tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74114072486397103642024-03-12T21:16:24.211-07:00Any Fruit Will Do... just my seedling thoughts...L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-28292082392010034722013-06-17T20:49:00.002-07:002013-06-17T21:10:47.170-07:00You Aren't The Only Sinner<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fff2cc;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Life gets hard in ways that you
never expected would come. This is the problem, and it becomes more of a
problem when there are people watching – which there always are. Sometimes, I
think about the pioneer ladies, and how embarrassing their lives must have
been. Their children were probably always walking in poison ivy, and falling into
lakes without signs, fences, or lifeguards. They didn’t have dishwashers, or
hair dye, or braces, or contacts, or tide pens. Even though I want to talk
about how hard life can be, I think we can all agree that it can’t compare to
those crazy Puritans.</span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">I was raised to know that life was
hard, and it required hard work to keep up with a hard life. I was raised to
get up when my alarm clock went off, and to not hit the snooze button. I was
not allowed to miss school, even when I was getting bullied in 7<sup>th</sup>
grade because of a bad perm. I was raised knowing that I’d have to get a job at
the age of 13, and that a few years later, I’d have to buy my own car. I was
raised knowing that if I worked long and hard enough, and then even harder,
that everything would probably be ok. God was in the picture too, but from what
I gathered in my short 14 years, -- ultimately, it was up to me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Then the unexpected things came.
The cruelty of others, the effects of bad decisions, the painful memories that
didn’t go away with time, fear, insecurity, people pleasing, narcissists, lust,
addiction, and envy. I would think: Does everyone deal with this crap?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">God would’ve really been able to
help me out during that time. The funny thing is, I was mad at Him for not
being the God I needed, or wanted Him to be, and so I was my
own God, and I really suck at being God. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">In the few years that I have
committed to taking my self out of the place of God, and letting Him in –
whichever way He should so choose – He has given me so many answers. I used to
tell people that “my story didn’t make sense,” but now, pieces are fitting together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Funny enough - God has gave me those answers
by taking almost everything away from me. At one point, I was very alone. I had
lost some of my closest friends, my reputation, given up my job, failed at
applying for a Doctorate, was far from family, and totally broke. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Thankfully, this didn’t last long. Being
humbled is a lot like healing – an ugly, itchy, scabby process.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">I sat in this place of total
nothingness. Without my job, how could I work hard? Without anyone to please,
or cater to, or help, or impress, what would I do? Just sit here? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">I was totally stripped of my
identity in every way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Being alone with God like that is scary.
I feel like we spent most of those weeks just staring at one another. And then,
one day, He put His arm around me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">It wasn’t easy coming back to God.
Even though His arm was extended to me, I felt like the prodigal son, staring
at my house on the horizon. </span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Is this really the place where all of this has led
me? Back home? </span><br />
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;">Sometimes I still blush when I walk into church. God’s love is
like that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #131313; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Since then, God has given me pieces
of a life that He wants me to have. Unexpected and hard things still happen, but
usually the answers come in, right when I need them. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-68709866750198709292013-03-21T20:55:00.001-07:002013-03-21T21:01:05.637-07:00A Memory of my daughter, and of myself. Today, I came into the kitchen and saw Emilia on the far side, behind the table. Her head, or the top two inches of it at least, peered over the table's edge. She looked at me like "you better not come over here," or maybe it was "will you come over here?" I couldn't tell. Either way, she was too quiet. I walked across the room and around the table to discover that she was eating dirt. The dirt from the seedlings for my garden to be exact. Soil was smeared across her face and littered on the floor around her. My mustard green seedling had a considerable-sized hole in the center, dug by a small and chubby finger. I stood there a moment, and then I laughed. After a brief inner monologue deliberation, I let her swallow the dirt. Venturing my fingers into her mouth never ends good.<br />
<br />
I wondered about God and how this had to have happened between the two of us. How many times have I crawled to the far side of the kitchen to get into something off limits. How many times did I peer up to see if God was watching, and what He would do, and He, looking down to see my mouth full of dirt.<br />
<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">“There is so little to remember of anyone - an anecdote, a conversation at a table. But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming habitual fondness not having meant to keep us waiting long.” </span></i><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;">― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7491.Marilynne_Robinson" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;">Marilynne Robinson</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;">, </span><i style="color: #181818;"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1056302" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;">Housekeeping</a></i></span>L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-68633556440339712902013-01-31T09:35:00.000-08:002013-01-31T09:35:33.227-08:00Healing<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">A couple years ago, I got my largest tattoo. It's on my forearm, and it's a cardinal. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The guy who gave it to me is famous for his "Deep Needle" technique, which makes the color more vibrant and slower to fade. Needless to say, it hurt so bad that all I could do after was drive down to the Texas Inn and eat a cheesy western with a bunch of fat redneck men whose butts were hanging off the barstools. It's the only thing that made sense at the time.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Then I went home and waited for it to heal, and I learned something about healing in that time that made sense to me (in a concrete, visible way, which is the only way I can learn). I learned that healing is ugly, itchy, uncomfortable, and it takes no pains to go faster because I want it to. Healing means the scabs come slowly, make your life hell (and require incredible will power not to scratch off, thus ruining the entire tattoo), and fall off one by one at a rate you have no control over. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">I thought about this again today, as there are many people who I love dearly, and some who I only kind of know, who are hurting and who need healing. I wish there is something I could do to help, some kind of salve I could offer. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">You know that old phrase "Healing takes time?" It is totally annoying when people say that. But it has stuck around so long because there is truth behind it.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Healing physically is an ugly, itchy thing. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">And just like we would clean our wounds, wrapping them carefully to keep the outside world at bay, favoring them while they bind, </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">-- we must do the same with our wounds that don't bleed. And just because we can't see them doesn't mean they don't heal the same way. They itch and scab, they cause us pain, and they heal in a timing not created or scheduled by us.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">So spirit, soul, mind, emotions, memory, body - whatever the wound - </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">clean, wrap, bind, and favor it. Read scripture. Stretch or walk. Drink big cups of tea. Rest. Quiet yourself. And in someone else's time....</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-70240133001963603912013-01-31T08:57:00.001-08:002013-03-21T20:42:16.557-07:00At: A Table<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Baking bread broken bread</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">and purple fingertips press out the pulp</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">From under your skin</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">comes the wine</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Sweet</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">filling the dusty air</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">like a thick reminder</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">fragrant and inescapable</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Baking bread</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">and drinking wine:</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Have we ever been anything else</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Who put a body in the kingdom?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-42150613623531800722013-01-31T08:55:00.002-08:002013-02-14T19:22:40.049-08:00My Favorite Adrienne Rich Poem<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #93c47d;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>I sit inside, doors open to the veranda</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>writing long letters</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>in which I scarcely mention the departure</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>of the forest from the house.</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>The night is fresh, the whole moon shines</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>in a sky still open</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>The smell of leaves and lichen</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>still reaches like a voice into the rooms.</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>My head is full of whispers which tomorrow will be silent.</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em></em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>Listen. The glass is breaking.</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>The trees are stumbling foward</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>into the night. Winds rush to meet them.</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>The moon is broken like a mirror,</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>its pieces flash now in the crown</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>of the tallest oak.</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em></em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>--</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Adrienne Rich</span></span>L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-11938123418026785052013-01-31T08:52:00.001-08:002013-01-31T09:41:52.131-08:00Soil and Eggs<br />
<div style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
PREHEAT THE OVEN<br />
<br />
olive oil, onion, salt and pepper:<br />
<br />
and then a female is born,<br />
sucked into this world by a storm</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
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long hair like an umbrella pulled inside-out<br />
Body like a rib -- plunged into the bloody earth</div>
<div style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
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and Mother Nature carefully<br />
gives her breasts and calls her beautiful,<br />
like the center of an egg</div>
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<br />
[Yolk drips from the door-post<br />
and this world is blessed with a place to call home.]</div>
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{For Sarah Veak}</div>
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L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-56500297014772689702013-01-31T08:48:00.002-08:002013-01-31T09:44:28.246-08:00Marilynne Robinson On The Discernment Of Beauty<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">"I really can't tell what's beautiful anymore. I passed two young fellows on the street the other day. I know who they are, they work at the garage. They're not churchgoing, either one of them, just decent rascally young fellows who have to be joking all the time, and there they were, propped against the garage wall in the sunshine, lighting up their cigarettes. They're always so black with grease and so strong with gasoline I don't know why they don't catch fire themselves. They were passing remarks back and forth the way they do and laughing that wicked way they have. And it seemed beautiful to me. It is an amazing thing to watch people laugh, the way it sort of takes them over. Sometimes they really do struggle with it. I see that in church often enough. So I wonder what it is and where it comes from, and I wonder what it expends out of your system, so that you have to do it till you're done, like crying in a way, I suppose, except that laughter is much more easily spent."</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">--[from</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><em>Gilead</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">]</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-63660702899783842032013-01-29T11:53:00.001-08:002013-01-31T08:30:39.115-08:00My first post- LU publicationSo, I wrote an article for Christ and Pop Culture.<br />
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It's on a subject that everyone needs to know more about. Check it out if you have time!<br />
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<a href="http://www.patheos.com/blogs/christandpopculture/2013/01/put-down-your-birth-plan-how-idealizing-motherhood-is-causing-post-partum-depression/?fb_action_ids=409483289138568&fb_action_types=og.likes&fb_source=timeline_og&action_object_map=%7B%22409483289138568%22%3A183129361811409%7D&action_type_map=%7B%22409483289138568%22%3A%22og.likes%22%7D&action_ref_map=[]">Put Down Your Birthplan: How Idealizing Motherhood Is Causing PPD</a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigYVUbTa3nHOR7UaWeehUO_p3ieyxF-4qKZDtkiAKfqe6cdywahbCAl613pIoRWRwVQBoWTb1fNBsXsEclnVHNkhN2_CtKhxXX05QD-kgkG-fDkh53rjZoMYzHZtENeLn4yn9RfBrNV-NH/s1600/image+ababy.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigYVUbTa3nHOR7UaWeehUO_p3ieyxF-4qKZDtkiAKfqe6cdywahbCAl613pIoRWRwVQBoWTb1fNBsXsEclnVHNkhN2_CtKhxXX05QD-kgkG-fDkh53rjZoMYzHZtENeLn4yn9RfBrNV-NH/s400/image+ababy.tiff" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Tahoma, Ariel, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><em>Illustration courtesy of <a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/sethhahne" style="color: #993333; text-decoration: underline;">Seth T. Hahne</a>. Check out his graphic novel and comic review site, <a href="http://goodokbad.com/" style="color: #993333; text-decoration: underline;">Good Ok Bad</a>.</em></span></td></tr>
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<br />L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-32190258626031347262013-01-25T11:21:00.001-08:002013-01-31T08:46:05.502-08:00Gluten-Free Communion? I have nothing against considering the nutritional value of food; it is, at times, essential.<br />
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Eating well to keep your body healthy is a good thing.<br />
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However, when eating well comes at the price of sacrificing time spent with others (community), and - by extension - your identity, it is a bad thing.<br />
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I can't help but think that in the face of nutritionism's popularity-gone-wild, that we are headed in an unhealthy direction.<br />
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We can juice our fennel, ginger, and grapefruits all day long, but does a murky vegetable drink that we down in the car on the way to the gym do as much for our bodies <i>and </i>souls as a meal with real foods (whole foods that you have to chew) would? Could it be as healing as a meal with other people?<br />
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I guess what I'm trying to say is: food is never just food.<br />
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Food is a way of communication. It is the beginning of traditions. It is an icebreaker. It is the start to good, deep conversations. It is the first mumblings of hearty laughter. It can be the way to start conversations that are hard to have but need to happen. Food is a means by which we live. It is a means by which we define ourselves.<br />
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To have sole control over what we eat is our goal when we go on these stringent diets. So what happens when a community controls what we eat? What happens when we aren't in total control of every single calorie that goes into our mouths? What kind of vulnerability goes into that? What kind of life would you be opening yourself up to.... letting others choose what they are going to cook you? To not have a nutrient counting calculator out at each meal?<br />
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I have "done" both ways of eating, and I can tell you that - when I ate in an overly-rigid and concerned manner - the food I consumed (alone mostly), tasted like death.<br />
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And when I ate with others, around others, and from other people's tables? Life got wild. Surprising. Those moments spent at the table with others, eating God knows what (most of the time it was great), became central to <i>who I am.</i><br />
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I'm not suggesting you throw out your juicer and spirulina. I love a green smoothie.<br />
I'm just suggesting that you think about the real consequences that come from when you say no to a family dinner in order to eat a gluten-free bar on the way to your run.<br />
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I remember this line from a famous Anne Sexton poem: "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">one is dying but remembering a breakfast." It is not "One is dying but remembering a raw nut bar."</span><br />
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<i>Look at this creepy picture I found of a family dinner. If I was at this table, I'd probably go make a green smoothie too:</i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-family: arial; font-size: 11px;">The Family Dinner Painting - The Family Dinner Fine Art Print -</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-family: arial; font-size: 11px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #999999; font-family: arial; font-size: 11px;"><a href="http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/john-keaton.html" style="color: #999999; font-family: arial; font-size: 8pt; font-weight: bold; font: normal normal normal 8pt/normal arial; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none;">John Keaton</a></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">**Side note** If you have a dietary need that you must follow, or that is a medical condition, you are not at fault in any way. This is not meant to be a slam against those who must eat in certain ways, but more of a nudge to those who subject their bodies to needless trendy diets for other unhealthy reasons. When writing the title, I was thinking of the trend Miley Cyrus inspired in our church's youth group, where all the girls hoped to also lose 20 lbs by going gluten-free, though they were not allergic.</span></div>
L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-85412520569341413952013-01-25T10:45:00.001-08:002013-01-25T21:45:39.377-08:00A New YearWe are here.<br />
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Preston and I are married, and we have a baby.<br />
We also have a little home.<br />
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We found a church at which to sing, pray, and find people to eat with.<br />
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What else could I ask for?<br />
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Every day is filled with struggles, frustrations, poop, vomit, and messy hair.<br />
You know, the usual.<br />
Every day is filled with love: it's filled with kisses (both the sloppy and the sweet kind), with tears and runny noses, with "what is there to eat?" and "how are we going to afford that?"<br />
Every day is filled with vegetables on the cutting board, full glasses and plates. It's filled with knocks at the door and too many crumbs and toys on the floor.<br />
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One thing that it's not filled with yet? Enough people.<br />
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In it all, I am asking God the same thing that I ask of my food:<br />
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That it be whole and ours to savor.<br />
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<br />L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-4557960252938445812012-09-26T20:48:00.002-07:002012-09-26T21:30:39.923-07:00That Whole Mom Thing.I feel like I need to take this moment to... just be honest:<br />
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Some women are really into the whole mom thing.<br />
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And some crazy women even love the whole newborn stage that goes along with it.<br />
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My daughter is 7 months and 2 days old, and I can NOW officially say that I love being a mother.<br />
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My pregnancy was hard, but not hard enough to damper my excitement of meeting my baby girl.<br />
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Even after the trauma of an emergency C-section, I was still elated that I had a tiny, warm, little baby to bring home. When the Social Worker came in to talk to me about post-partum depression and how to seek help, I was slightly offended, especially when she repeatedly insisted I was a young mother; is 27 really that young? I brushed her off and went back to paging my nurse for morphine. </div>
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Before the baby was here, Preston and I tried to prepare ourselves in every way for Emilia. We did a pretty good job on stocking up on diapers, parenting books, blankies, and onesies. But no matter how much advice we asked for and took, we just weren't prepared for the things that we found to be the hardest. Isn't that always the case?</div>
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Once home, and without the aide of a nurse, family, or friends, my husband gone at work, I'd look at my baby and cry, just a few tears. I was so filled to overflowing with love for her, but I was also filled with sadness, guilt, and grief.</div>
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In my first weeks as a new mom, I'd apologize to Emilia over and over. "I'm so sorry we didn't get you out quick enough." "I'm so sorry I didn't get to hold you for your first 4 hours." "I'm so sorry I suck at breastfeeding." "I'm so sorry I can't carry you down the steps so we can go outside." "I'm so sorry I am eating chocolate again." Guilt. Loads of it.<br />
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My husband would come home and find me in tears, kissing the baby and apologizing. "She doesn't know what you're talking about, Lauren. Go to bed." He'd remind me that she was ok, perfectly healthy and happy, and just glad to be with us. </div>
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The first month or two was the hardest. Months three and four were a bit better, but not much. I thank God that I have a patient husband, and that I moved to Cleveland - where my mom was waiting to help with Em so I could sleep. </div>
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Finally sleep. If I get jolted out of my sleep even a minute before I'm expecting to wake, I feel as though I've been morally wronged. I'm a fully grown adult woman with a master's degree and I still get cranky and cry when I'm robbed of precious dozing minutes. </div>
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After four months of wrestling with the fact that my baby just wasn't getting enough milk, I gave her a bottle. And she slept. She slept almost 4 or 5 hours, which was - to me- a luxury more fantastical than golden unicorns dancing on rainbows that lead to piles of whipped cream. </div>
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And then, one day when Emilia was about 5 1/2 months, I looked back at her baby book and realized I hadn't written much, and the things I did write didn't sound much like me at all. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten so upset at the social worker after all? However, I still don't consider myself a young mother, for real - that makes me sound 16 and pregnant. The thought finally crossed my mind, maybe these baby blues are the real deal.</div>
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My love for Emilia never wavered. From the moment I knew she was to be, I wanted her. I couldn't wait to see her face in the morning, I loved to hold her, and I would've done anything to protect her. But in all honesty, the first few months sucked real bad:</div>
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I had nightmares, had a minor tear in my surgery scar internally, a seriously bloated and hurting tummy, an entire apartment full of dirty laundry, and a Very. Gassy. Baby. I felt so alone. When my mom went back to Ohio, I cried for hours. I called and begged her to come back. Needless to say, the warm dinners brought over to us in those first weeks by people from church (some by other moms I didn't even know) are some of the deepest blessings I have ever received. I wanted to throw myself at the people on my doorstep and give them the biggest hug ever, except I couldn't really move.</div>
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When Emilia would go down for a nap, I'd pray "God help me please. I can't do this." I would sit there until the panic would pass over me, gritting my teeth and hoping for less pain and a better day tomorrow. </div>
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Now that we are about to move into our own home, I am beginning to feel the lightness of heart that I had forgotten. It's a feeling of peace coming over me that I have longed for for quite some time. </div>
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This morning, I went to get Emilia dresed for the day and it hit me. She is ok. I am ok. We are going to be ok. Also, this mother thing is really cool. Like, cooler than I thought it ever could be. And - in all sincerity, I am so so glad to have this baby.</div>
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What a relief.<br />
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Preston took us to the zoo, and every time we got to a new exhibit, I would exclaim "I've never seen an elephant before!" "I've never seen a lion before!" He let me go on for awhile until he turned to me kind of laughing and reminded me "Lauren. You are at the zoo. You aren't supposed to see these animals in every day life." <br />
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When we got to the flamingoes, I kept my confession a secret ("I've never seen a flamingo before"). I just smiled and took in the beauty, so happy to have a sticky little baby in a stroller with banana puffs stuck to her cheeks.</div>
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L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-25848836597669466972012-09-12T19:01:00.000-07:002013-03-23T10:33:48.438-07:00New Things.Lately I've been trying new things. <br />
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New things are usually good, usually.<br />
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I like it that this weather is new. Fall makes me want to roll up into a giant ball made out of every scarf I own and sleep for days; except - I would want to get out to drink coffee, get diabetes from the coconut cake I just discovered at Corbo's Bakery, and chill out to Cat Power's new CD.<br />
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What else is new?<br />
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Preston and I ... just bought a house. How's that for trying new things? We've been looking since May, and just happened upon a sweet little cozy house with a great kitchen. Heaven on earth. Pictures to come. It was such a great deal. No more apartments without a yard! No more weird people next to us slamming the door and listening to bad music. No more people next door hating us because they think we are weird and listen to bad music.<br />
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Sarah Veak came to visit me in all of this newness, and we went to the Cleveland Art Museum. I confessed to her my secret distaste for most, NOT ALL, Contemporary Art. Do you hate me now? I'm sorry. I don't hate it all (Dali? So crazy good). I am into all of these new things, but not so much into the new art.<br />
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I mean, I just love how detailed, real, intimate, and relate-able not so Contemporary Art is. From the 3,000 BC chastity belt and 2,900 BC Woman-Bear Vase with a vagina, to the African Fertility Voodoo dolls, to some of the first copies of the (beautifully painted) leafs of Luke's Gospel, to the muses in their bright colors and perky breasts, to St. Jerome's tears and wrinkled forehead, to red-rimmed eyes and crucifixions, it's all so gripping. The canvases are huge, the paint strokes are mixed, minute, detailed, complicated, and just so beautiful.<br />
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Then, we walk out of all this beauty into this wide, white space, and a giant neon orange canvas (slightly varied) was before our eyes. It was the opposite of all that came before. Sarah said something about it being "void," and I think that is the perfect description. I can't have the same appreciation for the pink tissue paper sculpture (in what shape?! Are people making up new shapes!?), or the giant piece of graph paper, that I can for the Egyptian vases or the Head of Christ painted by Rouault. Though I found most modern art to be lacking in meaning, cold, or a bit silly, I do have to give major props to the dude that finally decided it was ok to paint women with pubic hair! That's what I call progress!<br />
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Art majors, you may now take aim at my head, but - I'm just being honest. Enlighten me, please.<br />
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My handsome husband, the second time we met. He was trying something new.</div>
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<br />L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-83160153125110159812012-08-22T18:40:00.001-07:002012-08-22T19:05:32.072-07:00Victoria's Secret? Your Boobs are Deflating.So, if you ever want to sneak clothes into the house without anyone asking "what you got there?"<br />
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... do not sneak in "clothes" from Victoria's Secret.<br />
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I've found the giant pink bag with 102384 sheets of hot pink and glittery tissue paper quite difficult to weasel on up the stairs.<br />
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It's even harder to get this giant pink mess into a closet before anyone notices when you are getting chased by the world's largest toad in the driveway.<br />
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All that to say, it's nice to shake things up a bit. In married life. You know.<br />
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My grandma told me never to feel bad for buying nice underwear, "... just so long as you actually like it, though. That is very important," she said. She is actually the one who bought me my honeymoon gear. It totally rocked. When my aunt told me the same thing, I knew this had to be truth. Grandma + Aunt = overtime payday trip to Victoria's Secret.<br />
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I say all of this to share an important lesson I learned about spicing up a marriage ... on my honeymoon.<br />
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The first night on our honeymoon in Hilton Head, SC, my husband and I went to a karaoke bar. While we were eating, I signed the two of us up to sing a little duet. When Preston and I stood to rock our own version of "Zombie" by the Cranberries, the crowd was pretty impressed. I think. Besides the fact that many patrons were laughing, I believe some were inspired. I'd like to think that an older, average looking white couple was inspired by our talents, but I think it was more along the lines of - no one could do worse than the people who just sang ZOMBIE - that they also got up.<br />
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The man was tall, thin, lanky - very Stretch Armstrong. His hair was a teensy bit gray, and he was wearing what looked to be like all khaki. His wife was wearing a black skort and white tennis shoes. She looked like she could be best friends with Mitt Romney's wife. They sang a song together as well, though I don't remember which one. All I do remember is that, as Preston and I boogied the night away, they danced right alongside us. At first, they were a bit rigid - the man's primary dance move looked like he was trying to shove a large dresser to the left. The woman just kind of shook her butt back and forth ever so slightly. The karaoke ended and the DJ was doing her thing. As the songs went on, and the floor filled up, they started to dance harder, laugh, sweat, and just bust some serious moves. When Preston and I left, they were still going strong under the strobe light. Now, this is just an assumption, but - provided they had enough energy after all of that dancing - they probably went back to their hotel room and had just as great a time. Before you think "gross," try thinking "well that's just great." I give props to the Romney-esque duo.<br />
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I know that being married just over a year does not give me a license to counsel others in any sort of way. However, I don't think there is anything wrong with sharing the good advice that's been given to me, whether it be the underwear lesson from Grandma and Auntie, or the 47 year old lady shaking her thing right there in her white tennies. Though the couple might not have been inspired by my rock star abilities I picked up by singing in the car in the late 90's, I was certainly inspired by their ability to shrug off any insecurities or cares and just... have... fun. Bravo (especially to the hubby).<br />
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<br />L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-44386911102647851752012-08-14T20:14:00.003-07:002013-01-25T21:50:21.077-08:00Set Your Hair FreeMy niece, Burkelle, is very special. She also goes by the name of "Nug." She is the first niece I ever had, and I even lived across the hall from her for a year during college. We loved to have dance parties.<br />
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When Nug was very small, she discovered how to ask interesting questions, a talent she still puts on from time to time, like yesterday. She asked me what a period was. When I tried to shrug the question off by saying it was a way for a woman's body to prepare for a pregnancy, she asked - "Then Aunt Brittany is pregnant?" "No." "Will I have one?" "Actually, that is something only your mommy knows." <br />
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Back to the small Nug questions. I think she was about to be 5. She came back from Sunday School and asked me to "Explain Jesus." I tried. A few days later, I was sitting on the couch watching TV, and out of nowhere, the top to a long wooden basket flipped off onto the ground. Tiny Nug rose up, eyes closed, proclaiming "I'VE BEEN RISEN!!!"<br />
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Small children listen to what you say, and they watch what you do. They remember, especially if they are girls. Now that Nug is here in Cleveland for a visit, I'm reminded in a new way what an influence I had, or could've had in some respects, on her. Now that I have a daughter, this scares me.<br />
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These are some things I want to teach my daughter.<br />
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If she is ever watching me do my hair, and it is doing its African Fro-Jewish frizz-Random white person straight pieces, I will never curse it. I would rather go to the park with a greasy ponytail and a daughter without hair anxiety.<br />
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On a similar note, I will never angrily comb her hair, sweat dripping as we try to get it ready for church in time.<br />
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I randomly want to answer her questions with the most fantastical, imaginative, in no way real answers. And then maybe tell her someday. If she doesn't find me out first (she could probably beat me at Scrabble already. Em is very smart.)<br />
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I don't want her to think she has to keep friends who treat her badly, especially when she is down.<br />
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I will encourage her to always pick up the things I am scared of. Like worms.<br />
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I will teach her to ask daddy to buy mommy a Mastiff.<br />
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I wish, want, hope with all my might that she will hide beside her bed with a flashlight until 11:30 pm on a school night reading The Babysitter's Club, or other great works of Literature.<br />
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I want to teach her that she can grow tomatoes easily, and then cut up a load of them, put them on a cookie sheet and roast them with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and then throw them in a blender with some cream and make wicked soup. With grilled cheese croutons.<br />
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I hope she has a lady professor friend who wears great shoes and gives great advice, some of which she will understand, some of which she will pretend to get but won't really until she matures a bit more and then one day goes "ah..."<br />
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I will give her a Bible.<br />
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I will give her Journey, Creedence Clearwater, Johnny Cash, Feist, Patty Griffin, and as many 80's punk rock or Dance Cds as I can.<br />
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I will give her pens, paper, crayons, toilet paper rolls, peanut butter, bird seeds, and a smock. And then I will sit with her instead of playing on my iPhone.<br />
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Like my mother, I will tell her she is beautiful as much as I can, and take her out of school sometimes just to go out for lunch.<br />
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I hope to teach her that it is totally ok to cry, even if you haven't figured out what's wrong yet.<br />
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And, like Caitlin Moran with her little girl, I will teach Emilia to say "Damn you, The Patriarchy!" every time she falls down.<br />
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God bless my lil' chunker. I hope I make it out of this mommy thing alive. I'm glad I had practice with the smartest, sweetest lil' Nug.<br />
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<br />L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-83460272122423192502012-07-11T18:31:00.000-07:002012-07-11T20:26:55.572-07:00Garden DaysSometimes, when I am taking care of Emilia, I get small glimpses of the way God must see me.<br />
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This also happens when I garden. Today I was weeding, and I had to be pretty ruthless. I will save my beautiful beans.<br />
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<br />L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-2633372964938312232012-05-09T17:59:00.003-07:002012-05-09T18:05:47.354-07:00Goodbye Lynchburg!So, as many of you know, the new little Lund family is moving to Cleveland Schmeveland. We are very excited about this, as it means we will have (tons of) help with the baby. We will also be very close to at least 9 Chipotles which is very good. We will miss Lynchburg very much (especially Blue Ridge Community Church).<br />
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Please keep Preston in your prayers as he continues the interview process with the Cleveland Clinic. Everything about this current job position he is applying for sort of "fell" into his lap at the perfect time. We were worried that he'd go the whole summer without a job, but now it looks as though he may have one before we even get there for good! Miracles!!!<br />
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Emilia continues to grow at an alarming rate. She is only 11 weeks old (almost 3 months) and she is already 14 pounds and 24 inches long!!! This morning I had her in a little rocker chair that has 3 rattle toys hanging over it, and she was literally pulling herself up by grasping the toy bar. I have an Olympian Genius Baby. In 3 years she will be able to beat me up and beat me at Scrabble.<br />
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Here are some pics for you to enjoy, or not. Many of you have asked to keep in touch, so you can read an occasional post and keep up with us here too!<br />
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<br />L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-6871332000079531272012-05-04T19:01:00.000-07:002012-05-04T19:14:05.267-07:00Not Beyonce's BluesSo last night I read an interview with new mom, Beyonce, in which the pop star admitted that having a baby has been rough on her body -- in particular -- her feet, which are no longer "as soft as they used to be." What!? Come on, really? What new mom who reads that comment will ever buy another album from you, Bey? It's not even like she said "I'm on my feet all day cooking, cleaning, changing diapers, destroying my boobs by feeding a baby, and staring at my poor abs in the mirror, all of which have made my feet hard and calloused. No. It's just that poor Beyonce's feet "aren't as soft" as they used to be. I can't get over it. Today I was walking down the diaper aisle at Target with my simultaneously saggy and calloused new mom body, and I had to hunch over a bit and laugh a little about that comment for the 89th time.<br />
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Some people warned me about this thing called "the baby blues." When it was mentioned, I would roll my eyes and say "yeah, yeah, yeah... if I can make it through high school, the basic standard eating disorder that any girl in America suffers between ages 12- 23, working at Quiznos for 5 years, publishing a thesis, and 10 months of pregnancy, I can deal with a baby." Wrong.<br />
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The baby blues are real, and I had them (past tense used cautiously). Here is a list of things that prove my feet are definitely not as soft as they used to be:<br />
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1. The first 3 days after I delivered my baby I was high on morphine because I had an emergency c-section (and I didn't even get special security glass window in my room).<br />
2. I didn't sleep for 5 days after my delivery because every time I would drift off, I'd have a nightmare that I was still in surgery.<br />
3. Less scary, all I can bring myself to eat is anything processed or dark chocolate.<br />
4. My poor husband has walked into every room in our house, including the bathroom, to find me on the floor crying, babbling something like "I'm trying my best."<br />
5. I threw a jug of cranberry juice at the wall.<br />
6. I called my doctor 6 times asking for birth control before I finally got my RX fixxx.<br />
7. The other day my daughter screamed her way through the line we stood in at the bank and when we finally got help, I was bending over trying to force sugary gas drops into her mouth and didn't realize that about half of my lacy nursing bra was hanging out (yeah I said lacy -- take that Beyonce).<br />
8. I met my dear friend Amber for coffee the other day and she walked into starbucks to find me wearing my pajama top, acid-wash jeans, covered in spit up with sweaty hair and a screaming baby whose tank top was too small and whose chubby, sweaty little belly stuck out in public. I was also carrying a hot pink and zebra print diaper bag. She laughed at me for a little bit.<br />
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... All of that to say, I am moving to Cleveland next week. My parents and grandparents live there. I hope I can sneak off for a few hours to go scrub my feet.<br />
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This picture is proof that despite the new sounds and smells that have invaded our home, I freakin' LOVE my daughter. I mean love love love like I've never loved.</div>
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<br />L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-60473938346181582652012-04-26T14:10:00.001-07:002012-04-26T14:16:25.626-07:00Time to nerd outSo the title of this blog is "Any Fruit Will Do."<br />
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A couple of years ago, I took an advanced grammar class in grad school. We basically had to spend the entire semester doing a research paper on a particular kind of grammar. Knowing that I'd be spending so much time with this project, I wanted to pick something I am interested in. Thus, I chose food. The grammar of food? Yes.<br />
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Recipes. I spent months studying the grammar of recipes from the 18th century up until Jamie Oliver. And it was awesome. The more I read recipes, the more I realized something fascinating: the grammar of recipes was distinctly feminine.<br />
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The recipes from the 18th century were short and skeletal. They were written by women who had little time and probably did not have those little recipe cards. The 18th century recipes were loose, in that they left room for the changing seasons and for the creativity of the cook. They were short enough to be carried along by a memory, and they assumed the reader had all of the knowledge she needed to complete the scarce recipe without too much detail. There were no measurements and, oftentimes, there were no exact ingredients. One of the recipes was for "Fruit Biscuits," and the first line was "Any fruit will do." It is a recipe for any season, a recipe that allows the cook to use her own creativity, to be resourceful, inventive, and economical... or not.<br />
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Modern day recipes are much different. They show great distance between the writer of the recipe and her audience. They are full of detail and exact measurements. They are to be written down (or printed) and come with all kinds of pictures, catering to their audience.<br />
<br />
So that was my 25 page grammar research project in a nutshell. I could go on, but I think most of you probably (really) don't care. All that to say, that project is one of my most favorite papers I have ever created. I was inspired by the grammar of the 18th century recipe writers and the respect they had for food, the seasons, and each other. Papers like that inspired me to write and keep writing. Not all of it was fun, but I hope to continue to research that topic and to publish it in a journal one day. Nerd goal of my life.<br />
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Ok - so what do normal people talk about? Normal girl to normal girl? Summer and nail polish? I am ready for this rain to end and the warmth to begin!<br />
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<br />L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-20165520886741368872012-04-24T19:28:00.000-07:002012-04-25T06:38:11.866-07:00How God Shows Grace: What You Don't Know About My DaughterA few weeks after I got pregnant, I came outside into the cool morning air and looked down at my feet. Just in front of my toes was a tiny pink moth. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><i>It's a girl. </i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">Something inside of me knew. I'm sure every mother thinks that her baby is going to be special. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">I don't think the sadness, the pain, the self-inflicted drama, the bad choices, and the bad places that Preston and I were both in when we met can ever be adequately put into words. Let's just say that while he was on his way out of a very dark hole, and I was tumbling my way on in, we ran into each other - hard - and God made it stick.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">On Thursday, May 26th, Preston and I got married in a little wooden court room downtown Lynchburg. The man who officiated our legal marriage was a sweet old man with a yellow tie. He seemed genuinely happy for us, and he loved our crazy hair. We cried and then ate some good food, happy to be together. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: magenta;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><br /></span></span><br />
A few days later we got an unexpected offer for a free honeymoon time in South Carolina. We got tan, rode bikes on the beach, watched an alligator not eat a bird, ate great seafood, and sung some really bad karaoke together. Also, I got pregnant (though I didn't know it yet).<br />
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A few days after we got back from South Carolina, I had a terrible fever that lasted all day and deep into the night. As I fell in and out of sleep, I had intense dreams about angels coming to my apartment with flaming swords and killing thousands of shadows. I dreamt they flew around Preston and I as we slept, and they literally slew the darkness around us. I woke up hyperventilating, my fever reaching 106, and was rushed to the emergency room. I barely remember anything about that night except for my dream, the angels were there, and then I woke up to the face of a paramedic in the back of an ambulance. "You're going to be ok," he told me. Preston sat at the foot of my hospital bed and read an emergency room copy of the Bible. Later, when my fever hadn't broken, he crawled into the bed next to me and cried. We prayed. My fever broke. The doctor came in and sent me home. They couldn't find anything wrong.<br />
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A few weeks later, I believe it was June 21st, I woke up at 5 am and knew that I was pregnant. 3 pregnancy tests made it official. Preston and I were going to have a ... baby.<br />
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<br />
Emilia was with me at our ceremonial wedding on July 2nd. People who didn't know we were already married judged me. People who knew I was married judged me. People said mean things, sad things, and I was terrified. People said nice, beautiful things (people like my Dad, whose opinion really matters), and I was terrified. A life, inside of me? I knew that I couldn't do it. I knew that I didn't deserve it. I had walked so many steps toward God, and then ran thousands of steps away. To watch people I love so dearly suffer -- it only pushed me farther to the edge. How can God be good? He doesn't love me. I am angry. I am unloved. This was my worldview, and I was wrong. On July 2nd, though, everything began to change.<br />
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A cardinal flew by. I began to pray. Happy to be married, to cook for two, I prayed. Preston and I fought. I prayed. I watched my belly begin to swell, ever so slightly. I prayed. Mostly this praying consisted of me, on the floor, crying my eyes out. Sometimes I would say "God help me," "Lead me in the paths you have set for me," "I'm sorry," or "Jesus." We went to a good church. We prayed. We took communion several times. My stomach continued to grow. And then, one day, I understood. 26 years of God chipping away at the scales over my eyes and the cement walls around my heart, it broke through:<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><i>The Son is the radiance of God’s glory and the exact representation of his being, sustaining all things by his powerful word. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">After he had provided purification for sins,</span> he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty in heaven.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I once was angry; now I'm loved.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><i><br /></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">I had dipped my toes into the very edge of the idea of getting re-baptized (I had been at the age of 9). But I knew what that meant, so I didn't. T</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">hen, in November of 2011, Preston and I both signed up to do it. It was very un-glamorous. Since I was 7 months pregnant, I basically wore a full black body suit. I climbed clumsily into the tub. Emilia and I together in the baptism pool, I will never forget the feel of the water rushing over my face as they lifted me up. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">A few months later Emilia was supposed to come. She didn't. I told the doctors that I thought my water broke, but they sent me home. Three times. The day before she was delivered, I only felt her move once. I didn't know what to do. Afraid to be sent home again, I decided to wait until the next morning, when I knew I had a scheduled ultrasound.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Preston and I stared at the ultrasound screen, watching our baby's heart beating. "Her heart rate is a little low." The ultrasound technician murmured too slowly to herself. She pulled up the screen to check my amniotic fluid. There was none. Without a word, she lept out of the room to get my doctor.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He came in, calm, and told me to go to the emergency room. "You will have your baby today," he said. I was crying. "Should I go home and get my bag?" "No," he answered too quickly.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the hospital I was changed into a shapeless green gown. My arms were pricked with needles and IVs of antibiotics. I was strapped down with monitors and given an amnio-infusion. They induced labor and my contractions began. A nurse stayed constantly by my side, watching colored lines on a screen: red, blue, and green. That was my baby. I couldn't read it. "Is she ok?" I asked the nurse, tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. "She bears watching." "Is she ok?" I asked the nurse. "She doesn't seem to like this." "Is she ok?" I asked the nurse. "She bears watching." This happened all night. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My family members were pacing and praying. My grandpa, who can barely walk, who is quickly becoming a shadow of his former self, sat at a kitchen table and prayed. We thought of Bronson, and how his birth had started this same way. My brother, un-willing to let himself go unheard demanded that my mother began throwing things around the room and tearing wires off the wall until the doctor gave me a c-section. "Don't let them make that baby wait too long," he demanded. His love still makes my eyes burn with tears of gratitude. In the hallway, my mom demanded the nurse call the (very) overly busy doctor back into the room. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Yea..." my young female doctor said slowly, "we are going to start your section, ok? I don't like the look of her decels." My body, which had been shaking violently from the epidural, continued to vibrate and shiver. "Ok," I said. My mother came and pressed her body on top of mine, holding back tears, she asked me "Are you cold?" She was trying to get me to stop shivering. I remember other family members coming over to me, my sister, my brother in law, their faces peered down at me. I was leaving the room in my mind. I closed my eyes and began to pray. I knew that something was very wrong inside of my stomach. At that moment, I knew.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The doctor came in and noticed a huge pool of meconium. She began to order the NICU down to my operating room and gave scrubs to my husband. She called the anesthesiologist back. I closed my eyes again and began to pray. I know that all kinds of medicines were in my body, but no one -- ever again -- can tell me that God is not there and that He is not good.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I prayed, I saw 4 angels around my hospital bed. I didn't see see them with my eyes, which were closed, but they were there. I perceived them in a way that I had when I lay in a feverish sweat upon first getting pregnant. God was there too, and He told me "Do not be afraid." At that moment, my body, which had been shaking for hours, went completely still. I took deep breaths through the oxygen mask. They wheeled me into the operating room. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">With my arms strapped down, outstretched on either side, they put the fetal monitor back on -- Emilia was now in official distress. The operation was supposed to last an hour. I heard my doctor tell her nurses they had 15 minutes. The screen went up and they began to cut. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Get my damn husband," I yelled. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a few minutes he came in, saw my stomach, and his face went pale. He knelt beside me and we continued to pray. As I felt them tug and pull and push inside of me, cutting me open and re-arranging my insides, I remembered that it was Lent. I could think of nothing better to give up for Lent than what I was doing -- laying there cut open, with my arms outstretched. Ironically, I began to thank God for the opportunity to be in that position. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Somehow, at that moment, Emilia got stuck and they couldn't get her out. My doctor, being a young female, was upset. Her voice and the words she spoke to her nurses gave away too much. If they didn't get Emilia out within seconds, she would be lost.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Preston began weeping, and I think I did too. We only said "Jesus" over and over. I don't know how long it was, but eventually - we heard her cry. One strong little chirp and then the NICU started to suck the meconium out of her lungs. That one little peep was all we needed. Thank you God.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Preston says they brought Emilia over to me, so I could see her, but I don't remember a thing. He went with her as she was to be cleaned. They stitched me up, for what seems now like it was hours, and then wheeled me somewhere, behind some curtain, and "monitored" me. The woman who was to check my uterus by pressing on my minutes-fresh stitches did not know there was a kink in my morphine line. All I remember is crying out the word "unbearable." My arms were still outstretched. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hours later I was able to hold Emilia. Weeping over her perfectly fine, perfectly beautiful body with my husband at my side, my whole being was overwhelmed with Grace. I got everything I asked for when I signed up for that Baptism, and God got my abs for lent.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Emilia Kelen Lund left the hospital at 7 pounds even. Within one month, she put on 4 pounds, and she has caused us many sleepless nights, and even more smiles. We thank God for our baby girl, who still has so much to teach us.</span><br />
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<br />L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-86413591843630978842012-01-27T17:30:00.000-08:002012-01-27T17:30:04.980-08:00A lost note to self from a lost place<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eafaf9; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">[Healing] Even though I had lost everything, the next morning still came, and there were eggs. Salted eggs and coffee. And later that day there were beautiful people in the chairs next to me. [Quiet]</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eafaf9; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eafaf9; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eafaf9; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">You will find your place when you sit still enough to see, when you sit so still the moon can’t find you, when you notice the sweetness of the sidewalk and the stupid cat, when you see the people around you so closely you hear their hearts breaking and the words that they are saying, when you pause to hold their hands, to wash their feet, and pass one minute at a time.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eafaf9; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eafaf9; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eafaf9; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #eafaf9; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">You will find your place when you let go just long enough to let the place you’re in hold you. Let it cultivate your heart. Even if it’s just one small plant.</span><br />
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</span>L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-48480169329385931922012-01-27T17:05:00.000-08:002012-01-27T17:07:37.370-08:00For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further; By Anne Sexton<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">Not that it was beautiful,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">but that, in the end, there was</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">a certain sense of order there;</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">something worth learning</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">in that narrow diary of my mind,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">in the commonplaces of the asylum</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">where the cracked mirror</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">or my own selfish death</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">outstared me.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">And if I tried</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">to give you something else,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">something outside of myself,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">you would not know</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">that the worst of anyone</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">can be, finally,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">an accident of hope.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">I tapped my own head;</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">it was a glass, an inverted bowl.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">It is a small thing</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">to rage in your own bowl.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">At first it was private.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">Then it was more than myself;</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">it was you, or your house</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">or your kitchen.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">And if you turn away</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">because there is no lesson here</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">I will hold my awkward bowl,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">with all its cracked stars shining</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">like a complicated lie,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">and fasten a new skin around it</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">as if I were dressing an orange</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">or a strange sun.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">Not that it was beautiful,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">but that I found some order there.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">There ought to be something special</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">for someone</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">in this kind of hope.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">This is something I would never find</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">in a lovelier place, my dear,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">although your fear is anyone's fear,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">like an invisible veil between us all…</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">and sometimes in private,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">my kitchen, your kitchen,</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"><br />
</span></span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;">my face, your face.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: cyan;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: #444444;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhluFrjRSBaI1U1v-j3WPAPVAQzVUeEltFgiVQHXj5RuD44x1U5OnsFbIABN9Am9loi6ODXtPZ76WQ_GmFRJJngCK2DmsK7u55lIgP3Nz892qBABOtdKlHSswNL4ibUwM7TJQLj859dVAsR/s1600/tumblr_lqmkydrRs51qbycdbo1_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhluFrjRSBaI1U1v-j3WPAPVAQzVUeEltFgiVQHXj5RuD44x1U5OnsFbIABN9Am9loi6ODXtPZ76WQ_GmFRJJngCK2DmsK7u55lIgP3Nz892qBABOtdKlHSswNL4ibUwM7TJQLj859dVAsR/s1600/tumblr_lqmkydrRs51qbycdbo1_1280.jpg" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px;"><br />
</span>L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-29654839395870981422012-01-18T18:23:00.000-08:002012-01-27T17:14:28.208-08:00pain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3MPqC6Nz02cnLGvJJ6V69f0I1tIlTY1CdF0TIskNBq9jccYqPDm33qHY2OKz9C51inYl59NDcpf_ajRBqK2keOzG3dklCtmJy89wdXWdVvr42koVE660TJADbqZMFzMSUYkWPmHOoBtmg/s1600/Photo+on+2012-01-18+at+21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3MPqC6Nz02cnLGvJJ6V69f0I1tIlTY1CdF0TIskNBq9jccYqPDm33qHY2OKz9C51inYl59NDcpf_ajRBqK2keOzG3dklCtmJy89wdXWdVvr42koVE660TJADbqZMFzMSUYkWPmHOoBtmg/s320/Photo+on+2012-01-18+at+21.jpg" width="244" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"These are not the ways you would have chosen to become more than you were, but they worked."</span></b></span><br />
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-- B. TaylorL.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-67705930418714536292011-11-09T16:53:00.000-08:002012-09-17T12:15:25.755-07:00Special Needs: A Self-Concious GuestThe fall of 2010 would have been my ultimate un-doing, if I had not met my now- husband. OK, that statement is a bit over-dramatic, but really, it was a bad time.<br />
<br />
My apparently rapid descent unnerved some of my closest friends, and most of us were not speaking for one reason or another. I quit my job and moved back to Cleveland (home). I began applying to schools and filling my spare time with water aerobics classes. Like I said, it was a bad time (but who knew water aerobics was so efficient?! For real... my abs thank you, 64 year old water aerobics instructor).<br />
<br />
Anyways, back to me, cold and lonely in Cleveland while my fiance was in Va, finishing his school year. One night, my mom asked me to help her at the place she volunteers. This place happens to be our church, Grace, and the volunteering involved watching special needs kids for 4 hours on a Saturday night. Or at least that's what I thought it would be. "Maybe if I go help out these kids, I will feel better about how horrible I am. Plus, they probably really do need my help."<br />
<br />
So, I pulled my hair back, put on a big comfy sweatshirt, leggings, and some boots, and out into the Cleveland snow I went. Lisa (my mom), and I drove to the church. The car was quiet and the windshield wipers struggled to keep the sleet from blocking our view. I felt lonely. My heart tightened in my chest as I fought back tears. I thought about the past few months and all of the people I'd dissapointed. I hated me. I wanted to stop messing up. I was alone in my head with my narcissist thoughts. Yet for some reason, I couldn't figure out why, for the first time in my life, I couldn't read, work, exercise, or laugh this pain away. I was blind.<br />
<br />
I'd always believed in God, but I wasn't acting like I did. Most of the time when I prayed, it felt insincere, or, at worst, hurried role-play. Now, for the first time in my spiritual life, when I prayed - there was complete silence. A shut door. God had enough of me, finally. With these thoughts, I stepped into the church.<br />
<br />
That night I was assigned to a small girl with a gene-deficiency named Alayna. She was tiny for her age, and upon first glance, she looked like a normal, little, blonde-haired, blue-eyed little girl. She couldn't speak much, but when she did, she would find one thing to focus on and repeat that word or small phrase for an hour or so until she found a new focus. Upon meeting me, she was shy. After I spoke with her dad for a few minutes, she came out from behind his leg and pointed at the cardinal tattoo on my arm and squeaked: "Red bird." I smiled at her and she smiled back. I had a new friend.<br />
<br />
That night we watched a magician, I helped her open a juice box, encouraged her to ask for the pink cupcake on her own, and introduced her to other little kids. We played kickball, and when it was our turn to kick, the ball went flying and she clung to the front of me like a little monkey with her legs wrapped around my waist and screamed shrilly as I ran the bases.<br />
<br />
Later that night, we went downstairs for music time. The coordinator went around handing out simple instruments to all the kids. The music started and, at first, most of the kids were shy. Then, the zoo broke loose. First two of the older kids went up front. They were both chunky boys, around age 14 or 15, one black and one white. They held hands and jumped up and down. Soon they had to break their grasp of friendship, as the white boy, with his cheeks completely flushed to red, bent down and slapped the floor and then jumped to the ceiling, wailing with the music. Every time he bent to slap the floor, his neon blue jogging pants slid down and his belly popped out, but he didn't care. He just kept dancing and whooping "Praise the Lord." The taller, thinner, black boy walked around the front of the room just shaking his head back and forth, humming and repeating "That's right... that's right."<br />
<br />
Alayna perched timidly on the edge of my knees. For about 30 minutes, she had been repeating the words over and over "my church, my church." I don't know what brought that phrase to her mind, but I just shook my head at her and said, "That's right, Alayna. Your church." I felt like I was saying something really true.<br />
<br />
Finally, Alayna mustered the courage to get up, and she walked to the stage, through the chaos, and stood perfectly still with her hand to her mouth, wide eyes sloped up at the guitar player.<br />
<br />
Alone, I was left to inspect the rest of the crowd. I hadn't been singing, and I still wasn't, but I smiled. I looked down to the floor and saw a little boy with blonde hair and big, broken and taped glasses sitting at my feet. His left arm hung limp and heavy to the ground like a dead weight. For a moment, he seemed perplexed about how to join the fun. His eyes scanned the floor. I wanted to hand him an instrument, but I couldn't see anything that looked like he'd be able to play. "Oh no, I thought. How do I help this kid?" But before I could feel bad for one more second, he figured it out on his own. The little boy put his fingers to his lips and made a loud buzzing noise, slapping his lips up and down with his own little hand. Spit went flying, his cheeks got red, and he buzzed away, praising God.<br />
<br />
I blinked back tears and watched in wonder. "And I thought that I was coming here to help them...." my mind hummed. <br />
<br />
In that moment, I think I began to see a bit more clearly. <br />
<br />
Preston always tells me that suffering isn't a bad thing.<br />
That night I watched disabled and autistic children praising God of their own accord. These are kids who we see to be suffering. But what I saw that night was not suffering, it was a room full of children completely unaware of themselves, eyes open to the beauty before them. What a blessing. <br />
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I love you Bronny!</div>
L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7411407248639710364.post-76012004389869312392011-11-08T19:14:00.000-08:002013-01-25T10:36:48.180-08:00Son of a ... : Thoughts on Becoming a MotherI woke up at 5 a.m. in the cold dark. My husband of less than a month lay next to me. I shook him until he (kind of) woke up. "I think I'm pregnant." I whispered in fear. Preston didn't open his eyes. "Go back to bed" is all he had to say. Clearly the news didn't send 35, 567, 896 thoughts racing through his brain like it did mine. "Crap."<br />
<br />
The next day I drove to Walgreens and bought a 5 pack pregnancy test. I came home and took 3, resolving to take the other 2 the following day, just in case. I peed. A minute or so later I realized that my life would be very different from then on.<br />
<br />
I slowly walked out to the living room in my underwear, as I was too stunned to pull up my pants, I guess. Preston didn't even look up from Youtube. He had no idea what was coming. My hand was shaking and I was nervous to say anything out loud. I set the 3 positive pregnancy tests in front of him on the table. He looked up. He smiled. I fell on the ground, dramatically, and started crying. "I don't want to get fat!" I wailed. It was a shallow moment.<br />
<br />
The 3 weeks that followed held a mixed bag of emotions for me. I love life, but life inside of me? I thought of the mood swings, morning sickness, and time spent babysitting. I thought of my older sister's crying kids and how I never got work done at her house. I thought of how my little sister's words, prophesying that I would be a terrible mother. I cried. Alot. I told my mom. She cried. I made Preston tell my dad. They were both very happy. Maybe my mother, who had 3 c-sections, understood a bit more what might be going through my head.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until nearly a month after I found out I was going to become a mother that I had my first true moment of acceptance and peace. I went with my husband to visit his grandma. She has a few dogs at her house and she needed help filling their gigantic communal dog bowl. While Preston was retrieving the small-house sized dog-food bag, I walked around the yard and watched a new born puppy running around through the grass. I couldn't tell which dog was his mother, but he looked like he needed assistance. It was a hot day in July and the Virginia sun was unforgiving. The puppy's nose was dry and he hid in the shadows. I could tell he needed help. *Maternal instinct go.*<br />
<br />
I went over to the puppy and picked him up. I stood with him for a moment in the shade and felt his heart racing. I pulled him away for a minute and studied his face. His entire face was caked with dry, red Virginia clay and his mouth was dry. His eyes looked at me wide, full, dark, and dumb. I took him around to the side of the house. I found a small water spicket and turned it on until cold water gushed out into a little tin pan. I put the puppy down and, in-between his hurried sips of water, I started to wash his little chin. He drank too fast and choked on the water. I patted his back and coaxed him back to the water. While he drank, I wiped cool water all over his forehead in an attempt to cool his little body down. A few minutes later, hydrated, clean, and comfortable, the puppy looked up at me, and I think he smiled. Probably not, but maybe. I don't know why, but as I looked down at him, I felt something in my heart move. I mean I have always loved dogs, so it wasn't this newfound love of animals. It definitely wasn't a newfound love of puppies. It was just a small movement. Like a little piece of my heart moved and told my head that it was ok to accept the fact that I was going to be a mother. It was time. That was it.<br />
<br />
Over the next few hours, the little puppy followed me everywhere I went. I helped him find the food, and I pulled trash from the yard out of his mouth. When Preston and I got ready to leave, he followed me to the car and sat in the grass, looking at me with his head to the side, puzzled at where I could be going. As our car reached the end of the long gravel driveway, I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the puppy trotting slowly behind us, eagerly peering into our car. I looked over at Preston, who was watching me watch the puppy in the mirror. He smiled at me and put his hand over mine. I smiled back at him and felt glad to have his baby growing inside of me.L.Lundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05750412406494573687noreply@blogger.com0