Busy?

I'm discovering that in the midst of the holiday rush (and I'm including Thanksgiving in that) it's a lot harder to stay in routines. It's harder to get anything done. And it's a lot harder to find time for writing and blogging. It's not that I don't have stories to tell…boy do I have stories to tell…but I keep finding other things to steal my attention. And that's not always a bad thing. It sometimes means that I've decided to sit and snuggle my girls while we watch the boys play Xbox. (Or it means that they've decided that I'm going to snuggle them…either way!) Sometimes it means that I'm cooking or shopping or decorating (we spent a full week with a tree up but only half covered in lights!). Sometimes it means that I've decided that all I need in the world is an extra hour of sleep. Sometimes it just means that I can't find it in me to concentrate on telling a story, even if it's funny.

I am determined this year to find time to enjoy the holidays. To appreciate the together-ness and the meaning of Christmas. It's easy with little kids to get the joy of Christmas – it's a lot harder to remember the why of Christmas. Throw in a few (hundred) basketball games and practices, and a choir concert or two, and it's more like a mad-dash into The Day, without any moments to just BE.

The past several years, at least in my memory, have been sheer chaos. Gifts bought at the last minute, because we put things off and couldn't make up our minds. Advent calendars opened once or twice a week, several days at a time because we didn't remember to do them every night. Marathon wrapping sessions on Christmas Eve, which seems like a complete waste of time (I mean, really, they're going to open them in a couple hours, can't I just cover them with a sheet?!?) All leading up to a general collapse the day after Christmas because we're all worn out from the running around. Oh, but there's no time for a collapse, because there's still family in town to spend time with and games to be played, and basketball to be practiced…maybe next year we'll do better.

So this is "next year," and I'm trying to do better. I've got my chart of who to buy for, and what we've bought. I've wrapped a few presents. I've decorated a little at a time (and I'm not done yet). We're still missing nights on the advent calendar, and doing double chocolates to make up on other nights, but the kids aren't exactly complaining about that! I've found an Advent devotional I'm enjoying that I'm trying to do at breakfast each day. (Maybe next year I'll add it to the Advent time with my kids.)

It's my hope that we will hit the first day of Christmas break (9 days of school left!!) with next-to-nothing left to do besides enjoy each other. Maybe we'll have time to drive around and look at Christmas lights. Maybe we'll have time to be together without needing to spend it shopping! Maybe I'll manage to communicate to my kids the deeper meaning of Christmas.

And maybe – every once in a while – I'll be able to blog about it.

You're Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile

In the midst of everything else last week, I missed an important anniversary in my life. Four years ago, on October 13 (Friday, October 13…not typically superstitious, but this one about changed that!), I got Bell’s Palsy. This is a paralysis of the facial muscles on one side of the face/neck. It comes on pretty suddenly – in my case, I first noticed it when I was talking on the phone and my mouth felt funny. As the day went on, I could move less and less, until I could no longer move anything on that side of my face. I couldn’t talk easily, couldn’t blink, couldn’t smile. It was devastating. I knew what it was, knew it was not truly harmful, and knew that it was supposed to only be temporary, and I was still devastated.

It’s hard to explain how it feels to have BP. On the surface, it seems to not be anything major – it’s not fatal and not permanent, what’s the big deal? Oh, but it’s a big deal. I smile as easily as I cry (and I do that very easily, remember?), and suddenly I was faced with the complete inability to smile. At all. The emotions were still there, but the result of the attempt was just scary-looking. So I (mostly) quit trying.

You know what happens when you stop smiling? You stop feeling happy. Okay, I’m sure other things play into that – things like feeling completely conspicuous and self-conscious, and flat out feeling ugly – but the act of smiling does make a difference in your attitude. And walking around everywhere with a frown – because that’s the only facial expression that looks even sort of symmetrical during BP – tends to make you feel sad. Your insides match your face.

For four solid weeks, there was absolutely no movement on the right side of my face, and not a sign of improvement. My greatest blessing during this time is that I was on maternity leave (C was a week old when the BP started), so I didn’t have to get out very much, and didn’t have to stand in front of a class of middle school students every day and try to teach. I mostly hid out at home and enjoyed my new baby. (And cried!)

When the first twitches of movement started to come back, I was pathetically thrilled. Up to that point, I hadn’t quite been able to believe that it wasn’t permanent. It was slow…painfully slow…but over the next few months my smile (and my blink, and the ability to talk without slurring) began to come back. A few months later, I was mostly to the point that most people no longer noticed my lop-sided-ness first thing (although it was still very obvious to me). After 18 months or so, I stopped needing a straw to drink. Now, four years later, even I can hardly tell I had it…other than the fact that I have a few less wrinkles on my forehead on that side! Good thing I didn’t know back then how long it would take to get to this point!

I will confess that I can still work myself into a complete meltdown if I dwell too long on the thought of having to face it again. Mostly I try to avoid those thoughts…there’s no known cause, so no way to protect myself…I might as well just appreciate (and I do) the ability to smile now that I have it back.

(But if on some horrible morning I wake up with it again, it would be really nice if it hits the other side of my face…you know, to even out those wrinkles!!)

Living On a Prayer

Note: I wrote this over the weekend, before I knew anything about the situation with my Granddad. While there is plenty of grief right now…and lots of praying going on…it’s not quite what I was talking about when I wrote this, so I’m going to go ahead and post it!

It seems I have been bombarded lately with thoughts on prayer. And with situations requiring desperate need for prayer. None of them my personal situations, which is both a source of relief and of guilt – why not me? I know the normal question is “why me?” and I’m certain that when a situation arises closer to home, that will be my question, but these days I’m just wondering how it is that I’m so blessed. I’m certain it’s through no great accomplishment or discipline of my own…even if that were a guarantee of immunity from struggle and grief, I most assuredly have not earned it. In this blessedness, there is a tendency toward a sense of impending doom – sooner or later, something’s bound to come my way – but I attempt to not give in to it, and instead try to use it as a constant reminder of how much I have to be grateful for.

And that wasn’t anywhere near the post I was headed for when I started.

What has really been on my mind is the subject of prayer. My usual method in the chaos of my life is to have a constant prayer conversation going on. I get interrupted all day long with “real life,” but at any moment, I can pick right back up with another quick shot or two toward Heaven. I’m sure that’s all fine and good – but I truly don’t say that to make myself sound all holy. The opposite, in fact, since what I’ve realized lately is that I never stop to quiet myself and spend any time in prayer.

Seriously, that’s like living on Dr. Pepper and bread. Which my inner child would totally love to do, by the way. Great things in and of themselves, but completely incapable of sustaining a healthy life. (And that right there is a sermon illustration you’re not gonna hear from my dad!)

My prayer life is seriously lacking in meat. And I’ve figured out why. (Besides the fact excuse that my life seems to be spent on the run!) When you sit down to pray – to really have a conversation with God – the rules of conversation require occasional listening. And I don’t want to listen. Because you know what happens? I start hearing things I don’t want to hear. It's a lot easier to just keep moving and firing off those little prayer bursts than it is to stop and listen. When I listen, He starts pointing out things in my life that aren’t very pretty. And when you’re flat on your face begging God for mercy in a situation, it doesn’t exactly seem wise to ignore when He talks. “Okay, God, really. We’re not talking about me here, we’re supposed to be talking about this other situation. Remember?” Yeah, try saying that to the Creator of the Universe. He’s a big enough God that He’ll listen in spite of our narrow focus, but how much do we miss by attempting to avoid His nudges? And is there a point at which He might give up and quit nudging? Or when He decides we need the point made in a larger (more painful) fashion?

Lord, help me find both the time and the desire to listen…..