I struggle with the truth that I know to be God's love. I believe in it whole-heartedly, have felt it unmistakably, and yet still find myself doubting his affection, his attention, his passion for me. Yes, my very real Heavenly Father loves me. I get that. But when I try to wrap my mind around the idea that He actually delights in making me happy, I struggle. The word love is thrown around so loosely, it's easy to accept the phrase, "He loves you," without fully comprehending the depth of the word. He is passionate that I find myself through Him. He cares about opening my eyes to the path He has set forward . . .MORE than my own desire to see that path. He wants to hear ME...MORE than I long to hear Him. Can we fathom the depths of His longing to commune with us?
He says in Jeremiah, "I know the plans I have for you. Plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to bring you hope and a future." I find myself getting so caught up in planning my own future, sometimes i feel like i'm going to God after the fact with, "This is ok, right? This is your plan?"
"I know the plans I have for you" He says. HE KNOWS. The problem? I don't. I think I might. I think I'm hoping I do. But do I trust Him enough to let HIS plans play out in my life, whatever they might be? Do I trust Him enough to let His burning desire to love me and shower me with good things - - things like hope and future - - guide my actions? Do I understand His love enough to trust Him?
I just know I want to.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Little Pleasures of Life
There are so many big things we take for granted in this life. The things we take most pleasure in, we often appreciate the least. One of my biggest pleasures of life are the incredible landscapes i see in the country side. And I've realized... my biggest pleasure in beholding a rolling green landscape with a big white farm house and an even bigger red barn is what most people just skip right over. However abstract and just plain weird, its this little detail I've come to appreciate and admire. It is the fence.
I don’t remember exactly when my love affair with fencing began. Perhaps it started while surveying our handiwork after an afternoon building fence on my parents’ property in rural Montana. Perhaps it was watching all those rotten cedar posts pulled out, not once but twice, to eventually make way for vinyl. Perhaps it started while watching scores of animals brush against, rub against, and lean against all types of fencing, noticing which ones withstood the wear and which ones caved. Whatever prompted my fascination, the fact remains: all it takes is the sight of a straight, good-looking white fence to make me swoon about a property . . . and for my husband to say with his wry grin, “Oh you and your fences.”
If eyes are the windows into one’s soul, then fences, for me, are the windows into one’s home. We are taught not to judge a book by its cover, but I routinely and with no remorse judge a property by its fence line. Although acres of white vinyl against a backdrop of green lush pastures make me an invariable goner, even a strong line of cedar planks or treated pine boards can be equally enticing.
As a young couple recently moved to the area, we have logged innumerable hours driving around the Sandhills in search of our own slice of heaven. Although both my husband and I appreciate the same kind of rustic beauty in the old farm houses sprinkled liberally around the area, for me it is always the fencing that prompts me to either crane my head for one lingering look or dismiss the property as “just ok.”
I’ve come to realize, it isn’t so much the fence’s purpose that intrigues me. Instead, it is the invitation a fence can offer. It is the invitation to imagine what lies beyond in all its mystery and its potential. Vinyl invites big dreams—dreams of Wonder, my bay quarter horse filly I sold in high school to finance my year studying abroad; dreams of galloping bareback through the thick pasture grass knowing the only thing to harness either of our abandoned elation would be the corner property line; dreams of big red barns and shadowed stalls filled with the aroma I once told my mother I wanted to use as perfume.
Although partial to the crisp lines and contrast of white vinyl, it isn’t the only fencing that makes my head spin with a slew of images and possibilities. Dark wood rail fencing invites dreams of a sprawling ranch home, of a John Deere tractor under the lean-to and a big chocolate lab on the front porch. Long stretches of hot wire or pipe fencing invites thoughts of vast acreage, of hidden ponds and wallows thick with brush and wildlife. Even barbed wire can be inviting in the right setting. I think calves and cowboys with wide-brimmed hats. I think of life 50 years ago and wonder—yet again—if perhaps I was mistakenly born in the wrong decade. But then again, vinyl wasn’t around 50 years ago.
I don’t remember exactly when my love affair with fencing began. Perhaps it started while surveying our handiwork after an afternoon building fence on my parents’ property in rural Montana. Perhaps it was watching all those rotten cedar posts pulled out, not once but twice, to eventually make way for vinyl. Perhaps it started while watching scores of animals brush against, rub against, and lean against all types of fencing, noticing which ones withstood the wear and which ones caved. Whatever prompted my fascination, the fact remains: all it takes is the sight of a straight, good-looking white fence to make me swoon about a property . . . and for my husband to say with his wry grin, “Oh you and your fences.”
If eyes are the windows into one’s soul, then fences, for me, are the windows into one’s home. We are taught not to judge a book by its cover, but I routinely and with no remorse judge a property by its fence line. Although acres of white vinyl against a backdrop of green lush pastures make me an invariable goner, even a strong line of cedar planks or treated pine boards can be equally enticing.
As a young couple recently moved to the area, we have logged innumerable hours driving around the Sandhills in search of our own slice of heaven. Although both my husband and I appreciate the same kind of rustic beauty in the old farm houses sprinkled liberally around the area, for me it is always the fencing that prompts me to either crane my head for one lingering look or dismiss the property as “just ok.”
I’ve come to realize, it isn’t so much the fence’s purpose that intrigues me. Instead, it is the invitation a fence can offer. It is the invitation to imagine what lies beyond in all its mystery and its potential. Vinyl invites big dreams—dreams of Wonder, my bay quarter horse filly I sold in high school to finance my year studying abroad; dreams of galloping bareback through the thick pasture grass knowing the only thing to harness either of our abandoned elation would be the corner property line; dreams of big red barns and shadowed stalls filled with the aroma I once told my mother I wanted to use as perfume.
Although partial to the crisp lines and contrast of white vinyl, it isn’t the only fencing that makes my head spin with a slew of images and possibilities. Dark wood rail fencing invites dreams of a sprawling ranch home, of a John Deere tractor under the lean-to and a big chocolate lab on the front porch. Long stretches of hot wire or pipe fencing invites thoughts of vast acreage, of hidden ponds and wallows thick with brush and wildlife. Even barbed wire can be inviting in the right setting. I think calves and cowboys with wide-brimmed hats. I think of life 50 years ago and wonder—yet again—if perhaps I was mistakenly born in the wrong decade. But then again, vinyl wasn’t around 50 years ago.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Comments that make us cringe
The wife of a senior officer in the Pentagon recently shared with me a list of "14 things not to say to a military spouse" that was given to her. They are so brutally truthful that you can't help but laugh out loud and groan "yes!" at the same time to each one. Although a military wife for less than three years, I've heard almost every single one. Here is one of my favorites . . . (and by favorite, I mean one I hate the most)
"Oh, that's horrible . . . I'm so sorry!"
I want to hi-five the creator of this list for her response . . .
"He's doing his job and he's a badass. Don't be sorry. Be appreciative and please take a moment out of your comfortable American lives to realize that our soldiers fight the wars abroad so those wars stay abroad. If you want to say anything, say thank you."
Amen, sister. We know you are trying to be comforting and nice. But you aren't. Don't pity us. Respect the decision that we have made to sacrifice the "typical" life in order to fight for what we believe in. My husband is a warrior. He's the biggest bad-ass I know. He is doing what he loves, what he (and I) feel called to do, and playing an active role in making this country safer and more secure. I'm not sorry; why are you sorry?
And the time spent apart may be horrible, the danger that he is in may be horrible, dealing with all the crap of life and home and bills by yourself may be horrible. But obviously it is worth it or we wouldn't be doing it. Thanks for bringing all that up though.
If we are complaining to you, I guarantee "Oh, that's horrible . . . I'm so sorry," isn't going to make us feel better. Offer some appreciation for what he is out doing. On a really bad day being reminded of the incredible bad-ass-ness (it should be a word) of our husband will make us feel a whole lot better than looking down your nose at the decision we've made to protect your comfy little life.
Another on the list of what not to say to a military spouse ties right in with the previous, "I don't know how you manage. I don't think I could do it." We know you are trying to again be nice and maybe even complimentary. Once again, you're not. I doubt very many of us had military wife on the dream sheet as little girls. Like the creator of this insightful list points out, we're aren't made of some mysterious matter that makes us more capable - we just got asked to take on a challenging job. So we rise to the challenge and find the strength to make it work.
So please. Don't be sorry for the decision we've made to lead this life, and don't think we are invincible because of that choice. I may call (and believe) my husband is Superman, but I most definitely am not. Just be thankful we are taking this challenge so you don't have to.
Whew...ok, I'm off my soap box. (There are plenty of other humorous, tormenting, and utterly stupid comments left on the list, however, so I may get back on).
Thursday, July 8, 2010
MSNBC news clip on Pararescuemen
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21134540/vp/38094526#38094526
Although not all-inclusive, this is a great little clip by MSNBC detailing what Pararescuemen are doing in Afghanistan, Iraq and other theaters around the world. Noted at the end is the accident that took the lives of three PJs and one aircrew member.
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