Forget Failure

The baby is 15 months, and he doesn't walk anymore. He runs. Or trots, rather. Everywhere he goes is full steam ahead. No hesitation. He definitely gets some bumps and bruises along the way, but after a quick fall or falter, he's up and at it again.  While it's exhausting for the mother, it's also inspirational. He's not intimidated; he just goes.

I was out of town on Saturday, and my sweet babysitter took all three kids to a superhero birthday party. She told me that the baby only wanted to hang out at one spot: the basketball court. This court was not really where the party was; it was for big kids and adults to use.  And I guess the occasional toddler.  She had to try to keep him off when big people were using it, and the second they were gone, he'd race back out to play.  My daughter laughed when I told her about this.

"Yes," she said. "I saw him over there from the pirate ship."

In thinking about the baby's audacity, I am reminded how utterly cautious I am. I like to have my ducks in a row before proceeding. I like to envision the outcome.  I don't like the messy "what if's" or the unruly "maybe not's."  I don't like to fail.

I fail a lot, but I don't like it. I feel it. It makes me scared to try again.

I have been thinking about this topic with writing lately. When I was younger and braver and would sent out bold query letters or send poems to literary journals, I felt hopeful of the outcome. But rejection letters aren't that fun. They make you think you might not really be a writer after all.  You might just be a journaler or a scribbler.

As reminded by my Bible study teacher, I've been trying to do some listening prayer lately instead of just talking prayer.  Last week, I heard: "Forget Failure.  Just do what I tell you."

Forget failure.

What would we all be like if we could forget failure and just do what He tells us?

"Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus." (Philippians 3:13-14).

Dog Days

When I first met our dog, Emmitt, he was a teeny chocolate lab puppy who tumbled out of a neighbor's wagon onto our front lawn and stretched out for a nap. Our kids were 18 months and almost 3 at the time, and our savvy neighbor told his high school-age kids to bring a wagon full of their new litter over to our house.  Emmitt promptly nestled up close to me and slept.

I strolled the kids over to the neighbor's house a few days later, and that little Emmitt was his same laid-back self. Just a sleeping blob. What's not to love?  If we were to get a dog, I wanted this one. Quiet, still, a sleeper. I didn't want one of his jabbering sisters or playful brothers. Just one to snooze quietly on the floor next to me. Like a cat.

Well, turns out that the second Emmitt moved over to our house, he got a new personality. A jumpy, barky, social personality. Where, oh where, had my sleeping dog gone? 

I now spend a lot of time saying, "Emmitt!" in an exasperated voice.  Grabbing a pull-up out of a trashcan and racing through the house shredding it? Emmitt! Snatching a favorite stuffed animal out of a shrieking child's hands and running around the yard like a maniac?  Emmitt!  Barking like crazy, but then not coming inside when called? Emmitt! Knocking over the baby on his way out the door? Emmitt!

But this week, Emmitt has been my buddy. My husband has been out of town, and I HATE staying at home without him. I almost always figure out a way around it--importing a friend from out of town, loading up the kids and going to stay with family, or loading everyone up and just traveling with my husband! But this week, after I had exhausted all options, it was time to suck it up.

And one little pearl from the week is that in the evenings after the kids are in bed, I have given Emmitt a rawhide bone and let him hang out with me in the family room. His tail thumps loudly and he scoots my ottoman over continuously with his closeness, but I'll admit, he's been nice to have around. It made me think that in a few more years, he just might be back to that Emmitt I first met. That nice, quiet, sleeping dog.

Not the Right Time

"These people say, 'The time has not yet come for the Lord's house to be built.' ... Is it time for you yourselves to be living in your paneled houses, while this house remains a ruin? ... Give careful thought to your ways.  You have planted much but harvested little" (Haggai 1: 2-6).

I came across this passage today in reading a book called Made to Crave: Satisfying your Deepest Desire with God, Not Food by Lysa TerKeurst.  She was looking at this passage in relation to living a healthy lifestyle--treating your body as a temple of the Holy Spirit (that idea based on 1 Corinthians 6:19).  She wrote that we are often full of excuses about timing before starting to make changes in our lives. 

For me, major life transitions uproot my routine and my intentions each time--whether a move, job change, marriage, having a child.  Hmmm...now that I think about it, it seems even little life transitions can topple the routine (illness, holidays, vacations). 

Knowing that things are going to come up, how can we make lasting changes in different areas of our lives, whether physical, spiritual, mental, financial, or relational?

The above passage from Haggai continues:
"Give careful thought to your ways.  Go up into the mountains and bring down timber and build the house, so that I may take pleasure in it and be honored" (Haggai 1:7-8).

Not only does this Scripture call for self-reflection, but it calls for major effort and work. Before even starting the building process (which we know takes time), we are to climb a mountain and haul down timber! This doesn't sound like a quick 911 phone call or prayer.  How can we gear up?  How can we not feel discouraged before even starting?

I am reminded that in building a huge building, construction workers use scaffolding.  To me, this image of a structure to help the building process is useful.  I think creating structure--even a temporary one--helps me get back into building my life in the direction I want it to go.  That structure can include the accountability of friends or other people; or it could include the structure of time or space to think and plan and act.  But whatever it is, a scaffold can help focus the building project.

But perhaps the most significant way to press on in the face of a huge personal goal is to focus on the spiritual aspect of the goal, the thought of building a house that honors the Lord.

TerKeurst also quoted this verse:
"My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever" (Psalm 73:26).

Cold Again

When we woke up this morning, the temperature was in the 40s, but it was in the 30s by the time the kids left for school and in the 20s by the time the baby and I left for Bible study.  I could see the traces from last night's rain starting to freeze on the picnic table.  A flip flop on the patio had ice on it.  I was debating even leaving the house, thinking I should call my husband and have him block off time so HE could bring the kids home from school later in the day. 

I called my friend who was oblivious to the fact that it was so cold and was loading up her kids in the car.

"Oh? I didn't know it was 28.  I'll call and let you know how the roads are," she said.

"O.K." I answered, "But don't call while you're driving."  You know, safety first.

I had been feeling very self-righteous about last week's cold, remembering how tough I'd become from living in Kansas.  Shoot, these Texans just don't know how to handle it.  But then my car slid on an icy road last Saturday and I panicked. I turned around from our goal of a movie, kids' crying in the backseat with the injustice of it all, me starting to cry with fear and frustration.  My sweet husband, who spent six years in the Northeast, was not getting it when we came in the door with all our drama.  He ended up driving us safely to a later feature. Pitiful. But that's why I was nervous today.  What if there was ice?

I remember skidding on the ice in Kansas, too. And turning around and going home.  My husband patiently said the same thing then that he did this time: "You just don't know how to drive on ice.  You just need to slow down."

I tried to keep that in my head today.  Drive slowly. Anyway, I made it. I didn't see a lick of ice on the road. But better to drive like an old lady than be sorry.

I guess I'm not so tough anymore. I'm used to the warm weather of South Texas. I'm so cold right now--even inside--wool sweater over my long sleeve shirt, jeans, snuggly boots, blanket.

When my babysitter came last night, I asked if it was cold outside.  "Not to me," she said. She's from Colorado.

Teeth-chattering, Book-reading Weather

With crazy cold weather... even snow in South Texas!... it's hard to think about being productive.  Most of the city has checked out and hunkered down.  For me, this behavior started yesterday. It was so cold that all I could think about was sweatpants, hot tea, a couch, and my book.

Because the baby took a long winter's nap yesterday, my dream came true.  Pure luxury.  And I finished my book!  I was reading The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls, and I have already asked for her next book for Valentine's Day.  I had actually put off reading this book despite numerous recommendations; it seemed like a sad story, and I wasn't quite in the mood. But then my book club chose it, and my sweet neighbor and friend (who took the above photo) dropped her library copy in my mail box.  She had read it furiously and finished in a few days.  Reluctantly, I read the first paragraph, and from that moment, I looked for every excuse to read it.

My husband and I have a habit of reading first lines of our books to each other. We love really strong first sentences.  This one is a doozy:
"I was sitting in a taxi, wondering if I had overdressed for the evening, when I looked out the window and saw Mom rooting through a Dumpster" (Walls, 3).

Walls' writing captivated me from that first sentence; it was gorgeous throughout. The detail was stunning so that each place where she lived was so clear, whether a trailer park, the desert of California, inner city Arizona, rural West Virginia, or New York City.  I also appreciated that, even though this story was her personal story, she didn't editorialize much; she just wrote what happened (from her point of view, of course).  She didn't try to make sense of it all, and she didn't even place square blame on anyone; she simply told the story.

I started this post on Friday morning, the snow day, when the temperatures were below freezing.  I am finishing it today, Sunday, when it's sunny and 60s.  Regardless of the outside weather, The Glass Castle has been sitting with me all weekend.  My mind keeps returning to the Walls family's wild ride, the sadness, the determination, the survival instinct, the ability to laugh, the unorthodoxy, the bravery, the hunger, the need to dream, the need for art, the tragedy, the heroism. I am excited for book club.

Afternoon Antics

My plan for an after-school activity today was to get going on making Valentine's.  That lasted a little while, but pretty soon, O and L were rehearsing a show in the living room, with O plunking on the piano and L doing a ballet/modern dance in a bridal dress from the dress-up box.  They were very serious about the show, as usual.  I did my best to corral the baby in my lap to watch, and he clapped for a while at the dancing bride, but pretty soon, he moved on.

We broke up the performance and promised to reconvene after more rehearsals. I went to change the baby's diaper, and O followed me.  Spotting a diaper box, he dumped out the diapers and disappeared with the box.  I later glanced into the family room and saw him on the floor with grown-up scissors, stabbing them into the box.  Amid sawing noises, I kept hollering, "Are you being careful?" in my best school-marm voice.

The next thing I know, I am bathing the baby, and in walks a robot! O had made the box into a robot costume all by himself. How do kids learn these things?

Maybe I am too easily impressed by what a five-year-old can make out of a box, but I think I'm also impressed by the act of making something out of nothing.  How often do we see raw materials--or even garbage--and create? Poof!  I also like that there are a million plastic toys and trucks and action figures and builder things hanging around, but he chose the cardboard box instead.

I had been talking on the phone with my friend in Paris yesterday, and we were recounting a few childhood memories.  We both have strong memories of us as children planning elaborate games and playing, but we don't remember parent involvement.  Yet, we had and still have very involved moms.  We aren't sure if we don't remember because we were too little, and by the time our memories kicked in, we were more independent; OR if we don't remember because our parents let us play and didn't organize our play.  Either way, we liked thinking about how we played, and it made us wonder why we all feel the need to plan "play dates." Do we feel like supermom when we decorate cookies and have special crafts?  Will that be what our kids remember? Or will it be the backyard fort they dream up and build on their own?  I don't know. I'm just asking.

The Doghouse

This morning, the baby learned a new trick: how to let the dog out of his crate.  While making a bed, I was surprised to have the dog trot down for a visit. I let him outside and went to investigate.  I found a little mischief-maker in the crate.

Our dog, Emmitt, is a humongous chocolate lab with a tail that can thwack, a bark that prompts calls from a "concerned neighbor," and a bad habit of eating children's socks.  Yesterday, I found several of said socks in the yard; they had made their way out of his system one way or another. Gross.

There are dog people out there, and then, there are those of us who marry dog people. 

I have a friend who is one of the funniest non-dog people I know.  She has four kids, and her husband and kids started in on the dog theme a couple of years ago.  She hemmed and hawed until a scruffy little dog showed up at her house one night for dinner; some dog-loving and -rescuing friends had come for dinner and were real keen on this dog "Molly," but they couldn't keep her because they had too many dogs of their own.  She was tucked into a tiny box and looked so sweet that, lo and behold, my friend MK welcomed Molly into her home.

Molly is a pint-sized version of Sandy from Annie, with the huge bonus that she arrived with heartworm. She seems a touch like those malteepoos you see, but maybe without the bloodlines.  Suddenly, MK, who had barely glanced at anyone else's dogs over the years, was carrying this scrawny mutt in her arms when she opened the door to her home and then holding her in her lap while you sat in the living room.  She took her on trips.  And she took her to the vet (heartworm, you know).  Molly really was kind of endearing and didn't seem to cause a bit of trouble (except maybe the heartworm thing).

One day, her little buddy Molly refused to go on a walk with MK.  She just sat down on the sidewalk and wouldn't budge.  MK thought it was a little odd, but didn't give it that much thought. She has four kids to think about, after all.

That night, when they got home from dinner, they found Molly on the floor not moving and breathing heavily.  MK sent her husband to the emergency vet and began to prepare her children for the worst.  Her husband called with the news: "Molly is in labor."

Now, my friend who is not a dog person has two dogs. And they don't know who the father is.