A Graceful Exit

Throughout the entire planning process for our Spring Break trip to New Zealand, bungy jumping has been high on the list of  "must dos".  All along I have promised to jump with my husband and sons because I am always looking for ways to be a cool mom. I fail miserably in that department as evidenced by rolling eyes when I try to use phrases that are hip and cool.

The fact that I just used the words "hip" and "cool" are evidence to my plight.  Hence, the bungy jumping.  

In the days leading up to the fateful jump, I imagined myself in a graceful swan dive off the platform while my husband captured photo after photo of my fearlessness and gracefulness.  I was going to suck in my stomach and point my toes and fix a serene expression on my face.  

I had even started writing a blog post in my head to go along with the picture.  About taking a leap of faith and falling into the unknown with total security of knowing God holds us in His hands.

We arrived at the site of the jump and my boys ran ahead in nervous excitement.  I was all business checking us in for our jump as screens overhead played out the action on the bridge of people jumping.  

I can totally do this.  Pointed toes.  Serene expression.  Mom bonus points.  I'm all over this!

I wasn't even totally sidetracked by the fact that I had to step on a scale.  Not once, but twice!  I thought maybe she couldn't believe that first number could possibly be correct so she had me do it again....turns out that's protocol in case you're trying to cheat the scale.  

Let me just interrupt my story here for a moment.  If a person is about to jump off a bridge with nothing but a rope tied around your ankles and complete honesty about your weight can make a difference in whether you live or die??  That is not the time to hang your heels off the end to save a few pounds.  Not that I've ever done that or anything.....

She then proceeded to take out a big blue marker and write my weight in big numbers on my hand.  I have never been more thankful to be wearing long sleeves than I was at that moment.  The boys were having fun comparing their weight with their Dad and Granddad.  I had my long sleeves stretched over my hand and practically to my ankle.  No way was I playing that game.

We all marched outside and up onto the bridge.  I was excited.  There was a whole crowd of spectators and I knew they would all be rendered speechless by the display of grace and beauty I was about to give them.

Both of my boys went first and then my 75 year old father-in-law.  They showed no fear.  They soared liked eagles.  They didn't utter a sound as they became one with nature.

It was finally my turn.  I got strapped in and stood up.  I adjusted my shirt and pants so I was picture perfect.  I was asked to hop out onto the ledge.

That is when I looked down.  Really, really, really far down.  All of a sudden I wasn't ready and I couldn't have cared less about a blog post detailing the ins and outs of leaps of faith.  Leaping anywhere seemed like a very bad idea at that moment.  I'll let someone else write about that.  I'm outta here.  I was just about to turn around to cling to the ledge and start crying out for my mom....or Jesus....or both.

3...2....1

All of a sudden I'm airborne thanks to a guy on the platform that had a scheduled lunch break and no time for a middle aged indecisive swan wannabe.  I fell off the platform and remember that horrifying feeling of just falling.  Apparently I was flapping my arms as if at any second I would take flight.  It was anything but graceful and my face was far from serene as it twisted into whimpering half screams.

So here I am writing a blog post.  I don't have my beautiful picture to use as a launching point for a discussion on leaps of faith. I have a picture of being pushed off a ledge and an almost fetal position as I fall.  

I have to laugh because those pictures are a more accurate pictorial of my life than a graceful swan dive ever could be.  I am that girl that stand on a ledge as God beckons me out into the unknown.  I am that girl that can be overcome by fear and insecurity and would easily be swayed to turn and walk off that ledge if something didn't nudge me out into thin air.  I am that girl who flaps her arms and tries to fly as fear threatens to steal my last breath.

I am also that girl that survives.  

And then I climb back onto the ledge again because being scared flying through the air is so much more rewarding than watching from the sidelines.

The last three years I have spent in Singapore have felt like one leap of faith after another.  One would think I would have my swan dive perfected but I am still whimpering out on that ledge needing a gently shove to take that leap.  

This past Christmas, I was asked to be a part of starting a new website that we eventually named Woven in Asia.   It is a little scary for me as my primary responsibility is to write posts about all kinds of different things.  I don't feel qualified, I don't feel worthy, I don't feel like I can do justice to the vision my pastor's wife has.  I'm flapping my arms and trying to fly as I free fall into something very unknown to me.  But I also know without a doubt that this is what I am supposed to be doing.  We recently found out that we will be staying in Singapore and that was the final confirmation that I needed to jump feet first into the Woven in Asia project.

For now, Woven is going to be my new blogging home.  Please come and visit me there.  I have loved the sense of community this blog has given me.....even with how sporadic I am in writing.  I will miss that, but feel like I am being asked to give my full and complete attention to the new thing God has given me to do!

So long Doing Life......I am walking away for a time so I can, well......Do Life!  

XOXO

Lost and Found

As I sit at the computer, both of my boys are playing a new video game punctuated with cheers and laughter.  An occasional argument and accusations of cheating will erupt requiring a simple threat to turn off the game to restore order to that side of the room.  My man is in his office trying to finish some last minute expense reports so his picture is not the one hanging in the accountant's office being used as target practice.

Our tree is blinking but is bare underneath.  There are random gifts scattered, leftovers in the refrigerator, and a pile of dirty stretchy pants in my room.  All signs of the Christmas season coming to an end.

It has been a day of responding to neglected emails and wrapping up other loose ends before the end of the year.  I feel the need to somehow document this holiday season but have been putting it off for fear that my quest for joy in the last few months will be a journey I would rather forget.

Three days ago I sat in a pew during Christmas Eve service and wished I was anywhere else but there.  Singing rang out all around me and I went from complete disdain to a puddle of tears in a matter of minutes.

Somehow, somewhere, I had lost my joy.

I don't think I realized how bad it was until a month ago when I was standing in the kitchen with my sister after a great day.  We were chatting when suddenly I looked at her and told her that I felt happy.  True and complete happiness and it was so out of the blue, and definitely outside of what had become normal for me, that I had to give voice to it.

There is no one event to blame.  There is no one person to blame.  Life has just been more challenging and my suit of armour has been hanging in my closet gathering dust.

I am a girl in need of a new beginning.  A girl who needs Joy in her life once again.  A girl that needs to desperately seek her Messiah every single day.

A girl who is remembering that all those things were promised long ago when a Babe was born.

Merry Christmas to me.

You're Not The Boss of Me

I remember thinking when the boys were really little that I couldn't wait for the day when they were older and had a healthy respect for my authority.

Parental innocence is darling, isn't it?

It wasn't long ago that I went toe to toe with Nathan over an issue and he looked me right in the eye and declared that I was not the boss of him.  It was all I could do not to laugh and then run straight for the phone to call my mom to let her know that yes, indeed, it was payback time.

Growing up I was strong willed and defiant.  I don't think I had many normal conversations with my parents because it didn't matter what they said, I knew they were wrong.  About everything.  They had very high hopes that I would take my incredible and well practiced talent for arguing and become a lawyer.

I would have so rocked a pencil skirt.

I didn't like being told "no" and it infuriated me when my Dad would remain so calm while I yelled and carried on.  I can't even mention the word "Algebra" and he goes pale remembering those horrid study sessions where I took out all my mathematical angst on him.

There was the time I ran away because I didn't want to do my chores.  I actually climbed out my window and made it as far as the front door before I took my big bad self back inside.  I even remember the fake fur coat I was wearing.  It was gray.  And I think it might have possibly been made out of some sort of material that would have instantly combusted anywhere near an open flame.

Or the time I thought selling emergency panic buttons to elderly people was going to make me my first million.  I was in my early 20's and told my parents to get ready for retirement because I was fixing to make it big.  They were worried.  They warned.  They tried to be logical.  I would have none of it because it was what I wanted and no one was going to tell me otherwise.

I clearly wasn't the pleasant, compliant, meek person that I am today.
(let's pause while Scot regains his composure)

Recently I have been on my knees about a lot of issues.  More than normal.  Gut wrenching, tear my hair out, hide under the covers kind of stuff.  Stuff about me, my family and some very dear friends that are having everything pulled out from under them.

Honestly, I feel like God is moving very slowly or not at all.  I want to pitch a royal fit.  Or better yet, run away in a synthetic fur coat.  He is not doing things the way I want them to be done.

"You're not the boss of me!"

How badly I have wanted to tell Him that.  Maybe even yell it.  It is so very tempting to just take matters into my own hands.  I'll rant and rave and lose all self-control because it makes me feel better.  Manipulate situations so it turns out the way I want it to.  I'll let loose on some anger issues I've been having.  I'll walk away from women's ministry.  I'll do whatever I want to do.  I, I, I....me, me, me.

And when I am finally quiet enough for His still, small voice to get through the madness in my head, I can hear Him tell me that He is moving.  He does see.  He does care.  He does love.  He does listen.  He does speak.  He does know everything.

This relationship between God and myself is not one that was forced upon me.  It is one that I chose.  That I still choose.  It means I don't get to walk away just because things aren't going the way I want them to.  It means I press in harder and get to know Him better and take comfort in his sovereignty. It means that He is giving me time to strengthen my faith.  A faith that wains when life is too easy.

Then I wait.  And I honor Him by not losing all control and walking away.  I ask for a glimpse, however small, into the work that He is doing in and around me and I wait.

I looked at Nathan that day and told him that yes, I was the boss of him.  Not because I want to make his life miserable, but because I love him and sometimes a bigger perspective trumps his pride.  I told him that he needed to trust me.

Hmmm......maybe parents aren't so stupid after all.

My Choice

It's funny how ironic life can be.

I have been toying with the idea of writing a blog post chronicling all the reasons I've been down in the dumps lately.  I was even going to call it "Here's Your Violin" as a nod to that tiny gesture between an index finger and a thumb that takes a complaint and puts it in its proper place.

I was going to write about how much I abhor saying good-bye to several dear friends leaving this Christmas.....how all this leaving rocks the world of a girl who loves deeply.

The fact that I'm having some sort of mid life crisis and am feeling hugely unfulfilled right now resulting in a conversation with Scot about going back to school to become Something.  Because for some reason I think becoming something else other than what I am will fix everything.

Being sick for a week that left me exhausted and very vulnerable to some pretty ugly mind games that on the flip side I'm still trying to sort through.

Feeling a little helpless.  Or a lot helpless.

But then this morning, my sweet Grandma died.

And I wasn't there.

Just like three years ago when my Grandma June died right after we moved to Singapore.....I was stuck here and unable to get to my family.

Helpless.  In a "I want to scream and scream and scream" kind of way.

I wasn't at her bedside because I was in Cambodia.  Learning and being a part of something that is working hard to bring hope to children that are in a hopeless situation.  It is ugly.  It is awful.  It is gut wrenchingly sad.  It is evil.

I spent the day in the midst of people who have to rely on God's goodness to survive.  Who have more faith than anyone I know.  Who are doing so much good and are willing to give up anything and everything to make a difference in the lives of kids who experience horrors no human should ever experience.

Hope.  They live it every single day because they have to.  And let me tell you, it would be super easy to feel helpless in that situation and not one person would blame them.....and yet they choose to hope.

Today I am mourning the loss of a woman that I adored.  A woman that made the best fruit salad in the world,  took me to get my first pair of contact lenses, taught me how to drive a stick shift, let me play dress up with her fantastic collection of clip on earrings, showed me that the best place to keep a spare Kleenex is in your bra, called me her "Pumpkin" and used words like "Pish-ah".  I inherited my dangerous love of sweets from her and the attitude that ice cream is good any time of the day and that candy dishes are meant to be filled.  She was proud and beautiful and I am going to miss her desperately.

But I can't feel helpless because she couldn't wait to meet Jesus and that's where she is right now.

Hope.

It's a beautiful thing.  It's the only thing that gets you out of bed some mornings.

I have to choose hope.  Hope that all the things I've been struggling with will make me stronger.  Hope that in the midst of saying good-bye to people I love I will learn how to make the most of every moment.  Hope that God has a plan for my life that will leave me feeling fulfilled.

Hope for one child saved.....one child clothed.....one child that learns what love feels like.

Hope that one day I will see my beautiful Grandma again even though I will desperately miss her presence here on earth.

I have to choose hope.

God and a Turkish Bath

I wrote this while still in Istanbul....we are now home and I'm just waiting for the unpacking fairy to show up and put everything away while I sleep for the next 3 days.

I am sitting at the airport waiting on our flight home to Singapore.  The man right across from me is currently shaving his face with his electric razor, which would be odd except the bar for being odd is set really, really high after the week we just had.

About three months ago, Scot and I had to sit down and browse through a list of tours and activities for the conference we'd be attending here in Istanbul.  At the time, we saw there was a limit of 40 people for the Turkish Bath experience and our competitive natures immediately kicked in.

We made it on the list and a round of high fives and fist pumping ensued as we celebrated our victory.

It wasn't until we arrived that we realized what we had done.  I don't exactly know what I thought a Turkish Bath would entail but I think I had Turkish Bath confused with Super Modest Spa Day.

The Turkish Baths, or Hammans, were a big topic of conversation and reality began to set in.  It was going to involve unclothed people all in the same room and I don't necesarily enjoy being around unclothed people.

The day arrived and I packed a small bag in anticipation of what I might need for the experience.  I packed some make-up to reapply in case my face got wet, dry underwear in case the underwear I was wearing got wet (because there was "no way Jose" that I was taking it off), and my glasses just in case my contacts were itchy after having my eyes closed during a luxurious massage.

I am giggling just reliving how naive I was.

It was time to load the buses......men in one bus and women in the other.  When we arrived at the Hamman, we filed off the bus and into the building.  I cast furtive glances around me noting the nearest exits.

We were ushered into a large room where we were told to pick a room and take our clothes off.  I walked into my little room and closed the door.  There was a barely-bigger-than-a-handkerchief piece of fabric sitting on the chair in the room.  I quickly undressed and wrapped the barely there handkerchief around myself and walked out the door.  I was told to put on a pair of wooden sandals and to follow the other women into an inner room.

I walked into a cavernous space made completely out of marble.  It was spectacular with a domed ceiling, alcoves all around with small fountains and in the middle, a large round marble platform.  The ladies from our group were all nervously sitting on the platform wrapped in their tiny pieces of fabric.  It was very warm and extremely humid in the room with the sound of running water and nervous chatter amplified by the cavernous space.

One by one a group of Turkish women entered the room to find the lady they were assigned to.  I watched as those going first had their barely there fabric ripped off of them, much to the surprise of the women, and they were told to lie down on the platform.  

This part of the story I will edit as I do have men children that will read this blog.  And my man that reads this blog and he has heard in detail the whole story and he still doesn't want to read about it again.

Where was I?

Oh, right.

There were those who were very comfortable with the whole situation and those that clearly were not.  It didn't help that you were turned side to side, made to sit up, have water dumped on you and to actually walk across the room in all your glory.

If you want more details, let's plan a lunch date.

I happened to be in the second group of women and was told to sit and wait for my turn.  I sat huddled in a corner holding tightly to my barely there piece of fabric wondering how in the world one month I can be sitting at Chuys eating chips and salsa and the next month I am in a room full of Turkish women waiting my turn to have one give me a bath.

I was thrilled to see that the lady assigned to me was using an obscure corner of the room instead of the large platform in the middle.  Don't think for a second that I didn't strongly contemplate getting up and shuffling out of the large marble room in my wooden sandals and handkerchief.  I think the mixture of horror and fascination kept me rooted right where I was.  That, and a healthy fear that my Turkish lady would come after me if I tried to leave.

When it was my turn, the lady motioned for me to go to a spot on the platform.  I motioned to her that I wanted the obscure corner.  She smiled sweetly at me and firmly pointed to the platform.

I laid down on the big platform, sucked in my stomach, and prayed that maybe I had become invisible and no one in that room actually saw me.  My lady started the harsh scrubbing of all the skin and then the water dumped on me and then more washing and more water and lots of walking around during all of this, all the while engaging my core muscles willing my body to suddenly look like a size 2.....heck, I'd have been happy for a size 8!

Naked people can't be choosy people.

There was something very tender and sweet about the Turkish lady assigned to me.  She would hold my hand everytime we walked somewhere so I didn't slip and fall and by the time we got to the end where she was massaging my back, I was actually a little more relaxed.  She walked me into a room when we were finished and wrapped a towel around me and another around my hair and sent me on my way.

I realized how similar the whole experience was to women at church.  We walk in and are immediately fighting feelings of nervousness or of being judged.  We are so tempted to bail but curiosity keeps us rooted to our seats.  We watch ladies who are comfortable with being vulnerable and we wonder if we could ever feel the same.

Many times we feel like what little we are wearing is ripped off, and all of us.....the good, the bad, the wrinkles, the rolls.....they are all exposed.  That all our attempts at creating a perfect facade still won't hide the reality underneath.  Maybe, like me, there is considerable scarring that highlights the imperfections.

And then we have an encounter with God that is not based on perfection, but based solely on love.  That the more we understand that He loves us unconditionally and does not want to hurt us, the more we become comfortable with being vulnerable.

That sometimes He walks us around to show others our imperfections because those things make us beautiful.  To reveal our scars because they prove there was healing....the whole time holding our hand to keep us from falling.

I walked out of that Hamman with a smile because I always love the surprise of a life lesson from something so peculiar.

And then I saw Scot rocking in a corner sucking his thumb and mumbling to himself.  Clearly, being rubbed down by a Turkish man (and yes, he got to keep his covering on the whole time) did not leave him contemplating spiritual matters.

Poor guy.

A pitiful walk down memory lane

It's been two weeks exactly since we left the good 'ol state of Texas and headed back to Asia.  It has been two weeks of a not very fun Keri as I have worked through all the emotions of transitioning from one life to another.

I'm not going to lie. There has been some carnage left in my wake these last couple weeks.  

Like the first day when I went to the grocery store to get ingredients for hamburgers just to be told that I would have to come back for hamburger buns because they only made four bags of them that day and someone had already purchased them.  

Really??????

I came home and threw some groceries around and yelled at Scot about hating this place...because that's what you do when you're emotionally on edge.  You go for the juglar.  Say irrational things.  Over exaggerate.  Eat a bag of chocolate.  

And then there was the clerk at a different grocery store that wouldn't let me buy 2 mangos because they were priced 3 for $5.  Even after I did the math for him he still wouldn't let me buy just 2.  He also got an earful of irrational, on the edge, craziness.  I guarantee that I gave him enough material to keep him popular in the break room for weeks.

As for the chocolate?  Those three bags of Halloween candy I brought back from Texas.....so proud of myself for thinking ahead?  Let's just say that I have been having a trick-or-treat party for one.  

Two weeks into it and I am much better.  School is underway and my calendar is filling up with commitments and fun stuff.  

Hamburger buns have been purchased and enjoyed....it's all good.

While summer is still fresh on our minds, here is a quick run down of our time at home with a pitiful photo montage that doesn't do our summer justice:

Good food

Good friends

Good creamy jalapeño dip 

A not so good surprise surgery that had a happy ending (still can't swim but his hearing is better than it was before the surgery and we are exceedingly grateful for this!)

A good visit to my happy place

A wedding for a dear college friend

A visit with Scot's family

And his sweet 97 year old Grandma

A very festive 4th of July lady and two sweet boys

A Singapore friend, her new house in Houston, and Sonic Diet Coke

An incredible evening with friends coming together for a good cause.....

 

Collecting school supplies for moms and kids that really needed our help.

A too fast visit to California to see my parents

My very handsome (and very taken) brothers.....

My sister-in-law and adorable nephew.....

Back to Texas for final hugs and good-byes with friends

And a final Mexican dinner

Not pictured?  Lots of family and friends that I adore.  I'll blame it on soaking in every second of face time I had and not wanting to take a single second to snap a picture.  To each of you that I saw and visited with and hugged and laughed with.....I loved every single moment I had with you.

In the two weeks since I've been back I've had 2 fateful aforementioned grocery store visits, put two boys into middle school, eaten lots of Halloween candy, started my running club, and have only pulled the covers over my head, not to come out for several hours, one day.  One.  

I did have to say a very tearful good-bye to my very first friend in Singapore.  Just over two years ago she walked into a room with Texas written all over her and became a very dear friend.  Tiffany, life here just won't be the same without you!!  I miss you every day.  

 And tonight my baby boy went to his first boy/girl dance.

Which he clearly loved.  

It's going to be an interesting year.

Where's my Halloween candy?

Dude, read your letter

Yesterday we loaded up the car with trunks and bedding and headed off for camp......it wasn't a moment too soon.

If I had to live another day with boys who could literally argue about anything and everything, I was going to start pulling out my eyelashes one by one.

The sky is blue.

No it isn't.

What do you mean it isn't?  Open your eyes!

It's merely a reflection of the earth's surface.

Dude!  Seriously?  The sky is up and it's the color blue.

But it isn't really the color of the sky.

Who cares?

Anyone who has brains cares.

Then in all my parenting wisdom I tell them both to be quiet and proceed to inform them that no one wants to be near them, be with them, or be in their general vicinity when they act like that.

I know.  Blow your socks off mothering amazingness right there.  You can borrow that approach to sibling rivalry if you'd like.

It works not at all.

I have tried having the very rational discussion about how it's pride that motivates them to try to outdo each other.  To be the one that always has to be right.  But they are far too young to see the carnage that pride can leave in its path so I resort to things like "No one will like you".

God must be so proud.

Many months ago after a particularly embarrassing display of "brotherly love" while out with friends, I made them write each other a letter of apology that had to be at least two paragraphs long and include three things they liked about the other.  It had to be pre-approved by me so I could ensure it was somewhat sincere and wasn't just stuff like "I like you most when you aren't anywhere near me".

Remember that these are boys.

We are not a house that has a supply of gel pens and cute papers and little notebooks.  We are a house with boys who have terrible handwriting and dislike most forms of communication.

It was perfect.

They grumbled about the task at hand but both sat down and completed their notes.  They exchanged them and I was very intrigued to watch them so eagerly pour over the letter written to them.  It immediately diffused the situation and I decided to permanently adopt this tactic in dealing with the bickering.  I add paragraphs and topics to be written about depending on the severity of the crime and on the inside I laugh at their misery....the way we all do when we have stumbled upon the perfect consequence for a misdeed.

Mwah hahahaha

Or am I the only one that does that?  Please tell me I'm not.

I have to say that this summer has been.......I am not even sure of the right word to use.

Unexpected?  Crazy?  Surprising?  Fun in a "I don't know what's coming next" kind of way?

There have been moments I have found myself feeling anxious or insecure or mad and it makes me want to lash out at people around me.  I have pretend conversations in my head where I tell someone what I really think about them.  I want to pick a fight.  And use bad words.  I want to abandon all self-control and try some hair-pulling just to see if I would feel better.

Until I read a love letter that was written to me.  It includes more than three things He likes about me and covers a whole lot of topics.  My heart softens and the anger subsides.  Priorities fall into place and order is restored in my thinking.

And I can tell you with absolute certainty that the sky is most definitely blue.