Every time I think I have it all figured out, I get to have a big old humble pie smashed in my face. Then it's back to humility again.
The past week I started bickering with my husband again, and naturally I blamed him. If he would just do everything I told him to do, we'd all be happy! Well, what does Kirk say to do? What do I keep saying I have to do? Control myself, and only myself. But wasn't I already doing that? Wasn't I already doing my very best? It was time to walk a mile in his shoes.
1. I pretended that I didn't have it all figured out, but I was living with someone who was certain he did. I pretended he had read and listened to advice that wasn't mine. I pretended he was constantly trying to teach me. I bristled at the constant better-than-you attitude, I rolled my eyes when he cheerfully reminded me of all his newly acquired wisdom. Even if it were right, there would be times, when I was sick to death of humbly accepting his direction. I wanted to be treated as an equal with ideas and wisdom equally valuable. And then, I knew what I must do.
2. I apologized: I admitted my wrongs, I apologized for my weaknesses, and I let him know that I could see it from his point of view. He was absolutely right. I could use some more growth, and some more practice in humbly setting an example rather than bossing him around.
3. I thanked him: It never hurts to thank someone, even if you feel awkward or silly saying it. I remember getting embarrassed to say thank you. I would turn red and fight the desire to make a joke and hide my true feelings. I used to use this baby voice, or sarcasm to ease tension, because I just didn't have practice being 100% honest. Starting with thanking others, genuinely, and telling them the whole truth of how much they've blessed you is a wonderful, fulfilling way to start. Take it from me, it gets easier each time.
4. I recommitted myself. Humbling one's self gets easier each time as well, which is the beauty of celebrating "progress, not perfection." Letting go of the need to control also gets easier with practice. I had slipped, without realizing it, into a habit of trying to verbally "teach," which came across as "force," my husband to be calm and not controlling. He had been doing great, but the more I tried to "teach" him, the further he backed away from my advice. So once again, I got to have a great lesson in personal relationships. A very valuable lesson I would not have received had I been single and simply been able to walk away.
5. Recognize that his desires are just as important as my own. Do all bloggers have messy houses? There are some days, some weeks, when all I can seem to force my right-brain to do, besides providing basic needs to the kids, is sing, write, read powerful books, have deep conversations with my sisters on the phone, research subjects I feel strongly about, and open my mind to wonderous possibilities in this great, magical world. These things do not a tidy home create. My left-brain husband, who is easily overwhelmed, who thrives on order and structure in all things, and is able to find order within himself when it exists on the outside, needs me to find a way to feed my soul while keeping up with things. There is a way, I've done it before. If I'm working hard and doing my best, he pitches in. He just doesn't want to be doing it all. I get that.
The Reward:
My husband thanked me. He cleaned the house. He expressed more patience and willingness to help and support me, and he was extra patient with the kids. He didn't complain when I invited my sister and her three young kids to come stay with us, and the glow in his face along with the extra long hugs and extra soft kisses-warmed me down to my ankles and brought a little sunshine into our cozy home. He wasn't perfect, and when I found myself starting to nag again, he pointed out that I was doing it again. After my initial defenseiveness, once again it was humble pie time. I reset my control barometer back to myself. I have a feeling I never will perfect this. Still, each piece of pie goes down easier, and comes more quickly, and that is the best we can expect!
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Monday, August 03, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Some Perspective Each Day Keeps the Darkness Away
Courage
There is a part of me that is wild. It wants to lash out at all meanness and fight with fury all injustices. This part of me is a flame that consumes, and when I fuel it, it burns me more than anyone else.
This was made clear to me several years ago when I was praying earnestly, sobbing on my knees because I'd seen the light in my children's eyes, that sparkle they were born with, go out. It broke my heart. What was worse, my own sparkle seemed to be gone. I had no joy left in my life, and the joy in my children that I knew I should be experiencing, was completely out of my reach.
I prayed: "I have seen other women who have children who are happy, confident, and their children are well cared for; they have clean homes, and they may not be perfect, but they have a light in their eyes and a cheerfulness that I don't have. Why not me?? Why can't I have that too?? Why not my children? Why can't they be like other children who laugh and are happy? Why are my children pale and sickly looking, timid and sad? Please.." I pleaded and begged, "I will make any change, I will do anything, I will leave my husband if that's what it takes. I will give my children up for adoption if that's what it takes. I will do whatever you tell me to do to be happy and to secure the happiness of my children. What should I do???" I opened my heart completely to feel the answer. Slowly, and softly, a warm wash of love came rushing over me, starting with the top of my head and running down, like a glass of warm water that penetrated deep into my soul and body. This was not the first time I had felt God's love, but each time it is magnificent.
I fell into a sort of trance, half asleep, half awake, and in my mind, I saw myself and my interactions with my children and Kevin. I saw all of the hurt I'd caused them, and felt the exact pain they felt each time I lost my temper, spoke sharply, criticized without love, or pulled away emotionally from them. I realized how immature I'd been, and how I, not my husband, had caused the light in their eyes to go out, and I, and no one else, was responsible for my own loss of happiness. I was flooded with guilt and self loathing. I thought my heart would come flying out of my face, I cried so hard. As I begged for forgiveness and asked for help to be a better person, all the pain and guilt was replaced, in one full-bodied spiritual hug, with overwhelming love and resolve. My tears changed instantly from pain to joy. Only the keenest, most infinite anguish can result in true, life-altering change. This is what I experienced, and it was magnificent.
I spent the next few years undergoing gradual change, and finally, as a massive surge toward the direction I was seeking to go, I found Celebrate Calm, which has given me extra guidence, more resolve, and opened my eyes even more to truth that was right in front of me the entire time! My own religion was teaching me all along what I should do, but I wasn't listening! I wasn't turning my thoughts inward and applying what I heard to my own actions in the home. I had to learn to trust God enough to do what he said, ALWAYS.
Once I began to do it, the peace in my heart became palpable. With Christ's help I finally found the way to change the nature of the flame that was consuming me, and turn it into a beam of light-of hope and love.
How does a person change? I begged forgiveness, asked for help, was accountable to my family for my actions. Believing that Christ is real, and that HE has the power to change my heart and make even me, a sinner and a destroyer of the spark of hope and joy, a better person, I strive toward strength, maturity, humility, and calm. Basically, I am now ready to grow up!
As C.S. Lewis once said, "Of all the miracles Christ performed...and still performs today, none has been so miraculous to me as the one he performed in my own heart."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Some people mistakenly think that responses such as silence, meekness, forgiveness, and bearing humble testimony are passive or weak. But to "love [our] enemies, bless them that curse [us], do good to them that hate [us], and pray for them which despitefully use [us], and persecute [us]" (Matthew 5:44) takes faith, strength, and, most of all,...courage."
"When we do not retaliate-when we turn the other cheek and resist feelings of anger-we too stand with the Savior. We show forth His love, which is the only power that can subdue the adversary and answer our accusers without accusing them in return. That is not weakness. That is...courage."
"To be meek, as defined in the Webster's dictionary is "manifesting patience and longsuffering: enduring injury without resentment." Meekness is not weakness. It is a badge of...courage."
"This is not to suggest that we compromise our principles or dilute our beliefs...We should never confuse boldness with Satan's counterfeit: overbearance...As true disciples, our primary concern must be others' welfare, not personal vindication."
To be truly happy, we must be without guile. "To be guileless is to have a childlike innocence, to be slow to take offense and quick to forgive. These qualities are first learned in the home and family and can be practiced in all our relationships. To be guileless is to look for our own fault first. When accused, we should ask as the Savior's Apostles did, "Lord, is it I?" (Matthew 26:22)
"To help [those who hurt or challenge us,] to be an example for them, is not for the weak. It is for the strong. It is for you and me."
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Writer's Block Unblocked
Writing takes exercise, like little childhood legs that appear small and weak, but have great strength beneath the surface, from hours and hours of use.
When I was young I could write for hours on any subject. I was full of wonder about the smallest details of life.
For instance: Hurricane Hugo came through my town back in the 90s. I couldn't have been more than 10. I remember walking through my neighborhood, contemplating the destruction. Tree after mighty tree lay across the road, debris had exploded everywhere. The day before the hurricane, I'd gone to my secret place-my retreat from the world. A church that housed a swing set in the yard. If I sat in one particular swing and looked very closely at the ground, I could see tiny, white wild flowers hiding in the shadows of the grass. I had watched the bees busily working, buzzing from blossom to blossom, and admired their tenacity; after all, a hurricane was coming. I expected those flowers to have been thrashed, just as the trees I'd seen groaning and swaying, then finally giving in to the power of the wind the night before.
I climbed the long hill that led to the church where my favorite swing set sat, my thin yet strong legs accustomed to the steep climb. I began to quicken my stride as I neared the place, hoping there was at least something of those flowers left. One flower I was particularly worried about; a flower that, the day before, had only three petals hanging on by thin strands. I felt protective of my little friend. Who else would appreciate her simple, fragile beauty? I was certain she had been destroyed. I didn’t know why, but I grieved inwardly.
I retreated to my spot at the crest of my thoughtful hill, and marveled at the difference in scenery from the day before. I slumped on my favorite swing, listened to the wail of fire engines, and watched the bruised land with broken limbs and the adults trying to splint them. I took a break from the complicated world of grown-ups, and trained my eyes to look closely at the grass once again. There, in the shadows of rain-bent grass, standing as straight and small as ever, was my weakling little flower. All three petals still hung firmly to their staff. I imagined those ripping, watery winds of the night before, and all the grand structures they’d destroyed. Yet this tiny flower, too small even to be noticed from afar—the smallest of all, bending and whipping through the wind, those little petals deceivingly delicate, proved themselves mightier than the 40-foot oak trees laying on their sides.
A voice spoke to me: "That flower is you. You are small, but your tiny strength will someday shame the grandest trees." A seed was planted. As years went by, I did not seek the approval of the world. I didn’t try to show off and become a great tree because that was not me. Gradually, my spirit would flex and firm, ever so quietly, and no one would see it, perhaps not even me, until a hurricane tested that strength.
I remember this event with clarity because I wrote about it with detail in one of my many childhood journals. Today, I have children and a husband to distract me, and it is easier sometimes, to simply survive, and not write, not marvel, not wonder. I went several years without writing. I looked around at my life recently, and it seemed dull and uninspired. It had begun to lack beauty, and I had begun to dry up, whither, and die inside.
And so I decided I must write, because the richness of my life depends on it. But after sitting in the attic of my mind for so long, the muse was stiff and dusty. All the childish wonder and excitement for the little things seemed to turn to sand in my fist. I looked at my distractions. My crying baby, my complex children, my needy husband; the very people I cared for-were they at fault for this? I looked at the laundry and dishes, the floor that needed mopping, and the rugs that needed vacuuming, and I rebelled in my heart. These were ugly to me. I wanted beauty! I wanted meaning! I wanted innocent wonder! I wanted ... my childhood back?
This last thought nearly made me laugh out loud! I wouldn't go back to my childhood for anything! Along with all that wonder was confusion, fear, inhibitions, and powerless frustration. How much had I learned since then? How much had I grown? My muse may have been dusty from years sitting in the attic, but that attic was busily collecting things just waiting to be cleaned up and polished. I gazed into my innocent children's deep and exploring eyes, and realized that there was poetry looking in as well as looking out. I looked at my husband's beautiful glow as he watched our children, and saw a portrait of true art, living, breathing art, that would someday be forgotten if I didn't record it. Even my home and its laundry and dishes seemed to cry out to me, "Make me beautiful! Make me your canvas! I am the backdrop to your portrait of life!"
Now I write, with my bed stand filled with page upon page, of mostly fluff and nonsense. But every now and then, I find a truth I hadn't before, or discover the ability to step back and wonder when I might have otherwise just trudged on. My English teacher Mrs. Yosafat used to tell me, "A true writer writes, not because he loves to or wants to, but because he has to--for to not write would be to die." I experienced this death. Now, by the grace of God, I carefully tend a freshly tilled garden of talent, full of the chance for rebirth.
When I was young I could write for hours on any subject. I was full of wonder about the smallest details of life.
For instance: Hurricane Hugo came through my town back in the 90s. I couldn't have been more than 10. I remember walking through my neighborhood, contemplating the destruction. Tree after mighty tree lay across the road, debris had exploded everywhere. The day before the hurricane, I'd gone to my secret place-my retreat from the world. A church that housed a swing set in the yard. If I sat in one particular swing and looked very closely at the ground, I could see tiny, white wild flowers hiding in the shadows of the grass. I had watched the bees busily working, buzzing from blossom to blossom, and admired their tenacity; after all, a hurricane was coming. I expected those flowers to have been thrashed, just as the trees I'd seen groaning and swaying, then finally giving in to the power of the wind the night before.
I climbed the long hill that led to the church where my favorite swing set sat, my thin yet strong legs accustomed to the steep climb. I began to quicken my stride as I neared the place, hoping there was at least something of those flowers left. One flower I was particularly worried about; a flower that, the day before, had only three petals hanging on by thin strands. I felt protective of my little friend. Who else would appreciate her simple, fragile beauty? I was certain she had been destroyed. I didn’t know why, but I grieved inwardly.
I retreated to my spot at the crest of my thoughtful hill, and marveled at the difference in scenery from the day before. I slumped on my favorite swing, listened to the wail of fire engines, and watched the bruised land with broken limbs and the adults trying to splint them. I took a break from the complicated world of grown-ups, and trained my eyes to look closely at the grass once again. There, in the shadows of rain-bent grass, standing as straight and small as ever, was my weakling little flower. All three petals still hung firmly to their staff. I imagined those ripping, watery winds of the night before, and all the grand structures they’d destroyed. Yet this tiny flower, too small even to be noticed from afar—the smallest of all, bending and whipping through the wind, those little petals deceivingly delicate, proved themselves mightier than the 40-foot oak trees laying on their sides.
A voice spoke to me: "That flower is you. You are small, but your tiny strength will someday shame the grandest trees." A seed was planted. As years went by, I did not seek the approval of the world. I didn’t try to show off and become a great tree because that was not me. Gradually, my spirit would flex and firm, ever so quietly, and no one would see it, perhaps not even me, until a hurricane tested that strength.
I remember this event with clarity because I wrote about it with detail in one of my many childhood journals. Today, I have children and a husband to distract me, and it is easier sometimes, to simply survive, and not write, not marvel, not wonder. I went several years without writing. I looked around at my life recently, and it seemed dull and uninspired. It had begun to lack beauty, and I had begun to dry up, whither, and die inside.
And so I decided I must write, because the richness of my life depends on it. But after sitting in the attic of my mind for so long, the muse was stiff and dusty. All the childish wonder and excitement for the little things seemed to turn to sand in my fist. I looked at my distractions. My crying baby, my complex children, my needy husband; the very people I cared for-were they at fault for this? I looked at the laundry and dishes, the floor that needed mopping, and the rugs that needed vacuuming, and I rebelled in my heart. These were ugly to me. I wanted beauty! I wanted meaning! I wanted innocent wonder! I wanted ... my childhood back?
This last thought nearly made me laugh out loud! I wouldn't go back to my childhood for anything! Along with all that wonder was confusion, fear, inhibitions, and powerless frustration. How much had I learned since then? How much had I grown? My muse may have been dusty from years sitting in the attic, but that attic was busily collecting things just waiting to be cleaned up and polished. I gazed into my innocent children's deep and exploring eyes, and realized that there was poetry looking in as well as looking out. I looked at my husband's beautiful glow as he watched our children, and saw a portrait of true art, living, breathing art, that would someday be forgotten if I didn't record it. Even my home and its laundry and dishes seemed to cry out to me, "Make me beautiful! Make me your canvas! I am the backdrop to your portrait of life!"
Now I write, with my bed stand filled with page upon page, of mostly fluff and nonsense. But every now and then, I find a truth I hadn't before, or discover the ability to step back and wonder when I might have otherwise just trudged on. My English teacher Mrs. Yosafat used to tell me, "A true writer writes, not because he loves to or wants to, but because he has to--for to not write would be to die." I experienced this death. Now, by the grace of God, I carefully tend a freshly tilled garden of talent, full of the chance for rebirth.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Bad Advice
I am a people pleaser by nature. I am learning that the more one tries to please others, the less others are pleased, and all you have to show for their disdain is emptiness. So it is with advice giving and taking. I have so often allowed mysef to be pushed around from one idea of thought to another, and allowed others to convince me to do all sorts of things, because I just wanted them to be happy with me.
In short, I am wealthly with experience in taking and experimenting with BAD ADVICE! If you want to wade through bad advice you've taken, please feel free to join in! I hope I can save someone from taking the same advice iI did.
Take this afternoon for example. I tried to eat a hotdog. I pulled one out and heated it up. My daughter insisted on having it. Even though I knew she'd had breakfast and mid-morning snack already. I gave it to her and pulled out another one. The baby squalled until I gave it to him. Then I pulled out a third one, and Peter insisted on having it. After that, I had to peel the baby's hotdog, cut up the kids' hotdogs, and get them ketchup. (One of the few High Fructose Corn Syrup foods we still keep in the house.) By the time I finished helping them, I'd lost my appetite, and guess what? Not one of them was actually hungry. None of them ate their hotdogs. If I had denied my daughter when she'd first asked, the whole pointess ordeal would have been avoided, and I would have been full and satisfied. She would've been a tad disappointed, but would have gotten over it. The children spent the rest of the morning asking for things every few minutes until finally I said NO. It was like a test to see how many times they could get me to jump. A test that I failed early on today.
BAD ADVICE
One bit that I was desperate enough to follow for a little while: "Hit your kids. No, don't beat them, but slap the hand that offends, the mouth that offends, etc." Bad, Bad advice. If you want your kids hitting you, their siblings, grandparents, friends, go ahead. It only took a few days for me to see that one blow up in my face, and weeks to repair it.
The BEST advice: Listen to your heart!
There were precious few times in my life that I refused to listen to anyone. Each time I was glad. The advice: "Get an Epidural" was one of those. I didn't make a big deal about it, but I just turned inward instead of listening to others. "Go back to work so you'll be happier and feel more like your own person." I didn't do that either, and I know it would only have stressed me out more, and let me hide from problems that needed addressing in my family.
Wrong Advice: "You can only get pregnant 2 days out of the month." WRONG WRONG WRONG!! We have three children that prove otherwise!! I will leave it at that.
Bad Advice: "Let your house go after you have a baby. Don't do anything but nurse the baby and yourself back to health." The time I followed that one I suffered from the worst post-partum depression I ever had! I couldn't get caught up with the housework, and I kept sinking deeper into despair. I never really did get caught up until I weaned Peter at 16 months!
Dangerously Bad Advice: "Get ANGRY!! Don't let yourself get pushed around by being docile and quiet. Get mad, stomp your feet,; assert yourself by being scary!" Wrong. Calm is assertive, getting angry IS getting pushed around. Following this advice hurt me and everyone I love, especially my little ones.
Dumb Advice that is very tempting: "Every time your husband spends money, you should too! It's not fair that he gets to have all the fun. Just use the credit card, and let HIM figure out how to pay it." Doesn't that sound good to us SAHMs? It's so annoying when our husbands go and spend our money on themselves, but debt will just make things worse.
Advice that just makes more probems: "Sleep when the baby sleeps." Especially when you have other children, get ready for crayons and permanent marker all over EVERYTHING, and to live in filth. That is exactly what that advice leads to.
.
In short, I am wealthly with experience in taking and experimenting with BAD ADVICE! If you want to wade through bad advice you've taken, please feel free to join in! I hope I can save someone from taking the same advice iI did.
Take this afternoon for example. I tried to eat a hotdog. I pulled one out and heated it up. My daughter insisted on having it. Even though I knew she'd had breakfast and mid-morning snack already. I gave it to her and pulled out another one. The baby squalled until I gave it to him. Then I pulled out a third one, and Peter insisted on having it. After that, I had to peel the baby's hotdog, cut up the kids' hotdogs, and get them ketchup. (One of the few High Fructose Corn Syrup foods we still keep in the house.) By the time I finished helping them, I'd lost my appetite, and guess what? Not one of them was actually hungry. None of them ate their hotdogs. If I had denied my daughter when she'd first asked, the whole pointess ordeal would have been avoided, and I would have been full and satisfied. She would've been a tad disappointed, but would have gotten over it. The children spent the rest of the morning asking for things every few minutes until finally I said NO. It was like a test to see how many times they could get me to jump. A test that I failed early on today.
BAD ADVICE
One bit that I was desperate enough to follow for a little while: "Hit your kids. No, don't beat them, but slap the hand that offends, the mouth that offends, etc." Bad, Bad advice. If you want your kids hitting you, their siblings, grandparents, friends, go ahead. It only took a few days for me to see that one blow up in my face, and weeks to repair it.
The BEST advice: Listen to your heart!
There were precious few times in my life that I refused to listen to anyone. Each time I was glad. The advice: "Get an Epidural" was one of those. I didn't make a big deal about it, but I just turned inward instead of listening to others. "Go back to work so you'll be happier and feel more like your own person." I didn't do that either, and I know it would only have stressed me out more, and let me hide from problems that needed addressing in my family.
Wrong Advice: "You can only get pregnant 2 days out of the month." WRONG WRONG WRONG!! We have three children that prove otherwise!! I will leave it at that.
Bad Advice: "Let your house go after you have a baby. Don't do anything but nurse the baby and yourself back to health." The time I followed that one I suffered from the worst post-partum depression I ever had! I couldn't get caught up with the housework, and I kept sinking deeper into despair. I never really did get caught up until I weaned Peter at 16 months!
Dangerously Bad Advice: "Get ANGRY!! Don't let yourself get pushed around by being docile and quiet. Get mad, stomp your feet,; assert yourself by being scary!" Wrong. Calm is assertive, getting angry IS getting pushed around. Following this advice hurt me and everyone I love, especially my little ones.
Dumb Advice that is very tempting: "Every time your husband spends money, you should too! It's not fair that he gets to have all the fun. Just use the credit card, and let HIM figure out how to pay it." Doesn't that sound good to us SAHMs? It's so annoying when our husbands go and spend our money on themselves, but debt will just make things worse.
Advice that just makes more probems: "Sleep when the baby sleeps." Especially when you have other children, get ready for crayons and permanent marker all over EVERYTHING, and to live in filth. That is exactly what that advice leads to.
.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
