Doing It All

Do you ever find yourself muttering or declaring with savagery that there is never enough time?

We rise in the a.m. with high hopes and ambitions, only to lay our heads back down in the p.m. feeling unaccomplished, bedraggled, and a little despondent. Like we will never catch up. Like life is a kite string we stumble toward and chase after, on good days managing to graze with our fingertips and the rest of the time spend trying not to lose our tenuous grip.

Slow down!

Come back!

Wait for me!

Life is an earless animal. It does not hear us when we shout at it. Nor is it a kind stranger sitting in a crowded bus; it will not scoot over and make room for us. It gives us what it gives us. The same amount, everyday, rain or shine. I have realized that I cannot do it all. Maybe you will be surprised to know this came as quite a shock to me. Or maybe not. Maybe it surprised you too at first. I laughed. I said, Oh, no. I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken. You see, I am a multitasker. I do several things at once. It’s like my second job. So really I can do it all. What’s that? I look a bit strung out to you? Dark circles under my eyes? No, no, no, no. I can see how you might think–but no. No. Those are productive circles. Very different. They mean I am fulfilled. Yes, exactly. Fulfilled. Now you understand. Would you like to join me? I’m just going to take a seat here where I can make lunches, check my e-mail, water the lawn, and shave my legs.

cutest-calendars-around

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Kid President

It’s a slow day. I’m not so much writing as I am looking at the clock above my document and wondering if it might be in everyone’s best interest if I close down for the day. Perhaps it’s the weather. Perhaps it’s the hairy black spider I found on my husband’s side of the bed this morning; the little beast scared me half to death before I’d even a chance to sit down for a proper pee. Probably, though, it’s just the weather. I am sensitive like this. I look out my window and see a nimbus laden sky talking some big talk but has yet to deliver. I hope for rain. We had a bit last night, and when I woke up everything was wet and rinsed and even the lawn sparkled in its own way, an aristocratic ambivalence.

The weekend should be lovely. My husband runs his third marathon this year on Sunday. I am astoundingly proud of him. Me, I will avoid running at all cost; even running behind, if I can. It takes a certain sort of masochistic lunacy, albeit a determined lunacy, to tell yourself “Okay, body, we’re going to do this now. Yep, 26.2 miles. Okay, here goes” and then choose not to veer off the path when no one’s looking. I would cheat. I would hail a cab or find the short cut or . . . you know, I probably just wouldn’t sign up in the first place. I love exercising. I go to the gym almost every day, and I find my serenity is waiting for me the moment I slip those earbuds in and wrap my fingers around the cold metal barbell. I go away. I go in. And I go out. But wherever I go, I am always better for having went. I am a happier woman, a better wife, and a funnier friend when I’ve had my daily allotment of endorphins. But there’s this thing. Maybe it’s just me, or maybe other people feel this way. Sometimes I will remember that I am a modest woman and no, you probably won’t ever see me wearing a shirt that bears my midriff or a skirt any higher than the middle of my thighs. So why, I ask myself, why do I push myself to such extremes. And I do – push myself to extremes. I work out like Mozart plays piano. Dun dun dun dun. Dun-dun-dun-DUNNNNN. What I’m saying is, I put much effort into keeping my shape firm and lean, and really the only person seeing it is me. There’s my husband of course, and yes he appreciates it all, but he is not a vain main, you see, and I am not lying when I say that truly he would still think me beautiful even if I had mashed-potato butt. No, really, he would. Scout’s honor. (Not an actual scout, however I abide by the code. Live long and prosper.) So, no, my career isn’t contingent on the number on my tailbone. It’s a 9, just in case you were curious. (I carry my weight below my bum, like little airplane pillows for it to rest on.) ANYWAY, exercise is good, but I could probably scale back some and it would be all right.

Oh dear  . . .

How did we get here? Truly I don’t know. I only meant to say hello, then suddenly my fingers were running amuck. I do actually have something very cool to share with you. Have you met Kid President? Oh, he’s very possibly the most precious boy I’ve never met. And smart. And a great dancer. You’ll see what I mean in a minute.

Enjoy the video, then pass it on to everyone you know. It will make them smile knowing there are people like this in our world.

Happy Weekend, Friends!

Sex Isn’t Sexy

After thinking a little more about it, I’ve decided, yes. I do have more to say on the subject. (If right now you’re scratching the back of your head, please report here: to the previous post.)

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A Treasure of Incomparable Worth: Father

Shoulders and calves. Oily scalp and big teeth. Sense of humor and charisma. Eloquence and fetching smile. Temper. Sweet tooth. Optimism and open mind. Intelligence and sophistication. Impatience and obstinacy. Cynosural wit.

My father gave these things to me. Some I didn’t want. Many I will always be grateful for. All of them make me his daughter.

***

She will start out small. Small hands. Small feet. Small smiles in the thick of sleep. She will not stay that way, however. She will grow. And you must grow with her.

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Kenya Bound

This morning, my best friend is on my mind . . .

She leaves for Kenya in roughly a month and a half, and will be gone for a whole year. I am bursting at the seams with pride. This woman, this impassioned follower of Christ, is giving up every comfort she knows to lay down her will before His, and serve His people among a third-world country. I will also admit now that, selfishly, I don’t want her to leave. I will miss her greatly. While we do not see one another as often as I would like, Amanda is like the extra rich canister of cocoa you keep in the back of your pantry; you don’t drink it every day, but should you be in need of something satisfying and restorative, it’s there waiting for you. I am thrusting my selfish heart to the floor, zip-locking my sadness, and focusing on the Good and Light, both of which are Amanda and God’s call for her life.

Kenya, in itself, is a beautiful country; the people, the landscape, the culture — it’s brimming with life and vitality. There are pockets of this wild and unindustrialized land that are prospering and thriving. The people are healthy. The children are being educated. Lives are being changed for the better. These advancements have much to do with people, missionaires like Amanda, who generously and selflessly give of themselves . . . for free.

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