There is more than one way to waste a life. When we tell ourselves…I will really begin to live when I lose 20 pounds. Life would be even more fabulous if I lost 30 pounds. I would probably become famous because you can become famous for stuff like that these days. Life will begin when I have this much money in the bank. Or when I get that specific job. Or when I have kids or when my kids are grown and have reached a certain place in their lives and are not dependent on us anymore. (I’ve got news for ya kid, parenting never ends). I’ll started living when I don’t have to work anymore, I will really begin my life when I’m living in my dream home. (Ahem – to myself: This IS your dream home. You’re not upsizing at your age when all your peers are downsizing. That ship has sailed. Yes a ship would have been nice). I will start my real life when my spouse finally evolves into that person that reads my mind and never upsets me. When I’m living in paradise. When I’m living on easy street. When I’m the envy of all my friends. When I quit sinning and become perfect. When I can afford Valentino shoes and Louis Vuitton purses. When I can go to Europe every summer. When I have a cleaning lady. When I have no more worries. When I am the most kind, generous, humorous, intelligent, sophisticated, compassionate, wise person in any gathering. When I am invited to every gathering…and on and on the fantasy goes. When I finally get to Africa….
With that paradigm, I was in grave danger of life passing me by. Because the moments that I am breathing right now and all the moments I have breathed in the past…these ARE my life. My real life. My reality. And there is nothing wrong with this life I have been blessed with…btw.
But for some reason so much of my life has felt as if I was living in limbo. Waiting for circumstances to change (not that they were so heinous) and because of this limbo I wasted a lot of the good moments. Mostly because I didn’t recognize them as good moments – at least not until they were gone. I have been trying to teach myself the fine art of living ‘in the moment’. My theme song used to be “Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you tomorrow. You’re only a day (or a month or a year) away. Or as Scarlett O’Hara is famous for saying…I don’t want to think about that today, I’ll think about that tomorrow. For tomorrow is another day.” I am endeavoring to teach myself not to put things off, not to procrastinate – Just do what needs to be done and live today.
I should be aware of every breath I take and if I can take that breath clear and free then I should bask in it. I finally realized, about 11 years ago that this IS my life. This ‘here and now’ and that ‘there and then’. So I began to live and feel every moment in time. This doesn’t mean I never think about or plan for the future but what it does mean is that I am grateful for this moment and what it is and what I am enjoying or what I am learning. I am grateful for my past and what it has blessed me with and what it has taught me. I’m even grateful for the hardship as it has brought about necessary change and increased faith.
Has my physical appearance ever hindered my enjoyment of the pink and azure sunrises? Only if I let it. Or prevented me from being soothed by the crashing waves on the shores of Kona? Has not being independently wealthy and having to work for living prevented me from feeling the notes in beautiful music or tasting the flavors in exquisite food? Has not being famous hindered my enjoyment of my gifts from God – my children (both as littles and as bigs)? I got to hear their cries and their giggles and their “I love you momma’s. And what about my husband? He chose me just the way I am and the life we have built together has been rich with love, cherishing, experiences, memories and joys. (And just for the record, I actually chose him, but he doesn’t know that so don’t tell him. It will be our little secret). We ARE rich in all the ways that are important. Even the painful and difficult is a vital part of our story. As C.S. Lewis said ‘The pain now is part of the joy then”. He was speaking about death and love but this also applies to our troubles. The pain He’s brought us through is part of the joy now. And visa versa. This IS my life and I’m living it right this moment. I am not waiting for this or that to happen before I begin to live. Even the waiting is part of the living.
I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower. I’ve wandered the gardens of the Palace of Versailles (the 8th wonder of the world in my opinion). I’ve had tea inside Buckingham Palace. I’ve cruised the Mediterranean and the French Riviera. I’ve eaten real Italian pizza and gelato on the boardwalk of Venice. I’ve walked the La Rambla’s of Barcelona. I’ve experienced the lights and excitement of Las Vegas. I’ve stayed in a Penthouse suite at the Four Seasons Hotel in California. (It was a comp room because I was working for them at the time – another lovely experience). I’ve snorkeled with the dolphins off the coast of Kona and swam with the manta rays. I’ve snorkeled in the blue waters of Cozumel amongst the sea turtles and tropical fish. I’ve been awe struck by New York at Christmas (my heart leapt for joy to be honest). I’ve walked the boardwalk in Auckland, New Zealand. Visited friends in Texas and Phoenix. We’ve been able to borrow our friends cottage to retreat from life’s storms and forge new memories with our children. I’ve felt pride at the graduations of both of my children from High school and one from University. I’ve enjoyed white Christmases in Banff, Lake Louise and at home with my family and extended family and friends. We’ve created memories on many family vacations driving through the mountains. We attended the funerals of three of our precious parents. We’ve suffered through chicken pox, asthma and emergency room injuries, hurt feelings and school stress with our children. I’ve been overwhelmed trying to run a business from home and putting my husband through university so he could train for a different career. I’ve made mistakes and I’ve been depressed. I’ve been selfish and I’ve been angry. I’ve felt all the emotions and I am far better off in retrospect.
So I am not waiting for something different before I start to enjoy today. There are a million little feelings to feel each day. A million choices to make in a life. A million lessons to be learned. A million opportunities to grow. A million blessings to enjoy. A million people’s lives to touch for the better. I don’t want to miss out on even one little experience that is part of God’s plan for me. Even if it’s difficult and painful – there is something there and it’s mine. It’s my life and I’m going to live it.

Call the Betty Ford Clinic. Or Dr. Phil or Oprah. My name is Geri and I’m addicted. My addiction is not drugs or alcohol; it’s something much more socially acceptable and possibly undetectable to the outside world. Something the world probably considers worthy of addiction. I’m just sorting out whether I am addicted to social media or whether I am addicted to the devise that perpetuates social media or both. When I am asleep at night (or not asleep because I am working out painful leg cramps) my iPhone is always within hands reach (I even bought a lovely aqua colored 5 foot rope cord so I could peruse Pinterest under the covers while lying in bed which I know you are absolutely not supposed to do). I am supposed to be sleeping but I am pinning. I can’t stop myself. Sometimes I look at my pins the next day and wonder ‘what was I thinking? I hate that”. That’s how I know this is addictive, when I am pinning in my sleep. I have read a million times (OK several) how that blue light inhibits true sleep. I also know about over stimulating your mind just before your appointed bedtime. However, I absolutely do not sleep with it touching my skin, arm, stomach, leg and I will definitely not put it under my pillow as I am terrified that the radiation or whatever will cause cancer or worse still, it will wipe my brain clean of any and all information. I could argue that keeping my iPhone on the nightstand is prudent. If I heard a burglar in the house I could call 911. No more cutting the phone lines like the criminals in the old days used to do. Not to mention there is a flashlight on my phone and a Police alarm and a camera so I could take a picture of the intruder just before they smother me with my pillow.
I don’t go anywhere without my phone – nowhere. I panic if I can’t find it or if I leave it at home. I am not sure if the panic is related to the financial implications or if is related to withdrawal. I have been unsuccessfully trying to determine what is a reasonable distance from home to make going back to get it not insane. Can I not go a day without a cellphone? Fifteen years ago I didn’t need it because it wasn’t available and somehow I managed to be able to make coffee dates with friends and be at appointments on time and make arrangements to pick kids up from school and get help for a flat tire and find out whatever I needed to know by other means. If I forgot my grocery list at home I just winged it. If I needed to talk to my husband I called him at work. Now I just text. I used to have dozens of phone numbers memorized which I am sure was great for keeping the brain sharp, but, even that has become irrelevant. As a result my brain has turned to jelly and I can’t remember anything. I walk into a room for something and cannot for the life of me remember what I came for and usually a trip back downstairs to the exact spot of the inception of the thought is required. Even then, sometimes I still can’t remember so I leave for work and as I am standing in the pouring rain, juggling my purse, my Starbucks, my tote bag with my extra shoes, reading for lunchbreak and lunch, I remember what I was looking for. My building pass. But it’s too late now.
I have a glamourous black and white checked, pink trimmed Kate Spade iPhone case that has a built in auxiliary battery in case, heaven forbid, my phone should run out of juice when I am far away from charging power. If I take a lot of pictures, and I usually do, it uses up even more power. My phone is the first thing I reach for in the morning (sorry honey) – because it is my alarm and I have to shut the snooze off every 15 minutes for an hour. This is my early rise breaking in method. I have to be up in absolutely no later than one hour from now so I need to start getting used to the idea. I am pretty sure this is not great for REM sleeping as I am just pretending to be asleep after that first alarm. Did anybody text me overnight? Did anyone put anything interesting on Facebook while I was sleeping? Did I miss out on anything? I am just clamoring for news…any news…I even fall for fake news. And most mornings I am disappointed because there is nothing new under the sun and there is no good news really. I can’t remember the last time I heard good news in the media. Most of the news flashes I see on Facebook, require a consult to SNOPES just to find out if it’s legit or not. Usually it’s not – that tells me something. I loved the one about the millions of spider eggs that were implanted into the original TY bean babies that my kids collect for years and we eventually sent to Samaritan’s purse for shoeboxes and how now, 20 years later, the eggs were hatching and spiders were pouring out of the beanie babies. Please!
In actuality, Facebook is pretty boring and I originally signed up for Facebook to keep in touch with my kids that were spattered across the globe (both of them) but now my daughter doesn’t even use Facebook (since us old foggies took over) Not to mention she is currently living at home. Snap chat’s the thing now. I can’t figure it out. That, and building an empire on Instagram, which I have to admit quite intrigues me. My son, who lives in another city, and has a hobby of movie going and always checks in on Facebook whenever he is at one so I am able to know that he is well and alive if he is checked into, yet, another movie. May I say, that is the ONLY way I know he is alive and well. These devices are phones BTW…something we tend to forget and we ARE paying through the nose for them so free long distance is a given. Had to get that off my chest.
On any typical day, my alarm goes off and I fumble for my phone and hit snooze. If it’s a day that I am going to the gym before work (at work) then I get up immediately and grab my phone and case and head to the bathroom. Yes folks, I take my phone to the bathroom with me. There isn’t that much time in the morning. A quick check of Facebook, Instagram, and my email and I usually get totally distracted. Then this voice in my spirit (not Siri) reminds me that my goal is to ‘seek first the Kingdom of God” and that talking to God should be my first order of the day so I look up the Jesus Calling app on my phone (a book written by Sarah Young that is written in the first person – God being the first person). Her whole focus is on spending more time with God and trusting him and staying close to him, each admonition accompanied by a related scripture. I don’t have time right then to pick up an actual book so this will have to do. This is another warning sign of addiction. Back when I actually had to pick up the Bible with a hardcover, a spine and tissue pages, then I just read the WORD…now with the Bible app on my phone it’s too easy to not actually make it to opening the app if I happen to see a little red number on any of the other icons.
My alarm goes off a few more times as I am getting ready for work and then just before I pull out of the garage I look one more time in case anyone else is up at this ungodly hour sending me texts or posting earth shattering news. Not that earth shattering news is appropriate to be posted on Social Media. That kind of new requires a phone call or a face-to-face meeting. But I really try not to look at my phone when I am driving so I drop it in my purse so that on the off chance that I get stopped for anything I would have to dig around for a few minutes to produce my phone thereby proving that I am not distracted driving.
Ha…just because my phone is buried at the bottom of my purse doesn’t mean I am not distracted driving. With the thoughts and problems and solutions and rehearsals that go on in my mind while I am driving – not to mention the singing and the drinking of Starbucks and the adjusting my clothes – I AM distracted. Don’t report me to the police but sometimes I arrive at my destination and I don’t know how I got there. Sometimes I arrive at the wrong destination and wonder why my car took me there. And if I have a girlfriend, daughter or mother as a passenger and I am talking with my free hand then I am most certainly distracted driving. Although I have read that people that sing when they are driving are better drivers than most. Just as I read that people that talk with their hands are highly creative and intelligent.
I did an experiment one month where I took myself off Facebook and Instagram and in all honesty I did not miss it. Once I knew it wasn’t going to be a part of my routine I just found other ways to inform and distract myself and other things to be obsessive about…. like Pinterest. Seriously though. I did not miss it. I removed the apps from my iPad and my iPhone and for whatever reason, I have never been able to get the Facebook app back on my iPad. That’s probably a good thing. Thank goodness I never got into tweeting. Just one more way to solidify the addiction. The whole concept of sending a ‘tweet’ sounds absolutely bizarre to me anyway. ‘Hey there, I’ll tweet you’. Did the whole tweet thing come from the old axiom “a little birdy told me”? If I tweeted at work would it be called twerking?
My iPad finds its nighttime home on the floor next to my bed as well. Too bad there isn’t an app for a weapon..…you know, for protection against that burglar that’s in my house. Oh yeah, we have gun control in this country. Truth: There is far too much information and news – a lot of it inaccurate – available to us. We can barely process it correctly. And so we process it incorrectly. But there is life outside and above social media and iPhones and iPads. There are real people. Electronics and social media have their place and can be used for good when not used for evil. All of it is truly amazing when you really stop and think about it. I just have to work out a reasonable, doable plan to withdraw myself from the addiction. We can lose true connection with real people when we rely on electronic relationships. There was a movie out called SHE where the main character fell in love with his computer’s operating system. Literally fell in love with the voice and character of an operating system. I mean, do operating systems even have character?? I left the theatre thinking this was absolutely ridiculous but sad to say that’s what has come of our generation.
One of my favorite features of the iPhone is the ability to take pictures and save them and instantly use them on Social Media or print them out. It’s like magic and I am totally intrigued. Very much like flying for me. Once that huge chunk of metal is in the air I just can’t fathom how it stays up there. Of course if I read a book on aerodynamics I might understand it better but I like the idea of magic or God just lifting it off the ground with his huge strong hands and guiding it to its destination.
Not to mention the anger and frustration we exhibit when this tiny little device made of up of metal and chips and other magical stuff doesn’t do what we want it to, exactly when we want it to. It’s almost more amazing than an airplane, when you think of its sending millisecond signals to a satellite in outer space and those signals returning almost instantaneously.
In any case, I must give my head a vigorous shake. I should know better than to let this tiny, flat, 2 ½ by 5 inch piece of wire, metal, glass and electronics rule my life. I think it’s time to implement some rigid parameters. Guidelines that would allow me to use my technology for good and not evil.

And I haven’t told you the half of it. I didn’t tell you how I text my husband when he is upstairs in his man cave and I am downstairs in my studio to inform him that my computer is acting up or not. I didn’t tell you how I text my daughter from bed when I don’t want to get out from underneath the cozy covers to bring me a drink please. I didn’t tell you how Mike texted me, when he was teetering from the top rung of a very tall ladder about to fall to his demise, to come out to the garage and save him. Thankfully his phone was on his person in a pocket he could reach without upsetting the delicate balance of his predicament. So I guess that was a very good thing, this time.

Some Ideas to save myself from myself might be:
• If I wouldn’t say it to someone’s face then don’t say it on Social Media
• Being a Christ follower that is endeavoring to Seek first His Kingdom my phone should not be the first thing I look at in the morning. Charge it in the kitchen overnight and keep the Bible by my bed instead. (The Word is a weapon afterall). Get a real alarm clock.
• Limit my use of Pinterest, Facebook and Instagram. Limit my time spent on my devices. (Maybe this is what God meant in the Word when He said He would give us up to our own devices).
• Spend more time using my iPhone as a phone and inviting people for face-to-face coffee or dinner. Work on my real relationships.
• Don’t believe everything I see and hear and read on Social Media. If I want truth – go to the Word.
• Pursue live hobbies such as sewing, painting, cooking, music, exercise, writing and spend less time checking my phone.
• When at home do not use the Bible app. Pick up the actual book and read it and turn pages and highlight revelations and write in the margins and stop and pray to the real God.
• Do not take iPhone to bed – ever.

Seriously, I white knuckled it all the way to work this morning. I tried to pray and I tried to sing, I tried to solve all of life’s problems but just couldn’t. (Of course had I not been distracted by the danger I could have solved all of life’s problems) but I needed to concentrate on the task at hand. My eyes and thoughts were fixed on the road ahead of me and beside me and behind me because you never know from which direction someone else will spin out and put you in a coma or at least a neck brace. Not to mention damaging my one and only vehicle that gets me everywhere I need to go….To Infiniti and beyond.
Yesterday I left the house at 5:00am to get to the gym by 5:30 and I did. But this morning I left at my regular time (15 minutes late) and the traffic was Ca–razy. And the ice – for a moment I thought I took a wrong turn and ended up at the Columbia Ice Fields except I didn’t see any bombardier ice vehicles (which I really could have used BTW). Approaching one red light I had those breaks on hard, they were pumping and grinding like than a pole dancer at Cowboys and freaking me out but finally my Infiniti came to stop – right in the middle of the intersection. I had passed the crosswalk and collected the $200. (If only).
I’m pretending to steer but, in fact, the car is just doing whatever the deeply embedded grooves will allow it. Why am I even behind the steering wheel I thought? I guess because that’s the only way I will make connection with the gas pedal. Speaking of which I really didn’t want to step on the gas pedal – it’s a scary experience in these conditions. Of course I have High Blood Pressure. Why wouldn’t I have high blood pressure? Monday morning I thought I was driving through a winter wonderland and was content to be stuck in bumper to bumper traffic as it was nice and slow and that I can handle. But today I was oblivious to the beauty (except that burgundy, hot pink, purple and blue sunrise on the horizon dotted by a million sparkling jewel lights). Ok…enough of that nonsense. Eyes on the road.
I found myself longing for a red light so I could re-adjust the multiple layers of clothing ones wears when its -35 with wind-chill. You know that panic when you feel constrained because you are sitting on your coat the wrong way and you cannot move your arm? I managed to get a moment to undo my seat belt and pull my coat and whatever other garments were mummifying me, out from under me and push myself in a more focused upright position, requiring me to move the seat further forward to make sure I had a good connection to the brake and the gas pedal. This was a battle and I had to be prepared. I was doing pretty good until I came to the corner of Blackfoot and 58th and was the lucky recipient of a turning light. The turning light came on about 6 cars in front of me and I thought, I’ll never make it and I can wait until the next turning light but all the cars in front of me made it through and there was a semi behind me so… I had to go. It was glare ice so took a deep breath and turned wide and slow (sort of felt like I was in one of those slow motion car wreck scenes from the Fast & Furious) and made it through while the arrow was still green and blinking. After I started to breathe again, my eyes caught sight of the yellow CANA sign on our building and I knew I was in the home stretch. I turned two more icy corners and the Infiniti came to rest in my favorite parking spot. I turned off the lights and undid my seat belt pushed my seat back and just sat there breathing deeply and thanking the Lord that I was at  a standstill, still alive, Infiniti still in same condition as when I left home. Now I know what SULLY felt like when he landed that plane in the Hudson River.

When my children were quite small I belonged to several groups at our church. I eagerly signed up because both groups were offering babysitting which left me free to sit at the refined table of my peers taking in a bible study or making a craft and enjoying a lovely hot beverage. Usually these crafts were elementary compared to what I was churning out at home but I didn’t care. That wasn’t the point. I do remember one morning painting was involved and absentmindedly (which was how I did a lot of things back then) I was dipping my paint brush in someone’s coffee thinking it was water. When I saw her reach for it to take a sip I bellowed ‘don’t drink that’ to the surprise and shock of everyone at the table nearly spilling the cup a ruining everyone’s works of art. AH, but I digress…. One of these groups was called MOPS which was an acronym for Mothers of Preschoolers. I cleverly joined the executive of this group so I wouldn’t have to be on the babysitting team (although I think we did eventually hire younger and older women without children to do the babysitting). Being on the executive meant organizing our gatherings and socials. I usually thrived on being involved. I needed an outlet for the creative ideas which were oozing our of every pore of my body. We had decided to have a brunch for the moms (made by the moms), sort of a potluck kind of deal. We wanted it to be something none of us were too familiar with in this season of our lives…elegant. A deviation from eating the rest of the kids cheerios off the floor or drinking the rest of their Sunny Delight (Yikes – edible oil product) out of a sticky Batman sippy cup as you ran out the door half dressed with a curler still in your hair. I’m sure the menu probably included fruit salad, quiche, cheeses/grapes…that sort of thing. I suggested we have scones, complete with devonshire cream and lovely homemade jam. And where, pray tell, were we getting the homemade jam? I volunteered to raid my mother’s pantry. We laid out the menu to the moms and then asked for volunteers for each item. I am sure the scone volunteers thought they were getting away easy. I passed out the exact recipe I wanted them to use for the scones (I didn’t want any of these rock hard white hockey pucks showing up). I was a bit bossy and arrogant when I think of it now. I also instructed them to bake the scones the morning of the brunch. Get up early and make them fresh and bring them warm. The way they looked at me you’d have thought I had antennae sticking out of my head and one eye in the middle of my face. What? True British scones had to be fresh and melt in your mouth. Off you go, I shooed them away.

Well the morning of the brunch arrived and I set the alarm early to make my scones. As I gathered the ingredients together I realized I there was not a speck or crumb of baking powder in the pantry. Not even an empty box. Hello? Scones are the sophisticated cousin of baking powder biscuits. I couldn’t possibly make scones without baking powder. The stores weren’t open yet and besides, by the time I got a 2 year old and a 6 year old ready to go to the store, not to mention myself, well…just not happening. If you are/were a mom, you know what I mean. I urgently called up my dear friend who lived in close proximity in the neighborhood. I timidly asked if she had any baking powder I could use for the scones. She was also involved in the brunch and she just howled when she learned of my predicament. The high and mighty scone organizer didn’t think to check her supply of baking powder the night before? Sadly, I did not. When she finished laughing, my friend agreed to send her 9 year son over on his bike with the much coveted baking powder. When he arrived, I threw open the door to give him a hug and PONGO, our brainless Dalmatian bolted through the space and tore into the park across the street. He was always looking for ways to escape. I most certainly did not have time for this. I asked my delivery boy to stay in the house with the kids while I ran over to the park in my pajamas and cajoled our family pet to come home. He was not falling for it. I ran back to the house to get the leash and some dog treats. If I wanted to get the leash on him, first I was going to have to catch him. I am sure the neighbors were enjoying their breakfast entertainment immensely. Finally I managed to wrestle the unruly spotted canine to the ground by the collar and stuffed him full of treats. I latched the leash to his collar and stood up straight and said ‘heel’. He had no idea what I was talking about – he wasn’t trained. Although, he must have understood some connotation of word ‘heel’ as he dug his own heels (do dogs have heels?) into the ground and decided he wasn’t going anywhere. I was pulling on the leash with all my strength and his paws were digging up dirt trenches in the grass as I tried to inch him toward the edge of the park. I don’t know how I finally got him back in the yard because he was far too huge to actually pick up. He was probably loving this game. He’d never had so much fun in his life – which was getting shorter by the moment I might add. I spent many wasted hours chasing that dog around the neighborhood, looking for him, not looking for him, hoping he was lost forever. I remember one time when he was nowhere to be found, I finally resigned myself to ‘not finding him’ and was starting to imagine my glorious life without the dumber half of dumb and dumber and the phone rang. It was the SPCA “somebody found your dog and brought him to the shelter, would you like to come and pick him up and pay $100 for the shots we had to give him in order to let him mingle with the rest of the dogs?” NO – I would not. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how somebody caught that crazy animal and was able to stuff him into a car. Jeesh.

Where was I? Oh yes…the brunch. Somehow I eventually managed to get my scones baked, the kids ready and dash off for the brunch. I was a bit late but, by God, my scones were fresh. In fact they were still warm. There was still steam rising from the basket of buttery biscuits laced with dried cranberries and white chocolate when I entered the church. While I was arranging my scones on the brunch table, I overheard a couple of moms giggling and whispering amongst themselves. They were just close enough or loud enough for me to realize that they were mocking me. They had pulled the wool over my eyes. They had made their scones the night before and waited until morning to bake them while they were getting ready. Why didn’t I think of that?

SCONES

2 cups flour
2 Tablespoons sugar
1 Tablespoon baking powder (for the love of 1 TBSP of baking powder)
1/2 Teaspoon salt
1/2 Teaspoon baking Soda
1/2 Cup of butter
1/2 Cup sour creme
1/4 Cup milk
Dried Cranberries and white chocolate chunks – to taste.

Combine flour, sugar, BP, salt and BS. Cut butter in finely (with hands). Combine sour creme and milk in another dish then make a well in the dry mixture and pour in the sour creme and milk. Stir with a fork and eventually use your hands to make a soft, slightly sticky dough. Gather in a ball and on a lightly floured surface pat the ball flat (1/2 thick). Cut out circles with a glass cup. Use any size you prefer. Place on a baking sheet (I now use parchment paper) and brush tops with milk and sprinkle sugar. Bake at 350% for 15-20 minutes. Don’t let them get brown. Brown edges only.

TIP: Make them in the evening and bake them the morning of your event

A good friend and I set out to change our lifestyle by eating real food. Clean food. Food that was not processed and wasn’t presented in a bag, a can, a carton or a plastic take out tray from the nearest Costco. No offense Costo. I love you. And all those prepared foods you have can come in really handy when you are planning a huge event and you already are overwhelmed with preparations. But on a daily basis, we wanted to eat real food. Food that acted as medicine in our bodies and food that healed. Food that didn’t contribute to chronic inflammation. Food that wasn’t poisoning us. This is no easy task when we are bombarded by marketing ploys of convenience and flavor and economics and are brainwashed into thinking that our lives will be so much more fun and our relationships so much richer if we eat Fat Burgers together as a family. So we bit the unprocessed bullet.

By spring we had the offer of a friend of a friend’s private garden plot in the backyard of her new home. She was going to be travelling most of the summer and the plot would go fallow. We jumped at the chance to try our hand at growing things. We’d kept babies alive, surely we could keep a few vegetables alive. Of course first we had to get them alive. The garden plot came complete with a sprinkling system so we didn’t have to drive out to the garden every day. Other than gas and time going to the garden was not going to be a hardship as the yard overlooked the lush valley with the river and the view stretched beyond the tree line and settled on the majestic Rocky mountains. We thought we were gardening in the Napa Valley. We toyed with the idea of growing grapes for wine but knew full well that we were not in the proper growing zone. A compromise would just be buying wine, setting up lawn chairs and watching the sun go down from the vantage point of our secret garden.

The owner of the plot gave us the list of what she had planted last year and what had done well and what had not. It only made sense to follow her lead. We bought seed packets for green beans, purple beans, peas, white bulb onions, green onions and radishes. We bought spinach, kale, butter lettuce and romaine lettuce. Beets, carrots, and zucchini. We even bought some tomato plants that were called “French fries and Ketchup” because the top of the plant grew tomatoes and the roots were potatoes. We finished it off with cucumber and bell pepper plants. We bought heirloom carrots in 3 different colors and while we were at it, thought we’d try gold beets and candy cane beets. It was a huge plot so we had more than enough soil to till and planting to do. We brought in the big guns. Our husbands.

Our first Saturday afternoon in the garden was an eye opener. It was cotton plantation hot and the men were turning over the soil with their bare hands and a trowel or a hoe. Earthworms were abundant. We knew this was a good sign. Over half our seeds were already premeasured on strips for planting. This helped immensely. We pounded in stakes so we could run string for the beans, peas and sweat peas to climb on. We pounded in more stakes at the end of every row and fastened our empty colorful seed packets to them so we would know what we planted and where while we were waiting for it to grow. AND we left enough space between each row of seeds for replanting later in the season to ensure a continuous harvest. We planted carrots next to tomatoes as this is supposed to spur each on to better growth. Outfitted with rubber boots and gardening gloves, we had sweat dripping from our brows in no time. After an afternoon of back breaking work that we weren’t used to we retreated to Starbucks for refreshments where we bragged about the success of our project. A little like counting your carrots before they’re sprouted. The hard work was done and now all we had to do what wait.

The urge to drive back to visit the garden in a couple of days was great but we restrained ourselves. Obviously nothing would have surfaced yet. The waiting began. Who of us likes to wait? We want everything right now but a garden is not an instant gratification kind of thing. As I think about waiting, I think about all the results and answers I am currently waiting for in my life. With the garden, if I’ve done my part – planted the seed and continue to water those seeds – provide nourishment and am willing to take on the upkeep -the weeding and working the soil, something will eventually grow. I have no control over the speed and abundance of the harvest. I just wait and trust the process. It’s the same with my life. If I trust God for the answers and solutions and I’ve done everything that He requires me to do then He will do His part and come through for me. Faith involves waiting. Faith IS waiting. Waiting with hope. If my friend and I had said ‘we want a garden’ and then just sat in front of a pile of dirt all summer doing nothing but staring at it we would be sadly disappointed. That would be hopeless waiting. I guess if we liked weeds we might have been excited.

Since our garden was being watered every morning by the built in sprinkler system we waited a week to go peek. There was nothing but our perfectly organized stakes, strings and empty seed packet signs. But when I returned the following weekend there were rows of the tiniest green sprouts. I was so excited I took gobs of photos and posted them on social media. I’m sure others were wondering why I was getting so excited over dirt. We went back in another 10 days or so and it was obvious we had a garden on our hands. We even had to do a little weeding. More pictures were taken.

Then it started to rain. Noah’s ark kind of rain. It rained for several weeks with no let up. It was so rainy we could not even visit the garden. It was monsooning. We certainly couldn’t work in all that mud. Finally, after about 3 weeks we dared to discover the damage. Many vegetables had florished while others were drowned. The concept that if a little water is good then a lot of water is better didn’t really play out here. Too much of a good thing. How often have I bought into that myth in my life? If a little is good then a whole bunch will be better? A myth that reverberates every 6 months or so as I purge my house yet again and continue to have too much… stuff.

Of course this overabundance of water from above fell on the weeds as well and now we were having difficulty distinguishing between the weeds and the plants. The men didn’t seem to easily recognize lettuce and were pulling it out along with the weeds. That reminded me of a young cashier at the grocery store when I came through with zucchini and cilantro. He asked me if this was a cucumber? And what was this green stuff called? So we had to educate them on the different leaves plus we pointed out that the lettuce was growing in fairly straight rows so let that be their guide. Although I’m pretty sure we ate a few salads that were mostly dandelion greens.

This caused me to wonder if people could tell the difference between me and everyone else. As a Christ follower did I just blend in with the rest of the world? Or do people notice a distinguishable difference? Because they should. If I end up in a salad of dandelion greens I’m doing something wrong.

We planted the garden in May, the weekend before Victoria Day. By the end of June we were officially labeled ourselves farmers,taking home harvests of romaine, spinach, butter lettuce, onions, radish. So colorful and fresh and no pesticides I might add? Doesn’t this make them organic? Or does there have to be a lot of compost in the soil? Kind of reminds me of the movie The Martian, stuck on Mars for 7 years with nothing to eat but potatoes grown in his own… well you get the picture.

We continued to visit our garden all through July… still raining. Why hadn’t God asked us to start building a big boat yet? The beans and snap peas were growing on the vines but some varmint was feasting on them and the pods were full of holes so we finally just cut our losses on the lentils. I replanted some spinach and added kale. We unearthed some carrots and beets but the actual vegetables were very small compared to their foliage. Very showy with not much substance. As I contemplated this discovery I started to wonder about my own character. Sometimes I can tend to be like that. We’ve all met people that make an amazing first impression but when you dig deeper there’s not much there. I’d rather be the kind of person that surprises you when you look deeper than the coif, the face paint, the trendy fashion. I’d like you to find a mature, seasoned, colorful, fully grown healthy person of substance.

A strange thing happened next. That rich, moist, soil, patronized by the earthworms and nourished by the monsoon rains turned rock hard. In August I went over to do a little harvesting as the carrots were growing on top of one another. As I tried to pull the carrots from the ground the greens kept breaking off and the carrots remained buried in clay. So I put on my gloves and with a hand spade grasped tightly I began digging those carrots out. By the time I was done and removed my gloves my blistered palms were bleeding and raw. Our rich soil from May had turned to clay by August. This can happen to us sometimes. We start out pleasant, pliable and promising and after we have dealt with the unwelcome storms and the driving rain we harden our hearts to the possibility of reaping anything worthwhile. We become so hard that we have to be broken in order for the rich harvest to emerge. I don’t want the storms to make me hard. But if they do, then I want God to put on His gardening gloves and pursue me with a vengeance.

By the end of August our sweet peas started to grow before our very eyes almost. They were crawling up the ropes like professional rock climbers. Nostalgic and nimble with their fushia, pink, white and purple velvet petals and heavenly scent. Mostly I was just so darn proud of them for not giving up even though their growth was slow. The brave and tenacious sweet peas that graced our kitchens and offices until the end of September.

By now we were harvesting zucchini, cherry tomatoes, small beets and carrots. We just kept pulling the carrots from the ground and they seemed to be multiplying. I think the owner had planted some extra rows of carrots in the garden for us. They were amazingly sweet, we were eating them right out of the ground, a little dirt never killed us (well we did run them under the hose so it was clean dirt). Unfortunately the bell peppers and cucumbers had been destroyed. They started out as plants … did I mention the hail? I was starting to understand the delicate dance of the farmer. The excitement of new life, the anticipation (and necessity) of growth, the pride of harvest and the grieving for what’s been lost.

All in all, the garden was a success. A chance to risk. A lesson in patience, waiting and hope. An opportunity to reap most of what we sowed. A season to reflect. An experience to understand growth and a time to be grateful for the harvest. A schooling in hope and a testing in faith. These are the secrets of the garden.

I want to write it down.  All of it.  I find, more often than not, that a healing (and very often a revelation) occurs after each entry into my journal or each telling of some small part of my story.  Is my life so spectacular that I think everyone will be clamoring to read about it?  A resounding no.  Is my life so important?  I know I have value but what have I done to change the world?  Probably not much.  Is my life full of adventure and daring?  I wish it was.   No…I am more of an ‘every woman’.  My life could be described as….Valuable but not noticeable.   Important but not legendary.  Known but not famous. Loved but not publicly adored. Fun but not always.  Rich but not monetarily.   Hard pressed but not crushed. Perplexed but not in despair.  Persecuted but not abandoned.  Struck down but not destroyed.

My life has been peppered with blessing as well as hardship.  My life has not evolved into the dreams of my childhood. Oh the dreams.  I am most definitely am a dreamer.  A creator, a dreamer, an idealist.  I see the possibilities no matter how ridiculous the idea.  People say it can’t be done and I say why not? Anything is possible.  I am so grateful that God gave me a personality that can pick herself back up again.  After ridicule.  After loss.  After disappointment.  After anger.  After failure.  Otherwise I’d be lying in the ditch somewhere.  But Paul said he’d learned the secret of contentment in any situation and that secret is “I can do anything through Christ who gives me strength”.  So its not really a secret after all, at least not since Paul told the whole world.

My head is bulging with grandiose ideas and plans at any given moment.  Often people have asked me where do you get all these ideas? and I’m chuckling to myself as I run through the list written on the inside of my head – choking on all the ones I didn’t even share.  There and from Pinterest.

I am what new psychology calls an extroverted introvert.  I have always been intimidated by people.  However, I was always told when I was a child that I talked far too much and even now I seem to be a chronic over sharer.   Is it because I am so excited about everything that’s going on in my heart and mind and soul or is it a cover for the fear and horror of people finding out who I really am inside. I guess that would make me a phony. I’ve always considered myself on the rounder side of big boned but maybe its the insecurities crammed inside fighting for space.  I have no ambition to represent myself falsely or set up pretenses.  I’m probably more like everyone else than I care to admit.  Everyone likes to think of themselves as special in some way and we ARE all special in some way to somebody.

And this is where I want to gather fodder for my blog.  From my normal, unspectacular, hard knocks but extremely blessed life because I think many more people can relate to what looks boring on the outside but is full of richness on the inside.  I want to draw attention to the richness and the memories that maybe ordinary folk don’t even see or feel in their own lives.  We all have a journey to walk…all different and yet so much the same.  We don’t know the details of everyone’s journeys but I am sure we all experience much of the same emotions along the way.

We crave love and purpose.  And for whatever reason,  I feel strongly, that part of my purpose is to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and share what I have learned along the way on the off chance that these stories will resonate with someone and will be the encouragement and laughter they needed in that moment.  Some of the stories will just be stories to make us both feel good and there is no harm in that. And some entries will be to let you know you’re not the only one.