The Kelly Ripa Illusion

It took me four days to paint a bunk bed.  It would be one thing if I could say “to paint a bunk bed well” but I can’t quite claim that.  On day three I was surly, feeling like there was no reason this project should be consuming my week.  How did all afternoon only produce a few white boards?

There was that quick interruption when I had to change sheets (twice) on account of a two year old having a rough day and wetting them.  Also on the subject of potty troubles, I plunged the toilet twice on account of a four year old who believes one roll of toilet paper per sitting should do the job.  It would have been quick clean up if he had thought to get me instead of flushing again…and again… and again until the floor and rugs were sopping wet with dirty water.  Oops.  That load of laundry included five towels and two rugs.

Then “I just need to switch laundry real quick” turned into “How did the mudroom get this muddy?” which turned into a quick vacuum, dumping muddy pants into the washer, and of course returning to the paint project.

About that time I heard a bus and two more heads appeared with, “Where’s our snack?”  ”Here’s my homework.”  ”Don’t forget to sign this.”  ”I’m still hungry.”  ”When’s dinner?”

Dinner it was and well after that before I found the paint smudge on my nose.

After all was quiet and four little eyes were closed in sleep I went to switch the laundry again.  Hanging over my old, breaking dryer I recalled my first sobering “I can only do so much!” moment as a parent and how it was ironically spurred by a laundry commercial.

It was the middle of the night and I was nursing a baby in the dark living room with the TV on in miserable attempt to keep my eyes open.  I’m certain there was yet more laundry piled on the floor, dried spit up on the couch armrest, and a pile of toys I couldn’t summon energy to clean before bed.  I do remember it had been a day similar to the painting day- full of interruptions and good intentions derailed.  One of those days you can’t recall what you did, but wow- was it ever hectic.

On came an Electrolux commercial with Kelly Ripa.

images-1Nothing like a tan, perky, put together woman grinning her way through a demonstration of an amazing washer and dryer while I’m curled up on the couch with a nursing baby, bed head, retainers in, to make me feel… un-perky.  I’m sorry Kelly, I’m trying to hear what you’re saying but your amazing biceps are distracting me.  Will the washer and dryer make my hair silky and flippable like that?  I think I may be drooling.  (Oh, nope- that was the baby.)  Good NIGHT woman how do you get those teeth so white?!  Did you pick that outfit?  The color is fabulous… how old are these pajama pants I’m wearing? Read the rest of this entry

Scan 10One of the greatest things my parents ever did for me was give me a best friend 19 months after I was born.  I called her “Baby Jazz” and over the years came up with a dozen other great nicknames, none of which she appreciated because she unfortunately isn’t much of a nickname person. Read the rest of this entry

A Mile & a Chapter at a Time

I am not a runner.
When I was in middle school my deepest anxiety was saved for the day we were required to run the mile in P.E.  I was an active kid who spent a lot of time outside, on the trampoline, riding bikes.  However, any organized sport or running caused a strange reaction I liken to hyperventilating.

You may laugh and have in mind that I’m exaggerating.  Stop imagining 32yr old Shilo.  Picture with me 12yr old Shilo with braces, perm, and a decently round face that caused my eyes to disappear when I smiled… oh wait.  That may happen regardless of cheek size.

I was last in the mile.  Maybe you’re rolling your eyes thinking, “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad” but let me tell you- my fear over failing would turn into a side ache by lap one.  By lap two I was dreaming up excuses I could use.  By lap three every cute guy in the class was lapping me and I was praying they didn’t notice it was my frizzy hair and neatly folded socks falling behind.  By lap four the rest of the class was waiting… and waiting… and dear God, am I STILL doing this?!  My run turned into a walk and I resigned myself to acting like I don’t care.

“Your time was 12 min and 45 sec.”
I shrugged.  ”I had a side ache.  My knees are bothering me.  I’ve had this headache.  I stayed behind with that slow kid so he wouldn’t feel bad.  I ate too much for breakfast.”
Inwardly, “12:45?  Sweet!  My best time ever!”

The same year I discovered that I’m amazing at the high jump.  Best girl in the class.  Who knew?!  The P.E. teacher said, “We’d love to have you join track.”
“I’m sorry… I feel hives coming on.  I can’t breathe.  Don’t you have to run in track?”  No way.  I had resigned myself to not being a runner.

Three months before my wedding my sister assumed the role of personal trainer and got me into the best shape of my life.  Still- I made her promise no long distances.  I got up to 2 miles of interval running but even in great shape dismissed the running option.  ”I suck at running.”  I refused to set goals in this area and when I hoped to break through a plateau, I certainly wouldn’t dare say it out loud.

I always told myself, “I’m comfortable not being a runner.  So what?  I do what I can do.  What is safe to do… what I won’t fail to do.  Two miles on the treadmill in the quiet of the morning.  Done.”

I’ve been realizing running isn’t the only area of my life that this thinking of being safe and sticking to what I know has permeated.  Apparently “good enough” sneaks in when anything more risks failure or uncomfortable vulnerability.

I am not a writer.
Since I could form letters I loved writing stories.  They were in private notebooks because I knew they probably weren’t great.  I threw them away when the notebook was full but it was therapeutic for me.

When I was ten years old I discovered the youngest published author was nine years old.  I was crushed even though I had never told a soul my dream to be the youngest published author.  I had convinced the “rational” part of myself that I wasn’t a writer but that rational part failed to convince a passionate (yet fearful) kid.

In 8th grade my best friend presented me with a journal.  I filled it in a matter of months.  I got another one.  And another.  In 19 years this “non-writer” managed to fill 42 journals.

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(Excessive?  Yeah… maybe a bit.)

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There’s a fascinating little story tucked into the book of Genesis that I keep coming back to.  It follows the incredible story of the flood and grand verses of God’s promises to Noah, who must have been feeling pretty good about his life, his standing with God, and the re-building to come.
There’s farming going on in chapter 9, a successful vineyard, and… wine.  Our faith giant Noah has a few too many.  Noah doesn’t need tequila to make his clothes fall off… evidently wine will do it.  There he is fallen from grace; naked in his tent.

Noah’s son Ham discovers his hammered father sprawled out in the buff and his immediate response is, “Wait ’til I tell the guys!”  We’re all familiar with the Hams of the world, gleefully grabbing the phone (or ram’s horn) to pass on today’s humiliation and sin.  (It’s okay, Ham- I’m sure you added the Christian, “we should be praying for him” disclaimer at the end.  Smooth.)

Shem and Japheth don’t respond as Ham anticipated.  They “took a garment, laid it on both their shoulders, and went backward and covered the nakedness of their father.  Their faces were turned away and they did not see their father’s nakedness.”  Genesis 9:23.  It brings tears every time I read they went backwards, indicating how far above and beyond they went to cover their father in love.

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Boys and those of the slightly tomboyish variety

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I have not mentioned enough how fantastic it is raising boys, especially two of them less than two years apart and completely different from each other… yet completely brothers.

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Tractors, legos, inappropriate jokes about anything having to do with bodily functions, strong wills, weapons… and still snuggling with Mom.

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My oldest rolls her eyes at the younger hooligans but she likes transformers.  She went against the second grade trend by inviting all her classmates to her birthday, not just girls because “boys play better outdoor games anyway”.  She informed me her favorite color is green- pink and purple are “just too… girly or something”.  Suddenly she’s over princesses and fascinated by Nellie Bly, Elizabeth Blackwell, and Harriet Tubman.

I was painting her nails last week and in her impatience she smudged them.  Sighing she said, “I just don’t know if I’m that kind of girl, Mom.”
“What kind of girl?”
“The kind that does nail painting.  I just don’t know if I care about it and I definitely don’t care about looking fancy and nice when I leave the house like you do.”
With another dramatic sigh she concluded, “I’m not with the boys all the time but I’m also not girly like the girls.  Sometimes it’s like no one understands me.  I don’t think there’s anyone like me.”

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Hiding my giggles was ridiculously hard.  It took all my willpower to not say, “Really, mini-Shilo?  Nobody gets your tree climbing, non-conformist, deep sighing, nose in a book, writing, theatrical self?  Have you even seen my second grade picture?”
Instead I just nodded… understandingly.  ”You are definitely one of a kind, Darla J.  But… um… have you seen me ride a dirt bike?”

“If a son asks for bread from any father among you, will he give him a stone?  Or if he asks for a fish, will he give him a serpent instead of a fish?  Or if he asks for an egg, will he offer him a scorpion?  If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him?”  Luke 11:11-13

These verses keep worming into my mind.  I’ve always skimmed them because it’s quite obvious to me that a good God doesn’t give His children stones to eat.  Plus, I’m a parent.  I understand wanting to give my kids good gifts.  Darla recently had her 8th birthday and I was nearly as giddy as she was.  Watching her be blessed and humbly thankful was a bright spot in my January.

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I was greatly anticipating a trip to Portland last week because my list had grown long of reasons to go.  My cousins were in town and after a couple years of missed connections, I was looking forward to time together.  I was giddy to meet my college roommate’s new baby.  After years of praying, complications, and losing their firstborn daughter, by God’s grace they have a little boy and I didn’t want to wait any longer to meet him.  My other cousin was moving into a new house and I committed to spending a day and a half helping her get settled.  I planned a morning of prayer with my aunt who does healing prayer ministry.  I called up another close friend for an overnight and coffee on New Year’s Eve.

Sean and I decided it would be good for me to have time with Darla so I invited her to come with me.  Then because of his work schedule, Sean suggested I take Haley so that he’d be flexible with just the boys.

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Musings from 15,000 feet

Last month I had a whirlwind trip to southern California to help my sister and her family move.  Almost as fantastic as being in CA with my sister and her family was travel itself.  Between driving, multiple flights, and layovers, I spent over 8 hours each way traveling.  Traveling by myself.  Getting coffee when I wanted coffee.  Listening to playlists, journaling, reading, talking only when I wanted to talk and being allowed to ignore everyone around me.  Even more amazingly, I had window seats on each of my four flights.

After landing in San Francisco, Bakersfield, and Phoenix, coming into Seattle was a breathtaking explosion of color (gray skies aside).  It was the first week of November and the ground was covered in shades of orange, red, and browns.  Music cranked up and fingers cramped from the frantic writing of the previous hour, I paused in awe.

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Haley Kate Taylor

There are hundreds of small things to celebrate under the umbrella of official adoption and in this moment it’s that I no longer have to refer to our youngest as “Little Girly” publicly but can use her full new name, Haley Kate Taylor.

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Oh, Peter

Oh zealous disciple, I love that when Jesus called, you dropped your nets immediately.  You soaked up His teaching.  You experienced His miracles firsthand and more importantly- His presence.  Jesus gave you power over unclean spirits and called you a friend, not by facebook standards but the inner circle of twelve.

Oh, Peter I knowingly smile when I picture you on a boat proclaiming, “Lord, if it is You, command me to come to you on the water” because I am no stranger to dramatic intensity.  I know the exhilarating moment of faith required to throw yourself overboard and the following panic of “Is the One I know able to sustain this… to sustain me!?”

Oh, Peter you had your doubts but your sincerity leaps off Scripture’s pages.  Perhaps lacking in follow through but your desire- Oh, Peter I understand the desire.  While others questioned and gossiped you stood tall declaring, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God”.  You heard the Father’s voice!

Jesus prophesied you as the rock He would build his church on… then rebuked you after He foretold His death and you responded with, “This shall not happen to you!”  Oh, Peter it’s easy to draw our own conclusions from the sliver of understanding Jesus gives.  It wouldn’t play out the way you had it pictured.  It had to be hard to get your head around His story instead of the story you’d write.  I get that. Read the rest of this entry