Jealousy, the Green Monster

Yesterday, I read an online news article that a man named Robert Galbraith had published his debut crime thriller novel, and it was racking up great reviews from many celebrated critics.

Since I've got two thrillers on the market, of course the article snagged my attention right away. Who is this guy, and how did he gain so much notice with his first book?

Reading on down, I stumbled across the fact that Robert Galbraith is simply a pseudonym for none other than J.K. Rowling, author of the multi-million selling Harry Potter books. She had managed to keep the pseudonym a secret, and said in an interview that writing as an "unknown" was an "incredibly freeing, liberating experience."

On one hand, I can see her point. She's so well known as the author of Harry Potter, that trying to come out with anything in any different genre with any different sort of audience would be a hampering experience.

On the other hand, the green monster of envy rises up in me and bleats (yes, my envy bleats), "I wish I had even a teaspoonful of the talent that Rowling has." She writes a wonderful series of books in one genre, then turns around and seemingly without making much of an effort, becomes well-known for a completely different genre altogether.

While the rest of us struggling authors strain our brains and read our rejection letters and growl at the one and two-star reviews that inevitably come in, Rowling rides the crest of the wave of success, even under a different name.

Sigh.

So. While I was wrestling with my green monster yesterday after reading this news article, flashes of memory began to sprinkle around me.

Once when I was playing a lovely song on the piano at church, and when I was finished, I looked up to find a man at the back literally choking on tears. "Beautiful," he told me later. "God's given you such a gift."

Once when a fellow camp counselor came to me sobbing because of something she'd heard someone say about her, and I offered to pray with her. "You don't know how much of a blessing that was," she said after we'd opened our eyes.

Once when I was swimming in a pool, and a young girl fell into the deep end. "Help!" her mother screamed from the edge. I waffled my way over as quickly as I could and pulled the girl out. She immediately started choking up water and sobbing. Her mother wrapped her daughter in her arms and looked at me over her head. "Thanks," she said.

Once when I'd baked cookies for a neighbor...
Once when I'd washed somebody's windows....
Once when I'd written a note of encouragement...

Etc. etc. etc.

The thing is, none of these things I did because I was talented or good at it or wanted to toot my own horn. The thing is, the person on the other end of the action needed something, and God used me to help meet that need at that point in time.

It's not so much about the things you do.

It's a lot more about how God uses you to do those things.

It's Perfect! ... Except for the Broken Window

The last couple of days, I've gone on a spring-cleaning kick. Yesterday, I washed seven ginormous loads of laundry, dried seven ginormous loads of laundry, folded seven ginormous loads of laundry, and put away seven ginormous loads of laundry. Plus a few extras, cooking, washing up, spending time with the rug-rats.

Know what the best part of the preceding paragraph is? My spell-check didn't even highlight "ginormous." But I digress.

Today, I was so inspired by my success of yesterday, that I decided to tear into my bedroom and give it the best cleaning it has had since we moved in almost 4 years ago. I even made a list.

Declutter dresser. Check. Dust all important-looking furniture. Check. Organize headboard and night-stands. Check and check. Dust blinds, wash curtains, wash dresser scarf and various doilies. Wash windows, vacuum rug, vacuum rest of floor, Swiffer, make bed, wipe down baseboards. Check times ten.

The kicker happened when I started washing the windows. We have those fancy-schmancy double-hung windows that you can wash on the inside and the outside, all from the comfort of your square foot of space in front of the window. Double-hung windows may be run-of-the-mill now, but I'm still excited about them, since I grew up toting the step-ladder around to every window outside our house to clean.

I pulled the bottom pane out towards me and washed it, then lowered the top pane and pulled it out towards me.

A sickening twist and crack shot through my eager fingers, and the entire top pane of glass dropped out of the window onto the bottom pane of glass, which couldn't be good. Thankfully, both panes of glass were not cracked or broken. However, the top pane of glass was hanging in my hands as my astonished gaze took in the mangled metal hinges that kept the pane in place.

So, what do I do? Fix it, of course.

I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR!

After much sweating, heaving, and grunting, I at last wrangled that pane of glass back into the runners. Unfortunately, as it finally clicked into place, I realized the pane was much too low. It had taken the slot of the bottom pane of glass, which still stuck out horizontally from the window opening. I stuck my shoulder under the ledge on the top pane's edging, and shoved upward with all my strength.

Nothing.

It didn't even budge one iota of a millimeter.

I shoved, pushed, heaved, grunted (I did briefly consider telling that window exactly what I thought in not so nice terms, but besides the obvious taint to my kids' role-model, you would have the interesting picture of me talking to a window. Which, in point of fact, is crazy).

That window did not give.

Discouragement set in. I boo-hooed to myself that all I wanted to do was clean my room. Besides the inward sobbing, a growing, disturbing presentiment boiled like a black cloud on the horizon.

What was Tim going to say?

I didn't want to tell him. But honestly, he'd probably have a hard time ignoring the horizontal glass pane sticking across our room, propped up by a fan for the moment.

"Good night, honey. What? No, I don't see anything hovering over our bed. Sleep tight."

I wanted so badly to fix it myself. I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR! But unfortunately, I had to ask for help.

Fortunately, I am a blessed individual because I can ask for help!

Asking for help isn't so horrible after all.!

My trembling fingers dialed my husband's number. I told him my story, waited for his tirade, which didn't come, and listened as he calmly told me he'd look at it this evening when he got home.

Team Shoemaker for the win! We. Can. Do. It.

Here Comes the T-Rex from the Rear

Don't you just love the whole atmosphere of a gym? Cardio, fitness, ambition blazing in the sweat-soaked faces of hard-core people bound and determined to burn at least 500 calories in the space of 20 minutes?
 
I like watching the joggers. Lithe, smooth, graceful. Kind of like gazelles. They push off from one foot, the opposing leg stretching forward in a smooth arc, landing in a light roll from the heel to the toe. Repeat as needed. 
 
I wish I looked like that when I run. A graceful doe bounding at the head of the pack.
I'm more like the T-Rex, lumbering along at the rear. Thud THUD, Thud THUD. Thud THUD. Clear the track! Ponderous heavyweight coming through!
 
I certainly don't resemble the majority of gym-enthusiasts who frequent the fitness facilities, muscle tone oozing from every pore of their bodies. “Tone” in my book runs more along the lines of a spot-on musical note. But that's beside the point.
 
The point is, I am bound and determined to succeed at health. 
 
But I don't eat salad every day. Protein smoothies do not constitute a major portion of my life. I even sneak a brownie into the closet now and then out of view of my kids' prying eyes and attack it like a starving animal.
 
However, in my slow, determined, lumbering way, I drag myself to the gym (or the track or the street, or to the front of the TV for an aerobics routine) and doggedly burn away those calories. 
 
When the mental fatigue hits (usually about a mile into my run), I think, I can't do this anymore. My feet plod slower and slower in front of me as I heft my weight from one foot to the other, to the first one, to the second one. Just. One. More. Lap. I. Can. Do. It. No. I. Can't.
 
Enter the good guy. The Encourager.
 
I like to call him that. He's a regular at the gym at which I often run. He's always there, pink cheeks glowing from exercise. He wanders around the weight machines, nodding to one person or another, always giving a word of encouragement. “Great job!” “Five more reps, you can do it!”
 
He usually comes out of the weight room about the same time I'm rounding the curve of the track to cross the mile-marker. My mind has shut down. All I can think of is taking the next step. And the next. And the next. My lungs are burning, oxygen is short, and I won't be able to sustain even that much effort very long.
 
Then the grin crosses his face like lightning, shooting a bolt of new energy into my tired muscles. “You're doing great!” he says. “Keep it up!”
 
And suddenly, I find I can do one more lap. Sure, why not? What's a little fatigue when it's all said and done anyway?
 
I've often watched the other people at the gym, most of them petite, fit and and obviously in better shape than I am. I wonder what they think of me, trotting around the track at a snail's pace, gasping for air like I've just swallowed a gallon of sea-water. I think to myself that I'm doing pretty well, with three young kids at home, a side-career as a writer vegetating in front of a computer, carving out a few extra minutes to get some cardio in. But that pep talk doesn't even cut it in the throes of fatigue.
 
What does cut it is that one encouraging word. That extra smile that boosts me for another lap. The smile that says, “We're all in this together; it doesn't matter what your body build is or the amount of sweat you drop in a twenty minute period of time.”

So when you hear the tell-tale thunder of Jurassic Park behind you on the track, think about how that person may be watching you with a little admiration, even a little envy, and throw a smile their way.

We can't all be gazelles.
 

Human Agriculture

I went out to the garden this morning in the early hours (and by early, I mean, 9:30 a.m.). I took my hoe and my muscle power and my determination, and I pulled every single weed out of that rectangle of land. I squashed the grubs and shooed away flies and applauded the ladybugs and earthworms, and I caked layers of dirt under my nails that will take days to clean out. I turned over dirt and threw rocks into the rock pile and weeds into the compost pile. Those suckers didn't stand a chance.

I had a grand ol' time.

On what seems like a completely unrelated note (but really isn't, so stick with me), my oldest daughter will attend Kindergarten next year at the public school just up the road from us. She spent the last year at a private Christian school in our area, and we absolutely loved it. The teacher was amazing, and my daughter would come back every day that she went with more things she learned. We would have really loved to keep her in that school, but of course, expense was the major issue.

The last day of preschool, my husband and I attended the preschool award ceremony. The school principal gave a short speech, where he said he was excited to see the ones that would return next year, and the ones that didn't, his prayer was that they would bloom where they were planted.

See? I'm actually going somewhere with this.

Back to the garden. My little plants growing in that patch of dirt are doing remarkably well. The corn looks great, the tomatoes are just getting ready to blossom, the beans look healthy, we just had a lovely lettuce salad last night from the garden, and my cukes are spreading nicely. But I've put a lot of back-breaking work into that tiny little plot of land. I've hoed it and pulled weeds, I've watered it meticulously when the rain has been slow in coming. If I see the pests trying to take control, I make my own natural bug-repellent and declare open warfare on the little creatures. As a result, my plants are loved, nurtured and healthy. The day I stop taking care of my little garden is the day my little plants will get choked out by weeds, dried up in the sun, or eaten up by pests.

My little girl is going to a school in the fall about which I've admittedly been nervous. But her soil has been tenderly raked. Undesirable characteristics have been carefully plucked. Detrimental outside influences have been chased away. A daily watering of love and nurture has been poured over her. There is no conceivable reason why she will not bloom where she has been planted, as long as we continue the process of careful human agriculture.

Of Colors (and clothes and people and funerals and...)

I attended the funeral this past week of a lovely woman in our church who had lost the battle with cancer. It was a beautiful memorial service, lots of pictures of the woman with her family, and a poignant sermon on the Throne of Grace that was a central part of this woman's life.

As important as that is, I'm not going to get into that. One thing I noticed at this funeral (and at many other funerals I've attended) was the amount of black clothing worn by the family and friends who were left behind. I admit, when I was getting dressed to go to this funeral, I looked in my closet and started flipping through my darker stuff.

But as I pulled out my black dress, I thought about how thoroughly happy this woman is now, how pain-free, how unburdened from life's cares, how joyous, how radiant, how any-other-adjective-that-describes-perfect-bliss she is, and I thought, this should be a celebration!

I didn't go in a Mardi Gras costume. 

But I did choose spring colors - a robin's-egg-blue skirt and a white top, because spring (in my mind, anyway) is a symbol of new life, starting over, entering the pearly gates for the beginning of an eternity with Jesus. It symbolizes hope, freshness, life after a winter of deadness.

I doubt very much that when I walked in to the funeral and sat down on the bench, anyone in that service looked at my outfit and thought, oh, she's dressed herself in a manner symbolizing life. But the meaning was important to me.

So if you ever see me at a funeral, and I'm not wearing the classic blacks or grays, you'll know why. I'm in no way condemning those who choose to do so - it is, after all, a way of showing respect and support for the family of the deceased person - but in my own small way, I suppose I'm celebrating with the person who's finally gone home.

Perspective Shift

I admit, I doubt myself a lot. I feel inadequate the majority of the time. I compare myself to others way too often. 

I watch other stay-at-home moms who somehow manage to keep clean houses, raise well-adjusted children, sign those same children up for extra-curricular activities like dance, soccer, gymnastics, t-ball, etc, and even take on leadership roles in church and in community organizations. I admit to a tinge of jealousy now and then.

The dust-bunnies that line the walls of my house rarely get swept up. Cracker crumbs, Cheerios, toys and puzzle pieces continually jab me in the rear when I sit on our couch cushions. My kids are hardly ever without a ring of peanut butter or jelly around their mouths or crusted on their cheeks. None of our kids are signed up for the local community soccer league (though that's on our to-do list for the Fall).

But...

I gain a sense of accomplishment every time I get a sticky-sweet kiss smeared across my cheek as my son pulls himself onto my lap. "I love you, Mommy, I love you," he lisps. When my daughter brings home artwork from school that says, "Jordyn lovs Mommy yur the best," and I insist on hanging it on the fridge front and center, I feel like I've done something right. When my toddler buries her head on my shoulder, just mine, no one else will do, and nuzzles my neck in sleepy contentment, I'm pretty sure there's still a few things I'm doing well.

I may not be the Martha Stewart of the stay-at-home-mom world, but my kids are well-loved. My home, while not the cleanest specimen of domestic art, is at least livable. I don't run from one organization to another, but I have a job I love using my imagination to spin a tale or two and God has blessed me with a wonderful publisher. I have a church I believe in and a husband who supports me and loves me for who I am, despite my many quirks.

I feel like George Bailey, who's just had a run-in with Clarence, the Angel Second Class. I do have a wonderful life.

Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones...

I was a senior in high school, nearing graduation, the day I went to take my Advanced Placement English exam. It was a bit like taking the SAT's in that the exam was held at a larger school in the center of town and you had to pre-register to take it. Good scores meant college credit.

The exam was unlike the SAT's in that it was composed mostly of essays instead of fill-in-the-bubbles-completely-with-a-number-2-lead-pencil sections.

I loved English. I loved fine writing and classic literature, specifically British literature. Jane Eyre was my favorite. I'd already read the book through four times by that point (in the fifteen years since graduation, I've multiplied that number by at least three), and had written essay after essay after essay on the underlying themes, the Byronic hero (Mr. Rochester), the Rochester/St. John/Jane love triangle, etc. 

I knew, or at least, I hoped that some of the essays in the AP exam would include a question or two about Jane Eyre. All in all, I felt fairly confident, not just about Jane Eyre, but also about most of the rest of the literature we'd studied that year.

The day of the exam, I was in my homeroom getting my stuff ready to go and discussing the exam with my English teacher. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and smiled at her. "Wish me luck," I said.

That dear lady swiveled in her chair to face me, hesitated, then said, "Tama, you're not a very good writer, you know." 

Before continuing on, let me say that I held my English teacher in the highest respect, that I'm sure she had reason to say what she did (because some of my earlier high school papers were pretty atrocious), and that I think she only said what she said so I wouldn't fly too high and crash too hard.

After the words were out of her mouth, though, at that moment, I was stunned. And hurt. I cried the whole way over to the exam. And what a distracted beginning. Instead of focusing on the questions listed on my sheet, I kept hearing the echo of her words in my head... "Tama, you're not a very good writer..." over and over and over again.

I tried to shake it off, to write like I knew I could write, and I did. I wrote some really good answers to some really difficult questions. And then for the final long essay, lo and behold, there was the question for which I had been hoping. Describe how Mr. Rochester is a Byronic hero. Oh boy. I wrote until my hand cramped and then I wrote some more. I finished the last sentence as the timer rang. I handed in my paper with a triumphant smile on my face.

Incidentally, when my results came back some weeks later, I had earned high enough scores to exempt me from at least one semester of English in college. No, I didn't win a four-year exemption. I don't even know if that was an option. But I was pretty pumped.

This story still has a bittersweet ring in my memory. On the bitter side, I still remember the crushing feeling I felt when my teacher said those words. I still remember the intonation and inflection of every syllable. I remember the anger that came after the hurt subsided. Why would she choose to tell me something that was only subjectively true (based on personal opinion) just before a writing exam? Talking about choosing your moments...

On the sweet side, that one little comment has perhaps inspired me more than many other comments I've received on my writing over the years. Perhaps it lit a fire under me, put fuel into my head when writer's block stared me in the face. Perhaps I wanted to prove her wrong because I had such a high opinion of her.

Fifteen years later, I've had multiple articles published in various magazines and newsletters. I have one book on the market, actually pulling in an income (a small one, but it is a first book), and another book set to release this summer. A third book sits on my laptop, gradually growing longer as I add to it day by day.

Those words from my teacher so long ago hover over me as I finish every paragraph and proofread it, urging me to be the best that I can be, to do the best work that I can do, to amuse, to entertain, to encourage, perhaps even to inspire some reader out there who stumbles across my work.

The one thing I learned from this whole situation: toss the bad, take the good. Sure, the timing of that comment wasn't the best, the wording perhaps not the choicest, but the flame it kindled in my writing career has been unequaled. 

Everybody needs a push now and then. So to my English teacher, if you're reading this, thanks. I owe you one. :)