Great Unexpectations

I have a friend who I didn’t like for a long time. I had heard from this-person-who told-that-person-who-told-her-sister-who-told-her-hairdresser (or something like that) that she said something nasty about me. So ever since then, I held a grudge. She wasn’t aware of it. And through that grudge I was able to find things about her I didn’t like, that annoyed me, or that I thought were character defects.

I thought she played the victim card too often. I thought she was undisciplined. Lazy. Always taking and never giving. I tolerated her presence when I had to. Luckily it wasn’t often, so seeing and talking to her every now and then was manageable. I remember how I used to roll my eyes when I heard her name or knew she was going to be somewhere I was. I’m not proud of my…hmmm...judgments. But it was what it was.

Something shifted recently. I have no idea what it was or how it happened, but we suddenly got very close. The more I let down my guard and invited the possibility of getting to know her, the more I was able to see what a beautiful person she was—inside and out. She is now one of the coolest people I know. We even worked out that whole talking-about-me bit (turned out to be something small and stupid). I love that we’re friends and I think she is loads of fun and very kind.

This budding friendship has thrown a wrench into my judgments. It has forced me to question what I think is right and has softened my suspicions a bit. (Lord knows, I’ve grown alarmingly more suspicious of people in the past few years). It also humbled me. I realized that I limit things and people and opportunities not because of the limitations that may or may not exist, but because I stop believing. I stop wondering. I stop imagining.

Life is far more fun and rewarding when are open to ‘maybes’. When we entertain possibility. When we realize that our concrete perceptions, assumptions, and beliefs have more elasticity in them than we think they do. When we surrender to positive ‘what ifs.’ Like “What if I’m wrong and she really is a nice person?” or “What if I’m wrong and I really can do this?” or “What if I’m wrong and things really can get better?”

I don’t know about you. But I know I need to be more mindful of having great unexpectations. I love a good surprise and I found that God loves to give them. Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “In art, the hand can never execute anything higher than the heart can imagine.” The Bible says, “You don’t have because you don’t ask.” Well, sometimes we don’t ask because we cannot imagine what to ask or because we are too scared to ask for what we would like to imagine.

I wonder what would happen if we lived with more flexibility and less rigidity, more acceptance and less walls, more wonder and less absolutes. I imagine the possibilities are endless. You might get a friend out of it. Or maybe a glimmer of hope in an odd place. Or maybe, just maybe, a miracle where you would have least expected it.

Who Cares?

Yesterday afternoon, an older-man-acquaintance-of-mine told me I looked like someone who is currently on a reality TV show where they showcase some impressive talent.

He was real excited to share this observation with me. Maybe a little too excited. “My wife loves the show and watches it all the time after her nightly walk,” this man rambled with a gleam in his eye. “I always tell her, ‘Linda, you’ve never met her before, but Miss Amy looks just like her (insert name of reality star). They’re like twins.’” We continued to talk for a bit and I was dying to know who I looked like. I didn’t watch the show and didn’t know the girl he was talking about, but I let my imagination run wild. She’s probably sexy looking, I thought. Maybe she looks like a supermodel. Does she have big lips?

I couldn’t wait to get back to my laptop and Google my twin. But when I did, my bubble of enthusiasm burst like a teenage pimple (sorry, that’s kinda gross). I found a picture of the chick I apparently look like. And I almost fell out of my chair.

This girl was so plain. Sloppy looking. Her eyes were like slits. And, to top it off, she had some extra pounds on her. Okay, more like a lot. So my initial response to this comparison wasn’t very…inspiring. Actually I thought, I look like her? Really? Since when? Since you took your last hit on the crack pipe, old man? Since you last popped a colorful pill from the medicine cart in the geriatric clinic? And then I shifted gears. I went from being on the defensive to acting like an unsure teenager with a bobbling sense of self.

I started thinking, Do I really look like her? Is this how people really see me? But I’m in pretty good shape. Right? I mean, hello?? I work out a lot. I have muscles. And I love to dress up and wear high heels. Maybe my self-image is way off course? There were so many question marks clouding my head, I couldn’t see straight. And I couldn’t find an ounce of confidence to bully my way into a good place.

After a few minutes of allowing myself to seep in a pot of melodramatic and irrational fears of turning old, ugly, and fat as I creep into my mid-thirties, I stopped myself. My self-diatribe was annoying. Who cares? I mean, really, who cares? Who cares if someone says I look like Brittany Spears or Ted Kennedy. More importantly, ‘who cares’ what I look like. Beautiful. Ugly. Big. Small. Tall. Short. Glossy. Drab. Purple. Red. Yellow. Who gives a flying flounder? Seriously.

I’m not a little girl anymore who needs someone else or something to make me feel good, worth it, or beautiful. Guess what people? I don’t look like a high school cheerleader. I don’t look like I belong on a photo set for Playboy. I don’t have silky, shiny, perfect hair. I’m not a pre-cougar. And that’s fine. I own it. So what? Big deal! I don’t let it burn with rage inside of me anymore. I don’t let it affect my mood for the rest of the day. I don’t let it stop me from engaging in life or even looking into a mirror. I used to, though. The self-obsession was ridiculous.

Do you know that I don’t remember a summer where I wore a tank-top or any shirt that showed my bare arms? Yup, that’s right. I didn’t care how hot it was or how uncomfortable I felt, you couldn’t have paid me enough money (or given me a free-for-all afternoon at Sephora) to reveal to the public how not-skinny my arms are. When I looked at my arms in the mirror, I gulped. In shame. I saw a linebacker. Or a WWF wrestler. Or my alter ego Helga (doesn’t that name alone conjure up some colorful images in your head). What a waste, right?

I’m getting married in August. When I started thinking about bridal gowns, my sister-in-law called me to offer some great fashion advice to adorn my Achilles’ heel. “There are some beautiful dresses out there that cover your arms. How about a shawl? Or some lace sleeves?” Um. No. What am I, a freak from Marvel Comics? Do I have some gross deformity where the sight of my arms will cause someone to throw up or turn to stone?

My wedding is in the dead of summer. It’s going to be hot. And humid. I will be walking around a lot, maybe dancing (with enough sangria), and wearing a dress that weighs a zillion pounds. So let’s nix the idea of covering my upper extremity bits. I’m going strapless. And I’m happy. I’ll be honest. I still wish my arms were a little thinner. I don’t have the typical woman pear shape with a small upper body and a curvy booty, but damnit, I’m strong and I’ve got better things to obsess about.

I love what Anne Lamott wrote about her Club Med vacation in Traveling Mercies. She talked about the obsession she had comparing her butt with others. She called it “Butt-Mind.”

“I broke through Butt-Mind; or at any rate, have only had the mildest case of Butt-Mind ever since. In earlier incarnations I've spent days and entire weeks comparing my butt to everyone else's butt. Sometimes my butt was better-than, although it is definitely the butt of a mother who keeps forgetting to work out. Mostly it was worse-than. Mostly at Club Med it was much worse-than…

Until recently, I was afraid to say it out loud, that I am beautiful, for fear that people would look at each other with amusement, think to themselves, Well, isn't that nice: I wonder if she thinks she has a weenie, too… I was afraid they would see the spidery veins on my legs, and that my bottom appears to be making a break for freedom from the confines of the rear end of my swimsuit; afraid that they would notice all the parts of me that really need to have the fat vacuumed out, or at least carpet-swept. But somehow I was not afraid to say it anymore…”

I love how she ended this chapter. She beautifully wrote about her (in her eyes) uncomely body parts and finally being able to publicize them with pride. Amen sister.

Lamott writes, “I was not wearing a cover-up, not even a T-shirt. I had decided I was going to take my thighs and butt with me proudly wherever I went. I decided to treat them as if they were beloved elderly aunties, who did embarrassing things like roll their stockings into tubes around their ankles at the beach, but who I was proud of because they were so great in every important way. We walked along, the aunties and me, to meet Sam and our friends on the beach. I could feel the aunties beaming. They had been in the dark too long. It did not trouble me that parts of my body -- the auntie parts -- kept moving even after I had come to a full halt. Who cares? People just need to be soft and clean.”

Who cares? I know that I do less and less. It’s liberating being okay with the parts of you (inside and out) that once served as thorns in your side and maybe even still do to a certain degree. I prefer being proud of myself to beating myself up. I prefer living to hiding. I prefer to not let what is essentially petty stuff rule my emotional forecast and focus on things that really matter.

Sigh. I don’t have a name for my arms, yet. But I’m taking them proudly wherever I go.

What Can Happen When You SHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I’m practicing the discipline of silence. Spending time in the quiet. Just me and the mysteries of the spiritual. Why is silence so hard? Easy. It’s like giving my mind free reign to wage a maniac compulsive thinking spree. This is why it’s hard for me to ‘be still and precisely why I need to meditate more.

When I’m silencing the pounding blood in my being to a soft lull, I start to panic. I feel lazy. Like I’m not saving the world or meeting a deadline or putting another load of laundry in or following up on emails. But once I get passed that, everything is okay. Silence invites me into her loving arms and begs me to stay awhile. “It’s your daily does of goodness,” she says with a wink in her eye and a tray of chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. And when I listen to her and follow her voice, I know she’s right.

I laid on the floor today. Closed my eyes. Rested my head in the lap of a world without tasks, deadlines, networking events, fears, doubts, questions, tears, loneliness, and the steady tick of a clock. I was quiet for a while and as solitude took her beautiful course, the thought came to me, “Where are you going?”
Normally I would have an answer for that because my daily routine is pretty planned out so I know what I’m doing at hourly intervals…i.e. today I know in 30 minutes I have to run out to Target and buy ice cube trays and apple cider vinegar…then I have to return my library books…then go home and work on a chapter for a client …you get my drift.

A few years ago I would have told you exactly where I was going with my life. ‘Matter of fact, I recently read a journal entry in 2002 where I wrote something like “I will kill myself if I don’t become a NY Times bestselling author by the time I’m thirty.” I also remember having lunch for the first time with my now one-of-my-best-friends when she candidly blurted out, “I have a feeling you’ll be married at twenty-seven” and I almost choked that country bumpkin with my Jersey claws because I was twenty-two at the time and thought FOR SURE living in the Bible Belt would guarantee me a marriage license at MAXIMUM twenty-five.

Needless to say, life happens. Today, at the tender age of thirty-three, I can say I’m not sure where I’m going. It’s not an ambiguous answer because of my lack of enthusiasm for the future, or because I have no long-term goals, or because I’m apathetic or hopeless. It’s just because, for the first time in my life, I don’t know. And that excites me! I catch glimpses of what’s possible every now and again…a seductive taste to keep me from pigeon-holing myself and to, like Henri Nouwen, said “create a space in which something can happen that you hadn’t planned or counted on.”

This is where silence has brought me. To a humility about tomorrow—that it might never come and if it does, I still won’t know for sure what it will bring. To a peace (sometimes overwhelming, sometimes barely beating, but nonetheless always there) that as long as I am doing my best to keep healthy (in all ways), continue in my seeking out of faith (with revelation and without a clue), and love others as I want to be loved…whatever joys, surprises, beauty, divine intervention, and purposed events that are mine to enjoy will unravel, unfold, and open up at the right time.

Where am I going? Definitely somewhere.

Gum & Other Neat Stuff

In the past week I have been the aww-shucks-gosh-darn-it recipient of little blessings that, wrapped in a pretty ribbon of optimism and glorious surprise, mean a whole lot. At least for me.

My new Ipod broke (actually the headphones broke and replacing them costs almost as much as the Ipod itself). My brother gave me two of his Ipods FOR FREE!

After a grueling workout and rushing to get ready at my gym’s locker room for a lunch date while surrounded by thirty just-out-of-zumba-class women all talking at maximum volume with distinct Jersey accents (“Oh my gawd, Jenny, Dominick is learning how to wawk and tawk and drink cawfee!), I found twenty dollars in my jeans!

The cashier at CVS complimented me on my hair and I hadn’t washed it four days!

Before I get into the next one, you must know I am a gum freak. I stop at ALL, that’s right ALL, gumball machines to get at least one gumball. I always wish it to be red. I am always asking people for gum. I chew about three or four pieces at once and exchange the ghastly large wad for a new mega-piece every ten minutes. I try not to do this with sugar-free gum, as the fake sweeteners bloat and gas up my stomach like a dodge ball. I will wake up and slip a piece of gum in my mouth before coffee. I will go to sleep with gum in my mouth. I love gum. You get the point. Today I found a lone piece of gum in my purse!!!!

To know that I can pay attention to and feel warm and fuzzy appreciating the little things in life give me a whole lot of hope. It makes me relax and have faith in the areas of my life that sport a question or two. It reminds me that I will always be provided for and to just focus on doing the best that I can. The rest comes, one way or another.

Boy, I love gum!

The Blues and the Amish

Depression.

There are studies out there that show depression among the Amish folk is rare. And, well, we don’t need fancy research to know that millions of regular American folk are plagued with some degree of depression—from having a continual case of the Mondays to the inability to cope and committing suicide. I know this topic. At times, it's plagued me like stink bugs. I was on meds for a few years back in the day and have weaned off them.

So, back to the Amish. What's up with their lack of depression? I gotta start by saying I have been fascinated with this community since I was a little kid. I think my parents may have had us visit Lancaster when we were younger to point out how lazy, unappreciative, and spoiled us kids were in comparison to the Amish children who wore starchy clothes, milked cows at 4am, and broiled under the summer sun doing manual labor. Also, those children had no TV. And no electricity. We had it all.

See, my parents came to the States from South America in their twenties, so they always made sure us first generation American kids valued hard work and a hard-earned dollar. And they did everything they could to make sure we never fell victim to the debilitating disease of entitlement. We were taught to work. Work. Work. Work. Work hard…but what about everything else? Not so important.

This is why I admire the Amish so much. The Amish are more than hard-working people who refuse to have electricity. The Amish are a community who focus on faith, simplicity, humility, communalism and, yes, work ethic. Mainstream society? Umm. Let’s do a little comparison.

Faith? Talking about religion in today’s culture is usually taboo unless it’s something hip that some A-list celebrity just blabbed about in some tabloid. We often associate simplicity with boring or old-fashioned. Humility? Reminds me of the character Stuart on Mad TV who constantly blurted out “Look what I can do! Look what I can do!” right before he showed off a ridiculous dance move; there is no doubt our society is a look-at-me breed. And yes, communalism. Our community usually revolves around whoever fits in our special little circle. Oh yeah, but we’ll still manage to talk about them behind their backs. And hard work. So many people work to have. It’ s a bill-paying channel. But we’ll be damned we're going to pout and whine and be miserable between the hours of 9 to 5...and while we're stuck in traffic on the way there and back.

It’s no wonder so many of us are depressed. Before you start chucking bottles of Zoloft at me, listen to what I’m saying. I struggle with depression. I understand what it feels like to repeat a hundred positive mantras and Bible verses only to feel the same way as when you started. I understand the fight to pluck off, one by one, the negative tapeworms that squirm through your mind. I know.

I’m also not trying to condemn our culture or focus on all the negative things, but let’s be honest. So many of us have our priorities a little (or a lot) screwed up. I am as guilty as you might be. The Amish are committed to getting rid of whatever they believe will lessen, damage, or influence in some bad way their foundational truths. What kind of foundational truths do we have? Maybe the lack thereof is what is making us mentally and emotionally as sick as we are.

Let’s get back to basics. I know I have more peace when I remember to keep it simple. It eases my soul when I remind myself…

• That life is not a rat race and I’m not going to be shoved under a bus because I never become a NY Times best-selling author
• That I am not going to get behind in work if I don’t have the newest edition of the crackberry or Mac something or other
• That I’m not going to have a lower quality of life if I’m not the skinniest chick in the room with the fanciest shoes
• That I’m not going to die if I don’t go on my dream vacation, or have a Mcmansion, or go out to eat all the time, or get facials and massages every month

I, just like you I hope, simply crave peace of mind. I pray for that every day. And I find if I hold on to my faith in God and put my attention on the stuff that really matters—like family, friends, my wonderful beau, blessing my clients with my hard work and prayers—the depression is more apt to scurry off to a dark corner, far away from me.

If you struggle with depression, I feel for you. I really do. And I wish there was a magic wand to make you feel better. Sometimes that weighty veil can be lifted with medication, by a God-ordained miracle, or by shifting our focus. Either way, there are probably many of us who could stand to live by some of the core values that are a part of the Amish community. I love what they say, “Adopt the pace of nature; her secret is patience.” And there I remind myself, “One step at a time, AJ. One step at a time.”

Check out the fabulous book Amish Peace by Suzanne Woods Fisher. It’ll help you on the journey to keep life simple.

Sometimes You Just Gotta Ask

About a year ago, a woman named Debbie from the church I used to attend passed away. If I remember correctly, she had died in her home and no one knew about it until a while later.

I learned something from this woman once. She was a peculiar character, this Debbie. She always wore a blue bandana around her head and a brown leather bomber jacket every Sunday I saw her. She had on this bulky leather coat all the time, even when the temperature rose to a muggy 95 degrees in August. Just looking at her made me sweat. Maybe she was cold-blooded. Or immune to sweating. I don’t know. Just thought it was weird.

I liked Debbie. I didn’t mind that she smelled like a used up carton of Marlboro Reds or she had a toothless grin. Her smile reminded me of a baby’s. Simple. Unfettered. I didn’t know her story. I didn’t think it was in my place to ask. I just knew she went to almost every service on the weekends (we had three). I think she fell asleep during some of the services. Oh well, neither here nor there.

Debbie always made an effort to say hi to me every weekend. I’d like to think it had to do with my charm and winning personality but, frankly, she had a particular penchant for expensive Italian handbags. And I do have quite a collection. So every time she flashed her cavernous grin, her eyes would immediately dart to the bag resting on my shoulder. And because I frequently switched bags, she paid extra attention to me.

There was a particular red bag I wore that I just know made her drool. I know because it made me drool and feel warm and fuzzy all over. I can’t remember what brand it was, but it was pricey. And one of my favorites. The leather was incredibly supple and butter-soft. You could have used it as a pillow. Or gone on a date with it, it was so stunning.

Debbie walked over to me the third Sunday I wore it. I was happy to see her and gave her a cheery smile. Of course, I admired her good taste. As she groped my fire engine red, fine leather specimen, she asked me a bold question. “If you are done wearing it, can I have it?” I didn’t hesitate, not even for a millisecond. Nothing crossed my mind—not even subconsciously—other than, “Sure.”

Let me be clear about something. Before I pride myself on being the most generous person in the world, I suppose that if I didn’t have a billion other bags, or if I had just bought it only hours earlier, or if Debbie was a snot-nosed, punk teenager who felt entitled to anything of quality, or if I was feeling particularly selfish or was sick or tired or had real bad cramps, I probably would have balked at her request or maybe even said no. But I swear to it, it didn’t cross my mind.

Anyway, a few weeks passed and I honestly forgot about her request until I saw her in church and she commented on the new mustard colored bag from Milan I sported. I felt like an idiot for forgetting to give her the red bag and made sure to bring it with me to church the following Sunday. And I did. I wrapped in a pretty pink bag with a bow, kissed her on the cheek, gave it to her, and told her I hoped she would enjoy it. Debbie beamed with joy. Her grateful attitude was unmistakable.

As I walked away, I saw two people volley gazes from me to Debbie to the bright red purse. One woman in particular glared at me like I had committed the unpardonable sin. Like I had just offered Debbie a bag of weed and a forty ounce. Honestly, I didn’t what they were thinking, but I know it wasn’t good. Nothing good can possibly come from a beady-eyed glare. Whatever.

Almost immediately, some words came to my mind which I believe was one of those God moments. The kind where he brushes your hair out of your eyes so you can see the twinkle in his. The kind where he cups his hands over your hard-of-hearing ears and whispers something brief but poignant. These are holy hushes of wisdom so quiet, you’ll likely miss them if you’re not paying careful attention.

In the depths of my heart I heard, "Sometimes you just have to ask."

I got the understanding that’s how our relationship is with God. That while the quality of our lives depends on the sometimes crazy combination of faith, decent living, prayer, meditation, happenstance, the influence of the spirit realm, we can’t forget that we are also a part of that equation. God can’t give us anything we don’t ask for.

Maybe you need healing. Or a restored relationship. Or some miraculous intervention. Or an answered prayer for a friend. Or for your teenager to find the right path again. Or for your cravings to stop. Whatever it is…however big or trivial. Sometimes there is just no space for the miraculous to take place if we don’t ask for them and create some wiggle room.

I think it's time for some of you out there to get ready to recieve whatever it is you've been asking for:)

Letting Go (again and again)

Bob Newhart appeared on the comedy show Mad TV years ago and performed a skit with the actress Mo Collins. Mo plays a woman who had a first time visit with a psychiatrist, played by Newhart. In this meeting, she gives him a litany of complaints about what is ailing her—her fear of being buried alive in a box, her regular panic attacks, her claustrophobia, her eating disorder, and her tendency to have self-destruction relationships with men. He responds the same way every time she pauses to let him drop in his two cents. He looks at her incredulously and barks, “Stop it! Just stop it!” She is, of course, taken back by his ridiculous and offensive advice, and retorts that she can’t just stop it. The doctor continues to respond by telling her she is silly and to “Just stop it!”

It’s a hilarious skit that reminds me of the Christianese phrase I often hear. “Let go and let God.” As if it is so easy. Or as if it is a one-time deal. There are many things we need to let go of in life, and this advice relates mostly to worry and anxiety. We are supposed to stop worrying and let God worry for us. The reality, of course, is that it’s not so easy.

What does it feel like to let go? It’s usually not an altar experience, that’s for sure. Well, maybe it can start of with something like that. But the teary Sunday night church service comes and goes and Monday through Saturday tail right behind it. Typically by Tuesday (at best), whatever we have let go of is back and, perhaps it’s even worse. (If you know how to surrender your stuff to God without remembering or even reminding yourself of it the next day, perhaps you can show me how.)

The things I hold on to—my desperate need to know or to control, my worry, my fears—seem to be crazy glued in my clenched fists. What I’m realizing is that if I allow God the pleasure of intervening in this sometimes gut-wrenching journey, He begins to ever so slowly and gently (but sometimes painfully in my heart) pry my fingers off of the things I’m defensively holding onto.

Jesus once said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle at heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy to bear, and the burden I give you is light (Matthew 11:28-30).”

Many of us are tired. Our burdens weigh more than we do. Our yokes are too oppressive to just shake off. So Jesus offers us an invitation to get rid of those things. To give Him our baggage and, in turn, receive His rest. For those of us who find this command, which is what I really think it is, hard to live out, let me remind you that you don’t just come to Jesus once or twice. It has to be a recurring event. Don’t feel bad if you can stop worrying after two or ten “Please, God, help me not to worry about this.” Keep praying. Our letting go of stuff, our surrendering, our giving up is required Sunday through Saturday; morning, noon, and night; sometimes even every hour or minute, especially for the worrywarts and control freaks (I speak for myself).

Remember, Jesus said He would teach us how to do this. He knows the majority of us aren’t spiritual rocket scientists, but human beings living in a fallen world. The great part of this Christly offering is that our reward is rest. Peace. A night of sleep without tossing and turning. A day without the falling of anxious tears. An afternoon without the restless double-time beating of an impatient heart.

We’ve all got better things to do than to worry, than to hold on to bothersome and weighty stuff, than to be chained by anxiety wondering how everything is going to turn out. Let go and let God? Sure...for some tonight. For others, eventually. In any case, better than never.