relax and enjoy each other's company." The two were photographed in Homestead Park in Hilliard in late May.

"When I am in a consultation with a prospective client, I always stress how important I feel the engagement session is," says Mason. "Not only is it a great way for them to see how I work and learn a little more about my shooting style, but it is also a wonderful opportunity for the three of us — bride, groom and photographer — to get to know each other better and really grow our relationship."

Megan and Josh met during their sophomore year of high school at a youth group at their church. They dated throughout high school, and though they went their separate ways in college, they always stayed in touch.

Their relationship resumed about a year and a half ago. "I emailed Josh out of the blue to catch up and make amends as friends," Megan says. "We met for dinner shortly after that, and soon realized the romance had never died for either of us."

Josh's proposal was a sweet surprise. "One snowy Sunday evening in December 2010, Josh picked me up for dinner. As he walked me to the passenger side of his pickup truck, he said he had found the pen I lost earlier that week and put it in his glove box. He opened my door and I opened the glove box as soon as I got in, expecting to find my favorite pen. To my surprise and excitement, I found taped to the inside of the glove box two pieces of paper that read ‘I love you Megan! Will you marry me?' with the ring in the ring box propped up next to them. I screamed and smiled and hugged and kissed him like crazy — and finally said yes!"

The couple plan to wed at Darby House on Sunday, Sept. 25. "Our pastor will be coming to perform the ceremony. Courtney is obviously our photographer, and we are so excited! The Darby House and Cameron Mitchell Catering have both been wonderful to work with. We chose the Darby House because it's out quite a ways from city life, yet it is still very classy and elegant," Megan says.

"What we are most looking forward to about our wedding is finally being married and finally being able to start our lives together," she adds. "A love story a long time in the making: 10+ years! But we know the Lord orchestrated every part and we each had a lot to learn before we could learn to love each other the way we needed to."

The Man in My Life

It's not every day a guy waltzes into my life and offers to walk me out to my car, open the door for me, and then blow me kisses as I'm pulling out of the driveway.  Kinda melts a girl's heart. 

It's just a little different, though, when it's your 3 1/2 year-old nephew. 

You've met Rocco before.  He stands about 3 feet tall, weighs 40-some odd pounds, has a shock of red hair, and loves to sing "I Gotta Feeling" by Black Eyed Peas as though he were the lead singer himself.  He still claims that I am his best friend and I'm honored with the title.

The boy certainly has his moments when you wonder what sort of crazy energy possesses the child, but for the most part he's a good kid - loud, but good. 

The other night I was over to my brother's house visiting with him and my sister-in-law and their three kids.  Rocco was just getting out of the bath tub when I arrived and when he came careening around the corner, he looked like he had just been set free from a prison in the North Pole.  He had this green and white-striped pajama suit on, with a train embroidered on the front of the chest.  My brother had just given him a buzz cut earlier that day so all his beautiful red hair was gone, and was now just a subtle strawberry-blonde. 

At one point, the poor kid had to be put in timeout he was getting so wound up and hyper.  And as he's sitting in the chair across the room from me, he leans forward and attempts to half-whisper, half-yell, "Tortney.  Maybe when I come to visit your house again, just you and me can play a game together."  The kid clearly gets tired of having to do whatever his big sister is doing, and wouldn't mind a little attention just to himself.  I laughed and told him of course we could play a game together.

He is eventually allowed up and at this point, it's time for me to head home.  I go to put my shoes on and Rocco comes running into the room, holding his hand up as though he's out to stop traffic, "Wait, wait!  I will walk you out to your car!"

I have never had him make such an offer before so I was little confused as to what was prompting it now, but I told him I'd wait.  Well, he just marches over to the door to leave, and I'm like, "Rocco, don't you think you ought to put some shoes and socks on first?"  "Oh, yeah, hold on."  So then he's scrambling to get his neon-green Velcro-strap sandals on before I can walk out the door without him.

He gets his sandals on, grabs my hand, and out the door we go.  Then he races ahead of me so he can open the car door.  He started opening the back door first and I told him, no, I'll be riding up front in the passenger seat (my mom was driving).  I had already started opening the front door and he stops me again.  "No, no!  I will open it for you!"  The door weighs way more than he does, so he struggles to open it.  We finally get it open, he takes a step back, lets me in.  Closes the door for me.  Walks back down the driveway and is standing there with his mom.  He starts blowing kisses and waving to my mom and I.  And at first, I just waved, didn't blow kisses.  Then he makes this indignant face at me like I better start blowing kisses or else.  So I do.  Then he gets all bashful and embarrassed, hiding behind his mom.  My sister-in-law is looking at us and making gestures like she has no idea where this child came from.

Rocco, you can be my knight in shining armor any day.  Green-striped pajamas and all.    

Notes to Self

When the directions in the hair dye kit tell you to do a color test first to see if you have any reactions, you probably should do so. They obviously put those few lines in there for a reason.  Doing a test is a good warning system. It lets you know if your scalp turns a lovely shade of Halloween-orange in the aftermath.

Thanks, Clairol Natural Instincts 2-Week Revitalizer, for bringing Halloween early to my small corner of the world.

I never have liked the holiday.

The Pages of History

I was in that category of people who got the kind of degree that their parents often gently nudged wouldn't be very practical.  You know, a degree in English, or a degree in theater.  Those kind of majors are always cautioned with the question, "Don't you think you oughta have a back up plan?"  Mine was a degree in history.  The simplified question was, "What do you do with a history degree other than teach?"  I had no desire to teach so I really had no good answer to that question. 

But I knew I loved history.  I loved stories and I loved the stories that history had to tell.  I remember going to Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, D.C. a few years ago with my mom and grandparents.  We went up to Arlington house at the top of the hill.  As we walked through the rooms, crowds of people everywhere, we came upon one of the family bedrooms.  The comforter was spread neatly, the furniture arranged just so.  And then there was a tiny little step stool next to the bed.  It was clearly a child's bedroom.  And as silly as it sounds, I nearly burst into tears right there because I had this compulsory thought, "Somebody lived here.  Somebody's life unfolded here, and somebody's story was told here.  Life happened here."  The moment just seemed so monumental to me.  But, of course, those are the ones that you keep to yourself, confident that you're crazy and that no one else will understand.   

I imagine I've had other such sentimental moments, moments when I'm struck by the ordinariness of lives lived out on the pages of history.  My grandmother (the same one who missed the memo about the iceberg in the previous post) recently unearthed a treasure trove of family history when she found a bag of old parchment letters and notes, primarily exchanges from two distant relatives who were writing back and forth about the research they had been doing of the family tree.  Most of the letters were from 1932-1936, each one building on the previous one as the two family members dug up more and more info about who was related to whom, where they lived, and where they came from.  My grandmother even managed to find the original Civil War draft papers for my great-great-great-something-or-other.  A small piece of paper, neatly scripted, with instructions to report to such and such a post on this day in 1864.  This relative of mine would go to war in May of 1864, only to be captured one month later and be held a prisoner of war for over a year.  He was released and eventually honorably discharged in June of 1865.  We also have the original souvenir poster of his honorable discharge, as a reminder of what the "Brave Boys in Blue" did to serve their country.  I am always awestruck by such mementos of history.  I mean, think about it - the Civil War!  All those years ago, and now in 2011, here we are looking at the original draft and discharge papers of a man I have never known.  I felt like I had struck gold as I poured over the material, reading the letters, following the stories, wondering about their lives.

But what struck me even more than finding such relics of the Civil War was one letter in particular that noted the children of one side of the family.  It was neatly typed on two thin pieces of parchment, folded in thirds, looking like it had been tea-stained.  It listed the 10 children of one son and then the 9 children of the other son.  It was toward the bottom, though, where I caught the line "had 1 son no good." 

That's all the letter pretty much says about this son.  No good. 

How's that for being defined by history?

To have your entire life summed in one singular phrase like no good is a disconcerting thought, and it's not even my life that is being described.  I know history can be harsh at times, telling us not what we want to hear, but what we need to hear.  But history can often be skewed by those on the outside looking in, those who have watched from afar.  I can't help but wonder - what's the one sentence history will write about us?  Us - as individuals, us as a nation, us as a family?  I surely hope it's not no good.  And what are we doing about it to see to it that such sentences aren't left on the pages of history?  

I don't want my life to be defined by the phrase no good.  I wouldn't want my grandchildren or great-grandchildren or great-great-grandchildren to someday unearth a pile of letters, exchanges between two people tracing the family line, and have the sentence say about me one daughter, no good, or really anything else remotely resembling the concept. 

Instead, I hope the phrase well done, good and faithful servant applies to my life and those to follow.