Role to Minister

Last week hubby and I were talking about life, work, ideas, faith, and finances—you know, those conversations we’ve circled around and through for thirty-seven years. Is there anything new for us to discover pertaining to our relationship? Oh my, yes! Yes, indeed!

Recently hubby started working as a Project Consultant for a small but rapidly growing vinyl fence and patio cover business. A couple days ago at his request, in order to help him focus on the sales and design aspect of his responsibility, I stepped in to manage his appointment schedule. Although phone work is not my favorite occupation, I am very capable of and willing to provide this easement of his load. The data entry part is enjoyable to me, and the fact that no transportation is needed to get me to an office somewhere is a big plus, not to mention that I feel I’m contributing to the economic improvement of our household.

I used to have a job outside the home. Things happened that interfered with continuing—physical limitations to perform my tasks fully, and vehicle limitations to get me there and back again, the latter which also prevented me from actively pursuing employment with less physical stresses.

But being unemployed has burdened our already depleted financial situation sustained in the recession. And hubby has at times felt alone in carrying the load.

On the other hand I’ve been his best cheerleader and encourager, telling him often how much I appreciate his efforts in providing, and offering him little pep talks (as I’ve shared in previous posts), which he readily tells me he values. So in our conversation last week (before this new opportunity developed for me to assist him) I mentioned how pleased I am to be his ezer kenegdo. I’m sure I’d enlightened him on this terminology ages ago, but from the look on his face it was obvious a review was in order.

In Captivating: Unveiling the Mystery of a Woman’s Soul, John and Stasi Eldredge present the concept of Eve as ezer kenegdo to Adam. Ezer is one who is needed desperately. Kenegdo is one who comes alongside of another. The way I see it, it’s not about telling my husband how to pilot the boat—he does that very well; it’s about handing him his life jacket! 

When I shared this with him, it was a spiritual “Aha” moment for my hubby. He had been thinking how helpful it would be if I could get a job, and then another thought hit him. One that he describes as a wave rushing through him, the kind of wave he experiences when his gift for spiritual discernment kicks in. He said, “What came to me was, ‘No, dude! Your role is to facilitate Anita’s ministering. Anita’s job is to minister, not to go out and make a lot of money. Your role is to make it possible for her to minister!”

 With a jabra headset stuck in my ear and negotiating the CRM program, I am ministering first to my husband. I consider it a delightful serendipity of my ‘job’.

Going in Circles

He described it as a funk and he didn’t know which way to go to get out of it. Where should his next step be?

A picture came into my mind. I saw him standing at the center of a circle.

In my best Kung Fu imitation—which isn’t recognizable as anything close to blind Master Po but still fun to try—I shared my wisdom.

“When you are in the middle of a funk, Grasshopper, and do not know which direction to go to move forward, it does not matter which way you step out,” I said. “The goal surrounds the circle you are in. You are in the middle so any step you take towards the periphery is forward towards the goal.”

He looked at me with furrowed brow, but he also nodded. I felt encouraged to continue.

“Indeed, Grasshopper, it is most awful to feel stuck, immobilized, trapped, where you cannot see a path.

“Sometimes just the act of moving your leg and sticking it out from under the blankets in the morning—or afternoon…or…whenever,” My Master Po imitation was faltering but I carried on. “So, um, yeah. Toes on the floor moves you forward from dead center of Funk Circle.”

Another picture formed in my imagination. “Oh! And Funk Circle might be like a big—uh—oh, what do you call it? A maze? No, that’s not it,” Master Po sounded more like a ditzy silver-haired dame. I recovered with a cleansing breath and went on.

“Nevermind. It will come to me. So you start taking steps forward and the path seems to curve in a circular direction. You come around and the same situations touch you over and over, but yet with each orbit of the—Oh! It’s called a labyrinth! Yeah! Anyway, with each orbit of the labyrinth, you are that much closer to the outer rim of the circle. Suddenly the path seems to loop back alongside where you were before or even taking you back towards the center of the circle.

“No worries, Grasshopper, you just keep taking those steps and eventually the path loops its way toward the periphery.” I paused to check if his eyes had glazed over yet. Nope, he was still with me!

I continued, “The even bigger picture, Grasshopper, shows the circle you are trudging along is sheltered by God.

“God sits above the circle of the earth.
    The people below seem like grasshoppers to him!
He spreads out the heavens like a curtain
    and makes his tent from them.” (Isaiah 40:22 NLT)

“It might feel like life is just going in circles. Keep trusting that the circle takes you to the goal. This is totally opposite of what happens when the drain plug gets pulled.” Okay, so Master Po wouldn’t have said that last sentence but hey, my personality is just as valid as Master Po’s.

I patted his knee. “So Grasshopper, is it not reassuring to know you are not circling the drain?”

It was quite evident to me my wisdom was well-received because my husband said, “Thank you.” Although that may have been because I stopped blathering, I’m not sure.

--I have made use of a little bit of creative license in my accounting of this incident. Quite a little bit.

--Photos taken by me at: Bellflower Library Garden Park, St. Andrews Lutheran Church in Whittier, Emanuel Episcopal Church in Fullerton—all in California. The quest for photos to illustrate this blog post turned into a fun little adventure for hubby and me. Until this week I had no idea how many labyrinths are near my locale. We took the time to walk the labyrinth at Emanuel Episcopal and I would like to visit there again. It’s in a little field off to the side of the church campus, and for me the rustic setting felt more conducive to introspection and communion.

I’m adding this bonus photo from my sister Robyn Burke, who sent this shot she took of the labyrinth at Tall Timber Ranch, a church camp in the Cascade Mountains of Washington State.

Bouquet in the Sand

An affinity for capturing segments of my life through my little camera and trying to be artsy with it led me to join a photo challenge group on Facebook. There are daily prompts that we are free to interpret in our pursuit of a photogenic moment. Then we post our choice on the group page. A couple days ago the prompt was ‘yellow’ and on a walk at the beach I found something that made me ask “Why? What? How?” My sister ‘hinted’ that I should write a story that answers those questions. Thus the following story emerged. Don’t know if the questions are answered but painting this scenario with words gave me some satisfaction and I’d like to share it with you.

Bouquet in the Sand

By Anita van der Elst

January 14, 2013

Rose petals flurry onto the sand, stems flopping in random array along with the yellow daisy and the orange mum.

“How could he do this to me? This is how he ends it? With flowers?” Rivulets on her cheeks mirror the estuary on the bay. She shakes clinging pale pink petals from her fingers; furiously swipes at her eyes with the backs of her hands. A man in a yellow kayak dips his double-ended oar from side to side on his steady way into the marina. It is a soothing sight. For a moment.

She climbs onto the rock jetty, remembers moonlit cruises from this very harbor. Fine dining on the yacht; promises made; whispered words of love—a cliché of clichés. She should have known, seen it coming. Meeting his family that first time gave her fair warning. Their condescension cloaked in political correctness. She ignored it, convinced love could conquer all such prejudice. Hers could. Apparently his could not.

A breeze tosses the twisted branches of the lone tree above her, eddies down, scattering the rose petals, drawing her back to the floral mess. Her heart breaks anew. Romance, once sweet and fresh, now compostable. She cannot bear it, sinks to her knees.

Knowing the impossibility of reassembling the petals, she reaches for the stems, pulling the remaining intact blossoms together, forming a bouquet. Tenderly nestles it between two knobby-kneed roots exposed in the sand. Her heart deserves this memorial.

She faces into the wind, welcoming the tingle on her skin.

No Bump in the Road

I don’t own a lot of CDs. But there is one I’ve had for a dozen years. Listening to it has helped me encourage myself, especially after a time of betrayal. It’s called “The Mercy Project.” A favorite song on it, sung by Martina McBride, is called “You’ll Get Through This.” The chorus says,

“You’ll get through this, you’ll break new ground.

When you’re lost within your weakness, hope is waiting to be found.

You’ll get through this, no matter what it takes.

I believe in you for heaven’s sake.

You’ll get through this.”

It irks me when I hear someone say “just get over” it. I don’t believe we “get over” being betrayed by someone we trusted. Okay, I don’t think I will “get over” being betrayed by someone I trusted. To me “getting over” something is like saying it was merely a bump in the road, no big deal. Uh uh! Betrayal is no bump in the road.

So this song is a favorite because I have discovered that I’ve been getting through it. It’s like digging a tunnel through a mountain to find what my part was in it, as I forgive and keep forgiving the person. I think I’ve broken through a lot of new ground looking at and acknowledging my own part in it, confessing my sin to God and others, accepting forgiveness, uncovering deeper roots—the lies I believed about myself—that set me up for the situation and dealing with those, healing. I can think about the situation now and talk about it and the pain is no longer there. I remember the pain and can empathize with others when they experience it but I’m not staring out my window anymore feeling bereft.  

At a women’s gathering earlier this year I heard a speaker said, “You don’t have to clean up the mess someone else made.” Wow! What a concept. It’s their mess and they didn’t make the mess in my house. They made it in theirs. No need for me to step over it. I’ll be right here getting through my own mess.

What are the messes you’re getting through?

Thumb Times I’m in a Zone

 If I circle my right wrist with my left thumb and middle finger, they don’t quite meet.

If I circle my left wrist with right thumb and middle finger, they meet without any problem. And if my thumb joint would allow me to straighten it, it looks like they could even overlap.

Does this mean my right wrist is bigger than my left? Weird.

Well, that’s not the case. But the real case is still weird. Turns out my left thumb is about ¼ inch shorter than my right thumb. My mom used to tease me that I stunted its growth by sucking it but then she’d say I sucked my right thumb and made it stretch. LOL! Wikipedia gives several labels for it: clubbed thumb, murderer’s thumb (further investigation needs to be done as I think it would be interesting to know the origins of that!), potter’s thumb, toe thumb, and finally brachydactyly type D of the congenital musculoskeletal abnormalities, which just means I was born with one thumb small enough to be Thumbelina. I’ve never attempted to hitch hike but I’m wondering which thumb would be more successful.

I know there are more Thumbelina people out there, some of them even have two brachydactyly (why do I keep picturing a dinosaur when I type that word?) thumbs. But double clubbed thumbs would not help me make my point today.

That is, before coming to a conclusion about something we need to get all the facts. If a person describing me only saw the first two photos, they could say, “Anita’s wrists aren’t the same size.” Or they could look closer and get out the measuring tape and realize it’s all about the thumbs.

There is something else about me with a tendency to get misconstrued. It’s even less evident to the naked eye than my thumbs. I’m an introvert. Doesn’t mean I’m shy or timid or that I don’t like people. It does mean that my energy level depletes quickly when I’m with people. I re-stock my energy by getting into my own head. So I love being with people but in shorter time frames. And while I prefer smaller groups, larger groups are doable if I can take breaks.

Sometimes when I’m in a large group of people and everyone’s talking at once—you know what I mean, girlfriends, we’ve all got something important to say and we just can’t wait to say it—I start to feel overwhelmed.

You ever see a little kid start crying in a room full of people and there doesn’t seem to be any reason for it? That was me. First day of VBS with my grandma’s church. Mom dropped me off and went home. Grandma, being one of the Cookie Ladies, wasn’t involved in registration. I felt so proud, not quite six years old and I was going to do this all by myself. Gave my name and answered the questions of the lady filling out the little card. Allowed my name tag to be pinned on my shirt. Followed directions to stand in that line. Looked at the crayons another little girl showed me.

And then suddenly I became aware that the room was bursting with kids, boisterous kids, happy kids, not a single one being mean or anything, but what could I do but inexplicably burst into tears! I couldn’t explain what I was experiencing to any of the adults who came running. I just knew I needed to “g-g-g-go h-h-h-h-home. My mommy needs me to h-h-h-help take care of my ba-a-a-by sister!” Eventually they located Grandma who took me with her to the kitchen where I helped her set out the cookies for snack time. When I’d calmed down she asked me if I’d like to see what the other children were doing—she’d come with me and be with me the whole time. Once I’d seen how they were all gathered in small groups around tables doing crafts (Oh, boy! Crafts! I’m there!), it was a piece of cake for me to stay with them, instead of with Grandma.

Retrospectively I’ve identified what that was all about. Changing the labels of “Crybaby” and “Scaredy-Cat” to “Excited Little Introverted Girl on Sensory Overload” is very healing.

Although on occasion I still cry when I’m with people (now for entirely different reasons—I mean, when hearts are being shared some discussions are just going to be five-Kleenex rated), I’ve learned to take a break without even leaving the room. I call it “zoning out”. It might mean that I close my eyes. Or my eyes will stay open while I retreat into my thoughts. I block out what is going on around me.

The awkward thing about this is that I’m not always aware that I’ve zoned out and my face may have an expression that could be interpreted as incongruent to my environment. I might even make a “huh” sound as I follow my own thoughts. But those around me could assume I’ve indicated an opinion about what’s being discussed. Oops!

Hopefully if you’re with me, or maybe with someone else you know is an introvert, you’ll ask clarifying questions. If you do, you’ll always get a thumbs up—little brachiosaurus and the other one—from me.

Joy in the Birthday Present

This week I told my son Nicholas (in the very first of what I hope will be a series of Skype conversations) that I would soon be entering the last year of my fifth decade. Not surprisingly within just a few seconds, Dr. Nick, PhD, said, “Mom, you’re almost at the end of your SIXTH decade!” Oh, my! Now I really feel old! LOL!

Before getting myself all bogged down in muddy old age laments, I had a little visit with King Solomon (via Day 5 of my Bible study lesson).

“After looking at the way things are on this earth, here’s what I’ve decided is the best way to live: Take care of yourself, have a good time, and make the most of whatever job you have for as long as God gives you life. And that’s about it. That’s the human lot. Yes, we should make the most of what God gives, both the bounty and the capacity to enjoy it, accepting what’s given and delighting in the work. It’s God’s gift! God deals out joy in the present, the now. It’s useless to brood over how long we might live.” (Ecclesiastes 5:18-20, The Message)

Thanks, Wise Solly! Opening up to the joy God gives in the present—I like that. Skype conversations with family are definitely some of those joys!

I was also happy to open the present—I mean, the box marked Priority Mail—that arrived on my door step a couple weeks ago. Doesn’t take fancy gift paper and ribbons to make my heart go pitty pat. I knew it was coming. My sister told me so. She and Mom shopped together for my birthday presents and put them in the mail early. And there was no way I was going to wait until November third to open it!

The box revealed a scarf from Mom, a pashmina from my sister, and THE HAT! I’d seen pictures of the hat, my sister modeled it for me in one of our Skype sessions, making me drool, and now it has come home to mama.

My mom included a Starbucks card with the scarf. 

Hubby and I love old town Orange; a perfect spot for a birthday date a few weeks early. It is totally fitting that my birthday coincides with the season of pumpkin spice lattes! Iced, for a very warm southern California October day—yum and a-a-a-a-a-ah. Such a pleasure to share the treat with my best friend (he likes to give his caramel frap bunny ears) at our favorite Starbucks located in the Wells Fargo Bank   building.

This beautiful fountain has been around the block a few times. It’s moved almost as many times as I have. Installed initially in the Orange Plaza in 1887, relocation followed in 1940 to Hart Park (known as Orange City Park then) but without the graceful birds. At some point and for some reason it was delegated to storage for awhile. (How exactly does one store a fountain of this size?) The city restored it in 1981, reuniting it with its birds, and placed it at the Civic Center in front of the Council Chambers. When this new rendition of the library was finished (2007?), the fountain was chosen to grace the northwest corner. I hope it gets to stay awhile.

The scrumptious sherbet-y scarf is from my mom. The day’s temp was in the 80s but the scarf matches this top so well and when it comes to my love of scarves, I do not let climate dictate my fashion preference; besides scarves also come in handy when in air-conditioning. 

Hubby has a new shirt too. His mom sent it to him earlier this year. Yay for our moms!

                  

              Last, but absolutely not least, from my adorable and adoring sister Robyn:

THE. FANTABULOUS. GORGEOUS. PURPLE HAT! 

Thank you ever so much, daahling. I feel like royalty.

Also wearing the luxurious pashmina she chose for me. My sister dresses me up so fine! And every time I wear it I feel like I’m getting a hug from her.

   I like the sparkle found inside the package. 

Now, to find a fancy holiday tea party… 

Sillybration Week in My Little Corner: Post #4

Glimpses into the Life and Times of Mrs. Dunwoodie (Continued)

“I know Mrs. Dunwoodie volunteered her services in chiromancy at Mount Tiara’s Community Haunted House,” Mr. Fenster said. “But you know she thinks that means giving people a little adjustment by smacking ‘em upside the back of the head as they walk past, right?”

Ruthlessly following the HOA protocol Mrs. Dunwoodie positioned her Viking helmet on her head, armed herself with her ax and in denial of her own promethean personality destroyed all evidence of her neighbor’s decorative expressions of same.

“Being a skilled gradgrind, Mrs. Dunwoodie eventually gets under your skin and into your closets,” warned Mr. Fenster. “But you may not realize it until the skeletons are rattling out.”

“You may have heard Mrs. Dunwoodie referring to herself as a 21^st Century woman,” said Mr. Fenster, “but the only thing neoteric about her is her knee replacement.”

“If my Viking helmet doesn’t discourage that cat burglar from terrorizing Mount Tiara, this ought to do the trick,” Mrs. Dunwoodie muttered, putting the final touches on the alarm system she’d devised featuring sounder grunts and squeals.

Mrs. Dunwoodie took first place in Mount Tiara Community Clinic’s third annual nosocomial gurney race but only because she hooked her Viking helmet by invisible wire to the zip line hidden in the ceiling.

“I asked Mrs. Dunwoodie why she kept looking over her shoulder at herself in the mirror as she ran on the treadmill,” Mr. Fenster said, choking on a chuckle. “And the surd woman said she was trying to follow the advice in Proverbs 14:7, the one that says ‘escape quickly from the company of fools; they’re a waste of your time, a waste of words’.”

I believe I have succeeded in confining her once again
but she's a slippery one. She might be ba-ack.

Dear brave reader. Let me congratulate you on surviving this onslaught of terrifying verbiage and the escapades of Mrs. Dunwoodie. I hope you can agree with Mr. Fenster when he confessed, “Although she’s an annoyance, I prefer Mrs. Dunwoodie on those days when her most prevalent personality is a flaneur rather than when it is a flaunter; with the former our eyesight is at least spared grievous injury.”