I see you there, with your screwed-up face and your well-coiffed hair and your impatient gesture each time someone in the line in front of you dares to order one more thing. I was much like you for many years, and once in a while, I see your eyes looking back at mine from the mirror. May I remember that Kindness is Never Wasted. I hope you learn this, too, my Lady.
We all have "cinquefoil" in our lives. Sometimes it sneaks in because we just don't have the time or energy to deal with it right then. Eventually, though, we have to stop and examine the things we fill our lives with and question, "Is this still of value to me? Is this something I want to nurture right now?"
How do you care without bleeding out? How do you protect yourself without becoming callous? How do you draw the line between "making a difference in the world" and "being healthy and whole for me and my family" when your heart breaks every time you hear about the damage done to one of the least of these?
On Monday, after the boys got home from school, Jabin spent about half an hour at the white board, jotting down his favourite "Life Lessons". No, I don't know why. Yes, I think it's awesome.
I'm pretty sure if he internalizes those, and applies them for the rest of his life, he'll be just fine. :-)
An unplanned overnight trip, and why one should never leave home without one’s knitting.
Last night, I started a book that has been sitting on my shelf, waiting patiently for me for several months, now.
Root Cellaring: Natural Cold Storage of Fruits & Vegetables by Mike and Nancy Bubel. (My bushels of potatoes and carrots and beets and onions are all doing very well in the garden at the moment, so I really need to start figuring out how I am going to keep them fresh this winter.)
At the beginning of the Preface, they had a quote that really spoke to me:
That is what I feel like I am doing almost every day: re-learning old ways of doing things, so that the future is not a big, scary Place. If/when the oil runs out, if/when electricity becomes a much more precious commodity, if/when food is not trucked into my little Northern town every day, will our family survive? Will we be able to eat in February? And even in the meantime, how do I save money in the current economy, live frugally, be responsible?
The more I look, the more I see that the answer is actually found in renewing many economical traditions of our forefathers (and foremothers, too!) So I am learning to garden, although I still feel like I am forgetting something most of the time. I am learning to raise chickens, even though my heart breaks every time a predator or sickness takes one, and I really wonder how I will have the heart to butcher them in a few months. I am learning to preserve food without electricity. I am learning that the best peace of mind is in knowing that the One who made me has a plan, and He is still in control, even in what I think of as "uncertain times."
I am learning. And I am teaching my children.
That is the best insurance I can think of.
I learned to like tea in India. Before that, I really didn't care for any caffeinated beverages, with the possible exception of an extremely occasional Sprite or 7-Up. My dad drank coffee, not tea, and my mom drank, well, um, she drank water. Lots of water.
In India, tea is such an integral part of the culture, it would almost have been impossible to avoid developing a taste for it. There is "tea time" twice a day at the school where we worked, as well as in every home that I visited there. If you were to visit someone, the first thing they would do would be to offer you some "chai", even if they were so poor that it meant using up the last of their milk to do so.
Here is where we in North America have made an error. (My Indian readers, please correct me if I'm wrong.) To us, "chai" has come to mean "tea with milk and sugar and a whole variety of spices." In reality, "chai" is the word for "tea." I was going to say "Hindi word for tea," but it's actually the word for tea in every Indian language that I know of, and I believe it is also the word for tea in some African languages. Which language it originated from, I have no idea. Especially since chai with lots of milk and sugar was a drinking custom introduced by the British during the colonial days, since that is how they like their tea.
"Tea with spices" is known as "masala (spiced) chai," and the type of spices used range in variety and quantity, depending on what area--and what household--you are in.
Most of the time while I was there, we simply had chai, which is loose tea in a base of about half milk and half water and a fair amount of sugar, all heated until just barely boiling, then strained into your mug for a cup of creamy goodness. It is a safe way to drink milk of questionable origin, water of questionable origin, and a social custom that bonds families, friends, and strangers. (I remember my shock the first time I saw my friend Chingluan pouring tea back and forth between two mugs to cool it off for her daughter--who was two at the time!)
I'm not sure the reason why, but it was somewhere around 2000 that "chai" became extremely popular in North America. Thus Jason and I began our search for "the perfect chai," the one that would bring back all the flavour and memories we had come to love while in India--our hearts' other home country.
It was a long and disappointing search. We found a few that were close, but still seemed like someone had just gone a little crazy with throwing in anything from the spice shelf. I couldn't figure out why. Finally, when George and Ruth Peters visited us in 2005, I asked Ruth.
"How do you make chai? And what is the spice that you put in it?" She answered that while she usually just made basic chai, occasionally, she would add a sprinkle of cardamom to it (thus elevating it to "masala chai.") This was the answer we had been looking for!
I just about choked when I saw the price of the stuff. I don't know how it compares overseas, but here, cardamom is twice as expensive as every other spice (with the exception of saffron, which is just expensive everywhere.) Fortunately, I really only had one use for it. Each cup required only the tiniest sprinkle for flavour, so in six years, I think I might still be on my first jar. Partly because I soon discovered that I like the tea without cardamom as much as with it, and it became a "luxury" that I rarely partake in--and Jason feels the same. Tea drinkers that we are, our day is usually masala-less--at least as far as tea is concerned!
I'm not sure what possessed me this morning. Most days, I make a "cheater chai" that does not require the mess of loose tea and straining. It is not as strong as the real stuff, but nearly as good. I steep my tea bag (Lipton Red Rose Orange Pekoe is the best we've found) extra-long, throw it out, add a good-sized glob of honey from a teaspoon, then fill the mug up with cream until the colour is pale and delicious-looking. Then I take that first, satisfying sip.
This morning, though, I looked at the concoction in my mug and said "it's a cardamom sort of day."
Some days, the routine of dressing and feeding a family, getting Jude to school on time, making dinner ahead of time, teaching piano lessons all evening, doing dishes, working on my e-Bay business, being wife, mother, nursemaid, teacher, babysitter, friend, daughter, and all my many other hats can just seem overwhelming--like there is no way to live up to it all. Those are the days when my loving husband lets me have a little time to myself to create something beautiful, or go on a walk, or when a well-timed hug from my babies can turn a really stressful day around.
The cardamom was just the perfect touch on what would otherwise have been an ordinary, everyday-sort of cup of tea. Once in a while, all we need is a little masala to put things in perspective.
"Lead a balanced life." That's what you hear, over and over, from so many sources.
Today, I had reason to pause and wonder if this really is the best advice.
Whenever I think of trying to balance my life, the mental image that comes to mind is of myself on a unicycle--my head is back, I've got a long metal pole protruding upward from my mouth, two more sticking upright from my hands, and on top of these three poles are precious china plates that represent all the many facets of my life--being a wife; a mother; a friend; time for studying the Bible; my hobbies; my ministry; my duties. The sheer stress of trying to keep all these plates from falling down on top of me in an enormous symphony of shattering porcelain is overwhelming. No wonder I get so little sleep--if I fell asleep, everything might come crashing down!
This image often came to me last winter.
Today, God impressed a new point of view on me.
While balance is important in nature, and something that God designed into it--a state of being we refer to as "homeostasis--coming back to normal"--it is not something that occurs constantly. On a graph, homeostasis could be a straight line running horizontally across the middle, while the actual state of something would be a zigzaggy line that would cross over that center point fairly frequently on a trail of hills and valleys.
This is much like the balancing act I described above--the plates seem to change position all the time, shifting here and there, and I never really feel like everything is completely balanced.
What about this view of balance? The type of balance God calls us to may not be to constantly be trying to keep upright on a unicycle while juggling our many responsibilites. What if real balance is more of a state of being full-out, pedal-to-the-floor on-fire for the things He has given us a passion for?
"I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth." (Revelation 3:15, 16)
This does not sound like the admonition of a God who wants us to be performing a balancing act all our lives!
Notice the word "act" in that phrase. It is an act, isn't it? Who ever really leads a perfectly balanced life? Yet we pretend we do, don't we?
For so long, I have feared the commitment required by this verse. Although I already hold many views that some would consider "radical," I have not come to this point willingly--I have fought God every step of the way on it. Oh, my foolish pride! Now, I see Him calling me ever onward--ever closer to the edge, that wonderful and awesome place where my faith is completely in Him; where I am no longer grasping to take back and control the parts of my life I have half-heartedly handed over before.
Where I am full-out His--and completely at rest. This, I can see now, is true balance. Not trying to stay in the middle of a socially acceptable norm. But living on the edge--the edge He has called me to.
Those who remain in the comfortable boundaries of social acceptability look at those on the edge with suspicion, fear, hurt, mistrust--all because they do not understand what would possess someone to live their lives there. But for those who go there willingly, they know the reason--because only here is there peace. And at the same time, it is the greatest adventure anyone can ever have.
"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28)
I stand here, God, ready to put down my poles and my plates, ready to get off this crazy cycle, and move closer to that edge. I fear it--I fear the reprisals, the relationships that may be strained with those who do not understand. I know it is going to happen, for it has happened before, with myself on both the giving and receiving end. But I also know that there is no fear in love, because perfect love drives out fear (1 John 4:18), and that You are Love (1 John 4:8). So I trust that you will drive the fear out of me as I go to this deeper place in you. I thank you that you are not finished with me yet .
I look forward to this new adventure in You with both excitement and nervousness, like a mother expecting her first child. I pray that you would increase my faith, so that I may be bold, not looking back at the things I am leaving behind, but gently encouraging others to join me in seeking out their own deeper places in You.
I claim the rest in Your above-mentioned promise. Show me how to be at rest. For too long, I have been Martha--now I want to choose the better way that Mary chose. I want to sit at the feet of Jesus, and not be so worried about all the preparations that need to be done. Not be so BUSY.
I want the true balance that Jesus offers.
I want to live on the edge.
Shredding paper is fun. (I got a new office paper shredder yesterday.)
Using essential oils really can help improve my mood. After applying Young Living's Release blend after lunch, my mood went from I-just-can't-seem-to-snap-out-of-it-BLAH to much-more-at-peace-with-myself-and-the-world-Stable. (The paper-shredding might be helping, too.)
That in a four-year-old's mind, the shortest distance between the muddy back yard and the muddy front yard is through the house. With your boots still on, of course.
That in a three-year-old's mind, when you realize that pooping in your pants lands you in a not-so-pleasant shower, the alternative is not to poop in the potty, but rather to try and change your own diaper.
That the Canadian Cancer Society is actually more concerned with the fulfillment of it's intended purpose than I thought. They have just announced a national program to use vitamin D supplementation to actually prevent cancer! Amazing, eh?
That when you hit "Control-P" by accident when typing a blog post, Blogger thinks you actually want to publish it already. Good to know the new keyboard shortcut, but I wasn't actually ready yet!
That even a little bit of bumper-car action can leave you stiff and sore.
That no matter how much paperwork I get done, there is always more to do.
That most things in life are made better by a hug from someone who loves you.
What have you learned today, friends?
There are a few things with this whole "house-building" thing that I am having a hard time wrapping my head around.
I think the biggest and weirdest thing is that I feel embarrassed. Let me try to explain that.
The first year of our marriage, Jason and I lived in my dad's basement. Jason was going to college, and I was working ten-hour days as a courier in Red Deer. We were broker than broke. Every month we got a little farther behind, meaning we had to put a little more on the student line of credit just to survive. I don't know how we would have survived without Dad's help.
After that year, Jason got a job working in the computer department of a company in Calgary. He worked down there for a month before we were able to move into a little 900-square-feet-including-the-two-flights-of-stairs-and-the-teeny-
tiny-veranda condo, during which time he lived with my uncle and aunt--what a blessing they are to us. We made the official move the day before our first anniversary. Our rent was almost $1 per square foot, over-and-above utilities, etc. (We thought prices in Calgary were stupid then! HA! I bet that condo would rent for at least $1500 a month, now!)
One month later, Jason was let go from that job, due to what his ex-boss later admitted was simply a conflict of personalities.
Suddenly, we were in the situation of being saddled with a huge amount of debt (student-loan, plus some credit card debt I had accumulated through poor financial habits while single), and no income to speak of. My part-time job as a day-time supervisor at Roger's Video brought in barely enough money to pay for our groceries every month, let alone rent. As the months passed, and no job offers came in sight, we slid farther into the hole.
In Calgary, as in so many places, it's all who you know. And with the exception of my uncle and aunt, we knew very few people there--especially those that might have connections in the field Jason is trained in.
Well, that's not quite true. We knew a couple that Jason had become friends with during his years as the director's assistant at Sunnyside Camp in Sylvan Lake. As it so happens, they lived in the same neck of the woods as us, and happened to come into the video store one day and "let it slip" that the then-current director was planning on giving up his position soon, and we should maybe "get on that." While we were confident that Jason knew that camp inside out and backwards, he was also only 28 years old at the time--meaning that, if he got the job, he would be the youngest director that camp had ever had in its over-fifty years of existence.
The Lord saw fit to bless us with that job, obviously. THAT was a huge blessing. We got to move into a beautiful home, right on the camp property, that came as a "perk" of the job, meaning no rent, utilities, or upkeep out of our own pocket. The house was only 4 years old, as the previous director had finally replaced the original director's dwelling with a manufactured home while he was there. There was more room on one floor of that house than our entire condo in Calgary had sported!
And I was even a little embarrassed by that. What had we done to deserve this blessing? We didn't squander the opportunity, though. We used those years at the camp to pay off huge, gi-normous chunks of our accumulated debt, as well as to give as generously as we were able to causes and charities we felt led to support. But I felt bad, in some ways, that we seemed to have done so little to "earn" this financial boost, while friends of ours were struggling along on extremely limited incomes, or had huge mortgages to go with their houses.
While at the camp, our family expanded from two to five. So when it came time to move to Peace River, we knew we had to find a house with room for our rambunctious boys, and to house a home office for our various home-based businesses. We had never purchased a home before, and because our focus had been mainly on paying off as much debt as possible to free us up to go overseas (a long story that still has not materialized), we had nothing to speak of in savings. The government has a program that will help first-time home buyers without the requisite 25% down, but the problem was we didn't even have the amount of money they wanted!
Our original plan was to rent, then buy later when we had a better idea of what the town was like. We spent one whirlwind December weekend in Peace River, just Jason and 2-week-old Jabin and I, looking at rental properties here and in nearby Grimshaw. There was really nothing that appealed to us--everything was either too old, too dumpy, or too small (700 sq. feet!) Last-minute, we decided to look at a house for sale. From the asking price, we did not think it would be in our budget, but we thought It never hurts to ask.
The house was huge--it was originally 2000 square feet over two floors, but ten years after the original building was put up, a 1000 sq. ft. addition was put on the back. The basement needed to be almost completely re-done. There were various renovation projects throughout the house that were only half-finished, or extremely poorly done. The last person to paint had been anything but careful. And the movers had come only the day before, leaving muddy footprints all over the carpet.
We took it. In three weeks, we negotiated the sale of the house to something within our budget, took possession on December 21, and moved on the 22nd. Even that would not have been possible without financial help from family, and I am sure some divine pushes in the process.
Funny how you can expand to fill up whatever container you are in. Your habitually-traced steps just find new paths to create. Your junk finds new corners to fill. You actually buy more to fill up the space. (This is a materialistic habit which I abhor, but recognize it in myself, none-the-less.)
Little did we know that the dinosaur would be so hard to feed. Our first full month of utilities bills was January--the coldest month in our year. When I opened the envelope, it felt like I had been kicked in the gut by a horseshoe made of liquid nitrogen. I thought, at first, that it was because prices had simply gone up so much since the last time we had had to pay utilities. But upon comparing the bill to friends with similar properties, I realized that no, we had simply purchased Peace River's most energy-inefficient building.
We quickly realized that we would either have to make more money to live here, learn the fine art of living without eating, or move. Then, a miracle happened. Jason got a job offering 50% more than what he was making. The pressure was off. I began teaching piano a few months later. We could actually afford to do "fun" things again, once in a while.
And then winter came again. Despite not feeling the icy fingers of More Debt scratching out my eyes last year, we both recognized that there may never be a better time to move than now.
My mother's husband Mike, with his keen "spidey sense" for good deals on land, had us go check on the property we are now moving to sometime just before the new year. With his experience as a general contractor, and his willingness to take a summer and do so, he is going to be the major driving force behind our house being built. Because of that, we will be able to build a literal "dream house", for us, at least. No, it's not one of those bazillion-dollar homes that you see in magazines. But for the same or lesser mortgage, in a market where real estate prices have sky-rocketed in the last year, we will be able to get a nicer, much more efficient house on a sizable acreage that we would not have been able to afford for many more years to come without this help.
And I'm embarrassed. I catch myself trying to explain the situation, say too much, when people ask about our land, or the house we are building. Justifying what seems to me, in some ways, to be extravagant. The house is big, but not huge. Ironically, the cost of living there will be much less than here. We are hoping to have more money to invest in causes again--perhaps even save up for a real family vacation. And most definitely get our own cow! No more chlorinated water. (The well was drilled on Tuesday, and the water is fine.) I can grow my own vegetables. There are twenty-two acres of trees for me--uh, I mean "my boys"--to run around in. And with all this, I think I am afraid that people will think we are either living beyond our means, or that our means are a lot more than they really are.
Why do I care so much about what people think? Is it my sense of fairness? It's not fair that we have these blessings, and have been blessed so much, when other people struggle and have to go through years of toil and tribulation to receive the same payback. It's not fair that we can conceive a child almost by merely thinking of it, while other people have to go through expensive and costly medical procedures, or never even be parents at all.
And then it occurs to me. I remember all the times (these and many more) that we have been blessed by other people in our lives. I remember all the times that we have given to help others, even if it meant going without a little ourselves. And I realize that soon it will be our turn to "pay it forward." We have been blessed, so that we can be a blessing. Almost daily, I pray that I and my family would be a blessing to someone today.
The easiest way to be a blessing is to have something to give away. God, through our family and friends, has blessed us in a huge way--not so we can horde and hold on to what we are given. No, in His economy, the more you give your blessings and your talents to others, the more you receive yourself. And He only ever gives you what your abilities can handle.
Funny how that works.
Funny how easy it was for me to forget that. Time for me to stop being embarrassed, and to start pouring these blessings right back out again.
(I'm so glad we had this little talk.)
"To be Queen Elizabeth within a definite area, deciding sales, banquets, labors, and holidays; to be Whitely within a certain area, providing toys, boots, cakes, and books; to be Aristotle within a certain area, teaching morals, manners, theology, and hygiene; I can understand how this might exhaust the mind, but I cannot imagine how it could narrow it. How can it be a large career to tell other people's children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one's own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone and narrow to be everything to someone? No, a woman's function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute." - G.K. Chesterton, What's Wrong With the World
There are two mornings in our household that are high-stress for me: Tuesdays, when I am supposed to be in Grimshaw by 10:00 a.m. for the weekly "Mom's Time Out" Bible Study there (a twenty-minute drive), and Sundays, when our goal is to make it to church on time for 11:00.
Today was no exception. By 11:00, the breakfast dishes were just being cleared from the table, the kids were being packed into outside gear, I was finally getting to run a brush through my hair, and Jason was trying to pack kids out to the van. My nerves started to fray a little.
We got to church, and the service was already in full swing. Trying to corral Noah in that big, open foyer is like trying to catch a plastic grocery bag on a windy day--just when you think you've got him, you close your hand on thin air, and he is off on another lap. Words don't help either--he will just pretend he didn't hear you. (Or maybe he really didn't hear you, in the fashion of a one-track-mind, three-year-old-male.) Anyway, by the time we finally got all the outside gear off, my nerves were even more frayed. We caught all three wild colts (Jabin being the easiest!) and herded them into a pew.
After the service, the chaos continued. It was "Name Tag Sunday," the idea being that the congregation can congregate around snacks in the foyer (and try to restrain themselves from being guilty of the sin of gluttony) and get to know each other better.
One little Noah is much more agile and nimble in a crowded church foyer than his poor mom. By the time we were finally ready to leave, I had chased Noah out of the sanctuary at least four times, and after getting his coat on and turning my attention to his brother for five seconds, I had to go find him again. (I may or may not have been muttering something about having the attention span and self-control of a gnat.)
Everyone was finally back in their outside gear (except their boots) and in one location, so we headed to the back stairs landing, where we had left our footwear upon arrival.
"That's on the wrong foot, Jude," I said. He ignored me. Jason came through, quickly shod Jabin and headed out to start the van.
"That's on the wrong foot, Jude," I said again. He took his boot off his right foot, then got distracted by Noah who, with his usual uncanny luck, got his boots on the correct feet, as he does 98% of the time. Jude put the boot back on his right foot.
"That's on the wrong foot, Jude," I repeated. I'm not sure why I was so insistent on making sure he corrected his error, except perhaps I was feeling like I should try to make at least one thing from this crazy morning go right. Noah headed out the door to follow Jason.
In frustration, I raised my voice a little.
"Jude! That's on the wrong foot!"
He looked at me at last.
"Why you keep saying that, Mom?"
I was taken aback. "Because you are putting your boot on the wrong foot, and I thought you would be more comfortable if you put it on right."
"It's okay, Mom. It's okay if it's on that foot!"
Of course it was okay. What was my problem, anyway?
"You're right, Jude. You can put your boot on that foot if you want."
He actually did switch them around before he headed out the door. And I, chastened through the mouth of my four-year-old, followed sheepishly behind.
And the rest of the day? Went much better.
After I got the kids in bed, I decided to take advantage of Jason's absence (having a Guy's X-Box Night) to continue prepping our guest room to be painted. Yesterday, I had managed to clear out all the furniture, but the largish closet (which we use for storage) still needed to be emptied, and 12 semi-ancient Canada Flag stickers needed to be removed from the walls. This is the part I was dreading.
With a combination of soapy water, a sponge, and a plastic drywall knife, I managed to painstakingly remove three--the ones lowest down, where I had the most leverage. The remaining nine are on the small vertical edge of a section of dropped ceiling, and after several unfruitful attempts, perched atop a low stool, I decided to buy some wallpaper remover tomorrow and give it another go. But! I figured I may as well keep prepping the other parts of the room.
A few minutes later and the baseboard was laying haphazardly scattered on the carpet in spiky strips, like a giant game of Pick-Up-Sticks gone awry. I laid it (mostly) out of the way, then set to work on the closet. Jason organized our storage room yesterday (HALLELUJAH!), so there was now room in there for the temporary storage of even more junk! (We have so much storage space in this house, it scares me--what are we going to put into a storage area and then just forget about? Until we have to pack it up and move it, that is.)
I would like to tell you that, other than the impossible-to-remove stickers, the room is ready for paint, or at least putty, to be applied. But that would be less than honest. Truthfully, I got the closet about half-way emptied, and then came across a box full of Memory Lane. Dangerous.
Never mind that it was already quarter to midnight. Never mind that I was standing on the cold cement floor in the absolute coldest room in the house (which in this drafty old beast is saying something), I was soon flipping through books, binders, and artwork. I decided that my thirteen-year-old self was a much better artist than my twenty-nine-year-old self. I can't even believe I drew some of that stuff!
And then I came to the journals. The first two journals I ever kept, starting at the age of fifteen. That was the year my parents split. I entered high school. I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Saviour. I changed schools. I changed churches. I changed the parent I was living with. There was a lot of change that year. In many ways, that year defined me, and the way my life would unfold.
Before long, as I read through those journals, I had sunk to the cold, painted cement floor in the dimly-lit storage room, reliving the joys, sorrows, confusion, and drama of a fifteen-year-old boy-crazy girl. The name of the Object of My Affection changed almost weekly, yet I had recognized how hormone-driven it all was. The book included all kinds of lists, poems and songs, (some original, some copied). My handwriting went through innumerable incarnations. And as I re-experienced the emotions poured on those pages by a hurting-but-healing fifteen-year-old girl, I cried out loud several times.
It was an interesting look back at the person that was, and it made me stop and think: What would I say to her now?
That dating policy you have about only dating people who love God as much as you? That's a good one. Keep to that, and you'll avoid a lot of future pain.
That dream house you wrote about? I just designed it--and most of those things you wrote about are in there. I think you'd like it.
Do not judge people who have made mistakes so harshly--someday someone else may be judging you the same way.
Hold on to your idealistic purism, but do it in love.
Hold on to your dreams, too. Dreams really do come true.
Keep seeking for the Truth you long for.
Tough love is tough to give sometimes. True friends give it--and receive it. Tough love shows you who your true friends are.
God designed woman to desire men, not to pursue them, so let go and don't run so hard after male attention. It is only after you become confident in the woman He made you to be that you will attract the kind of attention you truly want, anyway.
That list you wrote about what you really want in a man? You'll get to marry him someday. Don't collect baggage with the runners-up in the meantime.
Time really does heal--if not all, then many--wounds. Knowing that doesn't make it much easier to go through the dark times, but sometimes it helps to know that it won't always hurt this bad.
Hang on to your hope. Your life holds so much in store for you--go out and live it!
Then Jabin started fussing in the room over my head. I dried my eyes, forced my frozen carcass to rise from the floor, and went to rock my precious baby--such a vivid reminder of all that is good in my life, fourteen years later--to sleep.
"When I was a kid I learned how the world was. I held my paper up to the light and traced out what I saw, true in every detail. I neither learn nor see as well now as I did then, and I can't keep up with all the adjustments to the lines of my tracing. Instead, I've learned to love the blurred lines. I tell myself this." A. Scott White