Rice Lessons

I hate cleaning up rice.

I don't mind making it. I love eating it. I love that my children love to eat it and it fills them up.

But I hate cleaning it up. All those sticky, tiny shreds of starch that you can't sweep because they'll just slime your broom and leave their remains on the floor anyway. Those deceptive granules cleverly camouflaged  in high chair trays and on dining room floors, just waiting for the opportune moment to attach themselves to your bare foot (gaaaaack! what is THAT???) or your sock (something is sticking... socks shouldn't stick...) or your shoe (Oh lovely... now it's collected friends). Yep, rice is just the pits to clean.

And yet today I found myself down on my hands and knees (creak, groan, lower pregnant body to the floor) cleaning rice grains off my kitchen floor. I probably could have avoided the situation if I had just made two trips clearing the table instead of attempting to pull off a balancing act in one trip. But no, haste was my doom.

And so I stood there, looking at the plate that was now upside down on the floor and the large radius of rice and corn that needed cleaning. And I actually asked aloud, "Really? The day is going pretty well, so let's just throw this in?" But I wasn't thinking about just the rice.

I don't know about you, but I hate not being able to accomplish a task quickly. It's probably why rice clean-up is so vexing. But it also applies to spiritual tasks. Yesterday I asked for prayer to be a better parent, and the very next day I expected myself to perform perfectly. Instead, I awoke to find myself human and flawed, just as I was yesterday.

Today I messed up in my parenting. I made the wrong decision. I took the wrong action. It wasn't even born out of a full morning of stress and hassle, it was just my natural reaction. And I became frustrated that I couldn't get everything right immediately.

Yet, down on my hands and knees, cleaning up the rice, I was given a moment of insight instead of shame. (Maybe that's what prayer does, not magically make me a better person.) The thought came to my mind that, instead of my journey as a parent being a quick sweep-it-up job, it's more like rice: it's slow going, you have to pick up each individual grain, and just when you think you got them all, one will probably get stuck to your sock later that day and be all nasty and squishy when you pick it off. But that's just the nature of rice, er, growth. No need to beat myself up. No need to give up and say, "What's the point of cleaning any of it up?" Just pick up the next grain whenever you find it.

My Life as a Loaf of Bread

Have you ever made bread from scratch? I’m talking the get-your-hands-in-there-and-knead-it kind from scratch.

If so, you will understand. If not... perhaps you are not a loaf of bread.

When you start making bread, it’s just water and yeast and a little sugar. That in itself is enough to make your house smell amazing. Simple, sweet, the beginnings of a good thing. Add in whatever else you want for flavor and texture, and then it’s time for flour.

The first cup or two mixes in quickly, turning the liquid into a batter. Then the going gets a little tougher, your mixer might start to complain. And eventually you have a lump of dough that is too firm for a mixer but too sticky to shape.

That’s where I was for a long time.

I’m a sensitive girl. Always have been, hopefully always will be. Sensitivity is a beautiful thing. But extreme sensitivity is not always the best thing long-term.

With the dough in this stage, it smells good, looks good, tastes good... but you can’t really handle it. It’s sticky. It gets all over your hands and requires perpetual flour dusting to make sure it doesn’t stick to your work surface.

I was functional. Looked fine, was even palatable to those around me. But if anyone touched me, pieces of me would come off. I remember feeling like every small hurt was a razor blade. Tender to others, yes. Unsullied by pain, yes. But also unaccustomed to pain to the point of not being sure how to handle it.

Now I’ll be the first to say that it’s better to have a loaf be too sticky and work in a little more flour than to have it dry and dense and a door-stop impersonator. But the point still stands: sticky dough sticks to everything.

Looking back on the last few years, I feel like I’ve gone from that ultra sticky lump of dough to a more manageable lump of dough. I’ve had some flour worked in. Yeah, that requires a few bumps and bruises and getting pushed around a bit. But I feel more workable now. I’m still tender - properly formed dough is soft and pliable and promises to rise into a fluffy loaf of gluten goodness. But I don’t stick to everything. I don’t feel in danger of leaving pieces of me on everyone that comes near.

I’m developing a backbone, but I didn’t replace it with a yardstick.

I can shed water, but that doesn’t mean I never get near water.

I’m soft, but I’m not going to stick to everything.

And that feels like progress.

Keep it Simple (Please)

This is hardly a new rant for me.

I'm sick of all the "sides." All the dissension. All the biting comments. The immovable opinions. The constant barrage of recently-revealed-revelations that are relevant to 100% of the population.

I'm sick of politics: Church politics. Friendship politics. Social media politics.

Seriously, can't we all just grow up a little? Or maybe... maybe we all need to become like children.

Since when did complicating everything become so fashionable? Well, perhaps since eons ago - just check out Paul's reminder to Timothy not to get involved in lengthy debates about genealogies. Whenever I read that I think, "Who would want to spend time talking about that?" And yet it was a badge of knowledge and clout to know such things back in the day; the scholars and "wise" believers of the day were the ones who could banter about the theology involved in genealogies. And before you go thinking, "I'm better than that, I prescribe to the hipster Christian messages which come from everyday people," let me say that I have read and heard many a falsely modest Christian who is oozing his own "humble opinion" from every pore. You don't have to be a rocket scientist, or even a moderately listened-to Christian, to have an ego.

So, getting back on track, what do children understand that we don't?

Maybe it's the lack of understanding that's the key. Every time I get bogged down in frustration, trying to make sense of this idea and that idea, trying to figure out who's right and who's messed up, I end up crying out, "All I want to do is love Jesus!"

Life in a monastery or convent never sounded that bad to me. Just me and Jesus, with none of that complicated world to get in the way. It's probably why He chose to set me on a course involving constant interaction - it grows me in ways seclusion never could. But I have to be careful to keep my compass pointing north: Christ in me, the hope of glory. It's who is inside. And that goes for everyone. (Way to put everyone on the same level, right?)

Jesus said, "Remain in Me." Oh, what a beautiful command. Just remain, that's simple. In only Him, that's simple. Don't misunderstand - by simple I do not mean easy. I only mean simple. It's not complicated.

I am not skilled to understand
What God has willed, what God has planned
I only know at His right hand
Stands One Who is my Savior

My Savior loves
My Savior lives
My Savior's always there for me
My God He was
My God He is
My God He's always gonna be

It's that simple. It's that straightforward.

And every time I realize it, I want to sit down and weep with relief.

Jesus, all for Jesus. It's always been Him. It always will be. Why complicate that?

The Problem with the "You're Perfect" Trend

I recently viewed another video/article about our society’s unfair expectations for women’s bodies. You know the drill - skinny, photoshopped, unblemished, fake. No woman looks like this in real life. Please stop trying to look like them, etc., etc., etc.

There is nothing inherently wrong with this. And yet, I can’t help but think that even in this “you are perfect just the way you are” campaign, we have still missed the point entirely. Because while promoting individuality and the unique shape and design of every woman is a good thing, it isn’t the whole picture.

Perhaps my point is better explained by telling my own story.

I am a small person. Height-wise, weight-wise, etc. This means that my number on the scale has always been below that fabled 125 (seriously, where did that come from?) and my clothes were always the smaller sizes on the rack. In high school, I didn’t think I cared. I had always been that size, I assumed I always would be, and if not, well big deal. In my head I knew weight wasn’t really that important. I rolled my eyes when friends bemoaned their weight. “Why does it matter? Being skinny isn’t everything.”

And then I got pregnant.

I was only 19. I was still young. I was barely married. I wanted to enjoy the way I looked for a while. But the course was set now. Like it or not, exercise or not, eat healthy or not, I was gaining 40 pounds in the next 9 months. And 40 pounds it was (at least). I remember purposely not thinking about it when the scale tipped over 150 at the clinic. Again, some women would mock me for thinking 150 was a high number. But I was always small, remember? And let’s be real, we’re always the perfectionist about our own size, doesn’t matter if that’s knowing you should wear a medium instead of a large or if the tag on the back says 10 instead of 8.

In addition to the weight, I gained the beloved stretch marks. My once perfect belly button was now blue and purple around the edges. My butt didn’t escape either.

And even without the physical marks, having people stop in the grocery store to specifically comment on how large and uncomfortable I looked was embarrassing and awkward.

I was 19 and receiving those comments.

When I delivered my first at 20, I snapped back incredibly. And yes, it felt good to have so many people comment on it. After the aforementioned grocery store comments, having people oo and aa over my again-svelte body was gratifying.

I started working out. I started thinking about what I was eating. I was thin again, but I knew what it was like to not be that size. Instead of taking my weight for granted, I began treating my body to better health. Even though my post-baby size didn’t change much, I felt better.

I was now glad for pregnancy because it had changed my perspective on those people who complained about weight gain, and it changed my motivation from skinny to healthy.

Or so I thought.

Second full-term pregnancy wasn’t a challenge. I was actually smaller than first time around, I anticipated snapping back quickly, no big deal. I knew this was temporary. I wasn’t scared by weight gain the way I had been the first time.

But the second round left me with a herniated belly button. Weird looking and awful feeling. This wasn’t just aesthetic, this was painful.

And somehow taking the weight off a second time was less enjoyable. (Sigh. Here we go again.)

By the age of 23 I had birthed two babies, taken the weight off both times, and was back into my “skinny” clothes again. Still exercising. Still making slow changes to the food I put in my body.

And then I got pregnant again.

Let me amend. I am pregnant again.

And I’m going through the body image question again. Why does this matter to me? Why is it so painful to put away my cute new “skinny me” jeans only 3 months after I bought them? Why is it so depressing to think that after this baby is here and I take the weight off (AGAIN) I will have collectively gained and lost more than my entire body weight in under 5 years?

I’m beginning to realize, it might be because I’m still focused more on my body than I am on what truly matters. May I go so far as to say I am still more focused on myself than on what truly matters.

This is where I find the flaw with the “you’re perfect just the way you are” emerging philosophy: it still focuses only on ourselves. Which is to be expected coming from a secular worldview concerned only with our personal comfort and gratification. I mean really, isn’t that the bottom line? If I feel good about myself just the way I am, then… well… I feel good about myself.

But is that the point?

For myself, I am possibly (finally!) coming to the realization that I should not view my body as perfect just the way it is. Because it’s not. It’s flawed. It’s stretched. It’s scarred. It’s a little broken, a little beat up. And telling myself it’s “perfect” is just a big fat lie that only lasts until I see someone skinnier or buffer or tanner or boob-ier or whatever-er.

Instead, I need to start seeing my body for what it truthfully is: useful.

It’s a temporary loan anyway. It’s not going to last. It’s going to get old. It will develop wrinkles and saggy skin and gray hair regardless of whether I have children. Eventually it will die. Nothing perfect about that. Because perfection isn’t to be gained this side of heaven. My perfect body is waiting for me. Oh, glory, hallelujah, how pregnancy makes me look forward to it!

In the mean time, I might as well make use of it while I have it. I’ve helped bring three eternal souls into existence, and am working on a fourth. I think that’s pretty useful.

I don’t mean to insinuate that women who cannot or do not have children are not useful to God, or that people with physical handicaps are not useful. I am simply coming to grips with my own situation and how I can use my temporary shell to accomplish work for Christ. Each of our bodies is simply a container for our souls, and however we use them to carry out that mission, may we focus more on the reason than the container.

I think C.S. Lewis put it best: “You do not have a soul, you are a soul and you have a body.”

What freedom there is in that revelation. What freedom there is in no longer wasting energy trying to placate my vain nature. What freedom in finding a purpose instead of a patch.

A Penny for Your Heart

Words have become cheap.

I don't mean that words are cheap. They are incredibly powerful and costly. I mean that, in our current age of technology and information overload, words have become cheap. All you have to do is scroll through a news feed to be accosted by the opinion, insight, or musing of everyone you know, everyone you want to know, everyone you think you know, and their closest twelve relatives. It gets to a point where hearing an honest thought has almost become repulsive to me because everyone seems to pass them out without a thought of who they may affect.

And they do affect others. Our casual, off-the-cuff remarks can have a deep and lasting impact, possibly on those we don't even know.

Proverbs states "from the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks." Essentially, we now have multiple platforms on which we can spill our hearts. But have we filtered our hearts? Have we considered what motive caused us to say what we did?

Or, perhaps more importantly, have we considered how vulnerable we make ourselves when we lay bare our words to the general public? That's your heart out there. Are you sure that's where you want it to be?

And so, in adding to the overflow of soul-baring information that has been made so readily accessible, the title for this blog: A Penny for Your Heart.