From My Corner of the World

While I Waited

2011-07-21T02:29:00.000-07:00

The day had been long, hard, and disappointing. I sat on the stiff chair at the airport gate longing for my flight to be called so that I could go home and sleep it all off.

I glanced at my watch. A two-hour lag awaited me. My muscles cramped with fatigue, and my mind ached with discouragement. I had come to California to take a certification exam for my work. I had studied so hard and so long for this test, yet my nerves betrayed me, and I hadn’t done as well as I had hoped. The thought of having to wait was almost unbearable – but what choice did I have but to wait?

Forcing my mind off my discomfort, I began to read a book I had just purchased at a gift shop. It felt good to read for pleasure – something I hadn’t done in months, while preparing for my exam.

Finally, our flight was called and one-by-one weary passengers formed a line. I made my way towards a pretty lady who stood at the counter. “I’m flying on stand-by,” I told her, expecting her to issue a boarding pass for me.

“I’m so sorry,” she responded, “but the flight is very full. Looks like you’re going to have to wait for the next flight. It leaves tomorrow, at 6:00 a.m.”

My ears began to ring. This couldn’t be happening. Oh, Lord, say it isn’t so!

I’ll give you grace.

Oh, gosh, that’s not what I wanted to hear. So I stood by the counter, hoping and waiting, like a hungry puppy near her master’s table. But when the lady at the counter turned to look at me, shaking her pretty head with compassion, I knew I was toast.

I cried and I pouted and felt sorry for myself. Then I took comfort in the words I had heard: I’ll give you grace.

Finding a seat as far away from view as possible, I positioned my suitcase on the seat next to it and used it as a pillow. I read for a while and then I slept like a newborn baby (that is, I woke up feeling hungry every hour). Eventually, my alarm went off, and I walked back to my gate.

This time I received a boarding pass right away and made it home with no delays. Oh, how good it felt to put my head on my very own, ultra-soft pillow!

And as I made my happy way onto dreamland, I thought about all of my friends whose hopes and prayers have received a similar answer to the one I’d gotten the night before: Not today, perhaps next time.

My heart was filled with such compassion for them. These are friends who are sick, unemployed or going through difficulties. The wait is long and hard and painful. Once again, I took comfort in the words I heard at the airport, the same words God has faithfully spoken to my friends: I’ll give you grace.

I pray that these words will fill them with hope and renew their strength. Just like Isaiah prophesied: [God] gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. (40:29-31, NIV)

The Promise of Hope

2011-06-06T21:00:00.000-07:00

What’s your favorite color?

Mine is green. Green conveys peace, newness and brightness. Green, for me, is the color of hope.

A few months ago, city workers planted several trees behind my backyard fence. My husband and I went for an early walk to take a look at these small trees. We could picture them one day looking tall and lush, their full branches undulating with the wind’s melody, little birds chirping cheerfully as they hoped from branch to branch.

These trees, combined with the pink-and-gold-colored skies that appear at dawn and dusk, would make the view from our backyard simply magnificent. We slowly made our way back home, breathing deeply and holding hands tightly.

A few days later, I made a sad discovery. While one of the young trees seemed to be thriving, the other two looked dead. “Guess the poor little guys couldn’t take the shock of being replanted,” I told my hubby dejectedly. Such a shame.

A sense of dejà vu enveloped me - something I had experienced years before...

***************

That year’s winter had been harsh. Spring came, yet our backyard tree – a once healthy mesquite – looked bare and brittle.

My children loved that tree. They played happily under its shade and enjoyed climbing its branches. My husband had planted it shortly after we’d moved into our home. Would we have to pull it out to plant another one in its stead? How long would it take for the new tree to grow as big as ours? I was devastated.

I looked out the window and sighed, wishing our beloved mesquite would come back to life somehow. That night I had a dream. In it, I saw our tree. It was full and healthy and radiantly verdant. I woke up feeling happy, hopeful and light.

Imagine my excitement, a few days later, when I noticed tiny green buds forming on the dead-looking branches. Our tree was coming back to life! Then I heard God’s voice whisper softly in my ear, “I make all things new.” And I believed.

***************

Years have gone by and my children no longer play under the shade of our tree. Life has been good, but still I‘ve faced my share of trouble, heartache and disappointment.

Before discovering the withering trees behind our backyard fence, my heart had already been heavy with sadness. Concern for our finances, health issues and some of our children’s choices made me feel as withered as those little trees.

Had God forgotten about me? Had all the prayers I’d said throughout the years been for nothing?

With tired steps, I walked into the yard and looked across the fence – searching for something, can’t remember what – when I encountered the same scene I had found all those years ago. Tiny green buds were grew on the new threes’ fragile branches: A promise of hope.

I remembered the dream I had once had, and I figured, if God can take care of these trees, He sure can take care of me and my loved ones.

A soft breeze tousled my hair. I breathed it in, as I heard God’s voice whispering again: “I make all things new.”

Amen, Lord, You do. And I believe.

The Key to Joy

2011-02-11T12:13:00.000-08:00

“Today is Gratitude Day,” the announcer said jovially over the radio. At that particular moment I was busily applying mascara, enveloped in the morning rush before leaving for work. Yet his words grabbed my attention.

You see, this was January, not November, the month in which we celebrate Thanksgiving Day in the USA. So, what was this guy talking about?

“This is the day we remember to say ‘thank you’ to someone who’s done something nice or good for us,” he said, and then moved on to the next segment in his show.

But his words stayed with me, and during my commute I reflected on the subject of gratitude.

Gratitude is like a window, that once you open, lets you see beyond your living room walls, revealing a different view and a new perspective.

A few years ago, I spoke about the subject of joy at a women’s Bible study. In order to prepare for my teaching, I read about and researched this subject extensively. During my teaching, I mentioned several sources of joy as well as several attitudes and situations that can hinder us from experiencing this fruit of the Spirit.

I felt so good and satisfied when I heard the applause after my delivery!

The next morning, while reading a devotional book by Donna Partow, I discovered that despite all of my research and apparent thoroughness, I had failed to mention a key ingredient during my teaching.

“If you want to experience joy,” Donna said in her book, “be grateful.”

She got it, and it was so simple!

I continued to drive and to think about the radio host’s announcement earlier that morning, and about what he’d said about taking the time to say thank you.

Whom did I need to thank? The list was long. How often did I stop to say thank you? This list was very short.

I figured I could start by thanking God for allowing me to hear the announcer's words that day – a much-needed reminder, indeed. Then I could move on to elaborating a mental list of all the people to whom I should express my gratitude.

As I approached the end of my commute, I paused to thank God for the joy thanksgiving brings.

My heart was bubbling already with delight.

Lives Lived Well

2011-01-17T09:20:00.000-08:00

The TV ad played on as I hurriedly took a sip of my coffee. It is MLK Day and I couldn’t wait to go out in the garage and take advantage of the day off to tackle my once-a-year cleanup. Except…

The picture of the great hero, Martin Luther King, on the TV monitor caught my eye and made me pause. Every single time I see his picture something stirs within me – painful, inspiring, convicting.

My heart aches when I consider the great price this modern-day martyr paid for the cause he so passionately gave his life to: His wife lost her husband. Her little children lost their daddy. A nation lost a great leader.

Thinking about what he could’ve accomplished, if only given the chance to live past 39, makes my head spin. Why is it that some good people are taken from us so early in life?

With the recent tragedy here in Arizona, which shook the whole nation to its core, I asked myself the same question over and over again. Why does God allow these things to happen?

I took another sip of my coffee, a lot more slowly this time.

Jesus’ words recorded on John 12:24 came to mind, “I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.”

The tragic loss of precious lives – especially young lives, like Jesus, Rev. King and Christina Green, the 9-year-old who wanted to meet Congresswoman Giffords and was shot while waiting her turn to shake her hand – they startle us, like a sharp slap on the ear, and make us think about our own lives and values, what drives us and what’s truly important.

Lives lived well inspire us. But when they cease – so abruptly and in such terrible manner – their passing is like a pebble thrown into a lake, creating ripples that grow bigger and wider until they reach the shore.

The tragedy in Tucson has created such ripple effect, which has reached the hearts of individuals, families, schools, cities, governments, nations…

During his 33 years on this earth, Jesus transformed the world. But His death gave us a chance to experience a new and abundant life.

And Martin Luther King’s voice and message has spoken louder and clearer after death – just like the seed buried on the ground, producing fruit and reproducing far beyond its small self.

Though I don’t understand why, I truly believe that certain things happen for a reason that goes beyond what we humans can comprehend, and that God can transform a great evil and use it for a greater good.

My small tribute today is to share my thoughts with you, dear friends, as we reflect together on the powerful and positive aspects of lives lived well.

Long live their legacy!

While I Waited

2011-01-07T06:34:00.000-08:00

I checked my watch one more time. Five-Twenty. Unbelievable! My daughter’s special present – a lovely silver bracelet and a last-minute item in her wish list – was supposed to have been engraved and ready for pick-up an hour ago.

It was Christmas Eve. My husband and kids were waiting in our truck at the mall’s crowded parking lot. They had dropped me off by the main door. Plan was I’d dash in, get the prized gift, text hubby to drive to the curve, dash out as the crowds allowed, hop in the truck, and drive to church for the 5:30 service.

No problem.

Except, when I got to the store I encountered a long line at the un-manned pick up counter. That’s ok, I told myself, we still have time. So I waited, halfway patiently. But as minutes ticked away, shoppers’ once friendly faces turned tight with frustration.

“What is going on?” the pretty blonde ahead of me asked out loud.

“I’ve been here for almost two hours”, someone else demanded.

“Me too!”

“This is ridiculous” said the lady that stood behind me.

My phone began to buzz. “Mom, we’re sick of waiting.” “Are you ever going to get out of there?” “We’re going to be late for church, Ana.” Now, my head was buzzing.

I noticed that my right knee shook unceasingly and that my feet hurt. I was wearing my cute pumps for I wanted to look good for church and for our traditional fancy dinner with friends, after service.

But now it didn’t look like we would make it to church on time, and if we went to the 7:00 service, our dinner plans would be ruined. Thinking about this made me absolutely furious. Why in the world did these people give you a pick up time if they were going to make you wait in line forever?

Finally, a young woman appeared at the counter. “I’m so sorry, everyone,” she apologized, “but one of our engraving machines broke, so we’re running a little behind.” And then, like a teenage child you call to do chores, she magically disappeared.

I saw red. A little! I turned around and asked the lady behind me to save my spot in line. Then I marched to the pick-up counter, stumping my feet and pumping my fists, readying for battle.

Watch it, Ana.

I didn’t want to watch it. I just wanted answers. And I wanted my bracelet. And I wanted it now!

Love is patient. Love is kind.

I knew that. God knew I work hard to keep myself in check when I’m around clients, or my family, or church people. But this particular instance didn’t count. These were extenuating circumstances. An injustice had been committed, and I was soooo tired, having stayed up late the night before, wrapping presents. Besides, I didn’t know a soul at this sorry store, so who cared if I lost it a little.

The young clerk reappeared. “Excuse me!” I yelled, not bothering to hide my irritation as I made my way to the counter.

She turned around, eyes and mouth wide open.

Oh, don’t give me that look! Don’t you know I am the victim here?

“Excuse me!” I repeated, using the same tone. “I need to know when my order will be ready. You guys promised it’d be ready at 4:30, and now I’m going to be late for church!”

The young woman looked at me for a few seconds. I could see weariness in her puffy eyes. She looked at the crowd.

“I know how frustrated you all must be,” she pleaded, “but please remember these are circumstances beyond our control. Our engravers are working as hard as they can to get your orders ready.

“And, ma’am,” she said, turning to look at me, “I’m only a seasonal worker here. There is nothing else I can do. And remember, this is Christmas. We should all be happier and a little more patient with one another.”

“That’s the spirit!” the pretty blonde ahead of me yelled.

“Yeah, you’re right!”

“We can wait! It’s Christmas time!”

Oh, God.

Wishing I could shrivel down to one little prune, I slogged back to my spot in the line. I looked around the store and thought, what if one day I welcome one of these people at my church? Would they remember me – the jerk that harassed that sweet young clerk on Christmas Eve?

I looked down at the floor and quietly asked God for forgiveness, for not heading to His warning to keep my temper in check and for being a lousy example of Christian love. “And, Lord,” I dared asking, “would you mind hurrying my order a bit? I really don’t want to miss service.”

I know. Some things never change.

Imagine my surprise when I heard my name being called from the counter. This time I wore a sheepish smile on my reddened face.

“Thank you," said the clerk. "And, once again, we’re very sorry to’ve made you wait so long.”

I should’ve been the one to apologize, but all I could do was croak a weak, “It’s ok.”

Like I said, some things never change.

Before leaving the store, I stopped by the pretty blonde that once stood ahead of me, and I said, “I want you attitude.”

“Me, too,” she responded jovially, “I’m usually not like this. But it’s Christmas.”

She smiled. I smiled back.

Then I texted Hubby as I swerved passed the hordes of Holiday shoppers, “Meet me at the curve by the Food Court. I’m ready.”

This time, I was.

Christmas Gifts

2010-12-24T10:00:00.000-08:00

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. (James 1:17, NIV)

What’s your favorite Christmas tradition?

Traditions vary from culture to culture and from family to family. In my country, Guatemala, children and adults alike enjoy putting together “nacimientos” – colorful nativity scenes made up of tiny houses, moss and figurines. In Mexico they celebrate with lively “posadas,” and here in the US we love to bake cookies and decorate our homes with hundreds of twinkling lights, inflatable Santas and giant snowmen.

Though the manner in which we celebrate varies extensively, the Reason does not: God the Father gave His Son so that mankind could have life, abundant and eternal. Plenty a reason to rejoice!

There is one element of every tradition that is always present – no matter what side of the Globe one lives at – and that is music. Choirs sing sweet carols. Happy melodies liven up friendly gatherings. Favorite songs play on radio stations, filling our hearts with both joy and melancholy.

For me, listening to Christmas music is one of my favorite traditions.

I love to bake and decorate my home while playing my most beloved songs. And while commuting, I shake my shoulders and bob my head unashamed as I belt out at full volume, Feliz Navidad!

The other morning, as I drove to work, I silenced the radio and stopped singing for a minute to thank the Lord for this wonderful Season. This is indeed a very special time for me and my family.

Then I heard, This is my gift to you.

“I know, Lord,” I replied. “ I’m very grateful for your Son’s birth, such a precious gift.”

No, Ana. The music is.

At first, these words seem a bit contradictory. Musicians use their gifts to compose their songs, I reasoned, and then they present them to God and to the world as love offering of joy and gratitude.

But Who gave them these gifts in the first place?

My heart about burst as I pondered the answer and the image that played in my mind’s eye. When my children were little, I used to take them to the store to buy presents for the family. Even though they chose the gifts they wanted to give, I was the one who paid for them.

Memories of tiny pudgy hands excitedly handing those presents to their loved ones on Christmas morning helped me understand that – ultimately – every good gift comes from God.

Even Christmas music.

It is my wish that this blessed Season you too will discover that God is the Creator and the Giver of all gifts. And it is my prayer that His love will fill your heart with joy, your home with warmth, and your mind with peace.

Gratitude

2010-11-24T15:35:00.000-08:00

How grateful are you?

I have to confess that when my children were young, gratitude was something I struggled with. I knew how lucky I was to have a home, a loving husband and beautiful, albeit rambunctious, children. But I was too busy, felt too tired to stop and give thanks.

From the moment my second child was born, I felt as if someone had thrown me in the middle of a gigantic vortex – with dirty dishes and laundry, small toys and big messes, diapers and mismatched socks swirling around me – and I couldn’t get out of it.

I was so caught up in the moment, striving to keep up, that I missed it.

A decade later, I felt as if the storm had finally spit me up, living me in the middle of my living room floor – dazed, somewhat bruised, and totally perplex – wondering where in the world had all those years gone.

Around this time, my daughter Gracie was a sophomore in High School. For months she had been asking me to help her paint her room. We’ll do it during Summer break, I had promised, but summer came and went, as well as fall, without a chance for me to tackle this project.

After Christmas I decided it was time to drop the excuses. Excited, mother and daughter went to Home Depot for paint, brushes and a bit of inspiration. And so we got started.

With each rhythmical stroke of our paintbrushes a realization seeped into my mind: The girl painting next to me was no longer a child. I paused for a moment to take a long look at my daughter. Birthday parties, scraped knees, dance rehearsals, and school projects played in my mind’s eye in fast-forward. Where was I when all of this happened?

Unaware of my swirling emotions, Gracie talked to me about her dreams, a boy she had a crush on, and the fact that this might be the last time we painted her room.

Closing my eyes, I pictured us painting the walls of an empty apartment – hers.

I realized that year after year I had dutifully gone through the motions of motherhood, facing the gradual changes completely unaware of what was going on around me. There were new outfits, bigger shoes, new teachers, new school years – yet everything felt the same.

Until this day.

Are you ok, Mom? Gracie asked, looking puzzled.

Yes, yes, I lied. I was just a little distracted.

No, I wasn’t! I had never been more aware than at that moment. Aware of the fact that one day a new school year will not come, and my children will buy their own clothes, feed their own families, paint their own homes.

I did the math: I only had a couple more years before Gracie went to college, perhaps in a different city or at another state. Ronnie would start High School the following year, and Nick two years later. Six years max. I was not going to miss it this time!

But, how? I couldn’t change the pace of life, with its inevitable busyness and demands. I couldn’t do anything to keep my children from growing older. I couldn’t make time stop, or slow down, or even go back – as badly as wanted to – just because I had suddenly realized it was slipping from my fingers faster than running water.

How, Lord? I pleaded.

He answered.

I couldn’t change my circumstances, but I sure could change my perception. In His great mercy, God opened my eyes – right in the middle of a painting project – to see that each moment and each day with my family wasn’t something to endure or to try to hang on to, but something I could savor, a gift to enjoy and be grateful for.

That is the beauty of gratitude. It changes your *perspective. It frees you to truly live and to love, to be happy, a lot more aware, and at peace.

On this Thanksgiving Day, I am thankful for each one of you and for God’s many blessings – among them, the blessing of gratitude.

Happy Thanksgiving Day!

Ana
*To read more about perspective, please go to: "A New Perspective"

The Gift That Kept on Giving

2010-09-02T06:19:00.000-07:00

It was a bad-news, good-news type of day.

It began with a look at the pile of bills lying on my kitchen table, followed by a glance at my bank account balance.
Bad news.

I plunged on a chair and sighed heavily, “Oh, Lord, You’ve never let me down, and I’m grateful for all You’ve given me. But look at all these bills! Would you please send more work my way? I could really use a little extra.”

The phone rang. It was one of the agencies I work for. I was needed for a hearing at Superior Court, but had to be there ASAP. Excellent news!

I changed into my work clothes, brushed my teeth and hair, grabbed my purse and keys, and was out the door in less than 10 minutes. Traffic on the freeway was sparse, so I reached my destination with time to spare (well, almost). Oh, how I love it when things go my way!

I zipped into the underground parking lot, whistling a happy tune, but came to a sudden halt when I read the big, black-and-white sign at the entrance. “Only cash and check accepted.” Oh, oh.

At that particular moment, I didn’t have my checkbook with me, and the contents in my wallet consisted of a few coins and a one-dollar bill. Not nearly enough to cover for parking.

That on itself wouldn’t have been much of problem. Except I was already scheduled for another assignment shortly after completing this one, and I probably wasn’t going to have enough time in between jobs to search for an ATM.

As I rushed toward the court building, I reckoned that if God had blessed me with this last-minute job, He would help me figure out a way to come up with the parking fee and still make it on time for my next assignment.

The hearing lasted a bit longer than anticipated. I hastily made my way through the hordes of people walking through the court’s hallways. What to do, what to do, what to do? There had to be an ATM around somewhere, maybe I could stop at a café and beg for cash back?

Fat chance.

Suddenly, a familiar face came into focus. It was my friend Ramon, who also works as a free-lance court interpreter. Poor Ramon, the last time I ran into him at job site, I gave him a hug and left a big lipstick mark on his shirt collar. “Tell Kathy, it was me,” I had told him as a way of consolation. But I don’t think that help him much. Especially since he had to wear the stained shirt for the rest of the workday.

This time, as I drew near, Ramon uncharacteristically stuck his hand out (you gotta remember, a kiss and a hug between Latin friends is the traditional salutation – we’re very loving that way) and he said, “I would hug you, Ana, but I just walked into the building, and I’m all sweaty.” Yeah, summers in Arizona are a bear, but I suspected that the lipstick incident might’ve had something to do with his formality.

Suddenly, amongst the low-murmurs and noises and throngs of people, I heard a halleluiah chorus, as I realized that the answer to my prayers was standing right in front of me!

“Ramon! Do you have a few dollars to spare?”

The look of perplexity in his face made me sputter, “I-I-I’m sorry, but my car’s in the parking garage across the street… and I only have a dollar… and if I don’t leave right away, I’ll be late for my next assignment.”

I am positive that my rating in Ramon’s you-are-an-idiot-o-meter shot up by several degrees. Still, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a 20-dollar bill.

“Oh, my gosh, Ramon, I only need a few dollars!”

“It’s ok. Take it.”

“But, am I leaving you without any money? Are you going to have enough for lunch or something?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said dismissively, “and go! Or you’ll be late.”

Once again, he offered his hand, but I was so happy that I gave him a big hug and a kiss… right on the shoulder. I tried to rub the stain off in a hurry – unsuccessfully – before running out the door, while shouting, “You should really try to stay away from me!”

“Believe me, I’m trying,” I think I heard him say faintly.

I ran down the street, waving my 20-dollar bill like a little girl waves a school paper with her first A+ as she makes her way home. When I reached the street corner, I waited impatiently for the light to turn so I could cross the intersection.

A woman tapped me on the shoulder.

“Hey, Sister, do you have a dollar to spare? I haven’t had lunch yet.”

I pulled out my one-dollar bill and gladly handed it to her. Being able to help this woman, was great news indeed!

I slowed down my pace, just a little, and made my way to the parking garage, thinking about God’s faithfulness and my friend’s generosity, and whistling a happy tune.

Toy Story, My Story

2010-08-05T08:18:00.000-07:00

When’s the last time you had a good cry?

In honor of Father’s Day, my kids and I took my husband to see Toy Story 3. We entered the theater and, suddenly, a magical transformation took place: The lights dimmed, and we were no longer there, but back at our living room. We were a young family, again, huddled together on our big comfy couch, ready for movie time. What fun!

We were instructed to put on our 3-D glasses, and the featured film began to play. In this movie, Andy is a teenager getting ready to move out of the house and go to college. Like a sweet memory, short clips of a young Andy playing with his beloved toys appeared. An invisible fist began to squeeze my throat tightly.

Old clips of my own began to play on my mind’s eye, as if on a thick emotional fog:

Gracie as a 3-year-old sitting on her daddy’s lap while laughing at Rex, Mr. Potato Head, Slinky and Hamm’s hysterical lines, or squeezing Daddy’s big hand when Sid threatened to blow up more toys.

Ronnie sitting on our old, pink and gray couch in front of the TV at our little house in Kansas, sucking tirelessly on his binky, arms folded over his round belly and legs spread out on the seat, so short they barely reached the edge. He wouldn’t utter a sound or move a muscle, except during the funny parts, when he would pluck the well-worn pacifier with one hand and point with the other at the screen to say something only his big sister could decipher.

The movie played on, pulling me in and out of my reverie. I’d chuckle loudly here and there and would be ok for a while, until something flung me back to another day from the past. Like in the scene when a little boy runs across a Sunny Side Preschool’s classroom, while being chased by his classmates. He wore a blue cape and flapped his arms like a bird that was about to take flight.

The new scene that played in my mind featured me, as a young, frenzied mother. Two of my young kids were finally in school, but my youngest – Nick – was only a preschooler. The three-times-a week, two-and-a-half hour program didn’t give me much of a brake. In those early days, my neighbor Marlene and I took turns caring for our kids in order to give each other a brief but necessary respite.

One day in particular, I was trying to clean the kitchen. Nick and Ryan, my friend’s son, were four years old and were supposed to be playing in the family room. Except – as I suddenly realized with alarm – I hadn’t heard them lately. A youthful, high-pitch voice caused me to bolt toward the stairs.

“Ok, Ryan,” it said persuasively, “to infinity…!”

I reached the bottom of the stairway just in time. I saw Ryan standing on a stool (God only knows how and when they got it there), near a ledge that’s about 15-feet high, with a superman cape tied around his neck and arms spread out like Buzz Lightyear’s. Nick was standing right behind him. He had his king-for-a-day crown on, the one he got at Preschool for his fourth birthday. His right hand held a Star Wars lightsaber, poised against Ryan’s back, like Captain Crook’s sword on Wendy’s, pushing her to jump off the plank.

Aware that the wrong reaction would startle the daring pair, I forced my voice to sound calm and firmly said, “Don’t think that’s a good idea, boys.”

Mercifully, Ryan stepped down from the stool and away from certain death. Nick scurried in a hurry, looking for a place to hide away from me and from a similar fate (that is, certain death, but not by accident.)

Grace elbowed me. “You’re snoring, Mom!” she whispered forcefully, which startled me. I took a long gulp of soda, sat up, and told my sleepy self to focus on the story, which got my mind back on track and on the movie, where I wanted it to be.

No more trips down memory lane, please.

Randy Newman’s scores played on. The music was great; the scenes got funnier and funnier by the minute. The writers and animators are geniuses, I thought. I laughed with the audience and held my breath at the peak of suspense. How would the toys get out of this pickle? What would happen in the end?

What’s going to happen to my family now that my kids are turning into adults?

Andy appeared on the screen. He was a young man now, who needed to decide what to do with his toys before leaving for college. The tightness around my throat came back, but ten times stronger. My eyes burned. I was so grateful for the big Miami Vice-looking glasses on top of my nose. I furtively wiped the tears away. Didn’t want my kids to tell me, “Gosh, Mom, you always cry!” But there was little I could do to stop the flow.

Toy Story is a part of our family’s history; it is our story. Like Andy’s family, ours has moved, has added and lost a couple of good toys, has grown up, has had to say good-bye.

Fifteen years ago, I went to a movie theater to watch Toy Story 1 for the first time, grateful for a chance to enjoy an 80-minute breather. Like a young girl who bumps into a perfect stranger, one who’ll later become her life’s companion, I had watched the film unaware that it’d become a part of me and of my family.

We were so young back then (Nick hadn’t even been born.) We were so full of dreams… and so clueless.

And here we were, again, taken aback and by surprise by the same familiar characters. Unaware of the emotions this movie would stir, seeing our life story played out on the big screen, wondering how does time fly so quickly.

The movie ended and we left the building quietly.

Gracie broke the silence. “Man, that was a good movie!” she said as we walked through the parking lot. “I almost started crying when I saw Andy pack his stuff up… It was… it was just like me.”

“Yes, yes”, we all answered, shaking our heads very slowly. That was all we could manage. I wanted to touch my daughter’s arm and tell her how proud I am of her, but I really didn’t want to start crying again.

We got in the car, and Ronnie, who – like the first movie – is fifteen now, couldn’t help it anymore. He started bawling as if someone dear had just died. Gracie rubbed his arm, but didn’t say anything either.

“Oh, Ronnie”, I blurted, always the mom, trying to make things better, “I didn’t throw your Buzz and Woody dolls away. They are tucked safely on the shelf above your closet.”

“I know, I know,” he responded. “I’m just sad, Mom.”

“That movie was a tear-jerker, that’s for sure, Son,” Ron said, squinting a little bit.

Yes, it was. But I guess we all needed a good cry.

I Got My Worm!

2010-05-25T12:38:00.000-07:00

This morning, I got a worm in the mail. And I couldn’t have been happier or more grateful.

Let me explain: Last Sunday my Pastor, Brian Anderson, taught a lesson about trust from Matthew 6, which he titled: “The Lesson of the Bird”.

“You all know that birds don’t worry about their next meal”, he said, though I’m mostly paraphrasing. “All they know is that they need a worm, so they look for one. But they don’t fret or suffer from high blood pressure or stomach ulcers, thinking about their next meal.”

I laughed at the amusing analogy, but at the same time I felt that oh-so-familiar Holy Spirit tug at my heart. I’m not really a worrier, but I do have a tendency to try to make things happen instead of trusting God to take care of me and mine. As Pastor Brian continued with his teaching, he encouraged us to do some soul searching to find out where our trust laid and to consider making drastic changes, if we felt led to do so.

My husband Ron and I got ourselves in a financial pickle a few years ago. We purchased a big piece of land we were supposed to “flip” almost immediately and make loads of money, so that we could pay off our house, retire and live merrily for the rest of our lives. (Well, maybe we would’ve not been able to retire early, but we would’ve made enough the pay off our house.)

Unfortunately, by the time title of the property was transferred to our names, the housing market and the economy collapsed. Arizona was one of the states hit the hardest. Soon we discovered that the land would remain in our names for a long, long time.

A second mortgage with the ensuing property taxes couldn’t be covered with Ron’s paycheck. A stay-at-home mom who dabbled in translation work just for extra money, I had to find full-time work and soon! But God faithfully provided. Through a friend, I found work as an interpreter, and continued doing translation work from home.

It’s been tough learning to juggle work, marriage, home, ministry and three very active children – coupled with my health and low-energy issues. But the toughest part has been surrendering our debt to God. Truth is no matter how hard I work, I’m not going to be able to get rid of it as soon as I want to. It’s going to take time, diligence, and – honestly – the Lord’s intervention.

But I have to keep on trusting. I don’t want debt to be the focus of my existence. The only way I can live at peace, continue to work hard and enjoy life and everything that it offers is by focusing on God’s goodness and by depending on Him to provide what I need.

So this morning, when I checked our bank account online and realized we only had $34 to make it with for the rest of the week, I had to take a deep breath and remember Pastor Brian’s teaching. Ron and I are committed not to use our credit cards unless we have to. God would provide somehow, and I needed to “chill” – like my teenage daughter often tells me.

“Ron, go check out the mailbox,” I asked.

“Are you expecting a pay check?” he asked in reply, looking hopeful.

“No, but you never know. Maybe God will provide a worm for these hungry birds,” I chuckled, somewhat nervously.

Picture my delight when I saw my handsome husband walk into our kitchen, waving a check with his hand. It was a refund for an insurance overpayment we weren’t expecting: $71 magnificent dollars. Not enough to quit working, but surely enough to make it until the next paycheck arrives.

And plenty of encouragement for this fretful heart.

25"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? 26Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?" (Matthew 6, NVI)

Have you asked God for your worm today?

Ana

¡Visita Mi Rincón!

2010-05-04T16:48:00.000-07:00

Te invito a visitar mi rinconcito. Dirígete a: http://visitamirincon.blogspot.com/

Bendiciones,

Ana

Taste and See

2010-04-21T10:37:00.000-07:00

This is my friend Marlene's amazing pasta salad. You can read my story about it in the Vineyard Women's blog: http://women.vineyardnorthphoenix.com/

Chicken Bowtie Salad

4 chicken breasts
1 chicken bouillon cube
1 tsp. garlic powder
1 box bowtie pasta
1 creamy Ken's Cesar salad dressing
4 tomatoes
1 large bundle of spinach
shredded parmesan cheese

In a slow cooker, cook the chicken with bouillon and garlic (about 4 hours). Shred.
Prepare pasta per box directions.
Mix chicken and pasta with dressing.
Chop tomatoes and spinach and add to mix.
Chill.

Enjoy!

Ana

Ooops, I Did It Again!

2010-04-01T11:29:00.000-07:00

Do you ever find yourself wondering – much like Brittany did in her song, back in the day when singing, dancing and her skimpy outfits were all she was famous for: “Why did I do that again?”

I do. More often than I care to admit.

Why in the world do I insist on repeating the same behavior that:
a) gets me in trouble, and / or
b) makes me look like an idiot (or a bigger one), and / or
c) causes me to hate my own stubborn guts?

And when the deed is done, and the dirt is smeared all over my reddened face, I solemnly s-w-e-a-r never to do it again. Ever.

But I still do.

Take the first months of this year, for example. I found myself doing the same things that about did me in last year, when I devoted the better part of 2009 preparing for my Federal Interpreter’s Certification Exam. Since this infamous test is so difficult to pass – in fact most of its victims fail it on their first try – I spent month after month either studying or stressing about it, obsessed and determined I wouldn’t suffer the same fate as those who went before me.

Last year, I quit going to the gym. I barely prayed or read my Bible. I pretty much ignored my family, locking myself in my room to study almost every evening, right after supper. I let go of my house, pets, yard, laundry and finances. During my commute to work, instead of listening to uplifting worship music or to my beloved books on CD, I practiced, practiced, practiced with my Interpretapes. I got so crazy, I even listened to lists of vocabulary I had taped, repeating each word over and over – like a parrot on crack – while taking a shower, doing my hair, brushing my teeth or putting on my makeup.

Crazy does not even begin to describe how bad I got. It is no wonder my family deemed it prudent not to disturb mommy except when they really had to. A matter of self-preservation, simple intuition or pure smarts, I suppose.

Thankfully, after I took the exam, I dropped all the nonsense and strived to regain whatever level of normalcy, kindness and sanity I’d once possessed. But it took quite a while. I had neglected my physical, emotional, mental and spiritual well-being for so long, that getting back to normal (though “normal” has never been the best word to describe this blogger) took long weeks of intense TLC.

Despite sacrificing so much, I still couldn’t “make it happen.” Yes, I failed the stupid test. (And nobody dare saying anything along the lines of, “tests are not stupid, people are” cause I might smack you, and I’d much rather we stayed friends.)

Let us fast forward instead to January of 2010 – five meager months after becoming yet another victim of the Federal Certification Exam. Once again, my friend Nic and I began to meet regularly to practice for THE TEST. And though the painful memories of ill effects suffered from severe neglect were very much alive, once again I started acting all crazy – not praying, or reading my Bible, or working out as often as I should’ve, and isolating friends and family – all for the sake of a passing grade.

By the end of February the same symptoms I had experienced last year came back with a vengeance: feeling excessive fatigued, overwhelmed by simple every-day chores, emotionally dry, spiritually empty, feeling removed, and not very patient with my poor family.

For Heaven’s sake, will I ever get it! Is it impossible for someone my age to gain any knowledge from her errors? Humans in general are obstinate. Jesus’ disciples were slower than my ice dispenser. The early people of Israel were ridiculously headstrong. But – when it comes to stubbornness and the inability to learn from one’s multiple mistakes – I , Ana Claudia Ortega Burgos de Stine, sure surpass them all!

Didn’t Paul say something along those lines?

Romans 7:19,

For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.

So true.

Thank goodness there is still hope for hardheaded people like me! Such hope lays on Someone who is mightier than the strongest of wills, who extends mercy beyond what we will ever deserve. Thanks be to God, the Apostle exclaims on verse 25, through Jesus Christ our Lord!

Yes, thanks be to God! I might be mulishly thick and unbelievably slow. But there still remains a place in my heart that cries out for God’s will to be fulfilled. And He still honors even my weakest prayer. So when I started going nutso once again, our faithful Lord whispered in my ear: It isn’t worth it. Try putting your trust in Me this time.

And so I saw the light. Thank you, God! And I managed to realize that studying hard is ok, but completely letting go of everything else – including my blog – is not.

Hence this long, convoluted explanation to why I haven’t posted anything since December, and how I plan to get back on the swing of things. The old Ana is back!

I’ve gone back to spending time with those I care about – including God. I do practice with my Interpretapes during my commute, but only on the way back home. On my way to work, I enjoy listening to worship music, recognizing that this is good for my soul. And in the evening, instead of memorizing legal terminology, I read for sheer pleasure. Oh, yeah.

Do you know what I’ve discovered as of lately? That the time I spend studying seems so much more productive when I take care of myself. And I’m way more pleasant and happier when I put my trust in God instead of in my own strives to make things happen.

I’m about to get up and move on to the next item on my to-do list. But this time I’m not feeling overwhelmed. Instead, I’m taking a deep breath, exhaling very slowly. A glace through my window lets me know that the weather outside is beautiful. Taking my dog Princess for a walk will be a delight. I can hear the birds chirping and the wind blowing. Can’t help but smile. The soft tumble of my dryer reminds me it’s time to put laundry away. I’m alive again.

Present

2009-12-23T15:39:00.000-08:00

The other night, I stopped at the mall for some last-minute shopping. Tired and eager to get home, I zoomed from one pit stop to the next as focused and determined as Tom Cruise’s car racing character in Days of Thunder. The race, however, came to a sudden halt when I encountered the Christmas tree section at a big department store. The trees, brightly lit and expertly decorated, stood silent and magnificently erect in the midst of all the hustle and bustle hurried shoppers created.

I stood still, mesmerized by the glitter; caressing the soft ribbon and pretty ornaments – shopping, purpose, time and fatigue all forgotten. Then I remembered a Christmas, years ago, when I had escaped motherhood for a few hours and had slipped away to this very same mall to buy presents for my family.

Free from little feet too swift to chase and slender bodies that loved to hide beneath clothe racks, I strolled about leisurely, gazing at storefront windows and bobbing my head in tune with the merry music of the Season.

Back then, I had met the same majestic scene: Tall and dense Christmas trees, some lush and green, some sparklingly silver; all of them perfectly decorated with elegant ornaments and matching ribbon. I, too, had stood in awe and had thought with a mix of shame and self-pity about the limp fake tree we decorated every year with cheap ornaments bought on clearance or at garage sales.

One day, I had consoled myself with the thought, we’ll have a tree like these.

But this night, years later, the beautiful sight made me sad for a different reason.

It’s been a while since we discarded of the poor rickety tree we had gotten at Wal-Mart when the kids were little. Finances have improved so we are allowed the luxury of a fresh-cut evergreen, which we get every year on the day after Thanksgiving. We decorate our tree with precious handmade ornaments our kids crafted throughout the years and with ornaments collected on family vacations or received as gifts from friends on previous Christmases.

I looked at the fancy ornaments hung from the trees at the store and compared them with the ones hanging from our tree back at home. Few are as delicate and as costly as these, yet each one of ours has meaning and a rich history that makes them priceless to us.

One day, I pondered with sadness, I’ll probably have a tree like these.

I pictured myself as an older woman, in a clean and perfectly organized home, putting the finishing touches on a beautiful tree like the ones at the mall. By then, my children would be grown and no longer living at home, and the memories of a sorry little tree with cheap ornaments that didn’t match would warm my heart on a cold winter night.

Oddly enough, the words of Cindy Crawford came to mind as I reflected on my future. I had read an article about the super model and entrepreneur. When asked what she would like to accomplish in her forties, she had answered: “I’d like to be present.” After experiencing fame and success, she had realized she wanted to be “present” for herself and for her family. “I don’t want to be so rushed,” she continued, “that I miss what is right in front of me.”

Right in front of me.

What was right in front of me, at that mall, were beautiful trees that might represent something in my future. But at home I still have a tree not-so-perfectly decorated, a house in the constant disarray caused by loud, hungry teenagers that rush in and out of my kitchen and family room like Attila the Hun and his rowdy troops, and a life that is worthy to be savored to the fullest extent.

So I decided then and there that on this Christmas, I will give myself a wonderful present (pun intended), which I plan to open every morning of the year: Freedom to be there for those I love and permission to enjoy the gifts each day brings.

And my Christmas wish for you, my friends, is that God’s grace will abound in you so that you may be present and able to recognize and to enjoy each and every blessing He richly bestows upon you.

“The clock is running. Make the most of today. Time waits for no man. Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That's why it is called the present." Sun Dials and Roses of Yesterday: Garden Delights, by Alice Morse (1902)

Enjoying the Ride

2009-12-14T17:28:00.000-08:00

I pranced down the stairs, rubbing my hands excitedly. My husband had left for work, the kids for school, and I was about to treat myself to my favorite show while I folded laundry and caught up on my ironing. I didn’t have to leave for work until later, so that would give me one whole hour all to myself before it was time to get ready. One whole hour without anyone asking me for food, clean socks, money or a ride.

That was the life.

As I made my way to the family room, the shrill of the phone ring caused me to halt. Who could it be? I cringed. A telemarketer, I’m sure. I tried to ignore the call, but the motherly side of me wouldn’t let go.

Say it’s a recorded message from the school! Say it’s a recorded message from the school! I chanted as I made my way to the phone. Fat chance. Those pre-recorded, automated phone calls the school makes to announce something usually come in the evenings.

The caller ID box read “Peoria School District”. Rats! This couldn’t be good. I picked up the phone and uttered a weak hello.

“Mrs. Stine?” a friendly voice asked.

Oh, oh. This was definitely not good.

A tiny creature clad in a tight red outfit appeared out of nowhere and landed on my left shoulder. He whispered, “Just lie, woman! Nobody will ever know. After all, you don’t sound like a Stine. Just say she’s unavailable or something.”

“Don’t do it, Ana!” cried a winged little creature, dressed in a white robe. She stood near my right ear waving her tiny hands in earnest. “Remember: Lying is wrong!”

“Mrs. Stine?” the voice at the other end of the line asked again. I motioned for both creatures to zip it. I can only pay attention to one person at a time, and that with great difficulty. They vanished with a puff.

“Speaking.”

“This is Ms. Hostetler, head nurse at Ironwood High. Your son is not feeling well and we were wondering if you could come pick him up.”

Rats, rats, rats! The school is 20 minutes away from my house. By the time I came back, it’d be time to jump in the shower and start getting ready for work.

My luck exactly.

I told the nurse I’d be on my way, begrudgingly grabbed my purse and my car keys, and left the house.

I turned on the radio hoping to improve my mood, perhaps even my attitude, which wasn’t exactly exemplary at the time. Christmas music filled the air. I began to relax and soon found myself smiling. Memories of past Holidays when Ron and I were newlyweds and when our children were little eased my frustration. Such wonderful memories. Next thing I knew, I was already at the school.

My teenage son came to the front office looking relieved. “I’d hug you, Mom,” he said, “but I don’t wanna get you sick.” How sweet. I wouldn’t have traded this moment for anything in the world – not even my favorite show. We got in the car and conversed briefly, then Ronnie leaned against the seat and we were placidly quiet for the rest of the ride. An immense sense of peace filled my mind, so rare during this hectic season.

Every year, I begin the Holiday Season with great expectations for the things I’d like to accomplish. I want to decorate my house and send pretty Christmas cards. I want to buy and wrap our presents with plenty of time. I want to bake enough cookies to share with our neighbors. And I really would like to remember watering our evergreen before it looses most of its needles and turns into a fire hazard.

But as Christmas Day draws near, my plans dwindle. Reality gradually sets in and I’m forced to pick and choose what I can actually do. However – in spite of my gross ineptitude and ensuing disappointment – Christmas has always been great fun at our house. No matter how crazy and how messy things get. No matter how little is “accomplished” or how incompetent I feel, nothing has quenched the joy this Season has brought to our family.

I turned to look at my son while he rested in the car. How amazing, I thought realizing the ride to and from school had actually been an enjoyable one. We got home. Ronnie went to bed. I got myself ready and, after making sure he was comfortable, left for work feeling renewed.

Dear friends, it is my prayer for you that even if things don’t go exactly as planned, you may still delight in this Season. That in the midst of the busyness and the ruckus it often brings, you may somehow focus on the Reason we celebrate and that your heart is merry and light. And I pray that this Christmas – just like I did this morning – you are able to enjoy the ride.

Grateful

2009-11-23T18:39:00.000-08:00

One day, back when I was a child and still lived in Guatemala City, I went to visit my friend Annie. When I arrived at her house, I found her at the piano, teaching a boy to play a song. Her friend struggled remembering the key progression and soon threw his hands in the air, yelling, “This is stupid!”

Annie put her hand on the boy’s shoulder and ever-so-kindly encouraged him to try again. I was blown away! The kid was being a jerk, yet she showed him unmerited gentleness – something I wasn’t used to. “If that were me,” I fumed, “I would’ve slapped him instead!”

But not Annie.

Three decades later, my friend’s patience and kindness still inspire me – especially since those two are not my most prominent virtues. Throughout the years, when faced with situations that tend to bring out the worst in me – irritating customers, screaming toddlers, hurried drivers cutting me off on the freeway – the memory of Annie’s sweet attitude still causes me to stop and consider taking a higher road.

On that note and on this Thanksgiving week, I’d like to mention those people who’ve shown kindness (and lots of patience!) to this many-a-times irritating, sometimes unlovable, even unlikable human being.

I want to thank my extended family, especially my parents, for putting up with me when I acted real ugly (particularly around 13) and for making me feel like I could reach any goal I set my eyes on. You guys are the best.

I want to thank my husband Ron, for choosing me when I thought I wasn’t worth a second look, for being the best daddy ever, for putting up with my mediocre cooking and marginal housekeeping, and for making me feel pretty. I love you, Dear.

I want to thank my children: Gracie, Ronnie and Nick, for bravely enduring the distinct experience of being reared by a mother with attention deficit and a foreign accent and still manage to come out halfway unscathed. You guys are my heroes and the joy of my life.

I want to thank all my friends, for loving me, for laughing at my bad jokes and awkward sense of humor, and for making me feel like I’m great. Life would be so sad without you.

I want to thank my gym buddies, for always setting up for me before class because I’m never there on time to do it myself, for cheering me up when my arms and legs are shaking so bad I want to quit five minutes into class, and for telling me I look great even though I’ve put on a few pounds. You girls rock.

I want to thank my clients, for trusting me with your own clients, for your patience and flexibility as I continue to learn the trade, for your guidance, and for blessing my family with the fruits of our collaboration and with your generosity.

I want to thank my church family, especially my pastors, for loving and accepting me just as I am, for godly teachings and wise counsel, and for giving me a chance to use and grow my gifts so that I may experience the pleasure of serving others. Each and every one of you is an inspiration.

Above all, I want to thank my Lord Jesus, for saving my soul and giving me an abundant life, filled with peace, joy and hope.

And to Annie who, along with her example, told me about God’s love for impatient and unkind people like me. I will always be grateful to you, no matter where life takes us, you will always have a special place in my heart.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving Holiday!

Love,

Ana

Dedicated to my dear childhood friend, Ana Isabel Nisthal Georgakoudes, who married a great guy, has four amazing kids and now lives in the island of Cyprus.

Hunting for Treasure

2009-10-24T06:43:00.000-07:00

The other day I went on one of my favorite pastimes: Hunting for hidden treasures in others’ garages. I guess I should appease my fellow Guatemalans and explain: No, I haven’t gone down the deep end and turned into a thief. I said “hidden” not “forbidden” treasure. I don’t tip-toe into people’s properties with a black mask, a large bag and a flashlight, at the wee hours of the night. The economy isn’t that bad.

What I’m referring to is the fine art of garage saling.

To those of you unfamiliar with the joys, allow me to explain that garage saling simply consists of purchasing gently used – and sometimes even new – items people no longer want or need, which are displayed for sale in their garages or front lawns.

The serious garage salers (like my mom) get up at the crack of dawn and, with a hot cup of coffee and lots of change in their pockets, eagerly scan the classified column of their Friday and Saturday local newspapers and skillfully map out their route before setting out on their adventures. Others simply drive around different neighborhoods (the ritzier the better, with lots of impulse buyers eager to rid their overstuffed closets of “junk”) looking for the bright-colored signs with an arrow that marks the way and the two little words that make their hearts gallop with anticipation: “Garage Sale”.

Antique dealers with a trained eye for valuables, conscientious moms with large families to clothe, contractors looking for tools, newly-weds in need of furniture, and shopaholics – all kinds of people cruise around town looking for deals.

Last Saturday, as I set out on my own expedition, I came across a familiar object – an elegant crystal candleholder supported on three curved bronze legs. I had to chuckle, since years ago, I had gone through great lengths to get one exactly like that.

My neighbor had started a new business selling candles and had asked me to host a party for her. I wasn’t too keen on the idea, but when she showed me the product catalog, I fell in love with this crystal candleholder. So beautiful, and it would compliment my then bare coffee table perfectly. I had to have it.

Having recently moved to Arizona, I knew few people, but I unashamedly invited them to my party, bribing them with the promise of tasty snacks and free babysitting. For a week, I bit my lower lip often and prayed somebody would show up. I deep-cleaned my house. Thank God, they showed up. They heard my neighbor’s presentation. They shopped. They ate. They left. I cleaned house again. I was exhausted.

But I got my candleholder for half price, “only” 25 bucks. Mission accomplished.

I couldn’t wait for the postman to come knocking on my door, heralding the arrival of my precious package! When the happy day came, I opened the box with a flurry of excitement, but – oh, no! There must have been a mistake! The picture on the catalog showed a much bigger candleholder – one that would beautifully cover the better half of my coffee table. But what I held in my trembling hands would barely cover a fourth of an end table!

Back at the garage sale, as I stood in front of the items scattered around the driveway, I shook my head looking at the very same crystal item I once coveted; the one I had worked so hard to get; the one I paid way more than I usually would’ve; the one that now sits almost forgotten on a bookshelf. And I wondered about the many things – like this candleholder – to which I have devoted so much of my time and energy, only to get meager returns.

Jesus warned his disciples, “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:19-21, NIV)

Where my treasure is, there my heart will be… Perhaps this is a good time I take a good look at my heart and take inventory of what treasure-seeking endeavors I’m investing my resources into. Perhaps it’s time I start hunting for the type of treasure that beats the greatest garage sale find ever, the kind that never disappoints, that never looses value and that can never be taken from me.

Dear friend, where is your treasure?

Extraordinarily Ordinary

2009-10-03T14:43:00.000-07:00

Not everyone aspires for greatness, but everybody longs for significance.

This search for significance, to make sure my life counts for something that goes beyond my own little self, is perhaps one of my greatest concerns. It seems that every time I am about to hit the next decade, I get in a frenzy and become more and more preoccupied with the idea of not wanting to miss whatever that is I was born to do.

Since I come from a family of highly successful and well-accomplished people, I’ve always wrestled with an added – purely self-inflicted – pressure to do something great. “Ordinary” has never seemed good enough for me – at least when it comes to making a difference.

But a recent painful event in my life has drastically changed that mentality.

A few weeks ago I lost my dear Aunt Chaty. Aside from having the most beautiful eyes and a smile that brightened your day, my auntie was – according to this world’s standards – an ordinary person.

She lived a happy, yet simple life. She married a good man. She never owned a home and drove an ordinary vehicle. She didn’t earn a college degree and held an regular job until she became a homemaker.

As common as her life was, Chaty made my Uncle Mingo very happy; she raised two outstanding girls; she was there – really there – for my cousins, my siblings and me, and she managed to make a difference in dozens and dozens of marriages.

Despite living an ordinary life, my auntie accomplished extraordinary things with a few simple, yet rare qualities:

1) She was an amazing listener.
2) She really cared.
3) She prayed, believing that God would answer her prayers.
4) She was single-minded and dedicated herself, along with my uncle,
to help couples make their marriages the best they could be.

During her last days, dozens of couples filled the hospital hallway near Aunt Chaty’s room, “crying like babies,” as my mom put it, “as if it was their own mother who was about to dye.”

You see, precious Aunt Chaty meant the world to so many, and in her own extraordinarily ordinary ways, she changed the world around her.

How much more accomplished can anyone be?
It makes me think that, perhaps, the ordinary things I do could make a lasting difference too. I pray the do.

Welcome to My Own Little Blog!

2009-10-03T14:25:00.001-07:00

After years talking about starting my own blog, I've finally decided it's time to dive in. My desire is to share about lessons learned, my crazy dreams, and a few thoughts on life's every day intricacies, from my own little corner of the world. Welcome!