Beautiful Redemption

I am one of those people who always cringes when people tell you WHY you should be happy because your life is SO MUCH BETTER than... and then they describe a very tragic story about someone and you're supposed to feel bad about being ungrateful. When the point of the story is tragedy, it leaves no room for redemption.

Those stories have never made me feel gratitude or lead me to happiness. And it makes me feel badly for the person who is the subject of the story... as if their life is not able to be touched by beauty and redemption, as if they are not allowed to see beauty because circumstances have dictated it.

"Sorry, someone told a sad story about you and now you will always be defined by that story. No joy for you."

Sorry, you have a disease. Now that disease is on your business card, passed around for all to see.
Sorry, you can't have babies. Everything in your life will be barren now.
Sorry, you have been abandoned. Tattoo "lonely" on your forehead.

Hogwash.

Rubbish.

Untruth.

For years, I had long accepted the titles of
"Emily whose parents are divorced" and
"Emily whose womb is uncooperative"...
but I never found those titles to stick to me because God has a redemptive plan in my life.

Recently I have been quite sick, have relinquished control of my daughter's learning disability and am trying to emotionally support a husband who went to work happily 3 weeks ago and came home unemployed due to a massive reduction in force at his office.
My old ways want to say, "C'mon. Be a victim. Wear the suffering."

But God says something different. He says he wants to lavish gifts on me even more than my earthly parents. He says that he can turn ashes into beauty. 

What does this redemption look like? For me, I like to design.

I'm working on 12 designs to be a calendar for my fledgling company, Sweet Mercy Design. I had hoped to have been working on these designs for 8 months. But life became more complicated than expected. I have 6 weeks to complete this work.

My spare time is little and yet God's Spirit is stirring the waters of creativity in me such that I can hardly drive or run or speak or cook without seeing designs everywhere around me, spilling into my dreams and rendering me almost intoxicated on beauty.

When I stop to measure the responsibilities around me I hear God's voice say, "When has worry ever improved you?" and I say, "Never, not ever" and He says, "Design, child! Design!" and so I do.

He pulls me up again and again by His Spirit and says, "Emily, there is beauty still. Do not be defined by these ugly things. My fingerprint is everywhere. Find beauty there."

I shun the ugly. I pursue the beautiful. And I lean on the truth.

________________________________________

Matthew 7:11 " If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!"
 
Isaiah 61:1-3 "The Spirit of the Lord is on me... to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

Enter the Story

Dear Daughters,

I am now 38 years old. By the time you read this, I will be much older. And by the time it really penetrates your heart... well... that's up to you and if you listen to the experiences in your life.

Over the past years I have found that there are certain people in my life who have become extra close friends. Each friendship began with an introduction, often awkward. "Hello my name is..." followed by sweet inquiries from where one came. Maybe talk of a favorite restaurant. Most relationships will dwindle and stay at the pleasant "Hello, how are you?" stage. Don't despair...if we're honest, our hearts can't hold hundreds of close friendships anyway.

But the ones who rise to the surface... the friendships that steal our hearts from the ordinary... those are the ones worth noting.

I have done a rough inventory of my friendships. It sounds mathematical and cold, I know. But stay with me.

When I consider the friends who have truly penetrated my life, they are the ones who have stopped talking about themselves and started asking questions of me. And they are the ones of whom I want to ask questions as well. I want to live vicariously through their vacation stories and get misty eyed over the birth of their children. I want to laugh at their idiosyncrasies and have them tease me about mine.

They are the ones who listen. Who don't just "hear" my story about getting my child to sleep and then volley back information about themselves. No, they are the ones who set aside their storehouse of knowledge, tell the left side of their brain to "hush" a minute and ask great questions. Questions about feelings and moments. And then... then they respond with great facial expressions and hearty laughs and quiet pauses.

In essence, they enter the story.

I can't tell you how important it is to enter the story of life.

In fact, if you meet people in life who don't have a lot of friends, I challenge you to see how they communicate, to see if they allow themselves to enter into the minds and shoes of another person while that person tells a memory. If they're eager to quip a story back, it's clear that they're not living in the moment or reading the pages.

Here's how you know when you're entering the story: You feel it. You listen to the details and immerse yourself in their memory. You offer "you must have felt elated" or "wow, that must have hurt."

Your closest friends will want to enter your story. And you will want to enter theirs. It won't be a burden. As you become closer, you'll get to the point where you will anticipate their reaction to something and laugh at it. I can't tell you how many times I have found myself in a curious situation and thought, "Sweet mercy, this is ridiculous and hilarious. I cannot wait to tell my friend about it."

The reason that entering the story is so special and important, precious daughters, is because it will help you to know yourself and to get beyond yourself at the same time. Finding a friend who is willing to be a mirror, to reflect your fears or joys and show you other facets of something you believe to be true... that is very valuable.

Sometimes it will hurt to enter the story. In fact, during one period of my life where my womb wouldn't cooperate with bringing a baby into the world, I found myself unable to celebrate the pregnancies of my friends. It utterly paralyzed me. If these people are truly your friends, grace will cover.

Conversely, when you have a cheerleader in your life who encourages you during life's difficulties, sheds some light on the gray areas and bursts with excitement at your achievements, well, congratulations, they are a friend worth keeping.

Some of my favorite friends are my husband and my mother. I'm so grateful to both of them for making my story richer and more truthful.

I'm not sure who these friends will be for you. I see inklings of who they could be.


With some practice, I'm hoping you'll consider me one of that number.

I have been married twelve years now. And while that may seem to be a drop in the bucket compared to, say, my grandparents, it's still something worth noting.

During weddings, star-struck brides and grooms often leaves scraps of paper in pews or on reception tables asking their guests for them marital advice.

The advice ranges from

"Don't sweat the small stuff"

to

"Do one sweet thing for each other every week"

 My personal favorite is: "You can't be naked and angry at the same time" and I make sure to always write this because it is funny and truthful.

When my daughters *hopefully* marry one day, I intend to give them this advice, however:
"Speak kindly and sincerely to one another."

While our dozen years of matrimony hardly makes us experts, I will say that over that span of time, Dan has shown me how to communicate.

We don't yell in our house.

Let me qualify: We spouses don't yell at each other. I bark at the children on occasion and they return the favor. But spouse yelling matches don't occur in our house because Dan Dykstra declared it so when we were first married.

I know because I tried to yell at him when we were newly married and he calmly said, "We don't do that in our house, Emily."  *Gulp*

Those manners that we learned as children... "Please", "Thank you", "Pardon me"... They go far in marriage.

If I am in Dan's way in the kitchen, he'll say things like, "Excuse me, hon."

If a spouse is unaware that they are standing in a busy hallway, the other one will lightly touch the back of the other and say, "Pardon me."

I'm pleased as punch that my three year old has begun to say "pardon me" as she barrels through people. It's a step in the right direction.

I don't have a magic wand as to what marriages work and how they do so and why some turn out great and others disintegrate.

But I do know that Dan is a gift to me. A precious gift. And God willing, I will always treat him as one.

'Mater Matters

A pile of years ago, I stood in a hallway with Dan Dykstra at Calvin College. I was immensely smitten with him and hung on virtually every word he said.

"I never eat tomatoes until summer," he said. Actually he pontificated. Dan had an entire argument set against eating tomatoes that were stripped from maturing, labeled as "tomatoes" (since you couldn't tell by their peachy-pink color) and sold to unsuspecting, or uncaring, institutions.

He gave me this monologue as we stood in front of the cafeteria. I remember.

I remember because every March when I plan my garden, I make sure to include at least 6 tomato plants in order to satisfy his Calvin College speech to me. And because I love to see his eyes get big when we cut into a really red-ripe Big Beef.

Each year I make selections for my garden in the late winter. I buy seeds and map out how I want to arrange them. I don't create the layout because I am organized. The layout is necessary because I need to make sure that at least 6 tomatoes plants have room. I also do it because it helps me press through the cold, unfeeling, un-tomato months.

At the first sign of spring, I go to my local home improvement store and scan it for plants. "They're not here, yet, ma'am...," they'll explain, "Next week." I continue to drop in to the store which smells of potting soil and mulch samples, anxious for the plants to arrive.

Almost overnight an army of plants appear in the store. They're small, green, scrappy and uninspiring. It takes a bit of hope to see how such a fledgling plant will overcome its weed-like appearance and become a wonderful, productive vegetation. I read the plastic informational stakes they stick in each plant. Each year I hope for one that will produce tomatoes in June, but no such luck. Slow, steady growth is required.

The yellow flowers transform into pale green orbs which begin to blush before they turn fiery red.

Picking a tomato off the plant is immensely satisfying. When a ripe tomato catches my eye, I slide my hand under its heavy weight. I pull slightly to see if it is ready to yield. I twist it gently and feel its warmth fall into my palm. I bring it inside to the kitchen and set it on the sill of my window.

I don't like cold tomatoes. Warm tomatoes are juicier and richer.

When you eat a tomato-laden sandwich, there are certain unsaid rules. First, the moment is somewhat holy because these harvests from summer are so special. Talking isn't necessary.

Second, if you do try to talk while eating a sandwich, it won't be pretty. You can't hide the juices when you eat them. They soak in the bread of crusty sandwiches, they drip pale coral colored juice down your fingers. If you chomp into them properly, there is no room for Emily Post; manners are futile in this situation.
In fact, one might say that if a person invites you to eat a summer-ripe tomato sandwich with them, they must feel awfully comfortable with you. It's not a "first date" meal, as Dan would say. Other food that fall in the "non-first-date-meal" category are baby back ribs, s'mores and candy apples.

This afternoon, Dan and I came home from church and slapped together some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for our girls. Our daughters don't share our affinity for tomatoes, so no tomato sandwiches for them.

We toasted some crusty bread. We don't need to talk when we make these sandwiches. Twelve years of marriage does that to a couple.

We cut the tomatoes and Dan put coarse cracked pepper on them. He assembled the sandwiches and waited outside on our patio with the food. We eat together. To be honest, however, Dan has already made a sandwich a few minutes earlier, swallowed it whole, probably felt guilty (or hungry) and made another.

Even so, he waited.

We ate. We relished in summer. We sat back, satisfied, knowing that summer tomatoes are still coming.

Ode to August

I'm immersed in summer.

Schedules are loose. Only a suggestion, really.

We rely on energy levels and weather to tell us what to do that day.

It's a respite from the sounds of school bells.

We eat lunch at a different time each day. But we start each day the same: with quietness, reading, coffee and conversation. 6:30am coffee and conversation. Beautiful.

I shun things that look like paperwork. I laugh at the intricacies of insurance companies. I play their game for now. I only vaguely remember the harried season of school days just 2 months ago.

Friends are eager for their children to be in school. But this is Chicago. We need to soak in every last pool day and sun-drenched morning. We need to resist looking at winter coats in catalogs. Pretend we live on an island. A very, very hot island. Winter is never coming. It is only warm every day.

It's time to quiet the mind before fall returns. Unplug.

Five Things, Four Ways

Things I Do Well:
- Play "taco" with Eve... I hold her in my arms, legs on one side, head on the other and let her bum drop down so she is the shape of a taco. Then I ask her what she wants on her taco "Cheese, hamburgers, lollipops" as I pretend to put on ingredients and then chomp her up.
- Laugh at Morgan's jokes. She's hilarious. She's almost as funny as Dan.
- Connect emotionally. It oozes from me. Can't be helped. It irritates some people. :)
- Make cookies. 
- Have coffee with Dan in the morning. He's a joy to listen to.

Things I Don't Do Well:
- Exercise with regularity. *sigh*
- Plan laundry, cleaning and dinner making. I don't like schedules but I need them. So I flounder.
- Read. I SHOULD read more, but don't.
- Watch TV.
- High levels of details. I like to be simpler.

Things That Make Me Sad:
- How the sam heck am I going to lose these last 10 pounds?
- When I get mad at people for doing small, selfish things. It seems I can handle big, ugly things in life better than small, vain, irritating things.
- Rotten veggies in my fridge. :( Sorry, veggies.
- When I think badly about myself; Most of this has come from being a stay at home mom. Chaos does not make me feel successful. Or loving. Or smart.
- When people like to be victims in life. No matter what you say or do, victims love to be unhappy and to be hurt. I don't get it.

Things That Make Me Feel Happy:
- When I start the day trusting God for how the hours will unfold.
- When I make a pie.
- When I kick butt in my workout.
- When I finish something. Like my design collection. Or iron Dan's shirts. I love doing both.
- When a friend says something to build me up.

From Maryland

I just returned from a two week visit to Maryland.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing wrong with living in Chicagoland. It's perfectly wonderful. I can enjoy rural or urban life easily. I can get my groceries from at least 6 stores. Our school district is very good. But when your heart longs for another place, you'll find yourself saying bad things about certain situations, even if they are good.

For example: 
Last summer my family had a delightful vacation to South Haven, Michigan. I love beach towns. I grew up working at the beach. It's in my blood. At one point I remember telling my daughters, "This is a lake. It has no waves. It's not a real beach. One day I'll show you an ocean."

Yes, that was a direct stab at landlocked midwest. I love where I live here in Chicagoland. But try as it might to woo me, I am an east coast girl at heart.

Another factor in my visit was probably my parents' divorce. Even two years after the closing of that chapter, I find myself trying to cobble together some understanding of what just happened. Of how a loving, tight family became a scattered tribe. I still can't fully swallow the word "divorce"; it hangs in my throat like a broken Dorito.

I went back to Maryland to show my children an ocean, to remind myself where I came from, to eat picnic food with my really great family, and to celebrate the "new normal" of a life where parents have two different homes.

I didn't tell my children about my agenda.
I told my 8 year old that we were visiting family.
I told my 3 year old that we were going to the beach. She hopped right into the car.

I can't fully explain what happened in Maryland, but somehow the air and the food and the laughter of all the people I saw filled my cup.

I had a wonderful time with my dad at the Chesapeake Bay, where a scant half dozen children ran in and out of the house, wood screen door slamming, as they played in water and got stung by jellyfish. The laughter was thick, the mothers who watched them were tired and my dad, who went by the name "Captain Mike" took the children on rafts and boat rides and even offered a kayaking lesson.

I saw my friend Lauren who made me immediately jealous that she has gotten more beautiful over the past 10 years. Her eyes became bluer and her laugh became richer. We had forgotten the years between us.


I saw my friend Patti, who was one my marriage mentors. She said a great deal of wisdom in the few hours I was with her. She encouraged me as a mother with her gracious words. She smiled on my 3 year old who cried for nearly 20 minutes when we arrived. And since Patti's children (a bit older) are gracious and accomplished, confident and transparent, I saw how her words became, well, people. Amazing people.

I listened to my friend Rheba's journey in life with illness. And how she refuses to let it hold her down.

I watched my Dad's side of the family as they scooped up my children, made them laugh, let them share their feelings and told them family stories.

I delighted as my husband and daughters saw how my Mom's side of the family requires the dessert table to be almost bigger than the entree table. I watched as my daughters were effortlessly brought into the fold, laughing with relatives they just met as if they knew them all their life.

And then...we had Hawaiian shaved ice at Brian and Renee's house. Get this: They have a shaved ice machine in their basement. They bought it after they honeymooned in Hawaii. It rained most of the time they were there, so they ate shaved ice the whole time to enjoy the time. Essentially they redeemed a bad vacation into kitschy fun and now... now they're hooked on shaved ice and spreading the word to their 3 darling children and anyone else who will try it. 

I ate crabs. Eve says they are "berry ouchy" and also "gross" but at least she saw them.

I tried fried Oreos and fried Twinkies on the Ocean City, Maryland boardwalk.
I won't eat friend Oreos again, but I dream of the Twinkies.

We drove home the long way so I could try Jeni's Splendid Ice Creams. Food became art. I tried Lavender ice cream. Lavender! It tasted like a spring day. My husband, who is selfless and kind, was eyeing my Chocolate Cayenne ice cream with big, big eyes. "Go ahead, have it," I told him. "You sure?" he said, spoon ready.

My heart is full.
The scale in my bathroom is unkind.
My memories are refreshed.

I came home tired, but renewed, knowing who I was.