Bacon Goodness

Last night as I was preparing dinner, I discovered that
BACON + NEEDY PRESCHOOLER + FACEBOOKING MOMMA= amazing light effect.

Here's how this evening went down: It was 4pm. The sun was beginning its ridiculously early descent into the horizon, spilling sharp shards of light across the walls. My blond haired preschooler, previously known as "Eve",  turned into a Gremlin like she does every day at 4pm, demanding dinner and snacks and cookies and treats.

I mentally linked arms with all the other mothers of the world enduring the witching hour. To the uninitiated, the "witching hour" is the period of time when supernatural creatures have their greatest power. So by default when you refuse to give food, undivided attention or cookies to someone who is less than 6 years of age, they will use their power and it will most certainly be used AGAINST you.

I didn't have any wine that night. A single glass of wine is usually my "go to" comfort of choice to drown out the unnecessary squalling of my wee one. A little wine helps with the Little Whine. Go ahead, laugh.

But there was no wine to be had.

So I made bacon.

I didn't make bacon to replace the wine, but if I may say, chomping happily on a smoked meat during witching hour produces some really amazing endorphins... ESPECIALLY if you tell your children, "No, you may not have any bacon," and then hypocritically sneak some yourself. It's an adrenaline rush.

My smaller counterpart, however, would not be distracted from her original mission: to create an "anti-ambiance"...

... so I fled to go Facebooking in the office.

I should not have fled because... because I left some bacon on the stovetop and had forgotten how quickly that thin sliced meat likes to char. Happily Facebooking for a few minutes, I stopped suddenly. My "mommysense" was tingling... THE BACON! I bolted out of the office and entered a smoky fog in my kitchen. My fire alarm began to chirp and then squeal as if I stepped on its tail.

When the smoke died down and the alarm silenced, I saw this scene. (See photo.) "Am I in heaven?" I thought. But then I saw the pile of laundry and knew that I wasn't. Stripes of sun flirted with bacon fog. My humble Christmas tree took on an aura of other-worldliness. I swear I heard "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" but then I realized that the only heralding in my house was coming from a spry almost-4 year old.

I smiled, took some pics and fed the squaller. I gave her bread. She quieted down and I redeemed the evening by making the rest of the packaged bacon into a perfect golden brown.

All was right in the world.

Not Math

Dear Morgan,

You love drawing, writing stories and playing "store" with your sister.
But you hate math.

You love showing compassion to people, decorating your room with art and listening to music.
As long as it isn't math.

Even though you rock the reading at school and act clowny at home, nothing can change your mind.
About math.

I know that right now it makes no sense to you. From your vantage point, there is nothing emotional or creative about mathematics. But hear me out. You're going to want to know this when:

Some guy asks you out to coffee and you're not sure if he's paying or not. When he whips out a bill that is greater or smaller than the amount, you'll get an idea. That's math.

When a sleepy-eyed cashier doesn't see that the item you bought was actually on sale, you can kindly and deftly bring it to their attention.

When you're counting the days to Christmas. Or homecoming. Or graduation.

When you make your first cake all by yourself (from scratch). Half cups of sugar. Whole cups of flour. That's math. It's also science, but let's just focus on the math part.

When you decide to start a little cottage industry business. And suddenly your twinkly, swirly, sparkly dream needs addition and multiplication in order to make the best decision for your business to grow... Well, there's math again.

There are times when you will have the ability to use math, but you shouldn't.

When you are up in the night nursing your newborn and your bleary eyes see 2:13AM blinking on the digital clock, it's okay to take note, but it won't make you feel better to calculate how many hours of sleep you might get. Plus, it's spotty at best. Don't do the math then.

When you see a friend in need who asks for a couple bucks, just give it to them. Don't expect it back. It's best to keep your friendship.

When your heart is broken because of all the hours you have sunk into a project or a person or a thought that didn't work at all like you expected. Math really won't help there, either.

Here's what I predict: One magical day, all your strengths and weaknesses are going to bond together such that you won't even KNOW which ones are your strengths and weaknesses anymore. You'll be so adept at math and science and art and friend-making that you'll have to scratch your head to remember WHY you hated math in the first place.

And on that day, I want you to call me from your spaceship phone. As you count the stars and galaxies. As you count the beautiful friends surrounding you. And as you count the miles from home, I want you to smile and tell me, "Mom, I don't hate math."

The View from Here

When you go to a public place and don't know where you are, it's always a relief to see a large, backlit map in the middle of said public place and that little red triangle which reads "You are Here".

It doesn't say "You are lost."
It doesn't say "You really messed up."
It doesn't even say, "Are you really going to wear that?"

It simply lets you know, "You are here."

Unemployment is a lot like that sticker. There is a vague feeling of unrest, always checking the map to see where we're supposed to be headed. And when we repeatedly ask God, "Where are we going?" the answer is often, "You are here."

There are several rules to unemployment. Nobody tells you these rules; you have to figure them out on your own.

1. Every day is Monday. And every day is Friday.
Every day feels like a combination of studying for a big exam and having an enormous, unplanned day-long vacation. Exams are okay when you know that there is a semester's end in sight. And vacays are more fun when you feel a sense of control. For instance: Knowing that you actually planned the vacation for a set period of time and knowing that your employer was paying for that vacation. But when each day feels like both, it's okay to feel confused. That's natural.

2. It's Important to Have Goals.
It may not seem like much, but if you let your sense of enthusiasm atrophy,  you're bound to look flabby during interviews. So do things that drive you. Do day long projects for which you can only eat lunch in 5 minutes because you're SO busy. Clean an entire basement. Read the longest novel you can find, the one you usually use as a door stop during summer winds. Do something-- anything-- to remind yourself what it feels like to be employed, to be busy. That way, when you arrive at an interview there will be a flush of life pulsing through your face showing yourself to be healthy, motivated and strong.

3. Face the Worst, Hope for the Best.
I have a friend who says that when you face the very worst that can happen and realize that God is STILL there, there is no place for fear. So face the worst. Think about it. Have a rough plan. But then lift all your cares to God, being thankful for his love for you. God loves to give good gifts to his children.

Do not worry about tomorrow. Worry does not improve you or your situation. If you feel fear creeping into your mind, remind yourself of the prayer that Jesus taught us, the one which told us to ask for our daily bread. We do not live in tomorrows, only todays.

Then smile. After all, "You are here."

Ode to Age

Somewhere in life... probably when I turned 35, I decided that I didn't need to fight for significance anymore.

I didn't need to fight to be prettiest. Or smartest. Or most funny. Or most talented designer. Or most domestic.

I just said, "Enough."

I took an inventory of what was important to me, of what made my colors sing strongest.

I embraced my strengths and weaknesses.
I laid down my weapons of anger and said, "Well, others may choose that path, but not me." I took hate's energy and started sewing aprons and potholders. Hate became joy. And color.

I acknowledged my losses, my unknown babies, and I fought for joy in their name. There's no better way to honor the life of a loved one than to live as brilliantly as possible.

I stopped thinking "What will people think" and I just said, "I want to do this, to put this color here, to make this shape, to say this word. I want to be this person."

The path has been kind of winding... I thought I wanted to sew but then I realized that what I really enjoyed was being around beautiful fabric designs and beautiful people. Bold designs. Pure designs. Kind people. True people.

I don't want to be the person who puts down other designers. I want to be encouraging and real. Truthful and celebratory. God knows how thirsty this world is for truth and kindness and life-giving colors.

So I do it. I delight. And I'm thankful for my fellow journey takers.

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.