Lindy introduced me to a new favorite blog, peopleIwanttopunchinthethroat.blogspot.com. I love this woman. She is completely irreverent. I laughed so hard when reading her thoughts about my personal nemesis, Elf on Shelf, I snorted several times. I also did a reverse snort, but that's gross. She was my hero for several days last week. I even thought seriously about trying to become her.
This is nothing new for me. I have a long fascination with women who are brash, brazen, and don't give a flying flip what others think about them. It seems so liberating to just say what you aren't allowed to say and just go about your business of the moment. No guilt. No shame. If consequences are unpleasant, a shaking off of the dust and tally ho!
I also really savor Ann Voskamp's blog: onethousandgifts.com. She inspires me to think, and contemplate on a daily basis.
These two blogs were bumped up against one another on my dashboard today. It says a lot about me, I'm sure, even without deep introspective thoughts. I opened my reader because I was going to write. Instead I read for a while.
I've been grumpy today for valid reasons. I got home from a short trip to Kingwood and one of my cats had diarrhea. Gross is an understatement. The outdoor Christmas lights that promptly blew out when plugged into the outlet still didn't work and still needed to be removed, fuses replaced, and stored for next year. (Next year I'll do it differently.) My child had just called for the first time in days and I was greeted with, "Momma you forgot....and ruined...." And the grumpiest part of all? The motion he filed just before Christmas for a new trial did not disappear during the most wonderful time of the year.
I don't enjoy being a grouch. Maybe I would get an idea of something to be grateful about by reading the guru of grateful? I was reading Ann and thinking,
"Ann, I kind of want to punch you in the throat. Do you ever take the low road?"
"Why can't you be Sue Sylvester for just one day, Lori?"
Low road only. Give voice to all your internal snarky remarks and let life happen.
Why not? Because I'm not the lady who can write a hilarious blog about a silly elf and the extremes soccer moms go to to outdo themselves during the busiest, craziest time of the year for a parent. She writes in a way that offends as many people as it makes laugh. That woman got hate mail! Which makes me love her all the more. Keep writing.
I'm also not Sue Sylvester or Joyce, my Heavenly editor, or Ann Voskamp, the Mother Theresa of blogland.
I'm Lori. I have tried being who others want me to be and have failed at that. Being the authentic me made it impossible for me to remain in deep relationship with many people including my spouse. The only person I'm good at being is me. And sometimes being me sucks. I've given up many patterns that numbed my emotional inner world and gave me the illusion that life was better. I still care way too much about what others think of me and for so many wrong reasons. If I could get away with more hurtful behavior, I must admit, I'd take the low road more. A lot more.
All that said, I still want to make this next year a year of counting blessings over bullet pointing lists of wrongs done to me. I want to listen to stories and the heart of others and choose compassion over judgment. I want to love instead of shift shame. I want to stay focused on hope and not wallow in despair.
I love to laugh but never at the expense of another person's soul. I'll instead, just continue walking and breathing and being me. I can't do that without God's faithfulness, mercy, and grace. And I have discovered that gratefulness transforms grumpy.
Part of today's list:
#427 Disposable rubber gloves and plenty of paper towels.
#428 Garbage service.
#429 Ladders and easily replaceable fuses.
#430 An increasing ability to not assign blame to myself for what I am not responsible.
#431 Knowing that God will be in the consequences no matter what my future holds.
#432 I am never alone.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Who am I?
I get in a funk around Christmas every year. Different reasons every year, but it's most often because of the ridiculous expectations that are the cultural mandate. In an effort to focus on what's most important to me this morning, I opened up www.biblegateway.com. I wanted to search for a scripture in Lamentations that I love so.
As I was scanning the page I noticed an advertisement for a book about Tim Tebow. I thought, "I don't really know who that man is!" The only way I know of his fame is through Facebook posts--which sadly is often my primary source of news and information. He's a football player, I think. He must know Jesus or his face wouldn't sell anything on this website.
It started the wheels in my head.
Tim Tebow will never know of Lori Clark either. Tim Tebow will never drive down Big Sky Drive. If he drove by yesterday, it's highly likely he heard the squealing sound coming from the air vent on the top of my house. It's doubtful that he'd have stopped to offer his assistance with a can of some non-squeal solution. (BTW, if I learned anything at all from my sweet Daddy, it's that WD 40 is a staple in life.) It's even more doubtful that he'd been impressed that I climbed on the ladder and fixed that annoying sound this morning.
Even with the fame of being a football hero with some moral character to boot, it's likely that my grandchildren will not know who Tim Tebow is or was. Here's what I'm holding on to this morning--a morning where bad news still stings and the untangling of life just got more complicated. The God of the universe knows Tim Tebow. He also knows Lori Vae Hudgins Clark. My inability to run and throw a ball at the same time does not disqualify me from being a part of God's team. He knows my name. And He loves me.
He knows my name and my address and was aware of that shrill sound from my rooftop. He didn't offer to jump down from on high to fix my rooftop whirly thing. He did equip me with a mind and a ladder, good sturdy shoes and legs that still move well enough to propel themselves, with help from my voice giving a hearty grunt, up to the roof.
He and I had a lovely chat while I viewed my neighborhood with a view I've seen just a few times. I thanked Him for doing the work in the person of Christ so that I have hope and a home and a future. As much as I try, I'll never pull myself up to Heaven. Instead He came as one of us to offer me what I could never attain--a relationship with the greatest man who ever lived. One, who for generations people will shout His name and offer Him glory and honor. How could I refuse such an offer? I just can't and won't.
I certainly would never intentionally cast God in such common terms in order to place myself on par with Him. I'm just so simple, it's easier to imagine Him in ways that make sense to this creature. I chuckle when I think that God has my name tattooed on the palm of His hand.
And then, I'm comforted so that I can accept His new mercies today and offer him the vacancy of a wounded, healing heart.
Isaiah 49:16
As I was scanning the page I noticed an advertisement for a book about Tim Tebow. I thought, "I don't really know who that man is!" The only way I know of his fame is through Facebook posts--which sadly is often my primary source of news and information. He's a football player, I think. He must know Jesus or his face wouldn't sell anything on this website.
It started the wheels in my head.
Tim Tebow will never know of Lori Clark either. Tim Tebow will never drive down Big Sky Drive. If he drove by yesterday, it's highly likely he heard the squealing sound coming from the air vent on the top of my house. It's doubtful that he'd have stopped to offer his assistance with a can of some non-squeal solution. (BTW, if I learned anything at all from my sweet Daddy, it's that WD 40 is a staple in life.) It's even more doubtful that he'd been impressed that I climbed on the ladder and fixed that annoying sound this morning.
Even with the fame of being a football hero with some moral character to boot, it's likely that my grandchildren will not know who Tim Tebow is or was. Here's what I'm holding on to this morning--a morning where bad news still stings and the untangling of life just got more complicated. The God of the universe knows Tim Tebow. He also knows Lori Vae Hudgins Clark. My inability to run and throw a ball at the same time does not disqualify me from being a part of God's team. He knows my name. And He loves me.
He knows my name and my address and was aware of that shrill sound from my rooftop. He didn't offer to jump down from on high to fix my rooftop whirly thing. He did equip me with a mind and a ladder, good sturdy shoes and legs that still move well enough to propel themselves, with help from my voice giving a hearty grunt, up to the roof.
He and I had a lovely chat while I viewed my neighborhood with a view I've seen just a few times. I thanked Him for doing the work in the person of Christ so that I have hope and a home and a future. As much as I try, I'll never pull myself up to Heaven. Instead He came as one of us to offer me what I could never attain--a relationship with the greatest man who ever lived. One, who for generations people will shout His name and offer Him glory and honor. How could I refuse such an offer? I just can't and won't.
I certainly would never intentionally cast God in such common terms in order to place myself on par with Him. I'm just so simple, it's easier to imagine Him in ways that make sense to this creature. I chuckle when I think that God has my name tattooed on the palm of His hand.
And then, I'm comforted so that I can accept His new mercies today and offer him the vacancy of a wounded, healing heart.
Isaiah 49:16
16 See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Distortions
I was in the attic the other night searching in vain for the box of white Christmas tree lights. I never did find them, much to my frustration. In that frustrating process two great things happened.
1. I discovered that the netted lights purchased for shrubs that no longer exist in my front yard can be draped nicely around a Christmas tree. In fact, I like it so much, I'm stickin' with that method.
2. I discovered pictures I'd tucked away in a box of college memorabilia.
The pictures I found were of the Miss Humble Pageant 1984. I am a member of a lost generation. I willingly admit I am one of those little girls who thought being Miss America would be the pinnacle of living. I took Bert Parks to heart. Carol and I watched every September on a Saturday night, pink sponge rollers in our hair. There wasn't a set of curved stairs or a stage that I didn't practice holding my presentation bouquet of roses and waving the other hand to an adoring crowd. In my best moments, I'd hold my crown in place with the free hand and with exaggerated lips tell my fans and the judges, "Thank you. Thank you so much."
Some people knew sports facts. I knew pageant facts. Although I had heard rumors about what was necessary to win titles, I, in my naïveté, entered my one and only local pageant. I was Miss Deerbrook Mall: "Lori Hudgins, a 19 year old sophomore at Baylor University studying social work."
Like all good pageant contestants, I starved myself silly through Christmas holidays, no less, to be as skinny as possible. I ran miles a day and hated every minute of the running. I can remember thinking that I wanted to be 10 pounds lighter and an inch taller. If I won. I'd lose the weight before the state pageant. The inch in height? Higher heels would create the illusion.
When we got together for the first rehearsal, I knew I wasn't going to win. It looked obvious to me who was being groomed for the crown. Nonetheless, I enjoyed my pageant experience. Even with such a different world view now, I have no regrets. I'm glad I made a leap at a dream. Pretty sure, even then, that when I answered the fill in the blank question, "A woman's place is...." "--in the home", that answer sealed the deal against me. I believed it with all my heart. At least I was true to my limited views, I guess. A better answer was on the back of my tongue, "Changing." And how relieved I am that the more thorough answer is true. Because now I'm glad we get to make a choice.
The pictures brought back memories of the event, my answers, Robby choreographing my movements while singing "Someone to Watch Over Me" in my living room, and odd images of taped up boobs, glue on the backs of swimsuits, and vaseline on teeth. Much more, though, I was struck with what my body looked like in that red one piece swimsuit. How could I ever have thought I should lose another ten pounds? I had no idea what I looked like. It would have never occurred to me that I had a beautiful body. After all, Kim had bigger boobs, Ann's legs were longer and leaner, and I'd never have that long neck like Beth.
The photos were aging so I decided to scan them onto my computer. Once scanned, the photos made me lose what looked like about another inch in height and a gain of probably 10 pounds. I may have recovered from a terrible eating disorder, but I'm not crazy. No point in cataloging an image that was inaccurate. That's when my best thoughts started churning.
Maybe I do hang on to a little piece of crazy since I didn't want to archive an inaccurate image. And yet, haven't I held on to a life long inaccuracy of what I looked like? Who saw me accurately? It would probably be true that my ex-boyfriend and the one I had my eye on at that time could have chimed in easily that I looked pretty good. Maybe my parents, my roommates could see what I couldn't. I believe that GOD could see me with absolute accuracy. Even more, HE saw the insecurity, the judgmental spirit, the wounds within that I worked so feverishly to hide from everyone around me.
HE knew what the 46 year old Lori would look like and be like. HE knew I'd make choices that would require a pant size large enough that my whole freakin' 19 year old body would fit into one leg. HE knew the deep furrow that would settle between my eyebrows during my 40's, my divorce wrinkle. HE also knew I'd work diligently alongside Him to heal wounds, become more loving, less judgmental and insecure.
Here's the utterly astonishing truth, HE loved 19 year old Lori perfectly, exactly as she was. He loves 46 year old Lori perfectly, exactly as I am. And most comforting to me is that HE will love 73 year old Lori perfectly, exactly as she will be too. I can distort what I look like and who I am, both in the positive and the negative. God, however, sees truth at all times and loves anyway. HE went to a great deal of trouble to make sure that I get to share life with Him. How grateful I am this Christmas for all HE did to make a way for "this little lamb, who's lost in the wood." HE is someone who, with perfection, has watched over me.
2. When linking up the clip, I cried when I heard Bert Parks sing . (And practiced my wave--wrist, wrist, elbow, elbow.)
1. I discovered that the netted lights purchased for shrubs that no longer exist in my front yard can be draped nicely around a Christmas tree. In fact, I like it so much, I'm stickin' with that method.
2. I discovered pictures I'd tucked away in a box of college memorabilia.
The pictures I found were of the Miss Humble Pageant 1984. I am a member of a lost generation. I willingly admit I am one of those little girls who thought being Miss America would be the pinnacle of living. I took Bert Parks to heart. Carol and I watched every September on a Saturday night, pink sponge rollers in our hair. There wasn't a set of curved stairs or a stage that I didn't practice holding my presentation bouquet of roses and waving the other hand to an adoring crowd. In my best moments, I'd hold my crown in place with the free hand and with exaggerated lips tell my fans and the judges, "Thank you. Thank you so much."
Some people knew sports facts. I knew pageant facts. Although I had heard rumors about what was necessary to win titles, I, in my naïveté, entered my one and only local pageant. I was Miss Deerbrook Mall: "Lori Hudgins, a 19 year old sophomore at Baylor University studying social work."
Like all good pageant contestants, I starved myself silly through Christmas holidays, no less, to be as skinny as possible. I ran miles a day and hated every minute of the running. I can remember thinking that I wanted to be 10 pounds lighter and an inch taller. If I won. I'd lose the weight before the state pageant. The inch in height? Higher heels would create the illusion.
When we got together for the first rehearsal, I knew I wasn't going to win. It looked obvious to me who was being groomed for the crown. Nonetheless, I enjoyed my pageant experience. Even with such a different world view now, I have no regrets. I'm glad I made a leap at a dream. Pretty sure, even then, that when I answered the fill in the blank question, "A woman's place is...." "--in the home", that answer sealed the deal against me. I believed it with all my heart. At least I was true to my limited views, I guess. A better answer was on the back of my tongue, "Changing." And how relieved I am that the more thorough answer is true. Because now I'm glad we get to make a choice.
The pictures brought back memories of the event, my answers, Robby choreographing my movements while singing "Someone to Watch Over Me" in my living room, and odd images of taped up boobs, glue on the backs of swimsuits, and vaseline on teeth. Much more, though, I was struck with what my body looked like in that red one piece swimsuit. How could I ever have thought I should lose another ten pounds? I had no idea what I looked like. It would have never occurred to me that I had a beautiful body. After all, Kim had bigger boobs, Ann's legs were longer and leaner, and I'd never have that long neck like Beth.
The photos were aging so I decided to scan them onto my computer. Once scanned, the photos made me lose what looked like about another inch in height and a gain of probably 10 pounds. I may have recovered from a terrible eating disorder, but I'm not crazy. No point in cataloging an image that was inaccurate. That's when my best thoughts started churning.
Maybe I do hang on to a little piece of crazy since I didn't want to archive an inaccurate image. And yet, haven't I held on to a life long inaccuracy of what I looked like? Who saw me accurately? It would probably be true that my ex-boyfriend and the one I had my eye on at that time could have chimed in easily that I looked pretty good. Maybe my parents, my roommates could see what I couldn't. I believe that GOD could see me with absolute accuracy. Even more, HE saw the insecurity, the judgmental spirit, the wounds within that I worked so feverishly to hide from everyone around me.
HE knew what the 46 year old Lori would look like and be like. HE knew I'd make choices that would require a pant size large enough that my whole freakin' 19 year old body would fit into one leg. HE knew the deep furrow that would settle between my eyebrows during my 40's, my divorce wrinkle. HE also knew I'd work diligently alongside Him to heal wounds, become more loving, less judgmental and insecure.
Here's the utterly astonishing truth, HE loved 19 year old Lori perfectly, exactly as she was. He loves 46 year old Lori perfectly, exactly as I am. And most comforting to me is that HE will love 73 year old Lori perfectly, exactly as she will be too. I can distort what I look like and who I am, both in the positive and the negative. God, however, sees truth at all times and loves anyway. HE went to a great deal of trouble to make sure that I get to share life with Him. How grateful I am this Christmas for all HE did to make a way for "this little lamb, who's lost in the wood." HE is someone who, with perfection, has watched over me.
Can I admit two things?
1. Even after my admission of a grain of crazy thinking, I almost didn't post these pictures.2. When linking up the clip, I cried when I heard Bert Parks sing . (And practiced my wave--wrist, wrist, elbow, elbow.)
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