Purposefulness>Deprivation

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I mean no offense whatsoever toward those who promote weight-loss plans, but I find deprivation “diets” really depressing—and for me, totally ineffective. About mid-August I started focusing on drinking more water–a lot more–and once I did that, I naturally left soda behind. After a couple of weeks I noticed I wasn’t craving sweet tea any more, and by about the third week I noticed I was drinking exclusively water. I was feeling good, losing weight, and noticed a marked energy boost.

I never banned myself from those other things–it just came naturally–and that is why I believe it worked. I also noticed that I was eating less sweets to the point where now I rarely even want any. But I can assure you that if I had set out to deprive myself of any of those things, I would only have craved them more and my focus would have been annoyingly steered toward what I couldn’t have.

Not that I am knocking the value of self-control, because I truly believe God calls us to develop and exercise it. My point is that I don’t believe God calls us to blanket deprivation simply because a food is tasty/sweet/whatever. God gave us taste buds and made food tasty for a reason. I also don’t believe any food is more “righteous” than another. I am not closer to God because I eat more cabbage than I do M&Ms. I love them both, and I don’t think M&M’s are sinful any more than cabbage is holy.

Personally, I crave collard greens far more often than I crave candy, but when I do want candy, I have some. I am finding that my whole outlook on food is much healthier and more conducive to happiness as I take everything as a gift from God with gratitude and am watching extra weigh fall off as I follow God’s lead without a list of “NO”s to keep. My tummy shrunk considerably early on, and my portion size naturally adjusted to about a fistful at a time. Which is the size our tummies should actually be. Imagine that.

I do acknowledge that allergies and aversions/sensitivities exist and should be considered. I also am aware that certain foods are more nutritious than others, and that certain people have a harder time digesting food prepared in certain ways. I just happen to think that “all things in moderation” applies pretty well overall, and if you have a certain food sensitivity then pay attention to it without making the leap that such food/prep method is good or evil. It’s just food. All things in moderation with gratitude.

I guess my whole point is sharing the notion of purposefulness when it comes to what goes into our bodies. Stay aware, purposefully intentional, and grateful. That’s really all. I’m determined to find the size I’m supposed to be. There may not be a skinny girl trapped in here, but I’m fixin’ to find out who is and what she looks like. With all this water, at least I’ll have more energy for the quest. I’ll keep you posted on the excavation.

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Simple

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“One day I will find the right words and they will be simple.”
Jack Kerouac

These days, they are anything but simple. They are complicated, complex, wrought with conflicting opinion and stand-taking and assertion. I am tired.

I long for calmer moments, of rainy afternoons and dark clouds gathered and thunder like the rumbling of a distant train.

Things are about to become much less quiet in my life as I start work as a TA and simultaneously begin work on my B.S. in Ed Studies full time online. This will be far from simple, but I need rest soul-deep if I have any hope of getting through the next two years.

I want the election to be over. Whatever we are going to wind up with for leadership I just want it done so (hopefully) the arguing and judgment will stop. If it doesn’t stop, then social media will not be seeing much of me. I need to focus in a positive direction.

I long for quietness, for lightness of being, for peace. I long for moments spent holding my husband’s hand or playing Little People with my grandchildren or making dinner for my big, beautiful family. I need to pull inward, to beckon my heart back home. Only then can I pour myself out the way God calls me to do as a wife, a mother, a Mimi, a teacher, a friend.

I am praying for renewal of purpose. For all of us.

Our Children

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From back left: Papa, Charly, Jeff, Trevor, Matt, Steve. Next row: Amanda, Strider, Jenna, Rosie, Joe. Next row forward: Lisa, Nana, Morgan, Lakin, Luke. Front: Rosabelle, Archer.

One thing we believe in most strongly at Easterhouse is the value of FAMILY. We’ve built ours on a culture we’ve grown from our earliest days. It is a culture that says family done intentionally according to God’s design is the hub of everything in this life, and that what we do and say and experience becomes the spokes stretching from that base. We try with all we’ve got to live it personally, and we’ve mentored it in family ministry for years. We believe in it, and we know it works beautifully.

Our son Jeff, who arrived the day after we moved into our first apartment of our own, is a born leader. In those early years his headstrong personality provided quite a challenge for our fledgling parenting skills. We bumbled around trying to be a good mom and dad, but thankfully he is also quite resilient. Every so often we extend what we refer to as the “guinea pig apology”, our ongoing “I’m sorry” for him having to be the one on whom we learned the ropes of parenting. He has always been an amazing dad to Morgan (b. 2000). He served on staff at the Museum of Science and Industry in Tampa for 19 years, and in July of 2014 he moved to Seattle to work for Microsoft’s 343 Industries. He continues to spend as much time as possible with his beloved Charly, who is working on a biology doctorate at USF.

Just shy of five years later Luke joined us, with a disposition about as calm and accommodating as Jeff was headstrong. His goal was to bring peace and make everyone happy, and he did. I caught myself worrying that he would grow up to be a pushover who couldn’t speak up for himself or stand strong on his beliefs. That thought makes me laugh now, seeing the courageous man of God he is. He married Lakin in 2007 and has since become a daddy to Rosabelle (2010) and Archer (2013). He is Senior Director for a local youth sports enrichment program, and a sports journalist for USA Today‘s Draft Wire.

We lost a baby we named Jamie to miscarriage in May of 1989. In April of 1990 our precious newborn daughter Heather lived ten hours before she died of a Beta Strep infection. I share more about these times of grief and God’s provision and comfort within the pages of this blog.

Trevor joined our family in March of 1991. With chipmunk cheeks and a ready smile, he filled our home with joy and brought healing where our hearts had been crushed with grief. In the sixth grade he announced that he felt led into worship ministry. He set to work immediately preparing for that calling, and throughout his life has continually shown us ways to walk more closely with God. He married Amanda in November of 2011, and is now a worship leader at Grace Family Church in Tampa.

Matt came in March of 1993 with big blue eyes and a head full of curls. He quickly developed a disarming wit that left people scratching their heads. His childhood was spent growing into a young man who strongly values honor and personal integrity, and who pours himself completely into every task at hand. All who know him love and respect him as an exemplary man of God. He married our music pastor’s daughter Jenna in June of 2013. Their son Strider was born in December of 2014, and their daughter is due in August 2017. Matt works as a CAD drafter for UC Synergetic.

When Rosie came in May of 1995, our whole world turned pink. We named her Rose after my mother, and she brought a completeness to our family none of us could have anticipated. She twirled before she could walk, and has continued to follow her lifelong passion for dance. She teaches dance at a local studio and is working on a business degree at St. Petersburg College. She dearly loves children and is a trusted sitter and childcare worker. She and her beloved Joe have been together since May of 2011.

Marriage made in Heaven

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Steve and I had quite a beginning to our love story that you’ll want to read more about if you haven’t already, but here we’ll pick up where that part of our story left off.

Most folks would say we started off behind the eight-ball in our marriage. It’s hard to be deeply in love and not make unwise choices during a long engagement. We were grounded in our faith, and yet we still made some of those choices. We found out in June of 1980 that we were three, and on July 13 we walked the aisle in our tiny church in East Tampa and promised to love each other forever.

On our wedding day I was green with all-day sickness and Steve had the flu. We spent our three-day honeymoon unable to sleep too near each other, him burning up with fever and me with my face in a bucket. Thankfully we missed the memo that all these things were supposed to spell our doom as a couple. We loved each other, and we figured the “in sickness” part was just arriving a little early.

I was “Sixteen and Pregnant” before it was cool enough for a reality show. Truth is there was nothing cool about being a pregnant teenager. I watched my friends fall off like flies one by one, all but a tiny few who didn’t mind being seen with me. I resigned as band captain and left my beloved music program behind to finish the few classes I needed to finish school early. It was one of the loneliest times of my life with regard to friendship, but I will never forget how our parents and church family gathered around us and loved us through those early weeks and months.

Steve has always been my best friend. Because of that friendship rooted in our love for God, everything that has happened to us in life has happened to us, not between us. I really don’t know any other way to explain our relationship, or why we don’t argue, or why we don’t struggle in ways most people do. It isn’t that we never disagree; it’s that we approach everything as a matter of how we will work through it, not whether or not we will. We made a covenant on our wedding day that the D-word wasn’t even in our vocabulary, so we’ve simply lived our life together based in that safe place.

Our Love Story

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On Friday, August 31, 1979 my friend Cheri and I were on our way home from the mall. At a stop-light I noticed a blue 1965 Mustang stopped next to us, and about the time I noticed the driver’s afro bopping to the Blue Oyster Cult song shrieking from his radio, he also noticed me. I blushed and grinned, and for a reason known only to the Lord, I waved. He waved back.

The light changed, and since we had to turn left at the next light we fell in behind the Mustang. After both cars made the same turn I joked to Cheri that they probably thought we were following them. She grinned and said, “Hey, we should!” So we did, through a couple of turns, until they got smart and turned into a church parking lot. Spooked, we took off as quickly as her dad’s Beetle would carry us.

We should have expected that they would come after us. They were quickly behind us, so Cheri tried to lose them in an empty Winn-Dixie parking lot. Don’t judge. We were teenagers. To this day I’m not sure what Cheri was thinking when she drove straight to the apartment where my mother and I lived alone and parked in front of our building. I asked her if she’d lost her mind, certain those creepy stalkers were going to murder us before we could escape.

I hid behind my algebra book and Cheri tried to look busy. The guys got out of their car and I remember thinking as they approached ours that I was really not fond of the idea of dying so young. I was about to scream at Cheri for rolling down her window when she pointed to the afro and said, “Hey, I know you!” Bless Jesus, we could live.

Cheri laughed and we both sighed our relief, then we got out of the car to chat with the no-longer-total-strangers. Turns out about a year before, Cheri and Steve had been briefly introduced at a Tampa Jam concert. Briefly was working for me, since it at least assured me of seeing the morning. We talked for a while and before they left Steve asked if he and his best friend Dave could hang out with us sometime, and mentioned a concert that was coming up. We said sure, thinking we’d never see them again.

We bailed on the concert, of course, but I felt a little guilty we didn’t go, so I asked them to meet us for pizza after our high school football game the following Friday night. Friday came, along with a massive rainstorm that combined with a huge loss for our team and drenched us body and spirit. Cheri was in no mood to go out at all, but I convinced her to at least come to the pizza place and hang out for a while.

When we arrived Steve naturally paired up with Cheri (I assumed since they had been introduced) and I sat with Dave. Steve and I sat across the table from each other goofing off and making silly conversation (I recognize it now as massive flirting), and as the evening wore on I felt a heart connection with the tall, skinny Italian rocker with the big hair. They took me home and I introduced them to my mother, and after they left she said, “I think Dave is terrific, but I honestly think Steve is more your type.” I hurried off to my room so she couldn’t see the pink in my cheeks.

The following week I called Steve’s house “looking for Dave”. Of course he wasn’t there, so Steve and I chatted for a little bit. He mentioned that he was going to the mall later to buy a present for a fraternity brother and asked if I wanted to come along. As casually as I could voice it, I said yes, then promptly hung up the phone and went dashing through the house to find my good jeans and the red button-down with the gold lame’ stripes.

As we arrived at the mall, Steve mentioned that “The Muppet Movie” was playing at the cinema and asked if I’d seen it. I said no, so he invited me to the movie. I was beginning to feel really comfortable with this guy, and I still marvel at how easily I fell for him since I had grown up watching my mother struggle in relationships, had seen her used and abused by men, and had fallen into a wreck of a relationship myself at the tender age of barely-fifteen and paid a high price for my misjudgment. Steve made me feel safe.

And so we come to the corniest part of our story, when Miss Piggy sees Kermit and her eyes twinkle in that love-at-first-sight way and Steve kissed me. After you stop gagging and laughing, I will tell you that it was the most perfect kiss on the planet, ever—even better than Westley and Buttercup at the end of “The Princess Bride”. It was gentle and sweet and it melted my heart into a puddle then and there.

A few weeks later as my feelings for Steve continued to grow, it hit me like a freight train that it was going to kill us both when we broke up. Everyone broke up. Broken relationship was all I’d ever known. I hadn’t uttered the word love in regard to Steve because there was still that part of me that fearfully withdrew at the thought of giving my heart to a man. It’s hard to describe the terror that overtook me when I realized I loved him. So I did the only thing I felt would save us both: I broke up with him.

I asked that he not contact me, knowing it would take nothing for my will to break. He honored my request, and I cried for the next two days straight. After a weekend of misery and a painful heaviness I can’t even describe, I finally called a friend, who called him for me and nudged him to call. I told him there was something important I wanted to tell him but it needed to be in person. He said he’d pick me up from band practice the next night.

The whole ride home after practice was quiet. Scared out of my mind, I couldn’t even make small talk. We stood outside the Mustang the way we had done many evenings before, him leaning against the driver’s door and me leaning on him with his arms around me. Every time I tried to find my voice nothing would come out. Finally he took my face in his hands and said, “I love you.” Tears came quickly as I said, “I love you, too.” I don’t think I hit four of the twenty steps up to our apartment that night. I felt I could fly.

A month later he asked my mother if he could propose to me. We would go on to joke for many years about me thinking if I hadn’t been in love with him she would have made me marry him. She gave him her own wedding rings, and on November 17, 1979, he asked me to marry him. At my choked out “Yes!” he put the engagement ring on my finger. It was my 16th birthday.

Trampled Roses

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I was there the day it happened, and my heart was rent with grief

As my precious rose lay battered, crushed of petal, torn of leaf

And I cried for all my children who have drained that bitter cup

As their pleas for mercy echoed and their anguish floated up

Please believe me, dearest daughter, this was never my intent

For such pain to be made perfect my Son’s precious blood was spent

There is nothing where you’re standing that can wholly heal your heart

But believe me when I tell you we won’t always be apart

The memories and scents that haunt your dreams and cloud your days

Will one day dissipate and you will truly know my ways

But for now I have a gift for you that just your heart can see

It’s a picture I have drawn of two embracing, you and me

The image I will leave with you while you must walk your sod

And you will be my darling girl and I will be your God

So hold it close and don’t forget one truth that never died:

Evil will not always boast what Love has crucified

Don’t Say Forever

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I admit with shame I let myself believe it
Breathed it deeply, let its comfort beckon me
Felt its sweetness, let it hold me for a moment
Now forever I will never truly see
 
Once I trusted, though reluctant in my fearing
Dared to let such weakness break the shield I wore
I’d have been much less transparent had I seen ahead
I can’t listen to forever any more
 
It was beautiful, a treasure made of diamond tears
And I held it all too closely to my chest
So I loosened trembling fingers, let it flutter free
And now never will forever let me rest
 
In its freedom it has chosen now another path
I’ve been forced to let the one I cherished go
Now in silence there is nothing of what once was ours
Only pain I cannot let forever show
 
I am left to shed the anger with an anguished cry
Letting go of any hope that’s left within
So if you would speak your love for me, I ask you this
Never whisper a forever word again
*

Fathers and Faith and Word Formations

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Sometimes I blog for everyone else. Today it’s more for me, but you’re invited.

It’s Father’s Day, and I will spend it as I have since I was twelve: without my daddy. I am grateful to have had Steve’s dad (my Papa) in my life since I was 15, and glad that he’s here still at 80 years young. I have much to thank God for, and some pretty special dads in my life. There aren’t any words to describe Steve’s presence in my life, or the blessing of the way he has loved and nurtured and provided our children and me. Three of our sons are dads who make us wildly proud. Rosie took Steve out for a daddy-daughter brunch, and we’re having a cookout this afternoon with the family all gathered together to celebrate the dads.

I’m trying not to allow my blogging to be controlled by how creative I feel, or how relevant I think my thoughts will be to the world. It’s hard to think inward and just write for me. Actually, it’s nearly impossible, but I’m trying. My words come out sounding dry and pointless in my own ears, and that doesn’t exactly inspire creative expression. It leaves me feeling like I really don’t have anything to say. It’s just so dry. But I write on, trooper that I am, and I unwrap a Hershey caramel kiss to make the whole process a little less painful.

My math study sheets glare at me from my desktop, algebraic expressions taunting me with reminders of my upcoming certification test. I really wish math and I were better friends. We’re more amicable than we were, but we still have a long road ahead of us if we’re going to go into teaching together with a good measure of success. And I do intend to be a spectacular teacher, so I’m willing to put in the work.

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There’s a lot going on socially and politically right now, and sometimes it’s too much for my empathetic mind to take in without becoming overwhelmed. I trimmed my friends list down considerably, then scaled my news feed back even more, and the next step will be pulling all but one or two major news sources. I prefer to be informed about what is going on in the world, but sometimes I feel like I’m going to crushed by the weight of it all at once. Most of it I can’t even write about. The world is one big offense waiting to happen, and I don’t want to feed the ugly monster.

Waterfall

I burned my hand pretty badly this morning making baked beans for the cookout. I forgot bacon drippings could splash that high. The two blistered spots have had pain shooting up my arm for the past hour or so, but it’s starting to be a little more bearable.

While I sit here under the ceiling fan sipping coffee, I should probably be unloading the dishwasher and getting ready to grab a shower. I wonder if it’s possible to keep the warm water off my right hand. It hurts to think about it.

Church

I heard somebody say that faith is fluid. I have a slightly different take: I see faith as formative. We’re always growing in it in some fashion, whether it looks like growth to others or not. That doesn’t excuse everything, but maybe it does understand it. Thinking of faith as formative means it’s always being built. Fluid, to me, sounds weak and unintentional and random. Formative means purposeful, trying and failing and rising and falling but growing roots that push deeper, as painful as that can be. And God, how it can be.

Posted to my Facebook this morning:

Our cracked places can become windows where God’s light breaks through. The decision to shatter or shine comes with how we allow Him to purpose the pain in our breaking. Our wounds, like His, can be the currency for a depth of life we would not otherwise have known. We cannot always see how God is redeeming what we’ve lost, but we can always trust that He will.

I think I need to read that every morning just to remind myself that these days, these experiences aren’t going to kill me.

Also: Parents hurt when their kids hurt, even long after the kids stop being kids. Just thought I’d mention that, because we weren’t prepared for this. You’re welcome.

I made President’s Honor List again. Go me.

My coffee is cold.

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Post-Term Musing

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This won’t be one you’ll want to share, so the pressure’s off. Just relax and read, if you’ve got a minute.

Last week I finished my first year of college. In some ways it seems too short a time to have finished two full semesters, but when I think of the work that went into it, it seems like longer. But anyway, it’s over. I’m taking the summer off to focus on studying for (and taking) my GK test for teaching, and also to study ahead for my fall statistics class.

True to form, as soon as I sat down at my desk to write, everything I’d been ruminating over flew out of my head. I even cleaned my office this morning so I’d feel more creative, and I’m burning scented candles and listening to soft piano music for inspiration. Moonlight Sonata don’t fail me now…

It has felt strange over the past week not having thoughts of homework and tests and assignments and workshops and deadlines crowding my brain. It’s a good kind of strange, but it has me a little off-balance. In many ways, as crazy as it sounds, I think I actually miss the routine of school. It keeps me alert, focused, purposeful. I admit it is nice to have a few minutes to clean the kitchen. I’m sure my honey will agree.

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I’m going to miss Dr. Cohen. I love her dearly and will always be grateful for the way she pulled for me and helped me to believe I could actually do math.

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I’m sad I won’t have her for statistics, but I am happy I could have her for my first two college math classes.

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I’m also going to miss Dr. Haber. I was blessed to have her for Comp I and World Lit 2. She sharpened my writing and made her classes interesting and challenging and enjoyable. I love her.

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The art show for my biology class was a big hit. It was the culmination of our Dali and DNA study funded by an Innovations grant, with 40+ exhibitors showing a variety of artistic pieces. It was great fun, and I learned a lot about both Dali and DNA. Dr. Delgato made the whole thing an amazing endeavor, and I am delighted that we get her again next semester for our next biology class.

The college experience has been great for the most part. The not-so-great parts will hopefully work themselves out for the best in the end. I am loving the experience.

Aware

JanuarySunday

I haven’t experienced this deep a need to write for quite some time. Yesterday was a sunny Sunday, perfect for sleeping in. I awoke with my mind so packed full of jumbled thoughts I felt if I didn’t express them somehow, I’d come undone. I was glad to have Steve home and as always eager to hear whatever I have to share. There was no good starting place, so I just dove in headlong and spent the next twenty minutes dog-paddling through the maze of my muddled mind. All alliteration aside, I at least felt like he understood most of what tumbled forth.

I was labeled gifted at age six and moved from first to second grade in the middle of my first year of school. I hated being plucked out of the warm and familiar and deposited into a classroom where the teacher was perpetually cross and the students were all older and not amused by having this shrimp of a kid plopped down into their world. In spite of the upheaval, I had already caught the fever for one day becoming a teacher.

Sadly, none of the gifted programs or advanced placement classes I took over the next 10 years in school was designed to teach me about myself in a way that would help me make sense of the way people like me think and process information. I’m 51 years old, and I am just now beginning to understand it. Articulating it? Well, that is another thing entirely.

I’ve come to learn that those with highly creative minds tend to have trouble processing everything that goes on in their heads at once. It’s like trying to organize and control a hundred butterflies in a room with a fifteen-foot ceiling. At any given time, there is far too much information flying about to make sense of much of it. Is it any wonder creative types are labeled eccentric, odd, different? Is it any wonder we are prone to deep depression and periods of reclusiveness?

This past fall I started college at age 50 in an elementary education program. Apparently I forgot my Type-A tendencies and perfectionism. I also didn’t realize until yesterday that my oldest son is not completely alone in being split down the middle between the mathematical/scientific and the linguistic creative. Ironically, have always struggled with math, and I think I’m beginning to understand why. My son and I will have some interesting conversations.

As a young child, my life was rarely within my control. I was two when my home broke apart, and over the next two years I would be shuffled back and forth between two parents whose love compelled them to fight—quite literally—over who would have custody. The last fight led to a kidnapping that put my father and me on the run from the FBI for more than two years. The next several years brought a variety of hardships that I will not detail here, followed by my father’s death and a move back to Florida with my mother. By then I had known fear, loss, abuse, confusion, abandonment, and crushing grief. I was twelve.

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I became an overachiever over the next year or so and poured all that effort into music. I learned how to play, sing, arrange, and compose music. I learned how to direct band, orchestra, and choir. I earned fourteen district and state band medals. I learned to read 3,400 words per minute and to write poetry and stories and books. There could be no shortage of stimulation for this frantic young mind still too busy to grieve the loss of childhood innocence, and so I pressed onward. I fell in love at 15, got married at 16, and became a mother at 17. There was no time for thoughts of childhood; I had a child to raise.

Looking back, it seems natural that I would take up the task of teaching my own children at home. I would spend the next twenty-five years educating our five children from birth through high school, graduating them one by one until the last one moved her pink tassel in May of 2013. I wrote two books the following year, then decided to go to college to pursue a teaching career. Some dreams never fully die.

So yesterday when all these jumbled thoughts starting dancing around and begging for expression, I spent some time trying to first understand what I was discovering, and then trying to apply it to both past and present. Discovery can be magical, but it can also be a frightening prospect when one doesn’t know quite what to do with what is found.

I can look back now and see the love for numbers that has always been a part of my thinking. The way I’ve always had an uncanny ability to remember numbers and sequences, the way I could memorize information on signs and recall it weeks later. How I would play game after game of Yahtzee alone because there was no one to play with most of the time, which led to an ability to add with impressive speed.

I’m starting to realize that the reason I started being afraid of math was the very preciseness I should have found a comfort—because not much in my young world was dependable. Perhaps I was afraid it wouldn’t all add up, and where would that leave me?  So I started shying away from numbers and leaning more heavily on the creative side of how I am wired. The result of abandoning numbers was a fear of math that set in and gripped my mind in a way that convinced me I was incapable of grasping math beyond the most basic operations. I am now paying dearly for that presumption, but I’m also fighting my way out of the cage.  Numbers were my friend once upon a time. I’d like to think they can be again.

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Somewhere along the line I learned to overthink everything. I never left that tendency behind. Now it plays out in worry, which gives me yet another obstacle to overcome. I get a lot of practice at fortitude and problem-solving, which puts me in the company of most every other human in existence. If exercise builds endurance, then I should be considered quite fit—at least as an overcomer.

Getting to know myself better grants the advantage of making sense out of certain behaviors and tendencies I see in myself both currently and in my past. I do consider it an advantage, although parts of this self-discovery thing can be quite bewildering. I’ve noticed that I need precise direction—not because I have no discipline but perhaps because I have too much, and want to know exactly what is expected of me so I don’t fail. There was far too much about my childhood that eluded me no matter how hard I tried, how much I achieved, how high I flew. It could be that at this point in my life there is a lot more I can control, so I am determined to do just that.

I am under no delusion that I am in sole control of my life. That is a job only God can shoulder, and I recognize my innate human frailties. I possess great abilities by God’s provision and grace, and the better I understand those abilities, the better I will be able to use them to build into not only the lives of my family, but of the students whose education I will enrich along this journey.

I am still excavating the mystery of the woman in the mirror. Ideally, I would like to know me at least well enough to function optimally in my roles as a child of God, wife, mother, grandmother, teacher, mentor, friend.

My word for 2015 is AWARE. I am beginning to see why.

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