In honor of keeping one toe on the crazy train and the other 9 firmly planted on the word of God, snippets from chapters 2-3. {I know the sweet Lord above wants both feet planted on the rock, I only speak figuratively friends. *Steps off crazy train platform wearing hot mess t-shirt and last weeks pajama pants*}
Chapter Two: Seasons
Seas-on: /noun/ each of the four divisions of the year (spring, summer,
autumn, and winter) marked by particular weather patterns and daylight hours,
resulting from the earth's changing position with regard to the sun.
And
also:
a period when a female mammal is ready to mate. There’s
that.
By July 2015, I should have been familiar with *seasons*.
You’d think I would have figured out a thing or two about how to just keep
swimming and how to just be the vessel God called me to be.
Here’s the thing about Grace. It’s always teaching you
something. It will always be teaching you something. You just have to be
still long enough to hear it whispering over you.
Grace. It teaches you.
How to be a warrior. How to be strong. How to be graceful.
How to appear graceful when you are falling apart.
Undeserved, unmerited, unearned. Favor. A temporary reprieve.
Grace.
We have that definition written on a chalkboard in our
kitchen. I’m surprised frankly that our house even has a kitchen. We only have
it because it came with the rest of the place. Lord knows it’s not because I
have the first clue on how to COOK. On the surface the pretty little sign excuses
me from being the domestic diva that simply does not reside in my inner soul.
It excuses me when Husband comes home and dinner isn’t on the table. Or even on
my mind for that matter.
Grace. We say it before we eat {Take out. From a box. Or a
container. Us Davises aren’t picky when it comes to take out}. But it is SO
much more than just that. It’s a way of life. It reminds me who’s I am.
It reminds me that we can do hard things. It reminds me of where I came from.
And where I am going.
The best thing? It reminds me that I cannot earn it. I am a Type A perfectionist
kind of girl. I drive myself batty. I gaze lovingly at Type B’s, awe-inspired
of their lack of Type A-ness. Then I kick my own tush. Because that’s what us
Type A-ers do. We kick our own butts. I love that I cannot work my fannie off
and have more Grace. Or snooze through my alarm clock and have less of it. It
is mighty. It is forgiving. It carries me.
You will find that
it is easy to express outward grace and gratitude when things are going your
way. When things are easy-peasy and the sun is shining on your little red wagon.
What never ceases to amaze me, is people who exude these entities even in the
face of adversity. I am thankful for the people in my life who, by their own
spirit, remind me to be grateful. And graceful. These sweet friends remind me
that nothing in this world is to be taken for granted. Nothing.
An old Chinese
proverbs reminds us: "When eating bamboo sprouts, remember the man who
planted them".
How often do we
focus on the bamboo sprouts in our life and fail to remember the man who
planted them? I believe that the man who planted the bamboo sprouts deserves
our utmost. I believe that sometimes we allow ourselves to become consumed with
our bamboo sprouts and fail to offer up praises of gratitude.
So in remembrance
and honor of the Farmer who has blessed, and continues to bless, us each and
every day, stop in your carefully planned, neatly organized Type A tracks (or
your lackadaisical Type B amble, whateves) and whisper up a prayer of
thankfulness.
When you are in one of those *seasons*, those moments where
you feel like you are suffocating and you can’t find your way out of a shoebox,
let alone out of a dark season, I urge you to cling to Grace. Call out to it.
Ask it to carry you. As you cling to Grace, you will undoubtedly draw nearer to
the one who gives it. The almighty sovereign God who knows each and every
season of your life before you get knocked upside the head with them. Press on
grace-clad warriors.
Chapter Three: Hobby Lobby
Ho-bby Lo-bby: /noun/
a place to purchase plastic Easter eggs while pushing miniature buggies and
listening to instrumental hymns.
A
few short months after Husband aaaaaacidentally tried to go through security at
Hartsfield Jackson International Airport with a loaded handgun in his backpack
while flying out of town on a business trip, I jotted down a few things.
I
was eleven months pregnant. No twelve. I was actually twelve months pregnant.
Only it was our first pregnancy, the one where we gazed at each other and I
tee-teed on a pregnancy stick and the words “you’re pregnant” danced
majestically across the sky in a dazzling display of fireworks. Our first
pregnancy. The one before the cancer diagnosis. And the chemo. And the
fertility nightmare where I grew 3 chin hairs and had to pluck them religiously
to keep from going bat-shit crazy. That pregnancy. The first one. The one
before we lost the baby girl to Turner Syndrome after not going bat-shit crazy
from the fertility treatments. #winning
Nonetheless,
we were in the middle of sort of what you might call a little bit of a
*season*.
I
made a habit that particular season of jotting down my God Wink moments. You
know, those sweet, good, and wholesome moments that make up for all of the
chaotic ones that try to steal your joy?
-------
January
21, 2010
·
My belly button no longer exists.
·
If you drive too far into the garage
you will, in fact, cause damage to nearby items.
·
Bonefish Grill makes for fabulous
take-out.
·
Limiting caffeine increases hunger
and ragefulness.
·
Children you once babysat will
indeed grow up and go off to college one day. When that day comes, you will
feel old.
·
Failing to use a level or laser
light will result in crooked wall hangings. It's inevitable.
·
Husbands do not appreciate
monogrammed onesies and personalized
monthiversary outfits to the same degree that wives
do. No amount of enthusiasm and shrieking will make up for the bewildered look
they give when you confess your purchases of the day.
·
Attempting to use your bath robe
belt as a rope to lift yourself from the bathtub will not prove successful.
Repeated attempts will resemble the first.
·
God is capable of more than we can
imagine or ask for.
My God-Wink journal sometimes had
side notes.
Like the “Top 10 Reasons Why I Love
Hobby Lobby”:
{I shall choose to count down
because, well, that adds to the suspense and drama surrounding such an
invigorating topic.}
10. Storefront
located precisely 200 yards from Zaxby's drive-thru. Entirely too
convenient to partake in fried pickles and sweet tea on any given excursion.
9. Aisles upon aisles of large plastic Valentines Day decor (i.e. enormous dancing winking heart) and also jumbo bags of colored plastic Easter eggs.
8. Closed on Sundays. Just as you find yourself in need of a distraction from a sudden intense Chick-fil-a craving {like when you wake up and try to get dressed for church but you can’t focus because all you can think about is how you need a Combo Number One}, you pull in the parking lot to realize craftiness must wait until Monday.
7. Cash registers circa 1978.
6. Super cute double-pack seasonal to-do list pads. A must-have on each trip regardless of how many now clutter up the junk drawer in the kitchen. One can never have too many to-do list pads.
5. Miniature buggies.
4. Weekly 40% off printable coupon. I refuse to go without it.
3. Craftiness implosion. Projects I never needed (or wanted) to complete are inspired by simply perusing the scrap book paper aisle.
2. Festive gift-wrapping accouterments. For example: zebra print tissue and coordinating ribbon.
1. Jazzy instrumental hymns played overhead. I am often forced to add my own lyrics as I browse the wall art.
9. Aisles upon aisles of large plastic Valentines Day decor (i.e. enormous dancing winking heart) and also jumbo bags of colored plastic Easter eggs.
8. Closed on Sundays. Just as you find yourself in need of a distraction from a sudden intense Chick-fil-a craving {like when you wake up and try to get dressed for church but you can’t focus because all you can think about is how you need a Combo Number One}, you pull in the parking lot to realize craftiness must wait until Monday.
7. Cash registers circa 1978.
6. Super cute double-pack seasonal to-do list pads. A must-have on each trip regardless of how many now clutter up the junk drawer in the kitchen. One can never have too many to-do list pads.
5. Miniature buggies.
4. Weekly 40% off printable coupon. I refuse to go without it.
3. Craftiness implosion. Projects I never needed (or wanted) to complete are inspired by simply perusing the scrap book paper aisle.
2. Festive gift-wrapping accouterments. For example: zebra print tissue and coordinating ribbon.
1. Jazzy instrumental hymns played overhead. I am often forced to add my own lyrics as I browse the wall art.
These were the
things I thought of as I ran about skipping and frolicking on my Wednesdays off
back during that season. When I was eleven, no twelve, months pregnant with
Cooper, our first born, buying time before the accidental gun-in-my-backpack
incident went to trial. To TRIAL. *Sips sweet tea. Shudders. Finds big girl
panties. Marches on.*
My routine looked something like: See private speech therapy patients from 8-12. Eat yummy lunch. Take 2 hour nap. Watch approximately 3 minutes of Oprah. Turn off TV. Drink caffeinated drink (D day as of tomorrow friends). Check mail. Fake a reason to go to Target. Cook dinner (a once a week phenomenon when you work 10 hour days the other 4 days of the week). Watch trashy TV. Cuddle with Husband. Prepare for next 10 hour day. (sigh).
My routine looked something like: See private speech therapy patients from 8-12. Eat yummy lunch. Take 2 hour nap. Watch approximately 3 minutes of Oprah. Turn off TV. Drink caffeinated drink (D day as of tomorrow friends). Check mail. Fake a reason to go to Target. Cook dinner (a once a week phenomenon when you work 10 hour days the other 4 days of the week). Watch trashy TV. Cuddle with Husband. Prepare for next 10 hour day. (sigh).
Life was good back
then. But not near as good as it is today. Post eleventy more *seasons*. Yes,
back to the phenomenon of *seasons*. Footnote. No, sidenote. No,
off-topic-but-I-need-to-get it-out-there-in-an-effort-of-full-disclosure, note.
I admire folks who can maintain a topic for more than seven seconds. I, as you
are quickly learning, am not one of those people. Did you see that they
recently said Hobby Lobby might shut their doors? Something about the right to
birth control. I digress.
Seasons. Yes.
Seasons.