If you ever can’t no, then say just say yes

I can’t believe I said yes.

Actually, I can believe I said yes.

I’ve been needing to say yes to something like this for a long time, so the yes wasn’t the hard part. Yes was the only answer, and now the work (my work to do His work) really begins.

The ASK: I remember getting the email and I was too excited to read the words properly. Even though the email specifically said, “read this carefully,” my brain was in overdrive, and I couldn’t slow it down. My eyes flew over the body of the email one, two, three times and all I could think about, before I even found the question at the end of the email and finished reading it properly, was YES! 

Once I calmed down and was able to read the letter properly, taking note of the details and the request to be prayerful about this commitment, I held myself back from immediately sending that ALL IN! response, because I didn’t want anyone to think I was being hasty; that I wasn’t taking this seriously. The truth was, and still is, that I need this. God knows I needed this, and he crafted another marvelous plan, one which I could not refuse, so this invitation was actually the YES to the questions I had for him:

Do you really think I am good enough to be a part of your plan?

Can you really reach people through me?

Do you really think I am strong enough to survive the challenges of your work?

To push through my own doubt and human shortsightedness?

Can you really use me?

 As a person to reach other people? 

As a woman to reach other women?

I think the devil delights in our doubt because it slows us down or halts us altogether, and that is as good as a win for him, because when we push through our self doubt and just take the steps (one at a time) to follow the path God has for us, the enemy stands no chance. (And that is before we even gather and form a team against his evil plots).

Even as I am writing this, I get distracted wondering how much time did I waste? How many opportunities did I miss? How many people did I miss? 

I have learned one thing (over and over again) and it is that God is never wrong, and his plan, even with our delays and interruptions, is always perfect, as is his timing. He knows EXACTLY when we are going to step into it, and he already has plans for how to redeem the time before our yes (or between our “yeses” if you are reluctant AND distracted like me).

Sometime before that ask in December, Christa was already thinking about me and praying over my life, and how God wants to use it.

At least a year ago (but probably longer than that), Jake had already recommended me for RMG. (And, because I am doubtful and can be self centered,  I felt left out, not good enough, looked and passed over, but I heard, “its not your turn, just be patient.” I thank God for his voice, and I pray that I learn how to use what he says to me for those outside of my immediate family and friends.)

Some time before that, unbeknownst to me, Christa had already SEEN me, which means I was already somehow a part of carrying out his plan. Which means that before I even had the confidence to dare believe that I was, I already was, doing his work.

Because sometime before that, I said YES to the call that has been on my heart for a very long time, and God removed every obstacle and every excuse, and every barrier I could think of NOT to answer his call. When it became SO BLARINGLY OBVIOUS that I was qualified or equipped or capable of stepping into his work, I couldn’t pretend or hide any longer, and though I still had a choice, I didn’t feel I had the ability to say no any longer.

That was the first yes in a REALLY long time, and now I can see that yes is just an affirmative word for surrender; because I finally stopped fighting his will. The bigger the yes, the bigger the surrender, and would you look at that? Surrender is the word I used to be afraid of. The word I tried to avoid and step around. Surrender is the word I didn’t want to use when I sat down to decide what this year needed to be about. It has probably always been about surrender, and I am just now starting to see it.

So here goes.

“If ever there was a surrender Lord, let it be my yes. And my prayer is that my Yes only grows bigger and stronger, to, toward, and for you.”

Just how long has it been . . .?

Longer than it has ever been.

Long enough to count in years, not months (almost a decade really . . .).

Long enough that my last name changed. As did my profession (at least three times), and my county of residence, my actual place and type of residence, and my family, now made beautiful by my two daughters.

Not too many posts ago I wrestled with myself about conviction and determination. I had the time to wonder if I had a gift, or a knack or a certain talent to cultivate. Now, I haven’t the time to contemplate such trivia as the worth and validity of an endeavor I enjoy; I hardly have time to engage the endeavor itself!

So, now that so much time has passed that wondrous curiosity gave way to unapologetic confidence, born from a time constraint, I’m going to write WHEN I can, wholeheartedly, and solely because I WANT to.

There is nothing quite like the demand of caring for another (or several other) human beings to make one understand how truly trivial ones “deepest” concerns can be.

I’ve learned that there is a lot more to this life than my one part in it, but that with all the roles I play, I contribute and enjoy more now (as wife, mom, daughter, friend, sister, aunt, granddaughter, Coach, employee, volunteer, et al Ali) than I ever did when it was just me, trying to convince myself that I could be my own psuedo island.

If only I knew then what I know now . . .

But where’s the wanderlust, soul-growing discovery in that?

Who knew?

Who knew, 3 years ago, as I cherished all that I had, and all that I had “accomplished,” that I would look back on it not 36 months later and think all of it incomplete?

My mom.

She knew long before I did that I needed somebody in my life. She knew (somehow before I did) that I loved “that guy” who would someday become my husband. And I bet she knew, despite my certainty that I didn’t believe in it, that I secretly was holding out for the love of my life to arrive and make it complete.

The trick with moms is that they have been there, seen that, probably done that, and learned every lesson you are about to learn. So when, at 23, I was proud of myself for having a house of my own (read: one car garage converted into a “studio apartment”) with a backyard and a bar be que, she could see that I was desperate to share it with somebody.

When I would excitedly call and tell her of Friday nights at the bars and Saturday nights at ball games, drinking with guys, she probably knew that I would have traded those guys for one guy in an instant (and months later, I did pretty much just that).

When I would boast of my financial, physical, and emotional independence, I bet she saw right through it. During this phase of my life, where I thought I felt complete because I had everything I needed (or so I thought) I frequently compared myself to an archipelago (because “no (hu)man is an island”). I admitted that I needed to be a part of society, but I would not admit that I needed another person (even though the point of reference for all of these conversations is another person, my mother).

At the time, I convinced myself I was happy alone because I didn’t have my husband with me yet. Now, usually when I am home alone, I think about those times when I made a three course meal for one. I remember how many days it took to finish a bottle of wine, having just one small glass with dinner. I recall the silence that existed in that little garage-turned-house when I would hang up the phone after talking to my mom.

There is no silence in this house. There is no prideful perception of independence. There’s also not so much wine left in the bottle after dinner.

I need my husband. My day, my house–my life is not complete without him. “I” have turned into a “we,” and “my” has turned into “our.”  I don’t enjoy things by myself anymore; for the most part, I want him there.

Even the feminist in me that still wants to say “I don’t need a man” is quieted when I see him. The truth is, I don’t need a man, I just need him.

And my mom knew it all along.

Not so bad

Okay, so maybe I miscalculated. It hasn’t really been a year, its been half a year. But still, that is way too long to go without writing. 

What is worse it that it has taken me half a year to get back to my blog, but a year will soon elapse before I get back to my book. I need to get on that.

I keep saying that I ran out of material. The truth is, I never came up with an outline, so once I ran out of breath, so to say, I ran out of material and I have not revisited it. I need to work on that. I need to finish it, or at least continue to make progress, with something.

 

Not quite enlightened, but much less of a slacker than recently.

Over a year

If you scroll down the page a little ways you will see a post chronicling the unfortunate epiphany regarding my indolence as a writer. I don’t lack follow through, I just lack timeliness and a sense of priority when it comes to writing. So now, unfortunately,not only do I have to admit that half a year has a elapsed since I last blogged, but also admit that I forgot about my blog–completely.

I forgot I had it. I forgot that I am supposed to practice writing here. I forgot that I could use this to explore my photography (surprise! I never even got around to writing that I like pictures).

I am an artistic failure. I complain that I do not have outlets for my creativity when, truth be told, I do not make time to use the outlets that I, in fact, do have.

So, perhaps after I finish punishing myself for letting so much time go by, creatively unused, I will continue on this book of mine. It is going to be good, if I ever finish writing it….

Jan. 21st-yesterday was Christmas

I said it, “This feels like Christmas.”

 

My mom replied, “This is what Christmas is supposed to feel like.”

 

We were all there: My mom and dad, my brother and his girlfriend, her younger brother and sister and my husband and me. That middle unit on the third floor of a beachfront condominium complex is almost a sacred spot for my family. It belongs to my grandfather and grandmother and they let us stay there so we can visit for more than just a day or two. It is nestled between all the other homes found on California’s southernmost beach. Its nestled between an estuary to the east and the great Pacific Ocean to the west. Its our little spot in Imperial Beach.

It is quiet except for the sounds of the big winter waves crashing and the occasional sea-bird. The house is pristine-just the way my grandfather and grandmother designed it. Their style could be quite “fancy” so you have to be careful when walking through there. You always use a coaster. You always take your shoes off. And you always clean up after yourself.

Despite the rules of maintenance   on top of the antique wood furniture and strewn about the still white carpet are bags of clothes and blankets and pillows. It was like a giant family slumber party and it was so much fun.

We spent most of Saturday afternoon talking while the sun went down. Nobody even thought to turn on the TV. Then we took Granddaddy to dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant in San Diego. We came home and shared an overdue birthday cake. We turned on the fireplace and played cards until one by one, people started falling asleep–some didn’t even make it to their beds.

The next morning, scattered amid the blankets and pillows were tired revelers getting a few last minutes of sleep before we each had to return to the demands of our own real worlds. The early risers (who ironically had been the ones making their way through a couple of  bottles of wonderfully rich Chianti) went for coffee and eggs so that we could have an impromptu breakfast fit for a beach king.

It was great. We had no plans. We found cards in a side table and leftovers in the fridge. We dug blankets out of closets and slept where we could. It was relaxing, like putting life on hold for a little while.

I didn’t want to come back, but I did.

Strangely enough though, this trip to that magical little place not too far away has stuck with me more so than any day or week I have spent there in the past. I venture it was the perfect mix of people, at the perfect time, with not enough plans and too much food.

I’d like to go to that brief weekend again someday.

Finally

I’m writing a book.

Its taken me a long time.

Its going to take me even longer.

But I’ve started, and I know I am going to do it.

And, I know its going to be good.

All about love

I don’t really think anybody reads this thing, which affords me an anonymity I need at the moment. This little blog of mine is a safe space to get comfortable with the idea of people reading my work.

That being said, it has done its job. I no longer want to write for people to read, I want to write for myself. It will be my catharsis, my reflection, a time capsule for my own thoughts even.  And now that I see value in my writing, independent of its being read, I am going to write a book.

I’ve been wanting to writing a book for a long time, but I was scared of the massive undertaking. I then decided I would do it anyway, but had no topic, no one theme to explore in a volume as opposed to my usual essay.

Then it hit me, while looking through my newest musical indulgence, “LOVE is a four letter word.” In the CD jacket there was an insert that gave insight to Mraz’s most recent musical compilation. In white letters on a red background, it very simply read: “Love is the hardest thing to understand.”

I thought about it, looked through the CD cover a little more, listened to more of the songs and thought little of its truth. But slowly, it dawned on me over the next few days that this phrase rang true in my own life. Whereas I have often tried to reduce life down to one element and thought “love” too cheesy of an answer, I now understand that is not the case. “Love” is not a cheesy answer, I only thought that because I lacked understanding and breadth of experience in the realm to support such a statement.

I have been thinking that “its all about love” since my teen years. I’ve been wanting love (in the romantic sense) since I was in high school. Now that I have it, I can see that I was right all along–this life is all about love, and I am going to write a book about it.

How long has it been?

It’s been a while

It’s been forever

Before the advent of time stamps on photos posted, calls missed, and blogs written, I could very easily have said, “I haven’t written in a long time,” and then lightheartedly and absentmindedly ponder the passage of time with little guilt or remorse for this young writer’s budding effort at blog.

Now though, that is not an option–two clicks of an uncooperative mouse are enough to show an already frustrated pen and paper kind of girl that it has been four months and two days since I last posted.

In a journal, that’s no big deal, I just write a few entries with vague time markers like “sometimes after the new year,” “early 2012′” and “near the beginning of Spring” and all of a sudden the four months have been written over by various entries all entered after the time elapsed. By the time I open this book with the intention of reading instead of writing, I will have forgotten my trick, or (the more likely of the two) I will forgive myself the game played so that I may continue to avoid the guilt and remorse I feel now.

I don’t think these fraternal twin emotions plague me so strongly because of time passed, but because they serve as evidence of passion unpursued.  I maintain that I want to write, I have even incorporated it into my career goal (nebulously). I still say I want to write, and yet, I do not. If I can go four months without writing, then how can I ever hope to write on a consistent basis that merits a paycheck? (Living in this world does require money.)

I hope that I can rectify this difference. I put pen to paper frequently, but those thoughts are for sharing only with a future me. I need to find a way to write for the world, or to at least continue on with the  idea that the world can see what I am writing….

until next time (some time less than four months and two days from today…)

Does God send signs through electronic media?

My previous post (from about 10 minutes ago) was, as my dad would say, my way of feeling sorry for myself. Whenever anything doesn’t work out for me, immediately, I get frustrated and tend to think I’m not good enough. I usually consider giving up because I expect excellence from myself, never allowing time for “the learning curve.”

This cycle of thinking then turned upward when an unknown third-party (probably a bot, not even a real live person) managed to lift my mood with some sort positive feedback and I no longer felt sorry for myself, but reaffirmed in thought: “I can do this.”

When I was younger a Nike commercial, a game won, or a complimentary coach could coerce me back into the focused, hard-working, young athlete I was. Now, without a coach, tutor, mentor, teacher, or field of competition with which to assess my skills, I venture into the realm of writing essentially alone. So it’s no surprise that I take feedback very seriously (when it comes from anybody who is not immediately related to me, and therefore prone to thinking I am better than I actually am).

Since I have no official way of gauging my foray into writing, I take what I can get. So when, moments after contemplating the abandonment of my writing, I get a small message from an absent writing-muse, I listen, and then reflect wholeheartedly.

My last post, my apathetic post, my “fishing for compliments” post was my 5th post. Apparently, wordpress.com receives one’s 5th post as an accomplishment of sorts met with congratulations and words of encouragement from some deceased writer. My little wordpress fortune cookie told me that “if the writing is honest, it cannot be separated from the man who wrote it.” Apparently, Tennessee Williams thinks I should keep writing. Or at least it served to tell me that what’s true inside of me is true, regardless of how it is perceived outside of me. It bears absolutely no weight on the truth about my writing–about whether it is any good. But those words did their job, which is all I can hope for my words one day, to change the way somebody feels about themselves or this world.

I’m not sure if that moment was a little wordpress magic, a giant coincidence (the least likely of the options I present here) or a nudge from God himself to keep going, but whatever it was–it worked.