I want to consider how this word can be a mindset. I see it in three ways.
The first thing jumping out at me about inspiration is a question: what inspires me? Do I know where to turn when I need inspiration? Is there an activity, an author, a place, a song…What gets my creative juices flowing? What charges my battery, jazzes my mood, and puts a pep in my step? Here are a few of mine:
The important thing is to know yours. Know when to reconnect with them. And, keep your eyes and heart open for inspiration to break through.
In the collage I posted above I hope there was at least one pic that gave you pause to wonder. The middle top pic was something I saw one day when I was riding my bike on a rails-to-trails path. I love to see things that make me giggle, snort, and spew my coffee. The sign was on the post to warn drivers that there was a bike path crossing. All I could see was the upside down bike. All I could think was, “now that’s some kind of trick riding.” And I must have chuckled about it for the next five miles. Seeing the quirky and unexpected inspires me.
Next as we think on inspiration I want to encourage you to think about who inspires you. Do you have their books? Can you call them on the phone? When was the last time you connected with them in some way? Don’t lose touch with your inspirers.
Finally, who will you inspire today? Whose mood will you intentionally seek to lift? Whose creativity will you encourage? You will come in contact with a multitude of people by chance–live inspiringly! But who will be on your heart or mind to reach out to? Have you ever gotten one of those out-of-the-blue calls that resulted in renewed verve and vigor? Who can you do that for today?
Day 3. 5 at St. Davids Christian Writers Conference
I was walking to breakfast this morning, and I began to notice I was walking differently. I felt alive. The air was invigorating. I felt an unusual spring in my step. I must have grown at least an inch taller. And then I heard my mother’s voice, “Stand up straight. Put your shoulders back. Walk with confidence.” The memory made me chuckle.
Why was it always so important to walk confidently, to walk like I was getting ready to enter into an important meeting?
As I reached for the door to enter into our gathering spaces, with this memory and question fresh in my mind, a new awareness came to mind: Mom was encouraging me to always be ready. I couldn’t know who I would meet. I wouldn’t know what important contact would be waiting ahead. The what or who didn’t matter as much as the how.
Our keynote speaker, Eva Marie Everson, drew her morning message from Exodus 3 and 4, The Calling of Moses. There were so many good points, but the one that struck me was the reference to Moses’ response to God in 3:4, “Here I am.”
Moses wasn’t giving a childlike response to a school teacher’s role call. Moses’ answer was clearly, “I’m ready.”
As much as my mother would deny her admonition was God’s message for me, I heard it that way this morning. God used that memory, that feeling as I walked to breakfast to remind me how each time I enter a door I need to be ready. This reminds me of the wise counsel of an elder pastor speaking to a group of us newbies, once upon a time, how we should always have a sermon, a prayer, and a song ready each time we enter a church.
At the very first writers’ conference I attended one of the people I heard speak was Torry Martin. Torry is an actor, writer, comedian, and very wise speaker. He introduced me to the phrase, “divine appointments and holy introductions.”
What would happen if we would walk through every door, enter every interaction with an “I’m ready God for whatever divine appointment or holy introduction you bring my way” attitude? Imagine for a moment that God has people who need your readiness, your message, your encouragement waiting for you to arrive. Truth is: they are there, and they need what you bring.
It’s just too gorgeous a day to sit inside. I worked outside this morning:
The bush at the end of the driveway was becoming a hazard, not to mention an unwieldy monster. There was a maple tree growing amongst the hostas along with other odd weeds. I cleaned out the front flower beds, too. It felt good. Warm, but good.
After lunch I was about to fall asleep…a nap might be nice…when several thoughts clamored for attention, and suddenly I was wide awake. Not wishing to waste any of them, I grabbed a few books, my flowers, Ipad, bottle of tea, and headed to the porch.
I needed to write about my flowers.
Yesterday, I went with my hub to get groceries. He loves to invite me, but then always rues the experience, because we always spend massively more money than what he’s allotted with his list…I never go with a list.
The first item off-list was my $5 bouquet of colorful daisies.
To be clear, I had absolutely no need for a bouquet of flowers. There was no holiday or celebration meriting a bouquet. The only reason my husband even suggested the purchase came from 43+ years of shared life with a woman who adores daisies. The more colorful, the better. And he knew they would bring me smiles for several days.
Knowing that I don’t NEED flowers, ever, has helped me develop the ability to deny myself this indulgence. I can talk myself out of a purchase quicker than anyone I know. The only reason I didn’t balk this time came from my awareness that “letting” my husband buy me flowers that would make me happy would make him happy and that was more important than even having the flowers. (Go ahead and read that again. It seems a bit convoluted at first, but I was going to let him be happy thinking I was happy.)
However, that’s not why I needed to write about my flowers. (But I love how we “take care” of each other like that.)
I love to buy people flowers. I’m thrilled to find places like Walmart, Kroger, and even Aldi have impulse bouquets at their checkouts—mostly because I can afford them. I’ve purchased flowers for single friends who have no one buying them bouquets. Beyond that, I have fun surprising people—for no apparent reason.
One time when I visited Mom, while her second husband was still alive, I was there over Mother’s Day weekend. I splurged a bit and bought a large spray of mixed flowers. She was surprised and pleased. We found a vase and set them in a central spot where she could enjoy them. Her smiles and child-like appreciation made my heart soar.
At one point, her husband came by the vase with its color and fragrance, and he scowled. He looked at me and grumbled, “Why’d you do that?” I was surprised by his saltiness. It took me a moment to gather my words, “Because it’s Mothers’ Day and I love my mom.” As if I needed a reason. With a hrumph, he headed to the door.
I get it. Not everyone is moved by flowers like I am. But truth was, nothing moved him to kindness, or sweetness, or selflessness. I’m sure he had it in his mind how the money could have been spent in a wiser fashion, more practical, less wasteful.
I know how to be frugal. I know how to live on less. But I’ve come to believe that a little whimsy and serendipity in life is necessary. So if it’s not flowers, what will make you smile? Have you left room for whimsy? Are you open for serendipity to work it’s magic in your otherwise monotonous life?
You don’t have to break the bank, or totally shred the schedule. You don’t need a reason or a season to break out of your routine. Take the long way home. Walk barefoot in the grass. Listen to the birds. Soak in the sun. Let the breeze blow through your hair…that last one may end up needing its own post for you to understand how freeing that can be…
Whatever you do today, make sure you don’t miss the opportunities to B Kind 2 U.
(I wrote this several years ago, but find the truth still applies…at least for me.)
Recently, a friend of mine warned me not to sit on my gift. Just prior to that, she had asked me if I had written anything lately. I hadn’t. I haven’t felt inspired to write. It was like I had nothing to say.
Last week I was going through emails and I came across one that was advertising next year’s Writers’ Market. I remembered back to January of this year. I had begged Nelson for an updated copy. I told him that if he would buy it for me I would send out at least ten pieces to publishers. He did and I didn’t.
In the past few months, I have begun to enjoy cooking. Not long ago, Nelson posited that I was cooking to avoid writing. Seemed ridiculous to me. He had cooked most of our married life—mostly because he was very good at it, but also because I worked non-stop. Now, Nelson is working long days and it just makes sense for me to pick up that responsibility. I dove into the task by hunting for potential recipes and then began experimenting with combinations that I knew we liked. I went quickly from having three recipes that my family enjoyed to a couple dozen. It felt good.
This morning as I was washing the pot that I had made a really good soup in yesterday, I had an epiphany. It was about cooking and writing. When Nelson and I got married I was afraid to cook. I was such a novice that my mother-in-law bought me an illustrated cookbook. My repertoire included macaroni made in a hot pot and peanut butter sandwiches. To avoid embarrassment, I acquiesced to Nelson’s expertise and over the years discovered three recipes that I did well and stuck with those. I was afraid to do any more than that because if I couldn’t do it perfectly I wouldn’t do it all.
What I realized as I stood at my sink scrubbing dishes was that Nelson was right in part. I needed to cook so that I could write. I hadn’t contacted any publishers with my writing because, though I knew I could write, I didn’t consider myself a writer. Throwing myself into my cooking showed me that. For years I had avoided cooking because I didn’t see myself as a cook and therefore I couldn’t. It wasn’t enough to say that I could cook, I had to be the best cook. I knew I was far from that so I didn’t, and wouldn’t cook. This was reinforced by the ridicule I took when I tried to cook. I was the brunt of many a family joke. Why should I continue to prove them right and give them something new to laugh at?
My recent successes at cooking have forced me to rethink this. I may not be a “James Beard Chef”, but I can cook. Nelson has really enjoyed my newly found and developing love for being creative in the kitchen. He raves about the meals and shows them off at work. I’m not going to be Top Chef anywhere, not even in my kitchen. That honor will always be Nelson’s. But it’s not going to keep me from cooking and experimenting.
I still have a few months left in this year. I will probably never win an award for my writing, but why should that keep me from developing my craft and sharing my thoughts? The obvious answer is that it shouldn’t—and based on what I learned from cooking recently: it won’t!
Oh, and while I’m at it, I realized something else about my writing that makes it more imperative that I push past my reluctance to face rejection. Recently while I was preparing for a retreat I led on spirituality and personality, I read that most devotionals are written by “N” types (think MBTI). I mulled that over for a while and realized that is one of the reasons I feel so compelled to create a devotional series, one that is more appealing and appropriate for “S” types. Not everyone relates to the intuitive style and needs to engage their senses more completely to engage them spiritually. Maybe I’ve found my niche!
My alarm went of at 5:15AM. I leapt up, made my bed, grabbed a shower, dressed in the clothes I set out the night before, and raced out the door. Between getting dressed and dashing out the door I did pause to make sure that Mom’s meds and breakfast were set out exactly the way she likes them.
Once out the door I headed for the the place I love to be on Monday mornings: The Animal League of Green Valley. Choosing to volunteer on Monday mornings is the best thing I ever done. My week starts out with lots of wags and puppy kisses. I walk whoever I can, and love every moment whether I’m being pulled along or stopping to smell every leaf. Then when every dog is walked by all the volunteers, we hang out for socialization and some training.
There are times when I ache for my dogs back in Ohio. I would rescue in a heartbeat, but Mom can’t handle the stress or the dander. I’d volunteer every day, but Mom can barely handle me being gone for one day. So I suck the life out of my time away and give thanks for this respite that feeds my soul.
As I was reflecting back on my morning doggy therapy session, I had a pang of sadness. For a brief moment I was reminded of the Syrophoenician woman who had a conversation with Jesus. It went like this:
Jesus went away from there, and withdrew into the region of Tyre and Sidon. And a Canaanite woman from that region came out and began to cry out, saying, “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is severely demon-possessed.” But He did not answer her with even a word. And His disciples came up and urged Him, saying, “Send her away, because she keeps shouting at us!” But He answered and said, “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” But she came and began to bow down before Him, saying, “Lord, help me!” Yet He answered and said, “It is not good to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.” And she said, “Yes, Lord; but please help, for even the dogs feed on the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” Then Jesus said to her, “O woman, your faith is great; it shall be done for you as you desire.” And her daughter was healed at once (Mark 15:21-28, NLT).
I love this story. She wasn’t asking for the world. She was, in her own mind, willing to settle for “crumbs that fell from the table.” The scraps. The castoffs. Jesus commended her for her persistence and her faith. The Apostle Paul said it this way: little is much when God is in it.
So while others are dreading Mondays, I’m ready for the “crumbs.” They more than satisfy.
How many people do you know who try to control everything? Who have meltdowns when things don’t go according to plan? Who micromanager their lives and the lives of others?
How many meltdowns have you had this week because you couldn’t orchestrate things the way you wanted?
I’ve had a couple.
Yesterday, I mentioned how Mom let me put her calendar away. Relinquished a little control.
Today it was the bathroom scale.
For as long as I can remember, Mom has been obsessed with her weight. The issue was never the size of her clothing, it was how much she weighed. Her second husband was just as obsessed, and I saw him shame her for eating too much or not being active like he was.
I bit my tongue on more than one occasion and sat on my hands (a technique I learned in school to keep from talking, because everyone knows I can’t talk without using my hands…but I digress.)
Mom had to move the bathroom scales to accommodate her new shower bench. She wasn’t happy with what felt like crowding. I asked her if she really needed to keep the scales in the bathroom. She stopped talking, and became pensive. I could tell there was an inner dialog raging inside. I waited.
Then she looked at me and instructed me to take them out of the bathroom. They have disappeared into the bottom of her closet.
Letting go of habits is hard. Especially if they have been life-long. When Mom came home from the hospital last January after a very serious bout with pneumonia, she had lost some weight. She was weighing about 92 pounds. She was ecstatic. It was like she had finally reached her life goal. Over the year she put on eight pounds. Somehow, in her mind, it was too much.
Giving up the scale was huge. For her.
I wish I could find that kind of freedom.
While I was still in high school, Mom wrote in the baby book she kept our milestones in a prediction that impacted my thinking in the most damaging way. She declared that I would weigh 140 pounds when I turned 18. I remember hearing the statement as a negative pronouncement regarding the horrendous direction my weight was trending. I fought against her vision. I fought and I fought and I lost and I lost.
I want to be healthy. I want to feel better in my body. I don’t want to constantly be battling to achieve a number.
But like Mom…I’m not sure I know how to be another way. Maybe control comes more by not trying so hard to control.
For several weeks I’ve been thinking about how I want to be different next year, how I want to be better, and what I want to bring with me into 2021.
Do you set goals or make resolutions? I used to. And they would last until about the third week of January. I know I can be disciplined and include routine in my life, but so many of the things I try to add just don’t stick.
So I began to dig into why. Why don’t they stick? Why can’t I pick goals I can achieve. Goals need to be SMART:
(I couldn’t find a graphic that included everything I wanted to put here, so I made my own—forgive the raw nature, but that’s how I’d teach it.)
Going back over this information, two words stuck out to me: relevant and attractive. This is probably where my goals failed. Realizing this reminded me of when I failed my oral exams for my M.Div. so miserably that they suggested we act as if the horrible showing never happened and schedule to do them again next time around.
Regurgitating information merely to demonstrate an array of facts didn’t work for me. How was I going to figure this out? Then without even knowing smart goals I realized I needed to find a way to make my accumulated knowledge both attractive and relevant.
At the time I was trying to figure this out I was engaged in the learning/training experience called Clinical Pastoral Education, CPE for short. Each quarter (I took 10) I had to identify my learning goals. What did I want to learn? What learning would enhance my skills and move me along in my long range plan?
The way this all worked out, I began to link my learning as being under an overarching theme. Everything began to fall into place, become connected, and make so much sense that when I went in the second time the committee commented on how confident and clear I seemed—two words that never would have described my first time before the committee.
Thinking of that brought me to my lightbulb moment. The goals I had been setting were goals I felt I should set. They were goals that had greater meaning to others than to me, so they were neither relevant or attractive to me, and therefore unsuccessful.
With this awareness, how will I set some goals for this year?
First, what is my appealing over arching theme? I landed on the scriptural call to love God with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength. Here’s my worksheet so far:
So…I need a little time to live with these, but I’ll be back by Wednesday to let you know how this has developed for me.
This morning I have had everything from moist eyes to full-out sobs.
The first tears came as I was reading material for my message on Sunday. I am continuing my series on “Continuing the Work of Jesus, Simply” by focusing on Jesus’ compassionate invitation to learn from him the “unforced rhythms of grace (Peterson’s translation Matthew 11:29 in the Message). During my study this morning, I came across this quote: “But they had limited evidence. They did not see the end from the beginning. They drew their conclusion only from what they saw, not from the infinite wisdom of God. And, even so, they looked at the evidence through prejudiced eyes. The Christ must behave according to their own pattern, or else He was not the Christ. It is no wonder that they came out with the wrong answer.” (An Exposition of the Four Gospels Matthew, Herschel H. Hobbs, p. 141)
How like today? We still don’t get it. Tears.
Then I read a Facebook post from a high school friend. Yesterday was her birthday. Two weeks ago one of her dogs died right in the middle of playing out in the yard. This morning they had to put their other dog down because they discovered bladder cancer. My heart broke. I sobbed. (Typing this now even a couple hours later, I wept all over again.)
How like today? Sorrow, disappointment, aching. Tears.
I had just gone back to reading when Mom tapped on my door. She brought me a section of the paper. The USA Today published an insert, “Women of the Century, 100 Women Who Changed the World.” In January they invited nominations of notable women. Then a committee put the list and bios together. As a woman who felt a calling from a very young age to a predominately male occupation, christian minister, I have experienced prejudice, nastiness, and discrimination for forty years. I shed many tears and sometimes begged God to remove this calling from my life. But I have also been supported by other women clergy who understand in multiple denominations. I have been encouraged remain faithful. Reading over the names and bios, seeing their pictures, reminded me that I am not alone in this battle, and there’s still much work to do. Work I have been and will be given to do.
How like today. We are still fighting: to be heard, to be recognized, to make a difference. But we do not fight alone. Tears.
Tears. Why do I cry this day?
I cry because some days I still don’t understand the “whys” of my life. Why I’m here and my husband there. Why I had to quit the one job in my life I loved like no other. I don’t want to come out with the wrong answer. But I will lament…release…and keep seeking to serve even when I don’t get it.
I cry because loss is a part of living. I cry because sorrow can blindside us. I cry because losing the things I treasure, value…love hurts. And to say that it doesn’t is a lie. To hurt indicates that we had something special and now it’s gone. How fortunate we were to have those things. But that doesn’t mean something else, possibly more perfect or valuable won’t come along. Grieving, acknowledging what was lost, enables me to keep living—treasuring the memory and making room for whatever is next.
I cry because others have to struggle. Being gifted, intelligent, and motivated doesn’t guarantee an easy road. The prejudice of others, the insecurity of others, the selfishness of others can throw painful blocks, detours, and frustrations in our path to fulfilling our callings. But clearly, we do not walk this road alone. Others have gone before us. Others walk alongside us. Others are placing their trust in our faithfulness.
This morning I wept. And oddly, I feel a clarity and strength, a desire to keep on. I’ve laid that burden down. And look ahead.
I’m getting tired of people who are saying the people who are protesting and demanding that white supremacy monuments are trying to erase history.
They aren’t.
Unless you believe that yours is the only version of history that matters.
The more I listen and read, the more I realize the history I was spoon fed in school was whitewashed—cleansed of the rich heritage of others. BIPOC history, with all it’s richness, was swapped out for a misrepresentation or ignoring of how land was gained and jobs got done. Assimilation was the mandate.
As we discussed this over breakfast, my mother made a comment that was insightful. She said that white supremacy didn’t start once people landed on these shores. Nope. I came on the boats. And our founders didn’t stray far from their roots. They may have tried to hide behind the words in their documents, but they didn’t mean that everyone was created equal, or deserved life, liberty, and happiness. No. That was reserved for those whose skin was like theirs.
What if instead of being afraid of what really happened—or continues to happen—we truly educated ourselves on what transpired, on what has been denied or ignored. What if we read…and listened. What if we made room for others.
Maybe we really could learn something from history.
Way back when I was in college, during my sophomore year, I decided I was fat and needed to lose weight.
Okay, it wasn’t a new thought…I remember feeling fat from when I was 12.
Here I was at 12–along with the friends who helped me celebrate:
That’s me in the bottom left.
I remember a time when my mother announced I would weigh 140 lbs. when I turned eighteen. I was mortified. That number loomed over my like an indictment: I was going to be fat forever! (Incidentally, she was right!)
So there I was in my second year of college feeling totally pudgy and ugly. I had put on the “freshmen 15” and then some. I went to my family doctor on break and begged for help. He put me on an eating plan, gave me a diet pill, and told me to run a mile a day.
What? Pill, no problem. Food sacrifice, not crazy about it, but I figured I’d manage. But run a mile? Who are you kidding, doc? I didn’t think I could walk a mile, let alone run one. This might be impossible.
My roommate and I figured out sixteen laps of the gym was a mile. This was handy for the rainy, snowy, or cold days—so I wouldn’t have any excuse to not get my mile in. (I’ll save the whole cutting corners thing for another blog.) I also mapped a half mile on the back road to the college and struggled to “run” out and back on nice days.
I never timed myself, but I got pretty good at getting it done. I did everything I was supposed to and actually got down to 125 lbs. I got smaller clothes and a few looks from some handsome young men.
Fast forward forty years. The small clothes are long gone. I know there’s no magic pill worth taking. I’ve tried a zillion eating plans, and while they work for a while, I can’t stick to them (bars and shakes, shakes and bars). Why? I like food, and I’m addicted to sugar.
The only thing I’ve stuck with for longer than a blink is my dependence on my Fitbit. I used one hit or miss for a few years, and then in 2016 I got serious. Paying attention to my steps, stairs, sleep, and exercise has become routine for me—a healthy obsession. I like know what I’ve accomplished (someone else tracking), but I’ve also learned how to use it gracefully. I can take a day off and not freak out.
I’ve learned something else, too. I can run more than a mile. Ok, it may not look like “running.” It’s something between a fast walk and a jog: a wog, or jalking. But I get my heart beat up beyond target and I pass people as I go. I am 63, I feel good about it…about me.
How much more than a mile, you ask? Depends on the day and how much time I have. I’ve done as much as five miles. And every time I do, I punch “impossible” in the face.
What have you deemed impossible that might actually be doable? What things have you let other people decide are true about you, for you? What is in your heart that you have longed to do, but been afraid to try and fail? I didn’t wog five miles my first time out. I built up to it. It’s like the old saying, “how do you eat an elephant?” One bite at a time.
Pot of Manna 