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.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Gratitude
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"
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"
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The Gift That Kept on Giving
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.
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.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Toy Story, My Story
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
I Got My Worm!
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.
Have you asked God for your worm today?
Ana
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
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Taste and See
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
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
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Ooops, I Did It Again!
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,
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.
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.
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