EGR'd OUT

Isn't there some sort of heavenly rule that you should only have to deal with one "Extra Grace Required" person at the same time? I have three.

One is a church member going through a marriage crisis- she's mad at the church for "not doing enough" for her yet won't accept any help from the numerous offers she's received over and over again. She's mad at me for being a "bad" friend. It's hard to keep offering knowing she's going to shoot us down. My husband told her we loved her on Sunday and she said, "Yeah, right."

Number two is my Bi-Polar Bear, who has recently returned to church after a long break. I hold my breath around her trying not to do or say anything that will set her off or be misinterpreted. It's nerve-racking.

Number three is a 24 year old man at our church with Ausberger's Syndrome, Paranoia, and Bi-Polar disorder who has discovered facebook. Correction: He has discovered ME on facebook. And he continually drowns my inbox with novels on random subjects full of his rantings. He loves to debate politically and is currently fixated on the Health Care bill. I have blocked him from everything I can without deleting him altogether... and I think I've already had the patience of a saint with him... but he is really driving me crazy.

Seriously, Lord?

I am not a counselor- I just play one on TV...

Assaulted. That's how I feel on a Sunday. Assaulted with other people's problems. Many people in our church think that, because of my illustrious title on a Sunday morning, I am also a trained counselor. And most of the time, I have no idea what to say when they come to me with their problems. I counted this past Sunday: four different people waited to talk to me about their personal problems- looking for advice.

Marriage problems. Parenting problems. Blended family problems. Aging parent problems. One older guy even told me he was late because he had dirrahea. I'm not kidding. I've been cried on, cussed at, talked about, and put on an unfortunate pedestal while I'm wearing stilettos (ok, I've never really worn stilettos, but you get the idea). It feels dangerous.

What if I say the wrong thing to someone? I mean, the diarahhea guy I can handle: "Go eat some cheese, buddy, and keep it to yourself next time... oh, and never trust a fart." Simple mom advice. I can't help with issues I've never dealt with- like parenting a surly step-child. Yikes. I guess I'm going to have to learn to say "I don't know the answer, but I'll sure help you pray about it." I can listen like a friend, I can care, and I really can pray.

That much I can do.

PS: You really never should trust a fart. Some free advice- from a non-licensed counselor-at-large. ;)

Well, Hellfire and Damnation.

My worst nightmare has come true. I am now running the women's ministry at our church. After a complete flip-out (all over me, as described in a previous post)... our women's ministry leader quit in a blaze of glory. No one on the planning team feels "called" to lead it- that's such a Christian way to say no, isn't it? Grr.

Why should I be leading it if it isn't my thing? Well, because I'm the pastor's wife, of course. Not that I find myself resenting this or anything... even though I was only begrudgingly a member of the planning team. Even though this really isn't my thing. Even though I have to MAKE myself go to Women of Faith because I don't enjoy it (blasphemy, I know). They get me or nothing, for the time being. Sigh.

All I can say is, I can do this with a smile on my face... all the while praying for God to send the right woman with the right heart. Our women need a continued active and healthy women's ministry- they deserve it. And despite my feelings, I won't let lack of leadership stop that from happening. I will find inspiration, by God's grace.

But I am NOT planning any freaking tea parties.

In the Beginning...

I've been spending a lot of time trying to go back to the basics- especially with my relationships. I have way too many complicated relationships in my life. It's nice to remember when they were free from bad memories, harsh words, terrible actions, temptations, hurt, and all the other things the world throws at you. Times of true friendship, innocent romance, secret promises- when you put the other person first simply because you couldn't help it.

We all know life begins in Jr. High. Those feelings begin in Jr. High. When I first met my husband, I was a gawky 8th grader. He was, in my eyes, a Greek God disguised as an 8th grader. I saw him the very first day of school, and the first time our eyes met was one of the most thrilling moments of my life. Cheezy, I know, but it's true. Those are the moments I like to think back on.

I was always the tallest girl in my grade- always on the back row for class pictures, and I felt like my feet were huge- I believe my brother called them banana boats once when I was about 10 and gave me a complex for the rest of my life. I had braces, chubby cheeks, freckels, and was never really "in" with the right group. Eighth grade year, however, was going to be different... I just knew it. 1983 was going to be my year; plus, how could it not be when your gym teacher's name was Mrs. Weiner? The cut-downs involved in that alone were fathomless.

First of all, I was taking a couple of new friends back to school with me- boobs. They were startling and a little embarrassing... but I knew the power they held. Second, I had been practicing kissing all summer with a neighbor boy who's name was Rob- he was a year older than I was and was very willing to give lessons- and my dad never caught us out in the driveway at dusk before the streetlights came on (if that doesn't count as divine intervention, then I don't know what does). Third, I was now the exact same size as my mother- which automatically doubled my wardrobe. Nothing of hers was safe... it was awesome. Fourth, I had learned that the secret to hair that looked as fabulous as Farrah's was that you curled it all UNDER first- then flipped it back into your wings and cemented it with nothing less than Final Net (which I think has now been declared a biohazard by the Federal Government). I mean, duh... who didn't know you curled UNDER first? Lastly, my best friend Cathy Porter was a cheerleader. There's no end to the popularity that can be sucked from a BFF who is a cheerleader. I believed that the perfect storm had come together with these five elements to create the turn-around in my social life and the best eighth grade year that anyone had ever had.

I remember what I wore that first day of eighth grade. I wore my one pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans (remember the swan?) with my first pair of heels: super-hip yo-yos (heels with large holes in them, for the uncouth reading this). My top was perfect; it was one of my mom's summer sweaters- light purple with a scoop neck and three-quarter sleeves. And it kind of showed off my new friends. I looked pretty darn cute, if I did say so myself.

I walked in to SLJH with faked confidence, and a positive, knock-em-dead attitude- determined that I was going to convince everyone that I was worthy of their admiration. I must admit that I was way more concerned with impressing the girls than the guys. Face it- jr. high girls' meanness can rival a hungry bear coming out of hibernation, so that first day, I wasn't really thinking about boys- I was concerned with hanging with the right girls. You had to have a plan... really now, first things first.

That first day before lunch, one of my teachers sent me to the office to get something- I don't remember what. On the way back to the classroom, I had just turned into a short hallway that connected two other hallways and happened to be looking up when a new, cute and (gasp) taller-than-me boy walked by. I smiled, he didn't, and he kept walking. "Oh well," I thought. I had reached the middle of the hallway when his head peeked back around the corner to look at me. He had backed up (!)- I think to see if I was a teacher or a student, smiled a goofy smile at me, and took off, embarrassed. I remember feeling the blush burn my cheeks and the smile on my face that I couldn't dislodge.

At lunch I continued with the bold, new me. I saw him sitting with Leonard Gonzalez (who was the first boy that ever asked me to couple skate, by the way), and as I passed their table, I held out my hand and introduced myself. He told me his name and I sat down to talk for a couple of very nervous minutes... comparing summer events, class schedules (same math class... YES!) and other such important jr. high business.

That was it for a while. There were shy smiles from me in the hallway and tentative friendship, even though he went through a series of girlfriends, and never seemed to be without one long enough for me to have time to let someone tell someone else to tell him that I liked him. It went on like that from September until January. After Christmas break, our math teacher got mad about all of the continuous talking and moved everyone's assigned seats. Another divine intervention occured when she seated me directly behind him. I thought I had died, and I already knew I was in love. The new seating arrangement led to the correcting of each other's papers while we were grading, the passing of notes, and lots of quick glances back and forth. We were becoming friends, even though he (always) had a girlfriend.

In late January, suddenly, there was no girlfriend for him. And there seemed to be more attention for me. I think I lived for math class, and the way my heart would flutter whenever I saw him.

My jr. high had quite the way to determine each person's specifically ranked popularity. The cheerleaders sold Valentines Day carnations- which would be delivered to your BFF or significant other's first period class for only $1.00 each. This is the equivalent to being the last kid picked for the dodgeball team if you didn't get any. Girls were very adept at quickly counting carnations and comparing your worth to theirs. Carnations were currency into the good life. When our classes' carnations were delivered, I remember that I got 14 or 15- which was a really good number, and exactly the same number as my best friend Cathy Porter. I quickly looked through all of the attached slips telling me who mine were from, and my heart sunk to the depths of the Grand Canyon when I realized that none, not even one, were from him. I remember tears stinging my eyes and fighting them back. The bell rang, class started. I settled into my seat, determined to be happy with what I had- after all, he wasn't my boyfriend.

About a minute after the school announcements and the Pledge of Allegiance, there was a banging at the door. My science teacher Mr. Bussey was extremely annoyed. We all looked to the door and it was him. Late, out of breath, sweating from the illegal run to my classroom... and he was holding a dozen sweetheart roses. Pink. He stuck his head in the door, pointed the roses at me, and I jumped up and ran to him, my cheeks blushing and my heart soaring. He said, "These are for you" with a smile. I hugged his neck and thanked him. The girls in the class burned with jealousy. Mr. Bussey rolled his eyes and asked if we were quite finished yet? He ran to his class, and I went back to my seat, pretty much unaware of anything that was said in science class that day.

From that point on, we started eating lunch together. My braces came off the next week, which gave me the confidence to ask him to the girl's choice Sadie Hawkins Dance. He said yes. He asked me to go steady with him over the phone on March 1, 1984. He was mad at his younger sister because she kept coming into the room, he wanted privacy- I knew it was coming, but he took forever to ask me. Sweet anticipation. I said yes.

From there it was an awkward but tender first kiss, a million more notes passed, and an 8th grade prom in May that included a limo driver and me getting my hair "done" for the very first time- into a french twist with baby's breath woven into the back. Weren't we cute?

Then there was the summer after 8th grade where we hardly saw each other but talked a lot on the phone... and walking into the High School hand in hand to face it together.

From there, things got complicated... but it's so nice to look that far back because even though there were bad memories, harsh words, terrible actions, temptations, and hurt that followed, we do have a happy ending, after all. I knew 8th grade was going to be the bomb.

Perspective...

Two months out from surgery and a month out from the accident... things are looking much better. Life is calming down- sanity is returning. The painkillers have left my system. :) I have people I'm talking to when I need it. Profanities no longer threaten to burst out at physical therapy- I hit 114* last week with my ultimate goal of 120*. I have things I'm looking forward to and a great friend I trust.

Don't get me wrong, there are still ministry woes- in fact, I got cursed at in the church parking lot(rather loudly)just last Sunday by a friend who said our church was all platitudes and no action. I disagreed as lovingly as I could and tried to encourage her; then I stewed and fretted. That is, until a friend showed me that she is trying to fill the holes in her life with the church and with me- and feeling like people should be jumping to fill the needs when they don't realize there are any. And we will always fall short. The church is full of imperfect people... and I am in that church of imperfect people. I can't fix her. The church can't fix her. But God can. She admitted that she isn't in the word, isn't seeking, and I reminded her yesterday that she needed to be. Our relationship is tense and I dread every interaction with her. But I feel a little more empowered knowing that I'm not responsible for fixing her. That helps me.

My husband and I are going to get a little counseling as far as handling ministry issues like this and balancing our schedules so that we will finally have some family time. We haven't been doing a great job with the balancing act- working too many hours at the expense of our kids- putting "ministry" above our family because we feel like the work will never end and we'll just fall farther behind if we don't push through. We don't want to sacrifice our family on the alter of ministry- and I know that's not what God wants for us. But I feel like we're taking positive steps in the right direction- and I'm hoping both of us can let go of some unrealistic expectations that we have of ourselves and learn to say one simple little word: No.

In the midst of my life- whether I'm peaceful (like today) or stomping my foot and shaking my little fist at God- he is there. What a comfort.

I guess I'm not done yet.

I'm feeling way out of sorts. I don't even know how to explain it. Our lives are upside down- with way too many balls in the air. We've had major event after major event in the last six weeks- and I'm just about done. I just told my husband I wouldn't go to a church event two doors down tonight because I just don't feel like I can be around people right now.

1. I can't get caught up at work. Not since my surgery (major event).
2. My nephew moved in with us and is struggling with major, difficult issues major event). My son is resenting having to babysit his cousin.
3. We have four separate insurance claims going on right now- each of which have involved a major event. (flood in basement, knee replacement, rolled and totaled car, and our son's resulting hospital stay).
4. Since last Friday: we got ready for a garage sale all day.
Saturday: we had a garage sale all day for Donn's parents. All of the unsold things now reside in our garage, with some big things left for us to sell.
Sunday: Fourth Anniversary- at the church from 7am for set up until the last person left at 4pm. Try to clean up our house and collapse.
Monday: Funeral all day. 8am-4pm once we got cleaned up after the meal. Then we had to have dinner with someone from the congeregation for a joint counseling session regarding a couple's relationship. Home at 10pm or so.
Tuesday: Work on a ridiculously slow computer- one of our drives is almost full and we haven't had a second to get another one up and running yet. It's as slow as molasses- and entering offering today was torture. I'm still not done.

People started calling my cell this morning at 7am with prayer requests- blood clots in my father's leg, can you pray for him; a child back in the hospital, can you go see her; people needing things from me... there are dramas I need to write, people I need to contact, bills I need to pay, my house is a wreck, the office is a mess, my leg isn't bending yet how it should- we're having to break through scar tissue for every degree that I'm able to bend it(I'm at 102* now and need to get to 120*) and therapy has become an exercise in not yelling out words that a Pastor's wife shouldn't say- if I could spell excruciating... I would use that word.

I feel like I'm being pulled in so many different directions right now- and i'm caring less and less about all of them- and that's a dangerous place to be, I know.

I can't be burned out- first of all, I've been off so much lately (hence the behind-ed-ness) with therapy, etc... But I haven't missed a Sunday- an "always on" Sunday, or a meeting or event. Secondly, I don't have time to be burned out.

Oh and get this... a kid in our children's dept. on Sunday was diagnosed with Swine Flu today. seriously. Is my throat a little sore or is that my imagination?

At the women of faith conference one of the speakers was a market researcher and wrote a book on what makes people happy- and one of the things that truly happy people did was "single-tasking". That is so not me. Not my life. I feel like I'm drowning and I'm about to flip out.

I feel like if I go away... take a vacation... I'm just going to come back to... this. More chaos. I keep telling God I wasn't meant for this life of ministry. I don't know if I'm that selfish or just overwhelmed... regardless, he isn't listening.

I don't want to work at the church anymore. I think. But I can't say that out loud yet, and we can't make it without the income.

So now I'm off to a night of laundry, hanging up coats (why can't anyone hang up a coat in my house?), cleaning bathrooms that haven't been cleaned in two weeks, dusting things that have needed to be dusted for a month... and again, my husband is at a meeting away from the family- when he's here, he's not here... he's having to think about the next thing he has to do... whether it's the next meeting, the next message, or the next whatever... Down time has disappeared.

Alright. The introvert has spoken. And whined. It's time to get back to that to-do list. I apologize for the downer post, but this is my reality right now.

Ticked.

It amazes me the nerve that some people have. The things they will say to you when they feel that they pay your salary.

Sunday was our fourth anniversary, and we traditionally do a vision casting thing on our anniversary. In the past year, some pretty amazing things have happened- Land for instance. 38 acres of miracle land. For a ridiculous price. Like- God Ordained- there's no other word for it.

So Sunday, Donn gives this amazing message about all that God has done, is doing and what the vision for the future is. It was one of his best ever, I think. Specifics on the building we are thinking about and what things we feel God is calling us to do with the land, etc... from the leadership of the church. He really cast a vision for people to catch and asked them if we were ready for God's vision for US- because he didn't give us this land to watch wheat grow on it... it was very motivating and moving; and we had no idea the amazing things that He was going to do if we stayed out of the way.

After the service, one person came up to him and said, "Don't build the Titanic." I am ticked on so many levels- not necessarily of the critique of Donn's "big" vision.. but for their lack of faith in what God has in store for us and their complete ignorance.

And he won't tell me who they are. I am ready to go TP someone's house or spray some big eyeballs on the side of their barn (vision, get it?) - and he's too nice to tell me who said it. He's protecting them. He's such a better person than I am... because I have a sermon for whoever said that.

Grrr. Ticked.