I Am a Morning Person

"They're so beautiful when they're asleep.  I mean REALLY, REALLY beautiful.  Exquisitely, divinely, transcendently beautiful."

I believe God crafted children to require a couple more hours of sleep per day than their grown-up parents for a very specific reason: sanity.  I love that extra hour (two if I'm very, very lucky) of peace and quiet at the end of the day.  Some nights it's productive time, on others it is my much-needed kick-back time with book or game or movie.  Early morning hours are even better, more of a sacrifice to get them, but so, so worth it.  I thought once that sunrises are a daily love-letter from God, and I never wanted to miss another one.  I've missed a lot since thinking that, but it still makes me smile and say "I love you, too" on the mornings I make it up in time.

I think I like mornings better because I never waste them.  I never get up and think, I've had it with this day already, I'm just going to relax!  No, in the morning that extra time is both golden and well-spent.  I'm fresh, enthusiastic, optimistic, and I just had a love-letter from my all-powerful creator Father.  How could I then squander that all-too-precious gift of time?  I am a morning person.  Definitely.

Dear Listener: A Disclaimer

I don't know why particularly I was struck this morning by a feeling of severe anxiety and insecurity over this, but I was.  I even feel embarrassed.  Maybe it's just a doppelgänger of post-partum blues.  Whatever it is, I feel like I can't get over it until I say something:

I know I'm not an amazing performer.

There I said it.

Somewhere along the way I picked up the notion that a good performer never makes excuses for themselves.  If you hit a sour note, forget your lyrics, or squeak on your high notes, you don't say a word about it, you just move on and pretend it didn't happen.  But what if you're not a great performer?  What if it's painfully obvious that you're not?  I am so afraid that ignoring my obvious failings will be perceived as blind conceit, that it will appear as though I think I'm all that when it's clear I'm not.

Now, the only reason I find myself in this awkward situation is due in large part to the fact that I'm married to someone who is without question firmly planted in the category of "amazing performer."  Those of you who know him, or have heard and seen him know what I'm talking about.  His voice is out of this world.  He's dashing, tall, handsome, poised, regal, with an endearing dash of little boy in him--just enough to keep us all from feeling entirely inferior.  He has performed in the best-known musicals of our day, in some of the best-known roles, and wowed the socks off audiences across the country.  Of all the women out there who swoon at his melt-your-heart voice, I am the lucky girl he calls "sweetheart."

I have also somehow managed to elbow my way into his limelight.  I've had the opportunity to share the stage with him and some of his amazingly talented friends.  It has been a real treat for me in many ways.  I do love to sing, and I love to talk about the things I hold dear to my heart.  I love to try and uplift people through music and speaking, sharing some of the life lessons my husband and I have learned through our unique experiences.  It is delightful to have those opportunities.

However, there has also been this growing fear that I don't quite belong here.  To my dear, lovely friends who have invested time and money, blood sweat and tears into becoming the talented incredible performers that you are and then patiently shared the stage with me, the amateur, I thank you so much for your graciousness, your love, and your generosity.  It's you I have felt most embarrassed to impose upon, and I especially want you to know, I know I am not your equal.  It was my deepest honor to stand with you.  It was absolutely more privilege than I deserved.  To those who were in the audience, whether at concerts or listening to recordings or broadcasts, thank you also for your patience.  My greatest fear has always been that I would disappoint people with my singing, after hearing how wonderful my husband's is.  So many times after a concert we shared, people would line up to meet him, and I totally understood.  He was amazing.  And since I was standing right there next to him, there was the occasional obligatory, "You were good, too."  I just wanted to disappear.  I didn't want anyone to feel like they had to think of something nice to say about me, like I would feel left out if they didn't.  Really, I didn't care.  I didn't need validation.  I was just happy to hear them gushing on about my husband.  And furthermore, don't anyone dare post anything to try and validate me now, because I will delete it.  That's not what I'm asking for.  I simply want the world to know I do NOT consider myself on par with my husband or his professional caliber friends and associates.  I know I am severely lacking.  Whatever I have tried to contribute came not out of vast training or experience, but a great desire to inspire people the same way they do.  I hope that desire makes up in part for my flat notes or failing breath support.  I will never be my husband's artistic equal.  There's just no way I can invest in the kind of training he has had, let alone conjure up the same pure, natural talent he was blessed with.  But there is one thing he has taught me that I hope I can apply in a way that people can recognize.  When it comes to performing, giving the gift is paramount.  The gift I give may not be as pretty, but I can give it with just as much love, and hopefully that is enough.

But if you want REAL talent, go to people like this:
http://www.dallynvailbayles.com

Why Winning Matters

I had 4 younger brothers who all participated in the Cub Scout program.  I remember the Pinewood Derby as something significant, a sort of boy-hood rite of passage.  My brothers labored over their cars, fine tuning the aerodynamic design, getting the paint just right, the wheels spinning smoothly, the weight within milligrams of the perfect 5 ounces.  So when my oldest son was handed his official Pinewood Derby box with that raw block of wood inside, I felt a little intimidated.  How could I make this experience fulfilling enough for him?

When crunch time arrived, and we had to get the car ready, I pulled out the block and started talking about possible shapes and wind resistance and best chances for speed.  Why did it matter so much, he wanted to know?  "Well, if you want to win..." I began to explain, when he retorted, "But winning doesn't matter."

Hmm.  I guess I wasn't too surprised to hear this response from my son who loves gymnastics purely for the fun of it, and has no apparent desire to fine-tune his skills enough to add his name to the trophy collection at the gymnasium where he spends 5 hours a week playing -er- practicing on the pre-team.  In a way, I guess that was how I wanted him to feel.  Not worrying too much about winning is safer.  There's no chance of hurt feelings, and no chance of bloated pride in the case of an actual win.  On the other hand, without a desire to win, I didn't see what would motivate him to put any effort into crafting his car for the race?

Our society has been working hard to eliminate competition from the lives of our children.  I can see a little value in this.  Competition creates inequality when the results are in: someone is the winner and someone is the loser, and many are somewhere in-between.  We don't want our children to feel they are better than someone else, or that someone else is better than them.  We want everyone to feel valuable.  Everyone should be a winner.  So I suppose I can see the logic in eliminating scoreboards, banning the terms "first" "second" and "third place" and teaching children to create or perform purely for the fun of it.

On the other hand, I feel we are doing our children a disservice by not teaching them that competition is a fact of life in our world.  "Survival of the fittest" has been the way of things from the beginning, and I don't think it's going away any time soon.  When they go in for the job interview, the fact stands that the best candidate is going to get the job.  Colleges accept students with the best GPA's.  Any situation where there is a choice to be made, the chooser is going to lean towards the best option, and if you or your offering is the thing being chosen, you must strive to be the best.  That's just the way it is, and for good reason.

The trick is to find a way to teach our children to do their very best, put in their very best effort, use the motivation of possible success to work hard, seek for ways to improve and refine, and ultimately become excellent without allowing that excellence to inflate their ego.  We must also help them to understand the purpose of failure, that it is a springboard for growth, a lesson in humility, and an opportunity to be gracious to those who have bested us.  Simply eliminating competition because it is too complicated to try and teach children how to walk the fine line between greatness and conceit, and humility and despair is the cheap way out.  We should not shy away from such lessons just to spare our children from painful feelings they are bound to encounter later in life, especially if they are unprepared.

I guess that's why the Cub Scouts still hold Pinewood Derbies.  My son didn't win, but I think he had fun.  And seeing the winner's cars and the level of effort that went into them may have inspired him to try a little harder next year.  I hope so.

Serving Closer to Home

One of the traits I admire most is the ability to hear and respond to promptings to serve others.  I stand in awe of the inspiring stories of the friend that showed up at just the right moment to assist in an emergency, or the stranger that offered just the thing, or the person who knew someone needed a call.  I long to be so in tune with the Spirit that no need that I could fulfill goes neglected.  To me, this seems like the ultimate goal of a true disciple of Christ: to become a perfect instrument in his hands.

So, knowing that practice makes perfect, and that you have to earn the trust of the Spirit through responding to it, I set a goal to pray every day for 2 weeks for promptings that I could then follow.  "Alright, here I am, Lord.  Whom do you want me to help today?" I would utter hopefully every morning I remembered to.  Sadly, in the bustle of parenthood (especially with a newborn) I forgot to ask most days, and as the 2 weeks went by, I never noticed a prompting.  I recommitted, I prayed more, I tried to feel something, to hear something.  Who needed me?  I would gaze out the window as I did dishes every morning and try to think whom I could help.  Nothing.  I started to worry that I was just insensitive or too busy or distracted.  Too selfish, perhaps, or unworthy.

Then finally, it occurred to me that the Lord was not going to burden me with extra obligations when I had so many already.  Granted, we are not supposed to wait to serve until we have everything in our own life all squared away and perfect.  But God does know our limitations, and he is not unreasonable in his requests.  I have a 2 month old baby, a 6-year old who is starving for some attention and greater sense of self worth, and a husband with many pressures and demands on him.  I have a toddler who is begging to be toilet trained, a daughter who is in limbo between childhood and adolescence, and a quiet young son who is in danger of getting lost in the shuffle because he is too obliging to speak up for himself.  If the Lord was not currently asking me to serve outside the walls of my own home, then for sure he needed me to do all sorts of service within them.

So my prayers and my goal took a shift.  I started praying every morning that I could be of greater service to my family.  This time, it was easier to remember, and this time I found plenty to do.  I was able to help my husband prepare material for an upcoming presentation.  I helped my 6-year-old catch up on a month's worth of chores, earn his allowance, and finally feel good about himself.  I helped my other son with a fun and engaging homework project that he is proud of.  In between it all, I fed my kids cold cereal most mornings, cooked a few meals, ordered pizza and did mac n' cheese on the other nights, fed my baby, and kept changing 2 sets of diapers.  Nothing momentous.  But I did what I could for those I love the most.  I still want to learn to hear those promptings to go outside my domain and rescue someone besides my own, but if this is all the Lord needs me to do for now, I am content to do it.

Another Chance to Snuggle

When my 4th child was a baby, I really thought he'd be my last.  4 was the magic number we had decided on even before we got married, and even though I had always expected to have another girl, I was resigned that my family was finally complete.  With all the warnings from seasoned parents, the seemingly hundreds of times I heard the phrases, "They grow up so fast!" and, "You'll miss these times," I made sure to savor every smile, every cuddle, every coo.  Sometimes I would just hold him close, and breathe it in as though the scent of that moment would lodge the memory more firmly in my soul.  I was preparing to be satisfied with only ever holding other people's babies when mine was no longer so little.

What a treat to be wrong!  It wasn't my last time, nor was my eldest my last and only daughter.  Here I am with another infant princess in my arms, hardly believing how blessed I am to have another chance to breathe it all in.  My youngest son is a tall 2 1/2 year old, now, a testimony that yes, they do grow up fast.  But I am so grateful for this sweet blessing!

Surprise!

I was done having babies.  I had 4.  I gave away my bassinet, baby sling, baby bath, bottles and sterilizer, and the 10 years worth of little girl clothes I had been saving from my eldest daughter's wardrobe in hopes that she might have a sister.  I gave away all the cute maternity clothes I had accumulated (as well as the not so cute ones I was happy to part with).  I felt content with my brood, and happy to spoil my latest son as the "youngest" for the rest of my days.

Then I had this dream.  I had prayed that night before going to sleep that I would be able to find my daughter's two missing leotards which she needed in order to attend dance class.  In my dream, instead of missing leotards, I had missing children, and when I woke up, I realized how much more tragic it would be if there were children I was meant to have, but never did.  I opened myself up to the idea, and prayed that if it was meant to be, that it would be obvious enough that I could set aside my firm resolution that I was done.

It was pretty obvious.  The signs started flooding in, and I had to laugh.  Someone really wanted to join our family!

So I took a deep breath and said, "Okay."  Now here I am, about 10 weeks along, feeling extremely sick and having some reservations, but confident, at least, that this was the right choice.

I just hope I don't have to do this ever again.

And just as a footnote, I'm not likely to blog much over the next little while, especially not so long as I feel like this.  I need to focus on other things :)

The Getty and The Griffith

A couple nights ago, I stepped outside for a moment after nightfall.  We live in a semi-rural area, I suppose, but I was still surprised by the brightness of the stars.  I stood there in awe, especially as I noted Venus, Jupiter, Mars, and the beautiful half-moon right at the pinnacle of the sky.  I am reminded of an experience my husband and I had on a beautiful April day five years ago:

We were kicking around Los Angeles together, sans children, and had two main stops on our list that day.  The first was the J. Paul Getty Museum.  It boasted a fabulous collection of art, sculpture, and furnishings spanning thousands of years and demonstrating some of the finest of man's artistic achievements.  We spent the morning perusing the halls and enjoying the artistry and ingenuity, thinking to ourselves that mankind was pretty clever and talented.

Our second stop was the Griffith Observatory.  Suddenly mankind's achievements seemed pretty insignificant.  We looked at amazing images of nebulae and galaxies and read information about the vastness of space and the innumerable quantities of stars.  We gazed at the 3,000 square foot panoramic image called "The Big Picture," which is a snapshot of just one tiny portion of the night sky (the equivalent of the area covered up by your index finger if you held it at arm's length from your eyes).  It contains "more than a million galaxies, stars, and other celestial objects."  Not only were the numbers staggering, but the beauty and perfection were breathtaking.  We were left in absolute awe.

The juxtaposition of those two visits has always intrigued me.  Whenever I start to feel like I'm pretty hot stuff, the lesson learned that day is effective in bringing me back down to earth.  Moses had been raised in the courts of Pharaoh and knew firsthand the grandeur of one of history's greatest civilizations (we had seen some Egyptian masterpieces ourselves at the Getty that morning).  But when Moses was shown all the creations of God, he was induced to declare, "Now... I know that man is nothing." (Moses 1:7)

The amazing thing is, God didn't make all that grandeur to impress us, or make us feel insignificant.  He made it as a gift.  I always think of that when I see the moon.  I'm not sure why I find it so divinely lovely, but I do, and to me it is a little love note from Father every time I see it.  When I hear theories about the universe and everything in it being created by chance, it makes me sad.  Not only is it a ludicrous notion (I would love it if my house would organize itself by chance, but I'm sure it would never happen, no matter how many billions of years I waited around), but if I had created something so sublimely beautiful as a gift for my children, and they didn't even believe I made it for them, let alone acknowledge the gift, I would be hurt.  Even believing what I do, I forget far to often to say thank you.  Seeing the moon, planets and stars like I did this week is an awfully good reminder, though.