Amy's Humble Musings

Yesterday, Greg sent this picture on his iPhone from Disney/Magic Kingdom. Charles is turning four this week, but I still remember the horror day he was born.

This photo is curious to me. Let’s see, we have:

1. The $12 ice cream cone — check!

2. The tourist with extra white legs in the background — check!

3. Bonus point for the tourist because she’s wearing a backpack (two points if it was a fanny pack….) — check!

4. The smiling birthday boy having a magical day — check!

5. Not one speck of trash on the ground. We’re obviously not on a Kentucky roadside — check!

But here’s where it threw me off. The personal space. Everyone in this picture has personal space. I just wasn’t sure they were at Disney. Personal space at Disney is like fiscal responsibility in Congress.

McGregor gave some guy his personal space on Splash Mountain when he remarked to his wife, “Hey, remember last time we rode this, I threw up on the kid in front of me?” That guy knows how to work it.

I have good news and bad news. (There is no free supermacbookpadpro with this post. That was the other blog you just came from.) The good news is that I lost ten pounds. The bad news? It’s the same ten pounds I already lost last year.

I think this means I’m middle-aged now. This is the part in life where you have “issues” with your hips, but you’re not old enough to have problems with your joints, yet you are old enough to have your head screwed on straight. (There are exceptions.)

Mid-30’s means that you have to skip dessert if you don’t want cheesecake on your thighs. On the flip side, it also means that you don’t care what people “will think” anymore. It’s a fantastic place to be. I’m even old enough to use the word fantastic.

I guess we’re all getting older, eh? But there’s something good about this in-between stage, wouldn’t you agree? I’m finally past the acne and self-doubt, but I’m still ahead of the hot flashes. And you know what? It feels good.

I always get morbidly introspective near my birthday. When I turned 33 last year, I got nervous because Jesus went to the cross at 33-years-old, but my own faith won’t even let me ride in an airplane without breaking into cold sweat. Clearly, I am not where I need to be.

I thought about that fact yesterday —the part about my weak faith and the part about how it’s time for me to get-it-together already — when Greg preached at our church on God’s covenant faithfulness to us. Yes, I was listening and not thinking about cheesecake and if the sound guy was asleep or what, except for the occassional “Hush, Charles, sit up or Daddy’s gonna put you in the sermon, boy,” as you’ll see from my notes here.

Greg said that when God makes a promise, it is certain and sure. He used the text in II Samuel 9 about David agreeing to honor his word, and in doing so, he finds an unworthy, unlikely recipient in Mephibosheth. (Don’t ever name your kid that.)

That is just so like God, isn’t it? He finds the most undeserving guy, “a dead dog like me” as Mephibosheth puts it, and gives him a seat at the table.

I feel like that mangy dog a lot—knowing that I’ve been given so much, knowing that so much is required of me, and then realizing that I even need help with my helplessness because I’m so self-righteous even about my screw-ups. What a mess. I’m probably the only person with enough brains to brag about my arrogance and then congratulate myself afterword for repenting of it.

I know that there is grace for people like that, too. There is a seat at the King’s table. There is forgiveness. There is hope, and it’s all because of God’s faithfulness to do what He said He’d do as we confess and believe. Help our unbelief.

I just get complacent. I get tired. I’m hot and I’m cold. I want to sell the kids on eBay one minute and throw myself in front of a speeding train out of love and for them (otherwise known as “homeschooling”) the next minute. Maybe I’m alone in that. I think there is therapy for people like me. I think there is grace too.

Because I’m the world’s best mother, I dropped off my kid at the ball field and drove away. I know. You do that sort of thing when you are a working mother, or in my case, a stay-at-home mom who works.

There is a skateboard park next to the fields. The skater boys wear their pants on the ground while rap blasts from invisible speakers. I thought rap music and showing your Scooby-Doo boxers was so last decade, but that just shows you what I know.

I’m one of those people who think guys named Mohammad Akbar KaBOOM should be given the patdown at the airport, and so I’m also the mom who tells her kid that if he gets any ideas while passing the skaters, he’ll be wearing highwaters up to his neck until he’s 30. And have a nice time, honey.

Plus, I reasoned as I drove away, there are good men on the ball field. During this age of tween-hood, it’s just not cool for a chick to be offering tips from the bleachers. I know when it’s time to hand the reigns over to a man. And with the advent of pimples and body odor, I’ve read the signs. I’m OK with all of this; just don’t burp in front of me.

In the future, though, I still reserve the right to call an infield fly or an inside pitch if the umpire doesn’t. Even if I am high on estrogen, there are rules, people, rules.

Two hours later, I returned to pick up my boy who is not yet a man. With practice running over (always), it was his turn to bat. I sat in the bleachers pretending not to notice at all. I can be cool when I have to, and sometimes I’m not even annoying. Emphasis on the sometimes.

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Love is in the air.

At least, I imagine that’s what I was supposed to think when Greg came home with an ocean kayak from Craig’s List. Just like old times it was going to be, back when we held hands like lovebirds and a Frosty from Wendy’s counted as a hot date. Now we could sail into the sunset (except for the pesky part about being on the east coast and the fact we’d have to paddle and not sun ourselves while the sails did all the work, just go with it).

I reminded Greg that tenuous matters must be handled with care. Last month, when I was hanging off the back of a scooter going 60 m.p.h. on the left hand side of the road in a foreign country, I reminded him, “We have six kids.” You just can’t do these things.

Before we had six kids, we went whitewater rafting, and I fell out of the raft on a class IV rapid, got trapped under the boat, and then floated down the river by myself, and had to be rescued with ropes and helicopters. Actually, I’m kidding about the helicopters, but I am serious about the ropes, the almost dying part, and my adventures always turning into nightmares. Rental properties, anyone? There are only four left –getemwhiletheirhot— and they are in the black this year, and it’s not due to the graffiti.

And so I give a friendly word of advice to all the younger ladies: If you have to sign a liability waiver on the kinds of dates your future husband takes you on, like bungie jumping, get a clue, and go long on Valium early in your marriage. [Please don't take this as serious investment advice, because ya'll know I'm short on everything.] It won’t stop. Once he tastes adventure, you just can’t stop him. Now Greg doesn’t fly anymore, but it’s only because we can’t afford it with all these kids. Rest assured, he’ll find a way to walk on the wild side. You might end up with 10 kids! So maybe these wild guys aren’t all so bad…

Back to what I was saying. Just like the President and Vice-President are never allowed to ride in the same airplane, responsible parents of a gabillion kids ought not to go joy-riding in the middle of shark infested waters, at least not in the same kayak.

So, I tossed out the kids with Greg and they hit the water.

We wisely chose to do this at low tide and when there were no waves. I told you we were responsible parents.

Charles: Mommy? My clothes are all wet.

Me: But that’s so funnnn, right? You had fun! You’re almost four, and you like cold, wet clothes, right? Do you like riding in the fun boat?

Charles: Mommy, my clothes are all wet.

Bizzy isn’t so sure about the “responsible” part. She realizes that she is in a new bulky get-up and this can’t be good.

Let’s all look at this and access the risk.

Nevermind.

I was warming myself in the house, just watching the cruise ships float by, when the boat flipped. So, basically, I have no pics of the best part.

They climbed back in, life went on, and nobody was eaten by a shark. (I just know it wouldn’t go that way for me. There’d be a rip current– or worse: cold water–and Flipper would be no where in sight for the big rescue.)

We have to work on the “Stroke, stroke” part. We are homeskooling right now, ahem.

Maybe I will have to get out there with Greg and show these kids how it’s done, after the sharks go night-night.

I must say, the view of a launch is better from the beach than from the back hills of Kentucky on a computer screen. I went outside in 43 degree weather without earmuffs to watch the launch. I hope I’ve proven my love and devotion, Greg!

Hey, who turned off the global warming?

United Launch Alliance’s Atlas 5 rocket launched NASA’s Solar Dynamics Observatory, which to clarify, is a private company launching a government payload. [The government's payload will try to understand how solar activity is created and how space weather results from that activity, which is mildly better than, say, spending your tax dollars on iPods for deadbeat parents or windfall bank profits (see the links in my sidebar on my now working sideblog.) ]

I emailed Fox News to tell them that the Atlas V does not belong to NASA. Wow. That’s just bananas.

In other news, I saw a woman wearing a scarf yesterday in only 50 degree weather and pointed her out to the kids. They all said in unison, “Look who’s talking!” I’m huddled inside until the universe returns to reason.

My pastor here in Florida gave an illustration this morning that was so good that I want to share it with you.

Now, since I am doing this from memory, I want to first absolve him of any theological error I might convey or of any responsibility for my spiritual state. Here was the gist.

There are two men. Imagine the first man sentenced to working in a locked room for a year, where the conditions are awful: very little sleep, grueling labor every day, and just horrendous existence. The reward for him at the end is $15,000.

He’d probably quit after the first week. I mean, it’s just not worth the “reward” at the end.

Now imagine the second man sentenced to the same awful conditions–suffering for a year of hard labor–but at the end of his year, he is paid $150 million —tax free, even! (The tax free part is my embellishment.)

This second man would endure to the end, knowing that the reward at the end was worth the suffering he endured at the time.

We can endure suffering in the present because of our promise for the future. For the Christian, the reward is infinitely greater than a paltry $150 million (even in a deflationary environment) or anything the world can offer us. If we believe that the glory awaiting us is really what God says it is, what is suffering in this life in comparison? Romans 8:18 says, “For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.”

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that when the pain is very deep, but this illustration reminded me that it is worth enduring to the end, asking God to give us faith to believe in a future promise. For those who believe in Jesus, the reward will be worth it.

———————-

You know, I read a lot of things from well-known pastors online, but how many of us are sitting under faithful pastors (who might not have a blog… ) every week? What is something your pastor said recently that made you think?

Dear Kentucky,

It was good while it lasted. I fell in love with you at summer camp, but like all relationships built over a campfire and smores from a Wal-Mart bag, it must fizzle.

I two-timed you, understand. I went back to Florida, who is not as cold compared to you. I understand, now, really I do, that it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.

What does that mean exactly? I don’t know. I just know that you’re supposed to say something cliche during a breakup. What? Yes, I’m breaking up with you and your curvy roads and cold winters. I’m breaking up with your single digits. I need me some double digits in January. My bones are cold. I need someone who can keep me warm at night.

I loved you but I was never in love with you. Yeah, someone told me that once too, and I’m still not over it. It is why I think the cashier at Payless Shoes is trying to rip me off when all he really just wants to do is swipe my card and go home to his TV dinner and dog already. It plays with your mind and infects your soul, know that.

We can romance the nights away when I return in the summer. We will be lovers again. We will eat smores under the starry galaxy and count the stars like we are counting the seconds until the first freeze. We will make love, not war. Until then, I remain…

Unfaithfully yours.

My kids always ate their vegetables, minded their manners, and won the spelling bee each year.

That was, of course, before I had kids.

In my mind, I baked cookies, but what nobody told me was, I really hate baking: then, now, and forever, amen. In my mind, I like the idea of baking and wearing an apron, though. The truth is I don’t own a checkered apron that ties in the back and has a pocket full of pinecones.

I understand, really I do, that expectations and reality are not bosom buddies, but it is nice to win the spelling bee even if it’s just in your imagination. You must aim at something, you know.

They will grow up and come back home for Thanksgiving with their children. And I will tell them that my expectations belonged to me, that they were my burdens to carry, not theirs. My job was to give them wings, not weights. My job was to inspire them to do what they were created to do, not create them in my own image.

It’s why we play baseball but not the piano. It’s why I know how to score an infield fly when I never cared before. It’s why my children are shy and I am not. It’s why all of that and more has to be OK.

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