Who Were You / Who Are You--Reflections on the Ten-Year

Last night was my ten-year high school reunion. The San Marcos Resort back ballroom played host to somewhere between 100-150 late-twenty-somethings with one thing in common: we were all eyeing that amazing margarita cheesecake. Oh, and we all happened to graduate from Chandler High School a decade ago. I thought I would write a few words about the experience, partly as a way for myself to process the evening (because wow, it was a lot to take in) and partly for those who might read this who did or did not attend.

Soooo, high school, you crazy big fish, you. You spat us out onto the shore of adulthood, and look at us now………exactly the same as we were ten years ago. Well, maybe not quite. But the thing that struck me the most about the reunion, upon reflection, was actually how little people have changed. By which I mean that the midgets and dwarves are no longer midgets and dwarves--isn't that weird? Just kidding. By which I REALLY mean that the girls who were popular in high school--at least the ones who attended--still mostly look amazing and all showed up in runway-worthy cocktail dresses. (I'm starting to think that some people are just born with style genes. I have no other way to explain how they were born dressing like stars and I am still shopping at Target.) Also, the people who brightened up my boring chemistry and civics classes have remained witty and intriguing--have become even more interestingly so as adults. And then the people I just could never seem to find much to talk about with…you get the idea. The same gaggles of girlfriends who did everything together in 10th grade are the same gaggles cramming into the photo booth like the Japanese getting packed on the bullet train. The same gangs of guys who beat up on each other in wresting are, come to find out, still good-naturedly beating each other up. And to me, all of this is really sort of heartwarming. My group of friends more or less fell apart after high school, so I'm glad to see so much camaraderie remains among my classmates.

Going in to the evening, I had very few, if any, expectations. But there's one thing I had been warned about: posturing with a capital P. After hearing about my brother's reunion two years ago, I expected people to pad their accomplishments like a white-lying resume. But they didn't. Because guess what? No one became an astronaut. No one has their own VH1 talkshow. No one invented Post-Its. The fact that our class has (frankly) achieved only modest success was actually a big relief. Because of this, I felt last night was a very gracious evening. I'd be surprised if anyone felt like they didn't measure up, because most of us are doing rather average, normal things. A lot of people seem to be on the verge of something--they're in law school, they're studying for a certification, they want to go abroad. Maybe that's what it means to be 28 and an American in the 21st century. We're a bunch of late bloomers who are still searching, still looking to get it just right. And fortunately for us, we live in a forgiving culture--or perhaps we've created that forgiving culture by our lack of trajectory.

In my case, I went in thinking I wouldn't have much to show for myself since my career never got off the ground and I "just" stay at home with my kids. I figured everyone would have expected more of me. After all, I was Vice President of National Honors Society, by gum! I did not take the gravity of that immortal office lightly. (Ha.) But the more I heard myself repeating out loud my own little sound byte of what I do and why, the more I was reminded that I genuinely believe in what I'm doing with my life. I believe in the importance of making a loving home and being my children's primary caretaker. I don't want anyone else to spend more hours in the week raising them than I do. And I've spent so much time wringing my hands over jumping ship from my career and wishing I had something more impressive to put on paper, but in the end, I would so much rather spend this time in my life building the foundation of my family than building the foundation of my career. There's nothing wrong with a career--I want one, desperately! please! eventually!--but I have been given children, and I am doing what I believe I am called to do in their best interest.

Lastly, I have to say how truly hard it is to condense ten years into a few sentences--you tell people what you're doing now, but what about everything in between? There's a part of me that wished I could have explained all the transformative events of my twenties to these people. The tragic: my step-father turning out to be a pedophile, a stalker, and a larcenist; the melon-sized tumor in my body that traumatized my early days of motherhood. The joyful: the thrill of months traveling Europe; the blessing of how far we've come financially since our first apartment (where your housewarming gift from the management was a "club" for your car); the miracle of becoming a parent. But in the brevity of the moment, you get only about as much space as fits on your pin-on nametag. For me, that's "I stay home with my two kids and I'm having another." And that's okay. I know there's more to me, my life, and the last ten years than that--and I know the same is true for everyone there last night. I only wish I had time enough to hear it all.

Time for a Kale Change

I just got done planning our meals for the week--something I do each weekend with (I'd like to think) careful consideration. I have certain rules, like always make sure there's fish, never more red meat than twice a month, etc. But this week, I've given it even more thought than usual. Reason being I'm pregnant (surprise!). I have of course been pregnant before, but this time around, the morning sickness has been worse, which means I am constantly eating in an effort to drive it away. The unfortunate reality of this, however, is that I am constantly eating GARBAGE. In the last two days, I have eaten hot dogs, pizza, cake, bowlfuls of chocolate chips, frozen yogurt, Eggs Benedict heaping with Hollandaise sauce, and maybe one total serving of vegetables. For shame! And as we all know, when you eat garbage, you feel like garbage. So stuffing myself with these less than healthful foods has proven only to make me feel worse physically AND emotionally. Garbage + gluttony = guilt.

So thank God for another clean slate of the week ahead.

Last night after the regret that followed the cake that followed the pizza that followed the frozen yogurt, I sat down and made a list of vegetables. All the vegetables I could think of. Wow, that sounds kind of sad…have I really gotten to the point of listing vegetables? Anyway, I've realized over the years that if a food is not something I grew up eating, I rarely (if ever) make it. My husband's family eats eggplant, but I, like a stubborn child, have something in my head that says eggplant is revolting. Truth is, I don't remember ever trying it. But oh man, nary an eggplant has crossed the threshold of MY house! Well, it's time I grew up, isn't it? So I listed all the vegetables I could think of and marked the ones I've never brought home from the grocery store. And this week, in a colossal effort for change, I'm going to brave it and start with….kale! Sounds friendly enough, like one of those new baby names. I also decided to go whole hog (or whole asparagus or something) and plan super healthy vegetarian meals for this one week. We already eat vegetarian about half the time, so it's not too huge an adjustment. Monday, I give you Roasted Vegetables on Goat Cheese Toast. Tuesday, I present Black Bean Tacos (already a favorite). Wednesday, bring it on with Kale, Cannellini Bean, & Potato Soup. And on it goes.

I may not have the willpower to keep quite this healthy indefinitely, but I truly want to make lasting positive changes for my family. The way I cook is already significantly healthier overall than what I grew up eating (or even what I started my marriage eating) and for my children's sake, I want to continue in that direction. Everything I have learned about health (mostly from searching the web in a frenzy of hypochondria) tells me that the biggest component of health is prevention. And I want so badly to ensure that I and the ones I love don't fall prey to something that could have been prevented by eating better, exercising more, getting more sleep, etc. When nearly 70% of our nation is overweight or obese, with diabetes and cancer diagnoses on the rise, we've got to sit up and take notice. Meat and potatoes may have been fine for our farming ancestors, but they were also working outdoors ten hours a day.

So it's time to make some changes, even beyond those I've already made in the six years since I've been cooking as a wife and a mother. How about you? What positive food changes have you made for your family? How is what you eat now different from what you grew up eating? And what work is left to do to make it even better?

Top Ten Signs You're a Parent of Little Kids

In the grand tradition of top ten lists, here are ten things that have actually been true of me…and if you have little kids, may be true of you, too.

1. You have ever called another adult a "stinker."

2. Your purse contains 3 pacifiers, 2 plastic dinosaurs, 1 coupon for diapers, and 0 pens.

3. You've resorted to using the blender in the garage because it scares someone too much.

4. You think of clipping your toenails as "doing something for yourself."

5. Amazon suggests you might like a teething giraffe. (They know you so well, don't they?)

6. You have fabulous biceps but a poochy middle.

7. You know that a binky is not a blanket, a sucker is not a lollipop, and a Nuk is not a kind of Eskimo.

8. You've given more than a passing thought to the emotionally complicated relationship between Bob and Wendy on Bob the Builder.

9. You have a mental map of every drive-thru in four cities.

10. You've ever spent hours waiting for the kids to go to bed, and then when they did, you wanted to wake them back up again because you love them that much.

History Lesson

It was my first day at Chandler High School, back in A.D. 1997. I shuffled with the other students in to my after-lunch class, World History with Mr. Lowell-Britt. When everyone had settled, we watched as Mr. L-B wrote in wide white letters on the chalkboard: "Why is Learning History Important?" My first high school writing assignment! I thought. Goody goody gumdrops! (Later that day, I was inducted into National Nerds Society based merely on this thought.) Why is Learning History Important? Hmm…yes, that's a good, juicy question. I'll have to really knock him out of the park with my reasons why.

That night, when I sat down to write Ye Olde 5-Paragraphe Essaye, I found I was stumped. I had the vague notion that learning about history was unequivocally important--everybody knows that--but had serious trouble expressing any concrete reasons for this pillar of truth. I think my completed essay went something like this:

Paragraph 1--Introduction:

There are many different reasons why learning about history is very important.

Paragraph 2:

First of all, history is very important.

Paragraph 3:

Secondly, if you don't learn about history, you're doomed to repeat it. (What exactly did I mean by this? That if I didn't learn about cave drawings, I'd someday wind up in a loincloth scratching at walls?)

Paragraph 4:

Also, learning about history is very, very important.

Paragraph 5--Conclusion:

In conclusion, there are many different reasons why learning about history is very important.

Somehow I don't recall getting an overwhelmingly fantastic grade on this. Oh, well. As they say in French, "C'est la guerre!"

At any rate, the years have gone by and I have accumulated more history of my own…thirteen brutal and bloody war-torn years of it. Whoops! Again, getting historically confused. But with those years of personal history, I have come to embrace ever more the concept that learning about history is important. And now that I'm an adult, I think I can better elucidate the reasons why I believe this to be true. (Don't worry, it doesn't involve loincloths.) Here goes:

1. Your personal history is immeasurably important--to know your identity, even to realize why your family is crazy like they are. Something as simple as knowing your family's health history could save your life. Similarly, to know other people's history is to know who they are and how they got that way.

2. To be an educated member of society. I'll put it plainly: tuh nawt bee dumb.

3. To understand why the world is the way it is, to have at least a smattering of understanding of why people and cultures are unique, why they do what they do, love what they love, hate what they hate. To understand the backstory of a group of people is to understand how to better operate with/among them.

4. When you know something of history, your experience of life is enriched. If you don't know anything about Chinese history, the Great Wall is just a freaking gigantic long wall. If you visit Germany not knowing anything about German history, you're going to be rather confused about how strangely bilateral Berlin seems. (And you'll be totally put to shame by a German 14-year-old who can list every U.S. state.) I promise you your vacations will be much more interesting if you go with an idea of the background of your destination.

As an adult, I don't believe we are doomed to repeat history if we don't learn about it. That sounds more like a rumor some cranky old history teacher made up. But I do believe that even in a perpetually forward-reaching culture, we can still learn a lot by looking back every so often.

And so, in conclusion, there are many different reasons why learning about history is very important.

The Forgiveness Equation

Today I was hurt by a friend. Actually, it's been building up for a long time, but today various sins of omission added up to one big, ugly wound. Upon coming home, feeling the emotional damage of this situation, I turned to that source of wisdom and knowledge…Google. (Yeah, I know there's a better Source. Google is just usually more amusing.) I started reading about what makes a bad friend, and man, there are a lot of ways to be a bad friend--which, incidentally, are mostly just ways to be a bad person, like the Gossip, the Fake, the Egotist, etc. After deciding the online quiz "Are You a Bad Friend?" was lame-o and didn't have enough multiple choice options, I came upon a quote from William Blake. It rings truer than most of the fluff on the internet.

"It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend."

It's funny, there are so many verses in Scripture about how to treat your enemies--how to love and forgive them--that I've rarely given thought to how to forgive a friend. Not that I haven't been hurt by friends before. But when I have, I've mostly either swept it under the rug or simply pulled out of the relationship. Confrontation is a dirty word in my vocabulary. (And I feel like I'm about to convince myself that I need to confront this friend about these hurts…which was not supposed to be the point of this post!) So allow me to sweep THAT under the rug for the moment ;) and state the obvious: friends have far greater potential to hurt us than enemies. Friends know us intimately; we trust them. A true enemy is by comparison easy to forgive because we have not opened to them that fragile place within that seeks love and connection, and they have not opened theirs to us. We can justify an enemy's behavior, and justification is like the butler who ushers you in to the forgiveness parlor.

Oh, but a friend! We know they should know better. We know their intentions, their heart. We know when they are acting inexcusably--if there is such a thing as inexcusable to a Christian.

I know I will need grace to figure out how to "ex" (remove) the "cuse" (accusation) from this friend. In my mind, I see a kind of algebraic equation in which I must move around my variables to change my "inculpate" ("in" = assign, "culpa" guilt/blame) to "exculpate" ("ex" = remove "culpa" = guilt/blame).

I think it looks something like this:

In(culp)ate = Ex(culp)ate

In In

That cancels it out, right? ....But I digress. The point is forgiveness, and ultimately, the discomfort of I'd-rather-be-at-the-proctologist-than-this confrontation of a friend. Ugh…wish me courage.

Book Review: The Boy Who Came Back from Heaven by Kevin & Alex Malarkey

A week ago my mom handed me this book and said, "You should read this." Though I usually trust her book suggestions, this one made me kinda roll my eyes. A six-year-old quadriplegic's near-death experience and descriptions of heaven? I believe in both near-death experiences and heaven (and six-year-olds, as a matter of fact) but this sounded awfully cloying--like a poor disabled kid has more rampant imagination than real inspiration. But seeing as I had just finished another book and a day without a book feels like a ship without a compass, I took the book home. I figured I'd give it a chance. Perhaps the authors' last name was just a funny one and the contents would not actually be malarkey.

The book opens with the events of a morning in November 2004, when therapist Kevin Malarkey and his son Alex experienced a devastating car accident. While Kevin escaped virtually unscathed, Alex suffered what is known as an "internal decapitation," meaning his spinal cord was severed from his head. While family, friends, church community, and a number of strangers "coincidentally" on the scene prayed, Alex managed to survive this horrific injury (though hospital staff said they had never seen a child do so). As Alex lay in a coma for two months, hundreds if not thousands of people continued their petitions to God, and further miracles began to occur. But that's not even the crazy part yet. When Alex returned from The Big Sleep and regained the ability to speak--another miracle no one could have hoped for--he brought with him detailed descriptions of where he had been…heaven. The book is structured so that Kevin tells his perspective in longish, narrative chapters endcapped with mini-chapters written by Alex, explaining some of his spiritual experiences.

I was pretty surprised to find that by the end, I believed the entirety of both Kevin and Alex's stories. Now you're probably rolling your eyes at me. And maybe you'll have to read it yourself to fully understand how such a preposterous premise could be totally credible, but allow me to explain my own arrival at this conclusion. First, Kevin makes quite plain that supernatural experiences like miracles, angels, and prophecy were never part of his personal faith prior to the accident and its aftermath. He is as skeptical as he expects anyone reading his book to be. He says he probably wouldn't believe any of this had it not happened to him and his family. Secondly, nothing in the book is unorthodox whatsoever. I never read a chapter--or even a sentence--and went, "Okay, spiritual creepazoid. Done." Lastly, (minor spoiler here) Alex was able to describe vivid details from the scene of the accident, though he was completely unconscious at the time, as well as details of what transpired on the scene after his body had been air-evac-ed to the hospital. To me, this is evidence in favor of his having been in the spirit and out of his body.

Beyond whether or not I believe Alex's supernatural experiences, the take-home point for me in reading this book was that it really stirred up my faith--my faith in the phenomenal power of prayer, my faith in the wonderful place God has prepared for us when we leave this mortal coil. It jarred my memory to realize that angels are real beings who act on behalf of God here on earth. It reminded me that nothing is truly hopeless, and like the woman to the judge in Luke 18, we can and should keep on praying, even when circumstances look impossibly lost.

My only criticisms: Kevin's chapters could have used some editing; he does tend to repeat himself at times and wax a little too profusely on some basic spiritual points. (But hey, the man's not a writer by trade, so that makes it more forgivable.) Also, since Alex's experiences in heaven are primarily what give the book its intrigue factor, I wish he would have shared at greater length about them. Then again, he claims that God instructed him not to share certain details. So if that's the case, I guess I can deal.

All in all, I highly recommend The Boy who Came Back from Heaven. It's a quick read that just may have you marveling at how clear God's intervention in our lives can be, not to mention the incredible future He has planned for those who hope in Him.

13.1

I can't believe I'm writing this. Because writing it--and sharing it with others on my blog--means it's real. If I make it public, I might actually have to do it.

What is "it," you ask? I am considering training for a half-marathon.

Pause for half of my brain to screech, "Are you INSANE???" I am not really a runner. In school, I was one of those P.E. weaklings who drag themselves past the finish line of the one-mile run gasping raggedly and asking for last rites. Those kids who chose to do cross country always seemed to me like some pack of deranged animals running in formation--just running, madly running. I didn't get it. Give me a nice, tame, indoor racquet sport. Running is for the crazies.

First of all, it's painful. It's constant movement; no breaks. Over and over, your feet slap down on hard, unforgiving ground. This is Arizona, so usually the sun is turning your skin the color of sweet potato casserole and you're sweating like you're in a Gatorade commercial. Your side starts to cramp. After awhile, your breath feels like it's being squeezed out of you by a rusty accordion. The end. Gee, wasn't that fun?

That's all what I used to think. (And what half of me is clamoring that it still thinks.) But when I worked at the YMCA several years ago, it was highly encouraged that everyone on staff participate in the annual Thanksgiving Turkey Trot 5k. I figured 3.1 miles was a fairly innocuous distance, and it didn't matter if I walked most of it. Then my competitive, perfectionistic edge kicked in. Walking it would be lame, I thought. I'm stronger than that. So I started to train, and by the day of the Trot, I was actually looking forward to the race. When the race began, I was near the back of the 100 or so runners, but then something magical happened. Little by little, I gained ground, passing people I checked in to the Y every day working at the front desk. This gave me a thrill, and I started passing more people. Finally, I was on the last stretch of the race with no one left ahead of me. (I wasn't winning the turkey; there was just a wide open space between me and the next person before me.) My two bosses, whom I loved, picked up the ribbon that had been broken by the winner and held it up for me to break through. Suddenly, everyone started cheering for me. I covered that last stretch in record time and sailed through the ribbon like the real thing. And a runner was born.

Well, for a while. Then I had kids, which stopped me in my tracks--literally. I finally joined a gym early this year, less for the exercise benefits and more for the childcare. I figured I could sit on the recumbent bike for a leisurely thirty-minute reading break while my kids worked out some of their wiggles under someone else's supervision. Enter once more my competitive edge. (If it weren't for competition, I'd probably be 300 pounds.) Seeing so many others pounding it out on the treadmills motivated me, and I started running again, just a little. Then last week I heard the gym is offering a free training program for people who want to do the P.F. Chang's marathon and half-marathon in January. Somehow these words have planted themselves in my brain ever since, and I find myself turning it over in my mind.

Here is why I want to do it:

1. Because I think I can't. I have always said I could never run a really long race. Well, never say never. If I've learned anything in the last few years, it's that the most difficult things in life are the ones that make us grow the most--spiritually, emotionally, and in this case, even physically.

2. Because I supposedly have fibromyalgia. Yes, I was unofficially diagnosed with this in the absence of any other answers for the pain that hops around my muscles like a misguided trolley. Running a half marathon is a way of blowing raspberries in the face of this medical hex. I refuse to allow a scary-sounding five-syllable word to keep me down. My body is capable of this, and I want to prove it to myself and everyone else.

3. Because it's a goal to work toward; it's a great accomplishment. Enough said. Can I put this on my resume?

4. Because it will keep me motivated to continue really exercising. More real workouts and less recumbent biking at mai tai-sipping speed.

5. Because it might actually be fun. When I think back to my Turkey Trot experience, I can still feel the thrill of a crowd cheering, a heart pounding, a good race completed. There is a reason so many people get into marathon running. I know it will be exhilarating.

So, dear reader, with your accountability, I believe I have decided to embark upon this journey. Call me a running fool.