College Mom's Ripcord

When I walk through a door, I prefer there be a floor on the other side of the threshold.

More than thirty years ago, I stepped through a door into thin air. That time, I had a parachute strapped to my back and a reserve chute on my tummy, like a baby to whom I preferred not to give birth. I was twenty, just a little older than my son is now, more excited than scared to dive into the adventure. And I jumped.

Three weeks ago, I stepped over the same threshold as I drove away from my son's college campus for the six hour ride home. Hot tears threatened my view and I grabbed the steering wheel as if it were a lifeline, a ripcord. I continued to drive. My heart sped to the ground, frantically waiting for the whoosh of air to open a life-giving chute.

I remembered surviving this a year ago, when I dropped him off for the first time as a freshman.

I focused in on what I know. I know my son is thriving, excited, and ready to take his next steps toward adulthood. It takes every fiber of my being to trust the air and the invisibility of it all. It's the same air which saves me, though.

They say that every landing is called a crash landing. The best I can do is crash a little more gently each time. Maybe I'll have a bigger parachute next year.

Ordinary Faith

It was almost Easter weekend, and I packed my overnight bag for the six-hour road trip to visit my son Alex at college. I counted down the days, no, the hours, until I would see him and hug the heck out of him, even if I had to reach up to do so. Blended with my excitement, though, was my apprehension about his faith. I knew Alex wasn’t attending a church regularly, but have continued praying that he would connect with God somehow out there in college land.  

Several weeks prior, it occurred to me I could ask Alex to attend church with me when I was visiting. It would be Easter weekend, after all, and my request would be reasonable. Right? I wanted to let God be in charge of Alex but felt I needed to give God, and Alex, a little help. Eventually, I sensed God telling me to relax. I wanted to attend the service, and decided to do so even if I’d be going to church without Alex. So, I asked Alex to find us a church service to attend and waited for his response.

Nothing.

Come on, God, I thought. I’m leaving first thing in the morning. Should I look up a service myself? I need some kind of a sign. Do you hear me, God?

I like numbers, and one way I’ve learned to notice God’s presence in the numbers. Whenever I see either of these three times on an ordinary digital clock: 1:11, 11:11, or 3:33, I think of God and His three-in-one existence, and how He really is number One above all things. Those times are a little eye-wink from God to me, reminding me of His presence.

Finally, as I checked over my bag on the night before my road trip, I received a text from Alex sending me a link to a church he found for us to attend that Sunday. Excitedly, I clicked on the link to find out more—the service location, time, and the church information.

He found a contemporary Christian service geared towards college students, held in a nearby college building. It sounded similar to the services Alex used to attend with us at home. The location was less than a mile from his dorm. It was an ordinary service and seemed perfect for our needs.

However, there was nothing ordinary about the time of the church service. I had to reread the information on the church’s website.

It was slated to start at 11:11.

Easter was extra special this year.

 

 

How about you? Can you share a time God shown up in YOUR ordinary experiences?

 

For the Love of Ice Cream

The ice cream carton beckoned. Although shoved in the back right corner of my overstuffed freezer, its voice was crystal clear.

“Hey, baby. I’m in here. Go ahead, grab a spoon and get me out of this cold corner. It’s time for you to indulge.”

The cold, smooth vanilla creaminess with buttery undertones threw my taste buds into heavenly overdrive. Crunchy candy pieces of chocolate lingered long after the vanilla was gone. I wanted—no, needed—more. Just another spoonful. Only there was no way to end it. A spoonful turned into a carton. At least it was a pint, not a half-gallon, I thought.

Three days later, it was time to weigh in again. Three pounds up. Ugh. Dreaded ice cream. You give love a bad name.

It’s all about balance, they say.

But how do I balance a crashing wave? I’m supposed to fall over, sink under, swim for a while, maybe catch my breath later. My desire for sweets is one-directional. It’s always a “yes.” What’s to balance?

Eat just a little, they say.

But how can I section out a portion of joy, when by its very nature joy is all about abundance? Why consider even a little bit when I can’t figure out when I have had enough? Happiness is a dessert buffet, especially if it contains the Italian cookies I ate growing up, and of course any form of chocolate. Love has no bounds so why should my dessert have a limit?

Measure your food and count your calories, they say.

But how can I measure the moments I love? Seeing my son after a couple months of being away at college, or spending time watching a movie with my husband, or catching a cup of coffee with a girlfriend, or sharing an after-school hug with my daughter---these are all unmeasurable. When I weigh out my grilled chicken or measure a portion of cottage cheese, I believe I have some control over food, but, seriously, it’s only the healthy food I’m measuring. Who wants to measure the good stuff?

Love unbounded, like a giggling child running through a big wet puddle just to see how high the water will splash, is the best way to experience it. It’s not available in single-serving sizes. Love is an all-you-can-eat buffet of deliciousness.

But by continuing my discipline of day-to-day weighing, measuring and tracking, most of the time at least, I gain the freedom to understand how to love my own self without the ice cream. To love my body which can dance, run, climb stairs and hug a friend means to take care of it. And this means the ice cream must be kept to a single-serving size. Love can be a buffet. It costs no calories but lingers long after the experience.

Ice cream, you give love a bad name. But I love you anyway.

 

 

1 John 2:15-16

“Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For everything in the world—the cravings of sinful man, the lust of his eyes and the boasting of what he has and does—comes not from the Father but from the world.”

I want to enjoy my sweets in single-serving sizes, and indulge in the sweetness of God’s love with unmeasurable abundance. I’m still learning to do this, one day at a time.

 

 

           

Book Review: No More Peanut Butter Sandwiches

As much as I love to write, I also love to read. Therefore, I chose to participate in a book review of:

No More Peanut Butter Sandwiches (ISBN 978-1-63357-001-6) by Jeff Davidson.

Jeff shares his personal experiences as a dad having a son with special needs in No More Peanut Butter Sandwiches. The stories provide insight into his perspectives on life, on parenting and on his faith. Families raising children with special needs will benefit, however the encouragement he intends to share also applies to the universal theme of challenged faith, no matter what the struggle.

As a pastor who is called to serve the special needs community, Jeff’s generous heart to help others is evident. The book, however, falls short in story-telling techniques and instead slides back and forth from anecdotes to sermons. His writing is redundant and preachy, as if his existing sermons were assembled and printed together to compile the book. There are helpful ideas interspersed between the stories, however.

I found the concept and ministry appealing and useful, however recommend Jeff’s blog site www.goodnightsuperman.com and Rising Above Ministries as a resource for inspiration instead of the book.

The paperback is available on Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/No-More-Peanut-Butter-Sandwiches/dp/1633570010/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1424269210&sr=8-1&keywords=no+more+peanut+butter+sandwiches+book

 

Disclosure of Material: I received a complimentary copy of this book from the publisher through the BookCrash.com book review program, which requires an honest, though not necessarily positive, review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s CFR Title 16, Part 255: “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”

 

 

 

Targeting My Thoughts

My daughter and husband are competitive pistol shooters. Some of you may cringe at the word “pistol” because of the fear of guns and all things gun-related. I get that. Guns, in the hands of people with evil intent, can be used as deadly weapons.

 It’s not the guns themselves but the people with evil intent which frighten me, though. When I think of my daughter’s bull’s-eye competitions, I smile with pride at her skills. It takes intense focus, physical training, and a gut-level dose of courage to hit the tiny little “x” in the middle of the big, bad white paper with black rings. I also smile with joy at her shared experience with her father. Nothing will replace their special times together, in training and in competition, and my daughter’s life is blessed as a result. The guns they use in these competitions are not in the hands of people with evil intent. Instead, they are in the hands of people who love competition, who love each other and who safely handle the tools of their sport.

 

 

 

 

As for me, I have my own version of target shooting: healthy eating. I watch what I eat, when I eat it and how much. It takes gut-level motivation to continue to plow forward even when the scale moves slowly and everyone else in the world seems to be eating donuts.

 

There are three principles in target shooting which I can apply for success in eating right.

 1)      Everyone in shooting knows it’s virtually impossible to hit the ‘x’ every time.

When I watch what I eat day after day, there are certain to be moments when I miss the mark. Today, for instance, I had a York Peppermint Patty (yes, it jumped from the counter into my shopping cart) but counted the calories towards my day’s allotment. This meant dinner was a tuna salad and soup, but it still worked. Not quite an ‘x,’ but close.

 
2)      Shooting professionals manage their thoughts by approaching the target one shot at a time.  

I take my eating plan one day at a time, and sometimes one hour at a time. The focus it takes to figure out what to eat to stay healthy and yet manage to keep going can be overwhelming. Instead, by weighing in one week at a time, and approaching each new day with a new attitude, I can break the long-term goal into smaller, achievable goals. These are the goals which result in healthy weight loss.

3)      Finally, true competitors know that each shot is a clean slate. 

Having a plan in place for the entire day makes it easier to stay on track, but if I blew it for that half-hour between picking the kids up from school and figuring out what’s for dinner, then I start over by approaching the dinner meal as the next shot. It’s about writing down what I ate, then continue to write down the next meal, too. There’s a finality in putting it on paper, instead of replaying the mistake over and over in my head. Not a good idea. For me, it’s about watching what I think about, and then I can have results with my actions.

Most importantly, hitting the “x” for me is when I reach out for help, either from God or friends or both, when I’m having a weak moment and want to eat instead of coping with the feelings I prefer to avoid.

 

This verse helps me:

Philippians 3:13-14 (NIV)

“Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining towards what is ahead, I PRESS ON toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”

Targeting my thoughts…now that’s a worthwhile competition.

 

 

 

Broken Faith

A faith-buddy gave me a cherished gift which adorned my powder room sink for many years. It was a ceramic knickknack of the word “FAITH” written in all capitals, painted a cheery lavender and adorned with yellow and white daisies around each letter.

I was extra klutzy one day and, not surprisingly, dropped it on the hard tile floor of the powder room. It split cleanly into two pieces, “FAI” in one piece with the emphatic “TH” separated from it. Broken faith still contains the components of faith, I thought. I just needed to put it back together. One dose of hot glue and it dried back into one piece, with only a fine line separating the ‘I’ and the T’ evidencing the damage.

I think life is like this sometimes. My faith gets broken and needs repair. Sometimes the repair line is noticeable, but hopefully, most of the time, it is not.

I had been working on a submission for “Chicken Soup for the Soul,” but had a dragging, nagging, sagging day and felt my little roots of doubt settling in. I wondered if my ideas were interesting, or if my writing was valuable, or if I should be writing at all. I hadn’t experienced a hefty dose of self-doubt in, say, two or three days, so I was due for this episode. Regardless, I managed to spend time working through and completing the article.

The next day I planned to review, edit and send the article to the Chicken Soup folks. A dark cloud of self-doubt promised to accompany me each step of the way. I started my day as usual, with my steaming cup of coffee, bible and journal. I asked God for guidance and maybe a shot of confidence to go with it.

My doorbell rang. It was a neighbor, handing me a brightly-wrapped red and white package, with a note taped to the top. “This is for you,” she said. “I saw it and thought of you.”

It was a copy of Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul.

Faith repaired is still faith.

 

What Goes In A Nativity Scene?

For many years, our family had a nativity set which consisted of MOST of the required pieces.

There was a stable, with its scattered straw, and the porcelain figures of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus. The angel, shepherd, cow, and two of the three wise men finished the scene. Somewhere along the way we lost a wise man and a donkey. Odd.

Well, not so odd. It was me, not my children, who dropped and broke the missing pieces. At least I didn’t drop baby Jesus.

This year, we finally replaced our nativity set. As I was packing up our Christmas decorations (yes, it’s always a letdown, huh?) I discovered an extra visitor in our nativity scene.

 

 

 

How did the chocolate Santa get there?

I found another notable nativity scene this year in Cape May, New Jersey. I wanted to take a picture because it seemed so big and complete.

 

 

 

It was more than complete. If you take a close look inside the stable door, my reflection appeared in the photograph, too.

My kids’ response: “Gee, I didn’t think you were THAT old.”  

What doesn’t get old, though, is enjoying these traditional nativity scenes to remind me just what Christmas is all about. God with us, in infant form, to give us hope in a sometimes messy world. Even today, more than 2,000 years later, it’s still a messy world. It helps to peek through the stable door and remember the hope I found in the form of an infant bundle.  

Now that’s even better than a chocolate Santa.

 

 

New Year's Resolution...Resolved

Another new year, another new year’s resolution to lose weight.

I penned this line ten years ago for the first time and almost every January 1st since.

Wow, ten years…? Good thing God is patient. Finally I see differently.

God doesn’t want another new year’s resolution. It’s just my made-up way to perform so I feel like I am pleasing Him. No, God already loves me and is pleased with me (most of the time, at least). However, God does want me to have discipline and in that regard I know taking care of my health and weight are important. But they are not to be the gods of themselves. God is to be the God of Himself. This means God is to be my priority and focus, and practicing discipline in eating can result from having God first.

What does this look like?

Take this morning for instance.

I worked out for a half hour. Check. Then came breakfast. I measured and wrote down my Weight Watchers’ allotment for the day. Check. I packed a baggie of veggies and a bottle of water to have later this morning. Check. Most importantly, though, I sat down and read my Bible, prayed, and gave myself time to be still in God’s presence before I left the house. Check. Check. Check.

Spending time with God is my key to weight loss. It’s how I can know God loves me and has plans for me. It’s the boost to my health, not just spiritual, but my physical and emotional health, too.

How do I know this is important? I recited a memory verse I hadn’t thought about in months:

1 Corinthians 10:13 (NIV)

“No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; He will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, He will always provide a way out so that you can stand up under it.”

This verse has been my lifeline for many years and is familiar to me. But today I noticed the next verse, too. Check it out:

1 Corinthians 10:14 (NIV)

“Therefore, my dear friends, flee from idolatry.”

To me, it was a way of God telling me to make sure my goal of losing weight itself doesn’t become more important than Him. To make sure the Weight Watcher plan isn’t an idol. To make sure my exercise program isn’t an idol. To make sure my own new year’s resolution doesn’t become an idol.

The first and second of the Ten Commandments in Exodus 20 speak about worshipping only God. If these are the first two of the Ten Most Important Rules written by God Himself, I must have to pay attention, huh? When I am worshipping God, my obedience to Him in discipline and self-control can then follow naturally. It’s not about the “after” photo, it’s about the “after” life. Life with God in eternity where I want to hear Him say “Well done, Lisa.”

Headed to the coffee shop, I knew in advance I'd order only coffee. Those muffins and cookies wouldn’t be a problem for me. At least not for today.
 

Letting Go at Christmas

It’s the weekend before the big news. My son applied to Princeton and his early-decision response should arrive next week.

Yes, he’s qualified. The boy is not only insanely intelligent, but bright, sensitive, loving and thoughtful too. But Princeton has more than my son’s personality and abilities to consider. They have a school to fill; a student roster to generate; a package of incoming freshmen which will add credibility, talent and diversity to their university package.

Regardless of Alex’s statistics, there is a randomness to whether he will be selected.

This is where I need to trust God.

I believe God already knows where Alex should spend his college years. I believe God knows who Alex will meet, what Alex will learn, and how Alex will experience his young adult years. I believe it’s not only the education which makes a school special, but the relationships developed, the freedom to explore and the environment to grow as a young adult which factor into choosing the right college.

While I sit on my hands waiting impatiently for results, I believe God has Alex’s plans for good.

Maybe it’s hard to grasp this belief all the way to the core of my being, but I will write and say and read it until I get it.

I’m excited for him but know there’s a bottomless well of tears ready to flood the uncertainties and pain of letting go I need to experience as a Mom.

This is why, during this year’s Christmas season, I wonder what Mary, the mother of Jesus was thinking.

She is the rock star of letting go.

The Bible says she ‘treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart’ when the wise men and shepherds visited. I get that. As a woman and a Mom, I notice things which at times amaze me. All I can do is package up the experience and treasure it, like a personal Christmas gift.

I also get the fact that Mary, in her last stages of pregnancy and the start of labor, wanted an actual room to stay in, not an animal manger. Was she annoyed about the lack of reservations being made by the oh-so-godly husband of hers? They certainly could have enjoyed a nice bed and breakfast with perhaps a birthing room and midwife to help, but instead roomed in a stable with animals and a straw bed. But she had to let go of those desires, too.

Instead, she treasured up these things in her heart. The blessings. The fact that she knew, deep down, there was a bigger experience going on when her little boy was born. He was going to be the Savior of the world.

Now this is a version of letting go I can aspire to.

Sunrise at the Beach

It was the last day of the 16th birthday bash for my daughter and her two friends. This was the second year of their tradition to go away together to celebrate. Last year, they went to a cabin house in the woods, but this year’s setting was the Jersey shore. A perfect ending to a perfect weekend would be to see the sun rise on the beach.

The girls plotted their morning wake-up plan using their cellphones as alarms. My own body clock turned out to be more effective. I woke up at 6 and after throwing on my sweats and an extra sweatshirt on top of my pajamas, I walked into the girls’ bedroom where their three bodies morphed as if they suddenly fell asleep playing Twister. I shook them awake, offering them the option to stay asleep. Not happening. They got up, brushed their teeth, found their sweats, hats, scarves and gloves while shuffling to the living room for their shoes. Within minutes, they were ready. It was only two blocks away, but we loaded up in the car and drove to the beach entrance, saving as much time as possible so we could beat the sun’s appearance over the horizon. The girls bounced out of the car and hurried up the wooden ramp to the beach entrance.

At the end of the ramp, we stood silently, just staring. The ocean danced ferociously under the expanse of a glorious sky painted with bold varieties of oranges, pinks, blues and greens. Breathtaking. The wind threatened to take our hats and scarves but we held on tighter and after a few minutes decided to forge ahead to the water’s edge. I snapped photo after photo hoping to capture the sunrise at the precise postcard-perfect moment when it peeked through. I found myself thinking about life and friendship and God and love while watching the trio of young ladies move ahead. Within moments, the colorful sky brightened, as if a God-sized light switch was flipped and suddenly we saw it. The sun blazed its appearance at the edge of the horizon.

The girls wrapped their arms together and, together, received.

I began a silent prayer:

God, you’re showing off for these girls, aren’t you? Thank you, God. Thank you, too, for the chance to spend time with them this weekend. This sunrise is the perfect show of what you have for them. Bless them, God. Be with them always. And thank you for loving them.



Then I cried.

God was showing off for me, too.

Hearing from God

I wear two hearing aids. Seems like yesterday when I got my first one at the age of five. Suddenly, the refrigerator didn’t hum in the background anymore, it roared. Car engines became airplane engines. I even heard my mom call me from the other room. And the toilet flushing? I thought a tidal flood came through our little bathroom.

I didn’t know what I didn’t hear until I heard it.

It’s the same with God.

Really?

Could I actually hear something? Well, it’s God, so I imagine a choir of a gazillion angels or the clanging of a huge bell or perhaps the thunderous sound of a voice which shakes the ground I’m standing on. Or perhaps there’s no sound at all.

As a hearing aid wearer, the best way to “hear” things is to read them. I agree, God could help me to hear despite my hearing aids. But I’ve always lacked confidence in my ability to hear clearly, and reading the closed-captioning on the TV helps. My aids are much more high-tech than they used to be so I can skip the words on the TV most of the time, but hearing from God is still a tough concept. The Bible, however, is the ultimate in closed-captioning. Messages are written just for me.

#105069782 / gettyimages.com

Earlier this year, I experienced a spiritual rut when I was less sure than usual of God’s plans in my life (aren’t we all?) I found my prayers shifting to a passionless recitation of familiar words which were on my mind but not in my heart. I basically felt abandoned by God because, well, feeling ignored is a familiar “button” for me, and I wasn’t connecting with God in the busy schedule of my routine.

I attended the Beth Moore event in May of this year…solo. I was able to pick a seat from the general seating area by myself. Each of the chairs had a hand-written bible verse on an index card meant for the person occupying it.

My verse was Psalms 9:10:
“Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you.”

I looked up a definition of “forsaken.” It means abandoned.

I heard the message, loud and clear.


I’d love to hear your stories: how has God spoken to you through Scriptures?

Slowdown and Slurpees

Ahhh. The first week of June and summer is not only on the calendar for this month, but on my mind. There’s something about switching to June that reminds me to Slow. Down. Whatever happened to the “lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer?”

I scheduled them.

No more lazy, hazy or crazy allowed. All it takes is a slight touch on a phone and voila! Life is booked. Overbooked, in fact.

When I was a kid, summer meant slowing down. Only then could I enjoy playing with an old chunk of white chalk and draw a masterpiece on the sidewalk, then use the hose to wash it away. I’d enjoy time with a bunch of neighborhood friends where we’d play freeze tag at the parking lot down the street where more neighborhood kids would join in. We’d walk around to the back driveway and grab our bikes to take a ride around the block. We’d play hairdresser and try new styles on each other. We’d ask our moms for some balloons and fill them with water for a short-lived balloon toss game. Then maybe we’d go to the 7-11 down the street for a Cola Slurpee and get brain freeze while drinking it on the walk home. The only way to thoroughly savor a Slurpee to the last drop is to drink it slowly. There’s no slurping a Slurpee.

Today, summer means figuring out the schedule for my teenagers, husband and myself. Driving to and back from appointments, work, volunteer gigs. It’s a good season, though, and I plan to watch for 25 mph speed signs and slow down enough to enjoy the ride. Just like a Cola Slurpee.

How do you plan to slow down this summer?