My heart experienced every emotion available to mankind when I heard the story behind my son's latest offering envelope. I was proud; I was humbled. I was upset and embarrassed. I was relieved and happy.
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Read part one (it's the introduction), and then enjoy reading the five secrets my husband has discovered in raising our son. (This post is a week late because he went to Denver last weekend and has just now started to recover!)
Exactly one year ago, my husband guest blogged about Halloween. A couple days ago, he told me he wanted to write an article, but that the theme didn't really fit with his website. So I said he could guest blog on mine! So people, here is part one. Come back tomorrow or Saturday or even Monday for part two (it depends on how quickly he finishes it!).
You don't have to read part one, but if you want this to be a little less random, here it is. And now for the conclusion:
My entire life, I've been called shy. From the very beginning of my life when I'd hide behind my mom's skirt when someone new walked up to us, my parents called me shy. When I had a roomful of acquaintances and only one friend, I reasoned that it was because I was shy. I never liked being shy, though; I always felt ashamed of that particular label. Shy people were rude and self-centered, and I honestly didn't feel rude and self-centered! I just didn't want to talk to strangers. Or sometimes, I just didn't want to talk, period. In the past couple of years, I've seen more and more articles and comments about the difference between introverts and extroverts. I had never heard the terms before high school, and in high school, being an introvert was just as bad--if not worse!--than being shy. Being an extrovert, however, was a wonderful thing to be, because that meant you were friendly and not afraid to stand up for yourself--albeit loudly. Being an introvert meant that you were not only rude and self-centered (a.k.a. shy), but you were too proud to admit it and wanted to cover up those sins. If you've spent two minutes with me, you know I am definitely NOT an extrovert, but no way did I want to label myself as rude, self-centered, AND proud! Now, however, I wonder... Most of my life, I was defined by who I was in relation to who the rest of the world was. I was a missionary kid: first, middle, and last. Everything I did and thought and said, and everywhere I went and wanted to go--it was because I was an MK. My life revolved around being an MK; it wasn't just what I was; it's who I was.
In tenth grade, I wasn't an active MK anymore. I didn't live overseas and my parents weren't missionaries in a foreign culture. Fifteen years old is not a good age to start being something else--someone else--especially if you really liked being who you were before. But I didn't have a choice. I had to be someone else. The problem was, I didn't know how to be anyone else. I was good at being an MK; I had been one practically my whole life. TNK didn't sound so good. I mean really, who wants to be The New Kid? TWK--what I quickly morphed into--wasn't any better. That Weird Kid was what the classmates who didn't bother learning my name called me (not actually, but it felt like it). So, deep down, who was I really? Dream big. Really, if you’re gonna dream, dream big! Otherwise, what’s the point? My husband wants to change some laws, but he doesn’t want to do it the semi-passive aggressive way at the voting booth. So he dreamt big and is planning to be president one day. Of course, he knows that you can’t literally wake up one day, decide you want to be president, give a couple speeches and BOOM, you’re the president (unless, apparently, you’re the first one or the first one of a different color). He’s going to take all these small steps that lead up to the presidency. If he eventually does become president, more power to him, ya know? But if not, look at all the little steps he took—and all the “little” changes he will have made—in pursuit of his dream.
Tonight, the preacher told us about his dream. His was a literal dream. One night when he was a boy, he dreamed he was an evangelist, holding a revival meeting where many people were getting saved. He said when he woke up, he was disappointed it wasn’t real and right then he dedicated his life to God to preach. On the way home, EJ told us his dream. A couple months ago, one of my friends wrote a blog post for her 31st birthday--31 things you didn't know about me. I thought that would be a cool thing to write about, but I wasn't sure there were 31 things that most people don't know about me. I actually only came up with two things. :-(
1. I've never been stung by a bee (or wasp, or hornet, or any flying scary thing like that). 2. The only male thing I can do better than my husband is lead singing. When I was little, my dad taught me how to find the downbeat in any song, determine what the time signature was, and jump in directing at any point. This also means I can keep timing--1-2-3-4--in a song that has more interesting parts than just quarter notes. After telling these two things to my husband, he came up with one more: 3. I can have a conversation and when I'm finished, I will have used 6 different languages. English, Japanese, Sign Language, French, Spanish, and German. I can't speak all 6 fluently (only English) but I know enough words in those other languages to insert whenever I forget the word (or phrase) in English. EJ asked if I knew Latin. Yes, I know E pluribus unus. And that would be a little awkward to insert into a conversation. My husband said I know more Latin that I think, and for some reason, I knew which word was Latin that I never realized: cow. Turns out that's actually kinda a random thing. Not Latin at all. He said Latin words end in "s". The first thing I thought was, cows. Nope, still not Latin! So, definitely not 30 things! Maybe when I'm 60 I can write a post "6 things you probably don't know about me." Oh! #4: I don't normally like chocolate, unless it's for a special occasion. Or it's authentic Japanese chocolate. :-) That can be a heavy question. One my husband probably has this neatly boxed answer to, that wraps up every little wisp of argument so all I can say is, "Yeah, okay, that's right." EJ's answer probably isn't too far away from his daddy's. EJ's answer is: "Jesus Christ. And reality. Those are true." And while I agree with him 100%, I don't want to be quite as serious today.
Nostalgic, maybe. Serious, not so much. A couple days ago, I read a blog post about why young adults were leaving the church. Actually, in the last month or so, I've read a bunch of posts on that topic. But this particular one declared that the reason college graduates weren't finding a church in their new town was that they had been exhorted to be like the characters in the Bible.
My first thought was, What? Shouldn't we want our sons to be like David, and Paul, and Abraham? Shouldn't we want our daughters to be like Ruth, and Deborah, and Lydia? Shouldn't we strive for that ourselves? Betrayal. Not a fun word. Definitely not a fun experience. But life is such that everyone, at some point in their life, has been betrayed. Some people might just take it in stride (like my husband--he claims that as long as he knows he's doing what's right, he doesn't care what anyone else says). Others take it personally. Some let it ruin their lives. Some find a lesson to be learned and go on.
I tend to take it personally. I try not to let it ruin my life, but when someone betrays me, I feel like I must have done something to change their feelings for me, or else why would they have done that? |
Who am I, you ask?
In 2006 I had a stroke, and every day my husband encourages me to use my remaining brain cells to the best of my ability. I love to organize, make crafts, and go on adventures (safe ones). I hope that through my blog posts, you will be encouraged to accept and make the best of challenges God throws at your life. Categories
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