No, I'm not just being funny. I really am allergic to exercise...you can read more here. Some people think this is cool, but it's not. I don't burn 500 extra calories everyday just because I'm allergic to exercising. I have to be really careful with what I do when I want to exercise and I can never eat before I go. Plus, it can be really scary.I wish I could run or jog..free, social, but that's the worst thing I can do. Makes me kinda sad. It happened once before I was married, a few times in between, and then in the last 3 years it has happened pretty much anytime I really push cardio or try to run (I've downed more Benadryl than can be good for anyone). Good news? I found out interval training works because my body can heat up and cool down throughout the workout which is key.
Even better news...I can ZUMBA! If you like to dance and haven't tried it yet, I would highly recommend it. Or, if you think exercise is super boring and a necessary evil (I fall into that category really often) give it a shot. I tried it once and was completely hooked...it was a full hour and it didn't even feel like I was exercising, but I came out dripping sweat. (However, the quality of the class totally depends on the instructor). I liked it so much, I got certified to teach, and in Michigan there are plenty of opportunities. I teach about 4 classes a week and get paid to exercise! I realized I wouldn't exercise unless I had a reason to, so it's the perfect fit...I get paid, it makes me work out 4 times a week, and I don't end up looking like an oompah loompah when I'm finished since Zumba works on an interval.
(And no, I don't get paid if you try a Zumba class. Kind of feels like I'm trying to multi-level market here, huh? No, I really do just like it that much!)
Showing posts with label feelings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feelings. Show all posts
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Freedom
We have been blessed to meet some great friends here. One family we particularly enjoy is from Egypt. Both parents are doctors and they have 3 wonderful children. We had them over at Christmastime to learn more about their Muslim religion and share some of our traditions with them. We soon found that while our core beliefs are very different, the way they manifest themselves in daily living is shockingly similar. It was a wonderful night.
When the revolution started in Egypt, I thought about them constantly. I was dying to know how they felt about what was going on in their country. We finally made time to connect on Friday and I went to her house with a mind full of questions. She kindly told me she was going to leave the television on...she has been so anxious about what is happening in Egypt since her family, colleagues, and friends are all there and she wants to know what is happening in her country at all times.
As I spoke to her about Egypt, she shared with me the oppression that is felt there. She likened the Egyptian people to victims of domestic violence...people who know they are being treated wrongly, but are too emotionally defeated to do anything about it. She told me that for every 5 Egyptians there is one secret service officer watching them. People listen to their phone calls and watch their actions. Torture is rampant, especially for saying anything against the government. When she was teaching her classes, many students would ask, "Why?" "Why should we study?" "Why should we learn?" They didn't feel like there was anything out there for them because there was so much government control.
Both she and her husband were MDs and taught at the University. Her take home pay after teaching for 15 years was $600 per month because of taxes and bribes they had to concede to. Most Egyptians live on $2 a day, so they were well above the standard. But, once you get more money, you end up paying more to be left alone and continue your work. Everything is corrupt. The government takes everything...the $400 million a year from the Suez Canal, the profits from tourism, and then, if you leave Egypt, you continue to pay money to the government so you can be out of the country. Poor young people risk their lives everyday to leave Egypt on a floating raft and sail to Greece. Most die trying. Those who are more educated, try to leave to study. The government decides what crops can be grown and what can be bought and sold and at what price. They control the television and radio stations.
When I asked her if she thought a revolution like this would ever happen, she said, "No. I thought we were too broken. I never thought this many people would rise up." She continued to tell me, "Brooke, you don't understand because you won't be able to tell, but the people protesting in the streets are from everywhere...there are rich and poor, male and female, young and old. They are from all religions and all social classes. This isn't a revolution of just the rich or just the poor. All of Egypt is there."
Then, as she was saying this, she paused, and looked at her TV as the Vice-President came into focus. She was watching in Arabic, so I didn't know what was being said, but she stood still, eyes wide, mouth open, hands on her cheeks. She said over and over, "I can't believe it. I can't believe it." She turned and looked at me and said, with tears in her eyes, "The vice-president stepped down. I didn't think this would ever happen." She started to cry and immediately knelt down to pray and thank God. She stood up with wet eyes, and hugged me, hard. I was crying with her and at a loss for words.
I asked, "Did you think this would ever happen?" She said, "No. Yesterday he told the protesters he would bury them tomorrow and here he is stepping down."
Then her phone started ringing and I listened as she exclaimed with her mother and sister over the phone from Egypt. They were speaking Arabic, but it didn't matter...I understood their celebration and incredulity and gratitude. She quietly murmured, "I wish I were there. I wish I were there." It was my turn to leave and let her bask in this joy with other people who really understood. She hugged me with a smile and I told her I would never forget that moment. I felt so blessed to witness something so sacred. She told me, "God sent you here this morning to be here with me." If that is true, I am so grateful He sent me.
You see, I'm an American...have always been. My freedom, while I hate to admit it, is often taken for granted. I take for granted that open to my children is every possibility, that I can choose my leaders, that we are safe, that you can right wrongs, that you can have second chances, that no one is watching me, that I can say what I want to say and others can too without fear, that hatred and cruelty is not tolerated, that I can worship the way I please, that I can pursue happiness.
I'm not a political scientist and I know very little about the Middle East, but what I know is that on Friday I saw sheer joy at even the glimmer of freedom from one who never thought it would be possible. I saw a lifelong yearning for something that was once unattainable start to be filled. I saw hope and rejoicing and love and pride in the people of her country. I saw the gratitude I should feel, everyday, for being lucky enough to live in America. That night I went to bed with a heart full of thanksgiving for the life and opportunity I have here and for a new friendship that taught me how it should feel, everyday, to be free.
When the revolution started in Egypt, I thought about them constantly. I was dying to know how they felt about what was going on in their country. We finally made time to connect on Friday and I went to her house with a mind full of questions. She kindly told me she was going to leave the television on...she has been so anxious about what is happening in Egypt since her family, colleagues, and friends are all there and she wants to know what is happening in her country at all times.
As I spoke to her about Egypt, she shared with me the oppression that is felt there. She likened the Egyptian people to victims of domestic violence...people who know they are being treated wrongly, but are too emotionally defeated to do anything about it. She told me that for every 5 Egyptians there is one secret service officer watching them. People listen to their phone calls and watch their actions. Torture is rampant, especially for saying anything against the government. When she was teaching her classes, many students would ask, "Why?" "Why should we study?" "Why should we learn?" They didn't feel like there was anything out there for them because there was so much government control.
Both she and her husband were MDs and taught at the University. Her take home pay after teaching for 15 years was $600 per month because of taxes and bribes they had to concede to. Most Egyptians live on $2 a day, so they were well above the standard. But, once you get more money, you end up paying more to be left alone and continue your work. Everything is corrupt. The government takes everything...the $400 million a year from the Suez Canal, the profits from tourism, and then, if you leave Egypt, you continue to pay money to the government so you can be out of the country. Poor young people risk their lives everyday to leave Egypt on a floating raft and sail to Greece. Most die trying. Those who are more educated, try to leave to study. The government decides what crops can be grown and what can be bought and sold and at what price. They control the television and radio stations.
When I asked her if she thought a revolution like this would ever happen, she said, "No. I thought we were too broken. I never thought this many people would rise up." She continued to tell me, "Brooke, you don't understand because you won't be able to tell, but the people protesting in the streets are from everywhere...there are rich and poor, male and female, young and old. They are from all religions and all social classes. This isn't a revolution of just the rich or just the poor. All of Egypt is there."
Then, as she was saying this, she paused, and looked at her TV as the Vice-President came into focus. She was watching in Arabic, so I didn't know what was being said, but she stood still, eyes wide, mouth open, hands on her cheeks. She said over and over, "I can't believe it. I can't believe it." She turned and looked at me and said, with tears in her eyes, "The vice-president stepped down. I didn't think this would ever happen." She started to cry and immediately knelt down to pray and thank God. She stood up with wet eyes, and hugged me, hard. I was crying with her and at a loss for words.
I asked, "Did you think this would ever happen?" She said, "No. Yesterday he told the protesters he would bury them tomorrow and here he is stepping down."
Then her phone started ringing and I listened as she exclaimed with her mother and sister over the phone from Egypt. They were speaking Arabic, but it didn't matter...I understood their celebration and incredulity and gratitude. She quietly murmured, "I wish I were there. I wish I were there." It was my turn to leave and let her bask in this joy with other people who really understood. She hugged me with a smile and I told her I would never forget that moment. I felt so blessed to witness something so sacred. She told me, "God sent you here this morning to be here with me." If that is true, I am so grateful He sent me.
You see, I'm an American...have always been. My freedom, while I hate to admit it, is often taken for granted. I take for granted that open to my children is every possibility, that I can choose my leaders, that we are safe, that you can right wrongs, that you can have second chances, that no one is watching me, that I can say what I want to say and others can too without fear, that hatred and cruelty is not tolerated, that I can worship the way I please, that I can pursue happiness.
I'm not a political scientist and I know very little about the Middle East, but what I know is that on Friday I saw sheer joy at even the glimmer of freedom from one who never thought it would be possible. I saw a lifelong yearning for something that was once unattainable start to be filled. I saw hope and rejoicing and love and pride in the people of her country. I saw the gratitude I should feel, everyday, for being lucky enough to live in America. That night I went to bed with a heart full of thanksgiving for the life and opportunity I have here and for a new friendship that taught me how it should feel, everyday, to be free.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
The Spirit of Hymns
Today in church I was flooded with the spirit. It's rare with 3 boys on the pew with me. But the cacophone seemed to still for a minute today while we were all taught truth through word and music.
*The first speaker let us into his life as he talked about gaining his own testimony. He remembered wanting to know, for a surety from the time he was 8. He asked earnestly, always before a big spiritual moment in his life, but was often disappointed...no heavenly angels or Christ appearing to him, but he had faith that what he was doing was true and brought him happiness, so he continued to believe. It wasn't until he was 20, that he felt the arms of his Savior wrap around him and testify of the truth of the gospel he had always believed in.
He then played, "I believe in Christ" on the piano. First with just his right hand. It seemed so hesitant but clear and simple, just like the beginning of his testimony and the beginning of mine. On the next verse, he added another part, and the song became a touch richer and more confident; on the third verse the music became full and interesting, and the fourth verse was the climax with beautiful and intricate details, but it was not flawless. It was just like the testimony he now possesses. One that has been worked on and tested, over and over again. He ended the song, with a few short notes on his right hand only...reminding us that it was still the same, simple song that he started out with and it was beautiful every way he played it. I was so moved, by what he played and the story it told. I reflected on how my own testimony of the Savior is sometimes simple and other times complicated, sometimes confident and other times hesitating...but it's always there and I'm grateful for that.
*The second speaker let us into a dim, heartbroken time of her life where her own loneliness enveloped her. She sang the words to the hymn "Abide with Me," and told us that as she sang that song, she knew she would never be alone, that Christ would always be her companion. I was so touched by her honesty and sincerity and knew she was speaking truth. Christ can be our companion, especially in our darkest hour.
*The third speaker taught us what music can mean, if we let it. It can tie worlds together; it can bring people closer and can touch you in a way you are unprepared for. She grew up in France and for a time lived on an island in French Polynesia. She expounded on how the island people sing, and I couldn't help smile as she vividly described the way their whole souls sang the hymns as they praised God. They sang loud and with gusto. She said she remembers feeling so much joy when they sang she wanted to stand up and dance. As she continued to speak, my body ached to be there, to be part of what she was describing. Then, she asked our small congregation to sing "Sweet Hour of Prayer." She invited us to stand and sing with our whole souls. It was an amazing experience as our small numbers belted out such a wonderful song, "In seasons of distress and grief, my soul hath often found relief..." In that moment, as a congregation, I think we all felt the relief that the holy spirit can bring as we united in song. It was a moment you wish could last longer that it did.
*The fourth and final speaker had only a few minutes, but chose to share his feelings about the children's hymn, "I am a Child of God." They are words we are all familiar with, taken from the foundation of our testimony..."I am a Child of God, and He has sent me here. Has given me an earthly home, with parents kind and dear. Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way. Teach me all that I must do, to live with Him some day."
He told us how that song meant so much to him because he sang it with the people of Russia during his mission. When their life was bleak and hopeless, the words of the song brought hope and love. He also sang it when he lived in Egypt with a few members of the church and many refugees. Many people there had nothing at all and others had plenty but they all, regardless of circumstance needed the same thing, the love of God in their lives.
He then began singing the song, a capella. First in Russian, then in Arabic. The congregation, for a moment, was completely silent. Jace leaned over and said "Even the babies are listening." What happened was we were all swept up in the beautiful spirit of his simple testimony and the truth of the words he sang.
I am just immensely grateful that I was there today. What an infusion of the spirit it was for me. These were moments that strengthened my testimony of God and the gospel of Jesus Christ. It reaffirmed that I know He lives and loves us and wants us to partake of His joy.
*The first speaker let us into his life as he talked about gaining his own testimony. He remembered wanting to know, for a surety from the time he was 8. He asked earnestly, always before a big spiritual moment in his life, but was often disappointed...no heavenly angels or Christ appearing to him, but he had faith that what he was doing was true and brought him happiness, so he continued to believe. It wasn't until he was 20, that he felt the arms of his Savior wrap around him and testify of the truth of the gospel he had always believed in.
He then played, "I believe in Christ" on the piano. First with just his right hand. It seemed so hesitant but clear and simple, just like the beginning of his testimony and the beginning of mine. On the next verse, he added another part, and the song became a touch richer and more confident; on the third verse the music became full and interesting, and the fourth verse was the climax with beautiful and intricate details, but it was not flawless. It was just like the testimony he now possesses. One that has been worked on and tested, over and over again. He ended the song, with a few short notes on his right hand only...reminding us that it was still the same, simple song that he started out with and it was beautiful every way he played it. I was so moved, by what he played and the story it told. I reflected on how my own testimony of the Savior is sometimes simple and other times complicated, sometimes confident and other times hesitating...but it's always there and I'm grateful for that.
*The second speaker let us into a dim, heartbroken time of her life where her own loneliness enveloped her. She sang the words to the hymn "Abide with Me," and told us that as she sang that song, she knew she would never be alone, that Christ would always be her companion. I was so touched by her honesty and sincerity and knew she was speaking truth. Christ can be our companion, especially in our darkest hour.
*The third speaker taught us what music can mean, if we let it. It can tie worlds together; it can bring people closer and can touch you in a way you are unprepared for. She grew up in France and for a time lived on an island in French Polynesia. She expounded on how the island people sing, and I couldn't help smile as she vividly described the way their whole souls sang the hymns as they praised God. They sang loud and with gusto. She said she remembers feeling so much joy when they sang she wanted to stand up and dance. As she continued to speak, my body ached to be there, to be part of what she was describing. Then, she asked our small congregation to sing "Sweet Hour of Prayer." She invited us to stand and sing with our whole souls. It was an amazing experience as our small numbers belted out such a wonderful song, "In seasons of distress and grief, my soul hath often found relief..." In that moment, as a congregation, I think we all felt the relief that the holy spirit can bring as we united in song. It was a moment you wish could last longer that it did.
*The fourth and final speaker had only a few minutes, but chose to share his feelings about the children's hymn, "I am a Child of God." They are words we are all familiar with, taken from the foundation of our testimony..."I am a Child of God, and He has sent me here. Has given me an earthly home, with parents kind and dear. Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way. Teach me all that I must do, to live with Him some day."
He told us how that song meant so much to him because he sang it with the people of Russia during his mission. When their life was bleak and hopeless, the words of the song brought hope and love. He also sang it when he lived in Egypt with a few members of the church and many refugees. Many people there had nothing at all and others had plenty but they all, regardless of circumstance needed the same thing, the love of God in their lives.
He then began singing the song, a capella. First in Russian, then in Arabic. The congregation, for a moment, was completely silent. Jace leaned over and said "Even the babies are listening." What happened was we were all swept up in the beautiful spirit of his simple testimony and the truth of the words he sang.
I am just immensely grateful that I was there today. What an infusion of the spirit it was for me. These were moments that strengthened my testimony of God and the gospel of Jesus Christ. It reaffirmed that I know He lives and loves us and wants us to partake of His joy.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Chore Chart Dropout
I hate chores, for me and my kids and my husband. I really feel like cleaning just gets in the way of all the other fun and more important and interesting things in the life of a mother. I've often wished I had just a little OCD in me (To be honest, a kitchen full of open drawers and cupboards doesn't call out to me to shut them...gasp!) The problem? I also hate having a messy house and so does my super clean husband, and my kids like things orderly too or they don't play with anything, so what's a girl to do? Oh, and that minor thing about teaching your children to work and be productive? Yeah, need to fit that in too.
When we moved here I was totally going for the OCD girl...house perfect all the time, all the laundry done and put away on one day of the week, chore charts for each child that were finished before school, dishwasher started every night, a rotating list of deep cleaning...you know, crazy? It worked for a bit...
Then life got real. We got busy: friends, jobs, activities, homework, church callings, sports, holidays, visitors. I couldn't keep up with my craziness, so now I'm just back to being me (well, me plus a very clean and helpful husband). My downstairs (kitchen and living area) is almost always clean or 5 minutes from it as is my bathroom (lots of pressure when there is only one in your house) because it makes me happy to walk into a clean house that smells good, plus I like people to feel welcome when they walk in ...upstairs, you are rolling the dice. I pretty much stack my clothes in a corner for a week, then hang them all up. Laundry gets done in spurts, sometimes not often enough and I have to throw a load in for socks and underwear. Deep cleaning about once a week or every 10 days. On the brighter side, I am a purger, and don't like clutter, so you won't find any hoarding going on around here (just in case you are envisioning a hazmat zone). I'm pretty sure I'm a better mom and person without trying to pretend like I have OCD. (It's a DISorder for a reason, right?) I can't stand the pressure of having a perfectly clean house...you never want your kids to do ANYTHING.
Oh, and chore charts are out too. My kids are too young to do them independently and I'm too lazy to enforce them all the time. It was becoming like a full time job. So, now our plan is before school every kid does 5 things (thanks Jenny) 1. Make bed 2. Clean room 3. Get dressed 4. Say prayers 5. Brush teeth. It's working like a charm...no one misses or negotiates or forgets. Loving it.
Then, our deal as a family is when I ask for help, you have to answer yes. So, the boys help with dishes, unload the dishwasher, clean the stairs, take out the garbage and help with extra stuff on the weekends or when we need it. Sometimes I need their help a lot, sometimes rarely. They are generally happy helpers and as long as they stay that way, I'm happy to wing it with them.
I realized, I can't become someone I'm not. I have friends who keep stuff spotless without being crazy and their kids learn from them to keep things spic and span. That is seriously admirable. For me, pretty clean is good enough, and when we have a party or visitors, I get a little crazy and things are spotless and I love it for the moment and the next morning I don't do the breakfast dishes until after lunch and let my kids cut paper and use glue right on the kitchen table in between those breakfast dishes and syrup spills, then we play a few games on the ground and read a few books and pile them all on the couch where they do not belong and it feels so good. I've decided that a little less than perfect around here is perfectly all right with me.
When we moved here I was totally going for the OCD girl...house perfect all the time, all the laundry done and put away on one day of the week, chore charts for each child that were finished before school, dishwasher started every night, a rotating list of deep cleaning...you know, crazy? It worked for a bit...
Then life got real. We got busy: friends, jobs, activities, homework, church callings, sports, holidays, visitors. I couldn't keep up with my craziness, so now I'm just back to being me (well, me plus a very clean and helpful husband). My downstairs (kitchen and living area) is almost always clean or 5 minutes from it as is my bathroom (lots of pressure when there is only one in your house) because it makes me happy to walk into a clean house that smells good, plus I like people to feel welcome when they walk in ...upstairs, you are rolling the dice. I pretty much stack my clothes in a corner for a week, then hang them all up. Laundry gets done in spurts, sometimes not often enough and I have to throw a load in for socks and underwear. Deep cleaning about once a week or every 10 days. On the brighter side, I am a purger, and don't like clutter, so you won't find any hoarding going on around here (just in case you are envisioning a hazmat zone). I'm pretty sure I'm a better mom and person without trying to pretend like I have OCD. (It's a DISorder for a reason, right?) I can't stand the pressure of having a perfectly clean house...you never want your kids to do ANYTHING.
Oh, and chore charts are out too. My kids are too young to do them independently and I'm too lazy to enforce them all the time. It was becoming like a full time job. So, now our plan is before school every kid does 5 things (thanks Jenny) 1. Make bed 2. Clean room 3. Get dressed 4. Say prayers 5. Brush teeth. It's working like a charm...no one misses or negotiates or forgets. Loving it.
Then, our deal as a family is when I ask for help, you have to answer yes. So, the boys help with dishes, unload the dishwasher, clean the stairs, take out the garbage and help with extra stuff on the weekends or when we need it. Sometimes I need their help a lot, sometimes rarely. They are generally happy helpers and as long as they stay that way, I'm happy to wing it with them.
I realized, I can't become someone I'm not. I have friends who keep stuff spotless without being crazy and their kids learn from them to keep things spic and span. That is seriously admirable. For me, pretty clean is good enough, and when we have a party or visitors, I get a little crazy and things are spotless and I love it for the moment and the next morning I don't do the breakfast dishes until after lunch and let my kids cut paper and use glue right on the kitchen table in between those breakfast dishes and syrup spills, then we play a few games on the ground and read a few books and pile them all on the couch where they do not belong and it feels so good. I've decided that a little less than perfect around here is perfectly all right with me.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Tender Heart
#2 has such a gift for empathy. He feels, in his little soul, how others feel. If we ever tell a story about something sad, he talks to us for hours about how if he were there, he would have helped/done things differently.
The other day we took #3 to the doctor for his 4 year old shots. It was so sad. I had to hold him down while they poked him 4 times. He was wailing and my heart hurt for him...he's a pretty tough kid usually. When he was done and sniffling in my lap, #2 gave him a hug and knelt down at his feet and lovingly put his boots on for him saying in a high, sweet voice, "Are you okay buddy?" He carried #3s books and pictures and kept checking on him and reminding him of the treat to come.
We stopped at the store to get some much needed sugar and #2 walked with his little arm around #3s shoulders. He turned to me and said, "Mom, I just feel so sorry for him. When he was getting his shots, I felt so sad for him that I started crying too, so I put the book over my face so the doctors wouldn't see me."
My heart swelled inside. He is such a sweet, kind and soft kid. True, brotherly love.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
My Merriest Moment
Today was a busy day. I decided to take my kids to the mall to see Santa. Crazy? Yes. When we pulled into the parking lot I realized just how crazy the idea was. I could not see an empty parking spot. As I turned down one aisle, #1 yelled, "Mom, stop! There is a man back there in a wheelchair who needs help."
My reply was, "Honey, lots of people are in wheelchairs. They do just fine. He's fine. I didn't even see him." And I started to pull into a coveted parking space decently close to the doors.
Then, #1 again, "Mom, the spirit is telling me that we really should go help that man."
I paused. I know that one of the most important things Mike and I try to teach our boys is to listen to the good promptings we receive. It's extremely important to us that we raise children who care about others more than themselves. We would love it if their natural instincts were to always watch for those in need and be unafraid to help. So, here I was in a tough spot. I really didn't want to help, I had Christmas plans, but how could I ignore my 7 year old who was demonstrating what we hope our children are learning in our home. So, I backed out of the parking spot and found one far away from the mall, but closer to the man.
We got out of the car and I finally saw what #1 was talking about. An older man was sitting in a wheelchair across the insanely busy street between a public health center and the mall. He was on one side, me and my 3 kids were on the other. There was no traffic light or crosswalk in eyesight. We walked as close as we could and I yelled across the traffic, "Do you need any help?"
He smiled a little and said he was just waiting for a break in the traffic so he could get across. I smiled and said okay, knowing that break would never come. I started to turn around to walk towards the mall, but something pulled me back, that unsettling feeling that there was more I should do. I watched the cars zooming by, with better things to do than stop for a man in a wheelchair. I stood, trying to think, "How can I get traffic to stop?" I wasn't about to parade my 3 kids into oncoming traffic, but I didn't know what else to do.
Then, like 2 little angels in blue and maize, out came women from the health center. I'd already watched 3 people cross quickly without bothering to help the man in the wheelchair. But these women came out of their offices and literally stopped traffic to get the man across the street safely. We met them on the other side.
We wheeled D out of the cold and into the mall. He was kind, polite and grateful for the help. We found out he'd been waiting for a ride for over 2 hours and was getting hungry, so he was going to the mall to see if he could find chips or something to tide him over until he got home. My kids were sweet and talked with him a bit as we asked him about his life and family.
We found the food court together, bought him some nachos and left him with a little money, as it was obvious he had nothing but a few coins. He shook hands with my children and gave them a snaggle-tooth smile. He said to them, "You are good boys. I bet you are on the honor roll at school, right?" He was so cheerful and happy and giving of his love and energy even though I cannot imagine that his life warrants much tangible happiness. We asked if there was anything else we could do, to which he replied, "I'm just going to sit in here, eat and relax for awhile until my ride comes." He thanked us and blessed us as we walked away.
We still went to see Santa, but it all felt a little different. In fact, Jace didn't ask for anything, just that everyone would have a nice Christmas.
I am incredibly grateful for a sensitive son who listens to the voice of the spirit when it speaks to him. I'm so glad I listened to his little voice. This special Christmas moment reiterated to me that God has no hands but ours. That we have to look outside ourselves and that by doing that, we find real joy and happiness. It was perhaps, the merriest moment of my Christmas.
My reply was, "Honey, lots of people are in wheelchairs. They do just fine. He's fine. I didn't even see him." And I started to pull into a coveted parking space decently close to the doors.
Then, #1 again, "Mom, the spirit is telling me that we really should go help that man."
I paused. I know that one of the most important things Mike and I try to teach our boys is to listen to the good promptings we receive. It's extremely important to us that we raise children who care about others more than themselves. We would love it if their natural instincts were to always watch for those in need and be unafraid to help. So, here I was in a tough spot. I really didn't want to help, I had Christmas plans, but how could I ignore my 7 year old who was demonstrating what we hope our children are learning in our home. So, I backed out of the parking spot and found one far away from the mall, but closer to the man.
We got out of the car and I finally saw what #1 was talking about. An older man was sitting in a wheelchair across the insanely busy street between a public health center and the mall. He was on one side, me and my 3 kids were on the other. There was no traffic light or crosswalk in eyesight. We walked as close as we could and I yelled across the traffic, "Do you need any help?"
He smiled a little and said he was just waiting for a break in the traffic so he could get across. I smiled and said okay, knowing that break would never come. I started to turn around to walk towards the mall, but something pulled me back, that unsettling feeling that there was more I should do. I watched the cars zooming by, with better things to do than stop for a man in a wheelchair. I stood, trying to think, "How can I get traffic to stop?" I wasn't about to parade my 3 kids into oncoming traffic, but I didn't know what else to do.
Then, like 2 little angels in blue and maize, out came women from the health center. I'd already watched 3 people cross quickly without bothering to help the man in the wheelchair. But these women came out of their offices and literally stopped traffic to get the man across the street safely. We met them on the other side.
We wheeled D out of the cold and into the mall. He was kind, polite and grateful for the help. We found out he'd been waiting for a ride for over 2 hours and was getting hungry, so he was going to the mall to see if he could find chips or something to tide him over until he got home. My kids were sweet and talked with him a bit as we asked him about his life and family.
We found the food court together, bought him some nachos and left him with a little money, as it was obvious he had nothing but a few coins. He shook hands with my children and gave them a snaggle-tooth smile. He said to them, "You are good boys. I bet you are on the honor roll at school, right?" He was so cheerful and happy and giving of his love and energy even though I cannot imagine that his life warrants much tangible happiness. We asked if there was anything else we could do, to which he replied, "I'm just going to sit in here, eat and relax for awhile until my ride comes." He thanked us and blessed us as we walked away.
We still went to see Santa, but it all felt a little different. In fact, Jace didn't ask for anything, just that everyone would have a nice Christmas.
I am incredibly grateful for a sensitive son who listens to the voice of the spirit when it speaks to him. I'm so glad I listened to his little voice. This special Christmas moment reiterated to me that God has no hands but ours. That we have to look outside ourselves and that by doing that, we find real joy and happiness. It was perhaps, the merriest moment of my Christmas.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Christmas Music
One of the best things about Christmas is the music. I love music...truly, truly love it. I wish I had a talent for it. Music has been a big part of our Christmas this year.
Handel's Messiah Mike and I had the privilege of attending the entire opera this year. It was incredible. I was touched as hundreds of audience members felt the holiness and joy of the story of Christ, his birth and resurrection. It was a beautiful moment. Then, as I was reading this month's Ensign, there was a specific article on Handel and I loved it. Read it here
I especially enjoyed the way it ended:
In her epic poem, Aurora Leigh, Elizabeth Barrett Browning expressed the eloquent thought:
Childrens' VoicesI work with the kids at church in my Primary calling. I love being in there and especially love listening to them sing. They sang in church this past Sunday too...Away in a Manger. When Jace sat down next to me, he was beaming and leaned over to say, "Mom, I really feel the spirit right now." I did too. I was touched by their little voices singing about what they believe in and I love how music simply teaches truth. We've had a wonderful time this season singing along to just about every Christmas carol at home and in the car...Parker and James can't wait to see what the next song will be, even if Jace says, "Please, can we listen to a rockin' song instead of Christmas songs????" I promised him, after December 25th, we can be done, but positively not until then!
Handel's Messiah Mike and I had the privilege of attending the entire opera this year. It was incredible. I was touched as hundreds of audience members felt the holiness and joy of the story of Christ, his birth and resurrection. It was a beautiful moment. Then, as I was reading this month's Ensign, there was a specific article on Handel and I loved it. Read it here
I especially enjoyed the way it ended:
In her epic poem, Aurora Leigh, Elizabeth Barrett Browning expressed the eloquent thought:
Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
But only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.9
May each of us unlatch our shoes and cram our labors with the essence of heaven, and may none of us be found plucking blackberries when a much grander, loftier work needs to be done.
And at the end of our divinely ordained days, may we be able to acknowledge, with Handel, that God has visited us in our labors.
ChoirI'm not a great singer, in fact, I'm probably barely a good one. I'm good enough to know when I sound bad and I can stay quiet. I originally joined choir so my husband would go. He's really great and needed, especially in a choir. Then I realized how much I enjoyed singing praises to our God and I started going for me. We have a really incredible choir here and an inspiring director. I've already learned so much from the people around me who generously allow me to sing with them and I look forward to it each week. I love learning how to do new things and I really love watching my husband share his talents. This past Sunday we sang in church and my belief in Jesus Christ as the Son of God and the holiness of His mission to save us was reiterated to my soul through music. It was beautiful and moving and I loved, in a small way, being a part of that testimony.Childrens' VoicesI work with the kids at church in my Primary calling. I love being in there and especially love listening to them sing. They sang in church this past Sunday too...Away in a Manger. When Jace sat down next to me, he was beaming and leaned over to say, "Mom, I really feel the spirit right now." I did too. I was touched by their little voices singing about what they believe in and I love how music simply teaches truth. We've had a wonderful time this season singing along to just about every Christmas carol at home and in the car...Parker and James can't wait to see what the next song will be, even if Jace says, "Please, can we listen to a rockin' song instead of Christmas songs????" I promised him, after December 25th, we can be done, but positively not until then!
Friday, January 7, 2011
We Broke Up
I've had an almost 20 year love/hate relationship with my frenemy, "the scale."
It all started in 8th grade when we were "weighed in" for the first time. I got my blue slip of paper that said, "113 pounds." I still remember. We weren't supposed to talk about our number...yeah right. So, I lied. All my friends weighed less than I did even though I was plenty thin and fit. I started weighing myself on our scale at home every now and then, just to check in.
During dance practices in my "awkward" years, I was told to "suck in," and I watched others be praised for their still very girlish bodies. Mine was changing and I couldn't do anything about it and I didn't like it one bit. I hated everything that got bigger...I noticed rolls where I barely had any and invented cellulite when I looked at myself from behind. I started "watching" what I ate but knew too little about nutrition to realize that "low fat" often meant "high calorie" and along with natural body changes at my age I ended up gaining weight and hating the way I looked.
Then came high school. I danced and wore leotards and tights in front of an entire school. You can't help but compare. The summer before my junior year I ended up loosing about 7 pounds...on accident. Just a lot of running and practicing and my body settling in to itself. I was weighing myself every day, sometimes twice a day. I was getting a lot of attention and positive praise for my new, fit shape and it felt good. If 7 pounds was good, then more would be better, I was sure. I found a book about calories and memorized every entry of every food I ate. I exaggerated my own caloric intake and stopped eating everything I liked: pizza, bagels, cheese, chocolate, dessert, salad dressing and talked myself into the fact that I didn't like any of those things....I was oh so in control and getting oh so skinny. The scale was my very best friend. My happiest time of the day was when I stepped on the scale and saw the numbers go down. Really, truly, nothing tasted as good as skinny felt. I often wondered why everyone didn't live like I did--I felt fabulous.
The college years didn't get much better, in fact without homecooked meals and healthy food, they got worse....I lived on a ridiculous amount of bubble gum, tic tacs and Diet Coke. I ran at least 5 miles a day and took exercise classes. Looking back, I can't believe I could function at all let alone pull the grades I pulled.
I brought my scale to college. I remember weighing 6 times a day. I remember weighing with all my boots and coats on, then taking each article of clothing off until I was left with nothing on and the smallest number the scale could find for my body. I'd step on it 3 or 4 times just to make sure that was as low as it would go.
I remember mornings after I'd allowed myself to eat with my roommates and the scale showing a bigger number than the day before. It was a bad day. I would try and fast the entire day or eat only cabbage and mixed vegetables or just the skin of an apple. I'd vow to never eat treats again. I always felt hungry.
There were some really bad times...and so much detail that would bore you to death. There was a time when my body shut down and said, "Enough." It was the summer after my freshman year. My hair started falling out in clumps in the shower, my period stopped, I felt like I had to lie to everyone. It wasn't good and it scared me. After that, I tried to at least be a little smarter about it. I started eating a little more and started eating low calorie foods that were high in nutrients. I put on 2.5 pounds and it killed me. But, my period came back and my hair stopping coming out in clumps.
Looking back, I feel extremely blessed to have been able to always consume just enough to not permanently ruin myself. I feel so blessed that I was able to still get good grades and feel friendly, happy and confident most of the time. I'm so grateful for loving and supportive friends and family. I'm so grateful that I was never able to make myself throw up...because I would have tried that too, I am sure.
After marriage, at the urging of Mike, I let go a bit, and I didn't know how to control anything. If I started eating, I couldn't stop. My body was in a feast or famine mode and didn't know when it would be fed again. Still weighing multiple times a day, most of the time it ruined my day. I'd go the whole day without eating anything, then binge from the time I got home from work. Mike's love sustained me and made me feel thin and beautiful and amazing even when I wasn't. Boy am I grateful for him.
Luckily, having babies reset my metabolism and view on health. But still, nothing more exhilarating for a scale addict than watching the numbers go down after having a baby. Such a rush. After having Jace, I got a lot healthier. I started eating healthier, doing moderate exercise, and eating more often. My metabolism kicked in again and I feel so lucky that it does its part. I also feel very lucky that I didn't permanently ruin myself. I'm still pretty careful about what I eat and boy how I've always loved my scale.
Even as a mother, I'd set my scale 4 pounds heavy...just so I would never be surprised by the number on any other scale. There was no worse feeling than thinking I was one weight then stepping on a different scale and seeing I was wrong, in a bad way. If mine was 4 pounds heavy, I'd always be pleasantly surprised by another. I've weighed myself at least twice a day, every day for the last 7 years.
My weight in the morning decided lots of things: if I should feel happy, if I should smile, if I should think about others, if I should eat breakfast or lunch or just wait until dinner, if I could have dessert, if I should wear a fitted shirt, if I should cuddle up with my husband. I still did these things, but it took work. I could be feeling great, feeling like I looked great, then step on the scale and it could change everything.
I brought my scale on vacation in my suitcase...after all, how could I enjoy a trip without knowing my weight?
Then we moved. I left my scale in Arizona and my cheap self didn't want to spend our money on a new one. So, for the first time in 18 years, I'm scale-less!!!!! I love it. I check in with the scale once a week at the gym (I feel like it's healthy to know where you are at) and that's it. I've been amazed that I'm still the same as I was before. I didn't think I'd ever be able to self-regulate without seeing the numbers on the scale, but I found out, I can.
In the beginning I didn't know if I should feel like I was having a "fat" day or a "skinny" day. I realized I'd never really looked at myself, I just trusted the scale to decide for me. It decided everything for me...it's been a whole new adventure to decide if my body needs another helping or if it's okay to have some chocolate or if it's time to turn up the exercise, but it's been really, really good.
Kind of a long post that is probably boring to most, but in a really weird way, I'm really proud of myself. I feel great, healthy, fit and actually normal and it feels good....My scale and I now have a much healthier relationship...laid-back, casual, and no longer toxic.
It all started in 8th grade when we were "weighed in" for the first time. I got my blue slip of paper that said, "113 pounds." I still remember. We weren't supposed to talk about our number...yeah right. So, I lied. All my friends weighed less than I did even though I was plenty thin and fit. I started weighing myself on our scale at home every now and then, just to check in.
During dance practices in my "awkward" years, I was told to "suck in," and I watched others be praised for their still very girlish bodies. Mine was changing and I couldn't do anything about it and I didn't like it one bit. I hated everything that got bigger...I noticed rolls where I barely had any and invented cellulite when I looked at myself from behind. I started "watching" what I ate but knew too little about nutrition to realize that "low fat" often meant "high calorie" and along with natural body changes at my age I ended up gaining weight and hating the way I looked.
Then came high school. I danced and wore leotards and tights in front of an entire school. You can't help but compare. The summer before my junior year I ended up loosing about 7 pounds...on accident. Just a lot of running and practicing and my body settling in to itself. I was weighing myself every day, sometimes twice a day. I was getting a lot of attention and positive praise for my new, fit shape and it felt good. If 7 pounds was good, then more would be better, I was sure. I found a book about calories and memorized every entry of every food I ate. I exaggerated my own caloric intake and stopped eating everything I liked: pizza, bagels, cheese, chocolate, dessert, salad dressing and talked myself into the fact that I didn't like any of those things....I was oh so in control and getting oh so skinny. The scale was my very best friend. My happiest time of the day was when I stepped on the scale and saw the numbers go down. Really, truly, nothing tasted as good as skinny felt. I often wondered why everyone didn't live like I did--I felt fabulous.
The college years didn't get much better, in fact without homecooked meals and healthy food, they got worse....I lived on a ridiculous amount of bubble gum, tic tacs and Diet Coke. I ran at least 5 miles a day and took exercise classes. Looking back, I can't believe I could function at all let alone pull the grades I pulled.
I brought my scale to college. I remember weighing 6 times a day. I remember weighing with all my boots and coats on, then taking each article of clothing off until I was left with nothing on and the smallest number the scale could find for my body. I'd step on it 3 or 4 times just to make sure that was as low as it would go.
I remember mornings after I'd allowed myself to eat with my roommates and the scale showing a bigger number than the day before. It was a bad day. I would try and fast the entire day or eat only cabbage and mixed vegetables or just the skin of an apple. I'd vow to never eat treats again. I always felt hungry.
There were some really bad times...and so much detail that would bore you to death. There was a time when my body shut down and said, "Enough." It was the summer after my freshman year. My hair started falling out in clumps in the shower, my period stopped, I felt like I had to lie to everyone. It wasn't good and it scared me. After that, I tried to at least be a little smarter about it. I started eating a little more and started eating low calorie foods that were high in nutrients. I put on 2.5 pounds and it killed me. But, my period came back and my hair stopping coming out in clumps.
Looking back, I feel extremely blessed to have been able to always consume just enough to not permanently ruin myself. I feel so blessed that I was able to still get good grades and feel friendly, happy and confident most of the time. I'm so grateful for loving and supportive friends and family. I'm so grateful that I was never able to make myself throw up...because I would have tried that too, I am sure.
After marriage, at the urging of Mike, I let go a bit, and I didn't know how to control anything. If I started eating, I couldn't stop. My body was in a feast or famine mode and didn't know when it would be fed again. Still weighing multiple times a day, most of the time it ruined my day. I'd go the whole day without eating anything, then binge from the time I got home from work. Mike's love sustained me and made me feel thin and beautiful and amazing even when I wasn't. Boy am I grateful for him.
Luckily, having babies reset my metabolism and view on health. But still, nothing more exhilarating for a scale addict than watching the numbers go down after having a baby. Such a rush. After having Jace, I got a lot healthier. I started eating healthier, doing moderate exercise, and eating more often. My metabolism kicked in again and I feel so lucky that it does its part. I also feel very lucky that I didn't permanently ruin myself. I'm still pretty careful about what I eat and boy how I've always loved my scale.
Even as a mother, I'd set my scale 4 pounds heavy...just so I would never be surprised by the number on any other scale. There was no worse feeling than thinking I was one weight then stepping on a different scale and seeing I was wrong, in a bad way. If mine was 4 pounds heavy, I'd always be pleasantly surprised by another. I've weighed myself at least twice a day, every day for the last 7 years.
My weight in the morning decided lots of things: if I should feel happy, if I should smile, if I should think about others, if I should eat breakfast or lunch or just wait until dinner, if I could have dessert, if I should wear a fitted shirt, if I should cuddle up with my husband. I still did these things, but it took work. I could be feeling great, feeling like I looked great, then step on the scale and it could change everything.
I brought my scale on vacation in my suitcase...after all, how could I enjoy a trip without knowing my weight?
Then we moved. I left my scale in Arizona and my cheap self didn't want to spend our money on a new one. So, for the first time in 18 years, I'm scale-less!!!!! I love it. I check in with the scale once a week at the gym (I feel like it's healthy to know where you are at) and that's it. I've been amazed that I'm still the same as I was before. I didn't think I'd ever be able to self-regulate without seeing the numbers on the scale, but I found out, I can.
In the beginning I didn't know if I should feel like I was having a "fat" day or a "skinny" day. I realized I'd never really looked at myself, I just trusted the scale to decide for me. It decided everything for me...it's been a whole new adventure to decide if my body needs another helping or if it's okay to have some chocolate or if it's time to turn up the exercise, but it's been really, really good.
Kind of a long post that is probably boring to most, but in a really weird way, I'm really proud of myself. I feel great, healthy, fit and actually normal and it feels good....My scale and I now have a much healthier relationship...laid-back, casual, and no longer toxic.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)