Changing My World In Thirty Days

They say it only takes thirty days to make something a habit. I think it takes more than that, but that length of time is just about right. The month of dedicating one's self to developing a good habit will only cement the new behavior in place if there is a reason to do it and it is feasible.

It would be good to walk to work everyday, but it is just not doable for me since work is across a river more than ten miles from home. Not feasible. One day walking to my bus stop will be feasible and it is something I am working towards.

At one time "Because I said so" from my mother was a sound reason to do something. Sometime during my childhood that reason became insufficient for me to do a host of things, including making my bed. So for decades I have not made my bed beyond the initial putting on of clean fitted and straight sheets, and pillowcases. I saw no sound reason for doing more. Why expend time and energy doing something that was just going to get undone? And why do it day after day?

This changed on May 30 of this year when I read a blog post of Naval Admiral William H. McRaven's commencement speech to the graduates of the University of Texas at Austin. The admiral detailed ten life lessons he gained from Navy SEAL training. I have the utmost respect for our military and especially the SEALs, so I was eager to see what he had to say. I had no doubt that he would have some pearls of wisdom for how to live a successful life. The only one I remember is "Make your bed every day."

Seriously? How could making one's bed every day make one successful? I wasn't about to dismiss the idea outright. After all, he was a SEAL and a successful high ranking officer. But that doesn't mean that his ideas weigh more than Mom's. I needed a good reason to believe that making my bed every day would affect my life in a positive way.

I read on, and was surprised to find myself thinking there might be merit to making my bed every day. I will let you read the admiral's wisdom and judge for yourself, but it was enough to for me to embark on an experiment. For the next month I committed to making my bed before I did anything else that morning. At the end of June I would decide if this was a worthwhile habit to employ permanently.

Thirty days have passed and I have faithfully made my bed everyday. I did this no matter how late I got up, how rushed I was, whether it was a workday or a weekend, or if I was at home or on vacation. This surprises and delights me. To some it may not seem like much, especially since it is a twin bed and many people already do this everyday. But it is meaningful for me. It means that for thirty days I did something that I hadn't done for several decades. I can change. It also has a deeper spiritual meaning in how I begin each day and has helped fortify my optimistic view of life.

I will continue to make my bed every day. Not because Mom said so (though she was right!) Not because the military does it. Not because it has become an automatic no-brainer. I will do it because I now find great value in the simple task of making my bed.

I have also decided that I am adopting a new, healthy habit each month. For the month of July I am going to do fifteen minutes of housework/cleaning each day. I have written on small cards a variety of tasks ranging from cleaning out the refrigerator to organizing bookshelves to vacuuming and dusting. If it is not practical or necessary to do a task on a given day I can put it back in the box, but I can only do this twice. I am not permitted to reject the third card on a day. I will set a timer for fifteen minutes, and work no more, no less. The cards and the timer will help keep things reasonable and feasible.

By the end of July I should be making my bed and cleaning everyday. They say the Battle begins at home. I plan to be on the winning side. I think that is both reasonable and feasible.

What Mother's Day Is About

I'm going to say this and some people aren't going to like it. But I say this as a single, non-mom who has always wanted children.

There is something fundamentally wrong with the way most women approach Mother's Day. As a culture we have typically gone about celebrating something really worth celebrating in all the wrong ways. It is right to celebrate Mother's Day, but it isn't right to have it all warped by expectations, heartache, excess emotion, and materialism. Mostly we've been focusing on all the wrong things. It's not about buying a mother's love with a perfect gift. It isn't about calling her long-distance on a single day. It isn't about having breakfast in bed made by your children. It isn't about one-uping your sibling. It isn't about your loss or gain as a mother. It certainly isn't about measuring up or coming up short as a woman.

IT IS NOT ABOUT YOU!

Quit thinking about yourself. Quit expecting accolades. Quit thinking the world should stop and focus on you. Quit falling into self-pity. Quit dwelling on the questions, pains, and joys you have about your motherhood.


It isn't about you.
 
It's all about YOUR MOTHER! She did/does an amazing thing. She gave/gives life to you--selflessly and courageously, laying her life down for you. It's all about HER. Regardless of where your mother is today, whether she is alive or deceased, in your life on a regular basis or far from being present, she is to be honored for that one great gift she gave you (and continues to give)--life. 

My mother gave me life later than most women of her generation but not as late as the women of my generation. She labored in the wee hours of the morning, and has always called me the "first light in your father's and my life." There was no family nearby and my dad was doing research that year. About six months after I was born, Mom had carpal tunnel surgery on both wrists at the same time. I don't know how she did it-- all day with a breast-feeding infant and two bandaged wrists. Two years later the three of us moved to my dad's part of the country and a month later my brother was born. We were her family. Some days she sought refuge in the small laundry area off of the kitchen so that she could escape the bickering kids. When we went to school, Mom went back to teaching- parttime. She was home when we got home-- we were not Latch Key kids. She kissed our booboos and took the burnt piece of toast. She made sure that each of us got where we needed to go. To this day she keeos a calendar on the wall near the kitchen where she records all the family appointments. She prepares my dad's meals, cleans the house, and helps out in the yard. She attends functions with my dad as a deacon's wife, and she treasures her time with her five grandchildren. She's retired now, but from my perspective she is doing what she always has done, and done well-- mother.

She is, of course, a remarkable woman in my eyes. She is intelligent with a background in chemistry. She taught me how beautiful my mind is and not to sell it short. She's always allowed me to be who I am, even though that means not following in her footsteps in hardly anything. (I am not a scientist, a mother, or a wife. I'm not even in education anymore.) Mom did teach me how to love. She taught me that it involves putting others first, especially family. Mom has always put my father, brother and I before herself. I first contemplated Mom's heart when she had a "heart event" several years ago. her mother died of a heart attack. Mom is now more than a decade older than my grandmother, and I worry at times about the strength of her heart. A heart's strength is not in the years it beats but in its deep love. My mother's heart is strong. She celebrates our joys and successes. It breaks her heart to see her children suffer, physically, emotionally, or spiritually. She makes a small house into a large home with the love of her heart.

Mom didn't grow up Catholic, but I've always thought that she imitated my spiritual mother pretty well. I've known the Blessed Mother Mary for a long time, and the older I get the more I need her. (I feel the same about my earthly mother.) Mother Mary is the epitome of Christian motherhood. There is no greater pain and joy than being a mother. Mary sacrificed so very much. She gave to her Son and all of her children in the Church her life in His service. She put her self aside for Christ. She took on a life of great suffering and greater sacrifice. She had to surrender Him to a torturous death. The heartache and grief was so much. And yet it was never about her. It was about her Son. And now it is about all of her children joining her in Heaven. She never focuses on herself, but always points to Jesus.


We ALL have a mother. There is no shame, exclusion, judgement, or disappointment in that. Some grieve the loss of their mother, some hold on to the pain of having a mother who didn't answer the call so well. Many of us desire to be mothers. But let's just for today not think of ourselves, and really honor the ones that have always put themselves last.

This is about you, Mom.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus."

Paying It Forward: The Bus Tale Part Deux

Most people call Christmas the time for miracles, and we've come to somewhat expect the romantic Christmas miracle under the Christmas Tree. It is appropriate as it is the time that our God came down to us as one of us to experience human life and redeem us so we could be with Him forever. Definitely the time for the miraculous. But the Easter Season is a time of miracles, too. There is no greater miracle than His Resurrection. After triumphing over death and raising Himself-- HIMSELF!, all by HIMSELF! (Think about that for a minute.)-- after triumphing over the grave there really is no need for more. It is finished, as He said.

Still, He doesn't stop there. The Almighty generously gives us Himself, His victory, and His glory. Easter is ripe for miracles. The Earth is in bloom. Life is bursting out all over. Healthy babies are being born to parents who've experienced the heartbreaking loss of another child to a birth defect. Hearts are being transplanted, literally and figuratively. Friends who've dreamed for decades of finding the love of a lifetime are falling in love. A cancerous tumor shrinks despite the doctor's prognosis. A husband and wife separated by an entire globe are being reunited just in time for the birth of their first child. And these are just the miracles that I see on my Facebook feed.

Jesus Christ walks among us this Easter and His fingerprints are all over this world, but do we see Him?

It took me all day to see Him today. I was only halfway looking, and that's my problem. Like the two disciples on the road to Emmaus, I thought I was focused on Him. I began my day with my customary rosary while on the bus to work. I put a smile on my face and greeted all I met with hospitality. I had patience and put others before myself. But I didn't recognize Him throughout my day.

Then God broke through. It wasn't as earth shattering as the miracles I listed above but it profoundly touched me. He spoke clearly to me, and I am glad I listened.

I caught the first bus on the way home from work. After the trouble I had last Friday catching the right bus, I worked extra hard at making sure I left work right at 5:00. It's one block to my bus stop and in between is the Walgreen's store that I needed to stop in to get change for my ten dollar bill. I didn't think I would make the 5:09 bus and knew I needed the 5:20, since that was now the last one of the day. But the lights worked with me, and I made the first bus.

Looking back on it, just like last Friday, I was on the right bus all along. It was all God's doing. A woman boarded after me, and proceeded to discuss with the driver the destination. Despite having obvious misgivings, she took a seat a few rows back with another of one of the women that I often ride with. The two of them carried on a amicable conversation. Misty was good at distracting the woman from her worry about whether she was on the right bus.

That's when I knew Jesus was there. My heart was burning, just like it says in the Road to Emmaus scripture (LK 24:13-35). God had provided me with the perfect opportunity to pay it forward. (See my last blog post.) I knew the opportunity would come and I had pledged to myself and God that I would not forget to do something worthy of the kind deed that was done for me. I did not want to become lazy, careless, or selfish after that amazing day. But I did not expect it to be so perfectly lined up.

I had said I would pay it forward, but I imagined that I would have to be creative about how. Oh me of little faith. God provides EVERYTHING, even the opportunities perfect to serve Him.

At the end of the bus ride the woman gathered her things and opened her wallet. I heard her tell Misty that she would just call a cab to take her the rest of the way, as she had in fact gotten on the wrong bus. That was my cue. My heart jumped a bit as I spoke up, knowing half the bus would overhear, "Would you please allow me to take you to your car?"

Startled, she looked at me for the first time, having no clue that God had been nudging me the entire trip to speak to her. She was going to protest.

"Please. This happened to me last week, and a woman offered me a ride. I would be honored to do the same."

Dee accepted and we made our way to my car. I apologized for it being so cluttered, but she said with a joyful smile, "It has four more wheels than I have at the moment."

Dee expressed that she hoped she was not taking me out of the way. She was, but I didn't tell her. I took joy in that. It wasn't an inconvenience, but a pleasure to share the ride with her. She tried to give me the money that she would have paid for the cab. "Oh no! I won't take that. That would ruin the whole thing."

And then I told her how I had promised Maria that I would pay it forward and that the reason that I didn't give Maria money for the ride was because I wanted her to know the joy of selfless giving. That joy that God was giving me again.

"I believe in God-incidences, not coincidences,"she said. I smiled at her and fingered one of the rosaries swinging from my rear-view mirror. Without saying so we both knew that God wanted us to be in that moment. He was there with us, and it was quite miraculous.

"What if God was one of us?...Just a stranger on the bus trying to make His way home.... Yeah, yeah. Good is great. Yeah, yeah. God is good." - Joan Osborne "One of Us"

Milkin' It For All It's Worth

It ended with spilt milk.

It was so fitting.

A reminder that I need not cry over trials of any day. The Lord does provide in all situations blessings, angels, opportunities, and occasions of joy are all over the place today, in the midst of challenges. Truly Jesus Christ is Victor and King of All.

My day began with good signs. I arrived at my bus stop a bit earlier than usual. (I park at a Park N Ride, and take a bus to and from work each day.) I was able to complete my morning rosary on the bus, which is my normal practice, but I don't always get to finish it. Since I get motion sickness, I don't read or hardly look at my phone while on the bus. The weather was beautiful and I slid into my chair at the front desk well before opening the doors at 8:00.

Then the work began to become, well, work. A few people downline on my work flow have been behind in their work, and no amount of nagging, sweet talking, or threats from me and my supervisor have amounted to change in the situation. For the most part, none of it is my fault and I can't control it. I just keep asking for their work and then completing my end as quickly as I can. I think God is using the situation to sharpen my patience skills, and showing me that I can't control others.

With the delinquent work and a co-worker who had to leave early, I felt the tension in my head and shoulders increase as the afternoon whittled away. The closer it came to closing time, the more anxious I became. I wanted to resolve things as much as I could before I left work.

Five o'clock came and things felt unfinished. Normally I leave right at quitting time. I learned from previous jobs that the habit of staying and working off the clock can be destructive. I don't like to do this in my current job, and they don't expect or want me to. But I don't like loose ends.

It was my choice, and one I made deliberately, to stay for fifteen minutes to cross my t's and dot my i's. By the time I got back to my desk it was 5:03. If I don't leave by 5:02, I miss the 5:08 bus. So if I left at 5:15, I figured I might make the 5:19 bus. That would be cutting it close, but then there was another bus, the last one, that came at 5:38.

Sure enough, I didn't get the 5:19. No worries. I could wait among the others at the bus stop and watch the baseball fans head to the game. I would decompress from the stress of the day and enjoy the spring weather.

5:38 came and went. Perhaps the bus just hit bad traffic. That happens quite a bit around here. At 5:45 I was thinking perhaps I had become distracted and it had sailed on by without my notice, when I saw it down the street, turning the corner and heading my way. Super! I boarded the bus, commenting to the bus driver, "I thought I had missed you."

The bus ride was enjoyable and smooth enough that I was able to catch up with a dear friend. Pathfinder and I had not chatted as much in a very long time. Both of us dreamed of a time when our common, far-flung, Facebook friends would all come together for a camping trip. We vowed to make it happen. This whole exchange pleased me greatly and seemed to wipe away the all of the vestiges of the work day. Truly Pathfinder and I were put into each other's lives by God for many reasons, and I have no doubt that one of them was to be joy for each other today, in that moment.

I relaxed into the rest of the trip, daydreaming behind closed eyes of tents, campfires, roasted marshmallows, starry nights, and the best people in the world. It was a shadow of the escape that he and I yearned for. One day.

Then the announcement came for the next stop. Wait a minute! That's not one of the stops on my route. Did they change the route without notifying me? When the bus driver pulled to the stop and all the other riders rose to exit, I asked where he was going next.

Into town from whence we just came. Oh pooh. Not good.

"I thought you were going to my stop. Well, I'll get off here." I was familiar with the area, as I had once worked there, so I could grab dinner at a local restaurant and call someone to help me get home.

What had happened? Evidently I had misread the bus route posted, and the 5:38 to my park n ride no longer runs. When did this change happen? I don't know. No one told me.

I suppose I was still riding the high of the daydreamed camping trip and my chat with Pathfinder. I wasn't too worried about how I was getting home. Nor was I upset at the bus company or myself. Life's great adventures happen this way.

Once I was off the bus, a woman, who had exited before me and must have heard me say I had been hoping for the other stop, asked, "Do you want a ride to your stop?"

To be frank, I'm not a stupid woman. I know that there are predators out there. I know that not everyone is good. I know that bad things happen to good people. In general it is not good to accept rides from strangers. I did not know this woman, had not seen her before.

I also know, believe with all my being, that we have to take risks, reasonable risks. In fact, it was just yesterday that I told a new friend who will probably be taking a job in my part of the world, that when we take reasonable, moral risks God blesses us. She's taking the risk to move to a new part of the US, and God is clearing the path for her with a job opportunity that surpasses what she was looking for. God loves to lavish us, but it only happens when we are open to it.

So when this woman asked me, "Do you want a ride to your stop?" I did think for a moment that it was foolhardy to get in a car with a stranger. (I grew up on the children's book "Never Talk With Stangers.") That moment passed. It was a reasonable risk. We were familiar riders on the busses. We both worked downtown. We were both female, and about the same age. She was taking the same risk in offering that I would be taking in accepting. If I listened to the advice of that book my whole adult life, I would be missing out on some of the grandest opportunities, adventures, and people.

"Are you sure? Are you going that way?"

"I can. It's not far at all, and I can go to the store after I drop you off."

So I accepted. Please and thank you.

I climbed into her SUV for many reasons. I needed a ride. I was happy to not have to bother a friend or family member to pick me up. Also I wanted to give her the chance to be an angel for me.

During our ride, Maria and I exchanged first names, where we worked, and both commented on how you can't do what we were doing just anywhere in the US. Not in Miami, where she is originally from. But you can here.

Our ride was short. It only takes about five minutes to go the few miles between that stop and mine. In the back of my mind, I tried to figure out what I could do for her as payment for the kind thing she had done. I could give her a few dollars, but I found that idea repulsive. She wasn't using up that much gas, and the act of trust and friendly offer meant more than a few dollars. I promised her that I would pay forward the act of kindness in some way. That idea seemed to please her, as she said, "I wish more people would do that-- pay it forward."

After many thank yous, I got in my car and went the short distance home. I prayed that God would bless Maria abundantly, not just spiritually either, for her great faith. I took my bags into the apartment building, retrieved my mail, and settled in at home. I got dinner started by warming up some leftovers. I was mulling over these events, asking God what more He wanted me to know from the day's events.

I concluded that the best gift I could have given Maria was certainly not money, and not even the idea that I would pay the kindness forward. The best gift was the opportunity for her to do something Christ-like, something Christian. I know from the times that I have been given the opportunity to be an angel for someone, to help them out in some manner in their hour of need, I have felt blessed by that. It brings me joy to think that the fruit of Maria's kindness is the same experience of joy I have had. I hope that Maria finds that thank you gift to be the best one I could give her. What greater joy is there than the knowledge that you have been Christ for another? There is no superior honor.

I also concluded that I had not missed my bus at all.

As I was musing over this marvel of how the Holy Spirit moves in my life, I went about setting my dinner on the table and arranging my laptop so I could write this blog. I opened my almost empty half-gallon of milk and smelled it. It was the only dinner drink I had besides water and wine. The expiration date was April 25. Four days past. Surely it must stink, Lord! It might be sour, but one can't always go by smell on that, so I poured a bit. A tentative taste indicated it was perfectly fine. I poured the rest and set the big mug on the table. Just a few more things to set up.

And wouldn't you know it? In my excitement to be writing about these revelations of the day, I knocked over the whole mug of milk. I stared at the floor as my already matted carpet soaked up the spill. Then I laughed with joy.

There was no reason to cry over the spilt milk.

There was wine. Happy Easter!

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms.”― Henry David Thoreau, Walden: Or, Life in the Woods

Wherein A Blocked Writer Gets Unstuck

I visited My Shelf tonight. It's a sort of sacred shrine for my writer's soul. On this trip My Shelf was the second one from the bottom, on the back wall to the left, near the corner of Joseph-Beth. Tonight My Spot was right between Franklin and Fennely, and Franzen. I needed to gaze at the spot. Not just gaze though. I needed to stared deep into that space between the two books, to bore a hole into it. I visualized the spine-- the color, the script, the height and breadth-- of the object that belongs there, snug up against The Tilting World and The Corrections. Some days it is easy to see it there, and it isn't difficult to get it to slide right in, as if the other two scoot aside for it. Other days,while trying to mentally wedge it in, I wonder if there is such a thing as a creative shoe horn out there.

For the same reason I visited My Shelf, I sought inspiration several shelves away. I'm trying to get my creative juices flowing, and often certain writers help. Pulling down one of their books is like hooking up the literary jumper cables. No copies of L'Engle. For shame! My heart sank again at the realization that her pen has run out of ink. No copies of Mockingbird? Really? Heresy! Oh, the horrific irony of that! The famed Mockingjay owes so much to the Mockingbird! Without Harper Lee what is Suzanne Collins? Perhaps Scout and Katniss are sisters from different authors. Whatcha gonna do with that, Jasper Fforde?

 If not Lee, then perhaps W.P. Kinsella might inspire me anew. I'd heard that he had published a more recent book I had not read yet. The fact that it had been fifteen years since the last time he waxed whimsical about baseball encourages me. Not that he or I need to drag things out. We both have great tales to tell with beautiful language, so we need to start churning out more words on the page. And I've been greatly stuck, somewhat like my favorite silly ol' Bear. "A Wedged Bear In A Great Tightness." The problem is that I am the writer and do not have the privilege of being read to as Pooh Bear did. But, oh, to have written that book! A.A. Milne, I have not appreciated YOU enough. Certainly, I have loved your Edward Bear, but not you enough. I will now remember to consider you the writer you were.

(Can I have any more literary tangents in this post? But I must pause to comment: How interesting it is that I can greatly admire and love a creation but forget the creator of it. Shame on me! I must remember the creators of greatness, and beware of not forgetting The Creator. I shall not put Him on a shelf, like a shell dis-inhabited, which brings me to Thomas Browne and back to L'Engle. If you can follow my literary references, kudos to you!)

So why W. P Kinsella? I love baseball. There is something so mythic, pure, and American about it, even when it isn't. Baseball fans know what I mean. Even when baseball reality is full of scandal, tragedy, disillusionment, and dishonesty there is still that core that is mythic, pure and American between the foul lines that go on into infinity. Even if it is played in Japan or Latin America, which is why I am excited to read Kinsella's new book. Unlike his previous baseball yarns, it does not take place in Iowa. (Iowa happens to be the land of my birth-- another reason I love his writing.) Kinsella captures the mythic quality of baseball and life. He writes fluidly with hope and passion, always tying my heart onto the string of his words.

I visited that new book, A Butterfly Winter, a bit tonight. I was so very tempted to buy it, but I am delaying my purchase of it. My purpose in visiting those shelves was not to buy more of someone else's books. It was to be inspired to finish writing my own so that it can take it's rightful place between The Tilting World and The Corrections.