why is it?

Everyday, in the hustle and bustle to get out the door, my children inevitably leave the front door open. I'm not talking a little bit open; I'm talking wide open. I'm talkng you could drive a semi through my front door open.

What gets my dander up is not the draft of cold air that wraps itself around my ankles as I settle into the first cup of coffee of the day, it's the fact that if that door is going to be closed at all I am going to have to do it myself. And what can really get my panties in a twist is the thought that that was why they didn't close the door in the first place. Because they knew I would!

Which makes me wonder: Why is it we are willing to do "whatever we can" to help the people of Haiti pick up the pieces after a devastating earthquake but we go ballistic if we have to pick our children's socks up off the floor one more time? And why is it we will clean for a neighbor in need but if our husband leaves the dishes to soak in the sink we fly into a rage? I wish I knew.

The best thing about a new haircut is it's new. The worst thing: it takes a week to get the hang of it and a month to learn to like it. Then it's time to go back and do it all again.

The best thing about this time of year? Putting on a jacket you haven't worn in a long time and finding money in the pocket.

The last days of summer...

Why is it the last few fleeting days of summer always seem to be the best?

Is it because, like this year, the weather finally cooperates giving us warm days and cool, comfortable nights?

Or is it because, knowing they are so fleeting, we do our best to savor them: lying a little bit longer on the beach, floating a little less purposefully on a raft, lingering around the fire pit for one last s'more.

Or maybe it's because, after months of doing, of running here and there trying to see it all and do it all, we have finally learned how to be. Just be.

It's something to think about while you're floating on your raft.

Sabbath

The older I get, the quirkier I become. Take running, for instance.

When I run by myself, I run slowly, evenly, at a pace I can maintain for long stretches at a time. I also breathe better, more deeply, taking in fresh, clean air and letting it fill my lungs and fuel my body. Running alone, I notice things along the way; flowers growing by the side of the road, the sun rising over the horizon, the tracks of other people and animals that have been there before me. And I am content; body, mind, spirit all working together; all savoring the experience.

As soon as I am aware of somebody else along my route—another runner or a neighbor working in his yard—everything changes. My pace quickens and my heart begins to race. I start gasping for air, trying to figure out how long I will have to maintain this pace before I lose the other person or have a heart attack, which ever comes first. Running as though I am being watched, I don’t notice anything around me. I am focused strictly on the road ahead and on appearing worthy of the name “runner.” And I am miserable; truly miserable.

I remember reading somewhere that the commandment to “remember the Sabbath” wasn’t intended to spoil all our fun one day a week or to dictate what we can, and cannot do on the seventh day, although certainly, over time that is what has happened to it. Instead, the original intent of that commandment was to get us, for at least one day in seven, to stop doing and just be. To stop trying to prove that we are worthy of anything based on our own merits and accept the truth that, in God’s sight, we are already precious before we even get out of bed in the morning.

Maybe then, a good Sabbath activity for me would be to start running as though it doesn’t matter how fast or how far I go. Maybe, a good Sabbath practice for me on the seventh day and every day would be to run more slowly, breathe more deeply and look, really look at the world around me no matter who’s watching. Maybe, it would be good for all of us to learn to rest in the knowledge that, no matter who we are or what we can do we are all precious in His sight.

My desert year

I have taken to calling this last year my desert year. “Sometimes,” I tell a friend, “I feel as though I’ve been hit over the head and I can’t remember who I am or what I’m doing here.”

“The desert will do that to you,” my friend says. “Just look at the Israelites.”

When the Israelites left Egypt, they left behind the only life they had known for over four hundred years. Sure, it was a hard life; a slave’s life. But it was their life. They knew when to get up in the morning and when to go to bed at night. They knew what was expected of them and what they could expect in return. In the desert, though, all bets were off. The Israelites didn’t know where they were going or when they would get there. Some days, they didn’t even know where their next meal was coming from.

I can relate.

What's more, in the desert, my friend points out, the Israelites didn’t relax and enjoy the change of scenery. They didn’t even thank God for saving them. Instead, they shook their fists at God and complained. "How could you?" "You promised." "What gives?" They even begged to be sent back to Egypt because the snacks were better there.

I can relate.

And in the desert, the people of Israel didn’t rely on the God of their fathers, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. They turned to false gods and made idols of people and things they thought would save them and turn their life around.

I can totally relate.

"But, in the end,” my friend says, “it wasn’t the Israelites’ idols or their complaining or even what they knew or had figured out that brought them to the Promised Land. It was the desert. The desert alone brought God's chosen people to the place they belonged, to the land of blessing.”

“I hope so,” I say. I hope so.

photo: Amelia Lin, Chihuahua Desert, Mexico.

This Old Car

There is something liberating about driving an old car.

First, there is the freedom from debt. And in these “tough economic times,” who doesn’t love that?

Then there is the freedom from surprises. I know every knock and ping, every creak and moan my old Caravan makes. I know where my blind spots are and how to look into the side view mirror that cracked the first time I backed into the garage so that I get the best view. I know, too, when there is something truly wrong with my car and when it’s okay to just turn the radio up a little louder.

There is also the freedom from worry. I drive on ice and snow, zip into tight parking spaces, I even let my daughter’s friend drive my car when her permit was less than a month old, because, quite frankly, I don’t care. One more ding, one more dent, one more cracked mirror isn’t going to ruin my day. I’m beyond that; way beyond. This past fall, my 92- year-old neighbor backed into my car while my husband was behind the wheel.. “It’s okay,” I heard my husband say as the two bent to inspect the damage, “it’s an old car. Don’t worry about it.”

That’s not to say I don’t like my car. I do; I like it a lot and when it finally goes, I’m sure it will be like a death in the family. But, for now, I’m just going to sit back and enjoy the ride.

photo credits: "Trusty Rusty" by Amelia Lin