This is extra funny if you used to wear harem pants.
This blog has been a lot of fun. So much fun, in fact, that I decided to try and give it a more professional look and greater functionality (don’t I sound like I know what I’m talking about?). I moved the blog so it now has a shorter web address, a cute header, and plenty to get your brain and heart going. I’d love to have you come along, so please click on over…
I’m just about ready to move this blog over to a new site. That means I will no longer post here at Love, Laundry, Faith & Family. It should happen early next week (if everything goes according to plan…which it rarely does).
I’d love to have you come by the new space. You can find it at http://tclarson.com . I’m also on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/TCLarsonWrites , amongst other social networks.
If you are a fellow WordPress user and you’ve clicked “follow” you’re the one I’m most concerned about losing as I transition to the new site. Would you consider subscribing via email?
Here’s a little video farewell, and I look forward to seeing you over yonder at the new site.
If you stop by this blog in the next couple weeks, it will probably look a bit different around here.
I’ve been working to make this blog let me boss it around more. Since I don’t know fancy code stuff, I’ve also been trying to find ways to do this without losing my mind. I’ve purchased a domain and right now some software is in the process of being installed (and with that, I’ve exhausted my computer language lexicon).
The address will probably be a bit different.
I’m considering a change to the title.
Don’t panic (I’m talking to myself here).
Overall, it should be pretty painless for you, dear reader. However, I have a couple requests.
Would you please consider subscribing via email?
I’m worried that if you haven’t subscribed with your email address, I will lose the pleasure of your company. If you have the blog delivered to your email, we won’t skip a beat. There’s a little button on the right hand side of this page, and it’s pretty straightforward to subscribe. I won’t flood your inbox — I usually only post twice a week (and lately it’s been less than that).
Have you had a chance to “like” my Facebook page for the blog?
There’s a spot to do it over there ———>
If you could take a second and click the like button, that would be great. I try to put up entertaining videos and other fun stuff from around the web. You can also find other cool people like you, and we can all hold hands and skip down the path of life together.
Thank you!
Thanks for reading and being a part of this collection of random thoughts, victories, failures, experiments and life in general. I hope you’ve found encouragement and a safe place to share. That’s what I’ve found through you!
Peace to you,
TC Larson
I am that mom.
I am the one who emailed the teacher to verify the start time of the event at school…and still showed up thirty minutes late.
I am that mom — the one who didn’t RSVP to the classmate’s birthday party until the morning it was scheduled to happen.
I am the mom who went to register my child for the enrichment class two days after the deadline because I didn’t take time to read the informational letter. I’m also the one who apologized my way in.
I’m that mom, the one who got the phone call from the kindergarten teacher asking if I’d be there soon. It was Mom’s Day, and my daughter was waiting for me. I walked in and all the moms were sitting on the floor, each one with a child next to them or on a lap. All except for my daughter who sat at the foot of the teacher while she read a book to the class. My daughter. Alone.
I’m the mom whose kid had toothpaste down the front of his shirt, the one whose kid wore boots at school all day long because he forgot shoes and I didn’t think to check his backpack. When he got home, his socks were soggy.
I’m that mom — the one who thought she had enough time to get milk and bread from Target. I was still a few minutes from home when I watched my child’s bus come towards me on the road. Again, my daughter. Again, alone.
I’m the mom who had to air out the house because the stove burner was left on for hours. The flame had gone out, but the knob was still set on simmer, natural gas seeping into the kitchen, out to the dining room and down the hallway.
This all happened last week.
I’m that mom, and I know it.
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Have you seen me? You know you have. You know there’s someone like me, someone who is that mom to you.
That one mom who always seems to come charging in late, disheveled, discombobulated.
The one who makes you feel think, ‘Well, I may not have it all together, but at least I’m not like her.’
Do you know how much it sucks to be that mom?
A lot. It sucks a lot.
Contrary to how it might appear, I’m not a total flake. I’m not checked out, I’m not “smoking too much weed”, I’m not a train wreck, not a disaster. And I’m not a bad mom.
I’m just in a rough patch.
I have enough personal family gunk going on that I have to prioritize what can receive my attention. Some things have to go.
Having never been a detail-lover, I now find they are the first things to escape me. They are de-prioritized without me even trying. And those are just the details I know I forgot — how many have passed me by without me even feeling the breeze they made? I’ll probably find out later that I only knew the half of how badly I was screwing up.
In the midst of this, I am trying to take care of myself as well, trying to make good choices and gauge what ways I can be kind to myself each day. I’m exercising, I’m brushing my teeth, I’m even laughing sometimes. Maybe I’m laughing too loudly, maybe it sounds a tiny bit hysterical, but it still counts.
I don’t need help feeling guilty about how I’m falling short of where I want to be. I can administer enough guilt on my own.
I have to extend grace to myself, the grace I would want to show someone else, but it’s hard. It’s hard to be nice to myself, because I see the ways I can’t do it all, the way I want to manage it alone but can’t. I know what I can usually take care of, and I see all the ways I can’t do it now.
I feel weak, and I hate feeling weak.
I feel looked down on, but as far as I know, the only one looking down on me is ME.
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Today I’m trying to give myself enough space to move around my life without knocking things over.
I’m going to give myself extra time to get done the things that usually take me less time but now seem to require more effort.
I’ll feed myself well.
I’ll let myself make mistakes and I’ll see them as mistakes, not as failings.
I’ll ask for help.
I’ll be to myself the person I’d want to be for someone else.
I’ll try to look for glory, for as my friend Kelly wrote, “Glory is most at home in the common, if you have eyes to see.” (You can read her post here: http://bit.ly/1j6DhxJ )
When I come out of this rough patch, as I know I will eventually, I will work to remember what it was like to be that mom. And when I see her, the one for whom the burden of everyday seems almost to much to handle, I’ll pray that she can be gentle and patient with herself, that she’ll see how she can be good to herself in the midst of struggle. And if I can, I will let her know that she’s not the only one.
Eventually, there comes a time when we all are that mom.
This month I found a fierce group of women who spur on one another, who support one another, who express themselves creatively. This post comes out of a prompt they offered. Here’s the link if you’d like to find out more: http://www.thestorysessions.com/subscribe/
Unfold
tissue paper
butterfly wings
poppy petals
pie crust rolled thin
Bible pages
confidence
risk
vulnerability
heart
desolation
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I’m tempted to retreat from the day, close in on myself,
crawl back in bed,
detach my brain from my heart,
put a screen in front of my face to dull my mind.
Bad news on top of our new norm pushes me back
away from the resignation, the adaptation I thought I had achieved.
I would rather —
but we don’t get to ‘rather’ and we don’t get to escape, not really.
It comes back to us,
in waves,
in song,
in tear-filled eyes at the grocery store for no. apparent. reason.
////
Even though it is scary and unwieldy,
I try to spread my arms wide,
unfold from my place crouched in fear and self-protection,
where I duck from embarrassment and weakness.
I stand up, stiff and tingling, vertigo around my edges, heart pounding in my ears.
This is real.
This is life.
Life contains in it death.
That I have avoided much of this type of pain is a miracle unto itself.
That I have good men in my life who modeled to me love, commitment and joy, this is a gift.
So I unfold and stand straight to absorb the full weight that could descend with their loss,
until I have to bend beneath the heaviness of the burden, though I willingly bear it
because
it is the weight of love.
It has been so fun to connect through Lisa-jo Baker’s linkup, Five Minute Friday. The attempt is to quiet our inner critic and allow ourselves to write for the fun of it. Five minutes, no editing, no censoring, just do it. It’s open to anyone, and you can find other posts and details at Lisa-jo’s blog, http://lisa-jobaker.com Here’s my contribution this week.
Prompt: Visit
Three, two, one, go.
A Visit to My Youth
The snow begins falling as we pull into town. The limestone cliffs along the western edge of the road, the river on our right, these indicate our entrance into a portal back in time, back to my youth.
This is a time before marriage, before children and before the surety of routine and day to day, a time before we thought we knew it all. We didn’t know what we didn’t know…and so we asked stupid questions that, looking back, were the wrong questions but they were all we had at the time. Details about a tree falling in the woods and who would hear it, an appreciation for our hands we couldn’t articulate and it came out tinny and small in our ears.
I visit my youth and I laugh too loudly with little care for disturbing, free abandon leaking all over the room and exuberance splashing onto the people around me. You are the best, you are the funniest, you are the wittiest, most interesting person I’ve ever met and I only have attention for you…until someone else draws me into their conversation and then it begins afresh.
Here children have no trouble in math, they have no bad dreams at night, they don’t ask questions I can’t answer.
Here husbands don’t need their needs accounted for, their relationship attended to, their vibes unpacked.
There is only freedom, warmth, expansive inclusion to the whole restaurant, and this witching hour only lasts until the stroke of midnight. Then my nearly 40-year-old head is on the pillow, my visit over and I return to reality.
There you have it. A hacky five minute post, but it is something rather than nothing. Do you have locations or people that launch you back in time? Situations when you find yourself acting as a younger version of yourself? Tell us about it in the comments below, we’d love to hear about YOU.
Here’s the part where I tell an embarrassing story about myself.
Gulp.
When I was in ninth grade I went to Chaska High School, Chaska being a town west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. At the time it was way out from the Twin Cities, and was borderline rural. Lots of cornfields and open spaces. Prince had his big Paisley Park mansion/studio in the area and we used to see if we could find it…on foot.
Before coming to the area, we had only lived in Minneapolis. Not in “the hood” or anything but I was in public school and was around lots of different kinds of people with many different backgrounds.
There were lots of kids for whom English was a new language,
kids from southeast Asia,
kids from Caucasian backgrounds and
African American kids,
Kids with hyphenated names and kids with Americanized names.
(The luckies got to have two names, while I was stuck with mine, unable to change it to Billie like I wanted.)
We were all part of an equal mix of the elementary school experience.
There was no one who was off-limits for friendship on the basis of color — the off-limits were determined by who was mean or ate boogers. Gross, but true.
When we moved out of Minneapolis, the experience was jarring and very different. Diversity was so natural that up to that point.
-Cue the embarrassing story.-
So I was in ninth grade. It was 1989. I think I was in science class. I’d been sitting there — palms sweating, heart racing, — waiting for the teacher to call my name for attendance. I knew what I wanted to do but I didn’t know if I’d be able to make myself do it. What would people say? Would they understand? Would I get in trouble?
It was Martin Luther King Jr. Day and there was no assembly.
There were no posters.
There had been no discussions, no required reports, no broadcasting of any famous speeches or reading or famous letters.
There was no marking of remembrance or respect for the life of this great man.
I didn’t care if we got a day off from school. I just wanted there to be some acknowledgement that he had made a difference, a monumental difference in the way we conducted ourselves everafter.
And there was nothing.
So I sat there, waiting for the teacher to call my name.
Then he did.
The room was silent.
I stood up. I gathered my books. I told him that I had to go, that I had to go to a birthday party for someone very important to me.
Somehow I had the idea that the holiday was chosen to mark his birthday, which was actually on January 15, 1929. The legislation that was signed into law in 1983 marked the holiday on the third Monday in January and was supposed to begin being observed by 1986. Find out more here: http://bit.ly/1jblo0n
I picked up my books, walked out the door and down the hallway until I found my locker. I put away my books and sat on the cold tile floor until it was time to go to my next class. My statement had been made.
No one walked out after me.
The teacher didn’t chase me down. There was no follow-up, no meeting with a school counselor and I got into no trouble.
I don’t remember if I went to my other classes. I must have, because I didn’t have a car and so couldn’t have left school. I only remember walking out of one class that day. I remember being scared but feeling that someone must do something to get attention on the issue. The administration should know this was important and they should be teaching about Martin Luther King Jr, even if there were no kids of color at the school — it was even more essential to teach about him so that the discrimination of the past wouldn’t continue to be the unspoken norm of the present.
Telling this story, I realize now that my actions did not result in any external changes. The only thing that happened was something in myself.
Do you have any memories specifically tied to Martin Luther King Jr.? What impact do his teachings and life have on the way you view the world?
Someone close to me brought me a meal.
I hadn’t had a baby, broken a leg or been in a car accident.
But she brought me a meal.
So did another friend, and she was the one who had just delivered. I was supposed to bring her a meal.
Words sent to someone else and passed on to me — kind, affirming, validating.
These things breathed air into my floppy balloon, the one that was in danger of settling on the floor, a puckered, withered, sandy shadow of the party favor it had once been. Their words, their phone calls, their messages, buoyed me up and let me float in a more proper balloon-y place.
Maybe I’m not floating on an airstream across the world with a special note hanging from my string, but
I’m more in that middle air of the hallway, at the level that makes you think there’s a person walking towards you,
the kind that makes you jump and if someone’s watching they laugh to see your surprise. That moment that gives freedom from worry and concern, hope that there will be laughter again.
The encouragement of friends who hold you up when it is hard to get off the floor — this is a precious thing indeed.
*****
Join a great group of people for Five Minute Friday to write without editing for the sheer joy of it. Find out more at http://lisa-jobaker.com.
Are you facing challenges or a hard time? This is a safe place to share about it. I genuinely hope you have people in your life who can help breath air into your life. Maybe in the comments we should name names. Who is an encourager in your life?
In a very real sense, living alongside someone with a serious illness feels like an echo of pregnancy,
Just with the potential of an outcome that is the antithesis of pregnancy.
Having lived through and around pregnancy, it is the only physical comparison I have to use for a changing body, a body that morphs because of and to accommodate the presence of something internal.
This makes sense to me because my dad has cancer,
and he’s the one with the morphing body.
Things were at a critical point a few weeks ago, with dad in the hospital and full diagnosis still pending.
Now we have the diagnosis, and while it is helpful to know what we’re dealing with (I say ‘we’ as if I am somehow able to help carry the burden he now has, as if the people who love him can do anything about the physical impact the cancer or the treatment have on him), I’m finding that I don’t have the capacity to fully hold in my head the severity of the situation.
Image URI: http://mrg.bz/Nh6WA0
JPEG URI: http://mrg.bz/vINESZ
He’s doing better.
He’s back at home.
His speech is clearer (he had a stroke and was hospitalized during that critical period).
The things that were causing him physical pain have ebbed.
It is easy to pretend everything is back to normal.
I’m a big fan of the way things were before this all started up. I’d prefer to go back there.
As with all of us, we don’t know what will happen to Dad. Will the chemo work? Will it work enough that the tumors in his lungs, lymph nodes and shoulder will go away entirely? Will we have him with us in five years? In two years? According to the doctors, the chances decrease as more time passes.
On a different scale, that’s true for all of us, serious illness or not.
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Now we wait.
We take internal inventories, monitor what our hearts and bodies crave and take special care with each other. It feels like that period after the baby’s been delivered and we’re just starting to remember we can once again do the things we did pre-pregnancy. There’s a collective sigh in my family because we’re through the immediacy of the initial run of hospitalization and meeting with doctors.
I feel like I go through days holding my breath, waiting for an undetermined signal that may never come, the signal that indicates it is safe to relax, safe to unclench my jaw and my heart.
Is the signal the fact that my dad can get around their tiny house without help from a cane or someone’s arm?
Is the signal that Dad and Mom are planning, with doctor’s permission, to go back down to Costa Rica in a couple weeks?
The reality is that there isn’t a signal, and not one person can offer us one. We’re stuck taking things day by day, living in the unknown, trying to be positive but realistic, preparing for the worst but hoping for the best. There are moments, full days even, when I forget the illness and its severity. I have that luxury because I don’t live with my parents, don’t have to administer the medicines his body requires multiple times every day, don’t help with the chores of daily living and monthly trips to get chemo. I don’t see everyday the way my dad’s clothes look baggy on him, as if he lost his luggage and had to borrow them from a friend in a pinch.
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Instagram: writermama1999
I can live with a lot of mystery.
I don’t want God to be explainable —
I want there to be supernatural, divine moments when no scientific device can detect or dissect what just happened.
Living in this unknown, however, is different. It doesn’t feel like a holy mystery. It’s not something I enter into with reverence and positive expectancy.
This current unknown is full of life-threatening danger, slow decline and potential devastation.
For a while, I was in a state of constant fight-or-flight. I snapped at my family, exploded over piles of clothes on the floor, cried because a thought of illness entered my head. I stockpiled instant dinners and travel snacks, and kept my physical and emotional overnight bag at the ready. For instant reaction, I was your gal. The rational, nuanced part of my brain was shut down by something more primal, more reactive. Time passed unnoticed, sounds were muted, every movement required triple the effort.
Now the unknown continues, a slow march towards an unclear destination.
We’ve returned to the familiarity and comfort of our routines, except they’re all laced with added weight, the way some cloth is now laced with copper. There’s a feeling of negative expectancy, a bracing for the next hard thing, an assumption, maybe in self-protection, that the unknown will probably not be something welcome. It’s like being on guard for a cat to pounce.
Will the cat of cancer merely bat Dad around, like him a few times, toss him in the air but get bored and move on?
How long can one live in this state of heightened awareness, the shadow lurking around the edges?
Is it possible that this is our new normal?
I’m sorry this is so all over the place. It is as erratic as I feel some days. If you’ve got advice or resources for handling illness or stress, please feel free to share. We are all stronger together.
Corcovado jesus (Photo credit: @Doug88888)
Yes yes, I do realize that it is the end of DECEMBER and here I am working on a book club from November. That’s just the way things go sometimes, right? If I should retitle this “December Book Club” that would only work for like a few more hours, so that’s a dead end.
Peter Enn’s book, Telling God’s Story: A Parents’ Guide to Teaching the Bible, is what we’re working through and chapter three is when the author starts giving specifics about what to teach to whom and when.
In most Sunday School settings, there are lots of lessons about Old Testament characters, in addition to stories about Jesus. Enns argues that “the proper foundation is now what it has been since the first Christmas: Jesus.” He makes the point that “the Bible as a whole is going somewhere, and that “somewhere” is actually a “someone”.”
Before you think Enns is suggesting that we focus only on the New Testament, as was done to the exclusion of the Old Testament in church circles for many years, he is making the case that for our youngest children, we begin with and focus on the person of Jesus. He says “the apostles didn’t start with the background stuff. They got right to the point and talked about Jesus.” As children get older and more mature, then it is time to address the Old Testament and larger context of the New Testament.
This resonates for me because of my years as a volunteer in various churches’ children’s and youth ministries, as well as my time developing curriculum and leading children’s and junior high/senior high ministry. Kids in the earliest grades see things in black and white, and understand concrete ideas most readily. This changes as they get older, but in terms of the focus for grade 1-5, Enns stresses the validity of building a foundation of Jesus and worrying about Old Testament historical context yada yada as children get older.
One thing that makes me bristle is the focus on depravity in children in evangelical circles. We are so concerned that children “come to Jesus” that we sometimes resort to scare tactics rather than focusing on the freedom, direction, purpose and fulfillment Christ brings while here on earth. The focus is so heavily weighed towards the hereafter that it’s no wonder why people tend towards “fire insurance” (a terribly crude term) and a once-and-done mentality rather than seeing how a commitment to following Jesus plays out in our every day decisions. That’s probably why I love this line so much:
What should not be emphasized is the child’s miserable state of sin and need for a savior. …We must remember that our children’s salvation is not our work, it is the work of the Spirit. …To introduce children to the wrath of God right at the beginning of their lives, without the requisite biblical foundation and before the years of emotional maturity, can actually distort their view of God.
That’s not to say that even within the life of Jesus there aren’t many intense, adult-rated moments. Using common sense, it should be obvious that age-appropriateness is of the upmost importance. However, in my experience, common sense and age-appropriate sensitivity isn’t always used when approaching the Bible. People often fear they’ll be “watering down the Word of God” by leaving out certain parts or focusing on some things over others (although I wonder if they’d be so cavalier with the things in Bible of a sexual nature). People think they should start with Genesis and work their way through the Bible, book by book. Have you ever tried doing that? Let’s just say that most folks find their eyes glazing over by the time they get a chapter or two into the books of the law.
Enns takes a logical approach that considers child development and the overarching movement of the Bible narrative. It is the person of Jesus that draws people, it is the stories of how He treated children, how He related to women, how He reached out to outcasts and misfits — these are the stories that draw us to Him. By letting the life of Jesus speak for itself, and by studying the impact He had on the lives of the Apostles, we set a solid foundation on which they can delve into the depths of the Old Testament, historical background and prophetic fulfillment of Jesus’ life.
This chapter has two more sections, one that deals with middle grades and one that deals with high school ages. I think these areas need their own review, so I’m going to lump them together into a future post.
What is your take on this different way of teaching the Bible to our youngest children? Does it seem like a good approach to you? What objections do you have to it?
British Library Add. MS 59874 Ethiopian Bible – Matthew’s Gospel (Ge’ez script) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Love, Laundry, Faith & Family 