After a bit of whining and a little groveling, I got the cooking school to change our class- so I get to go- with my mom. So excited for this tonight!

My 76-year-old mother has everything.  It’s hard for me to buy a gift for her and feel like she “needed” it or that it’s novel to her.  I found something for her birthday this year that I KNEW she would love.  I told her what day to block off for us and that we were taking a Danishes and Croissants cooking class together in Denver.  Time together and a high-altitude baking skill?  Score!  We put it on our calendar and I paid for the class for both of us and have been looking forward to to it for a couple of months now.  It was very expensive and the class is next week.

I called her about an hour ago to re-confirm dates and times only to have her cancel on me- she has a “Mountain Mad Hatters” (little-old-lady) luncheon that day.  Won’t miss it.  Can’t change it.   I quickly called the cooking school and tried to reschedule us for a different day only to find out that we’re inside the 7-day cancellation limit.  Awesome.  So, I can bring someone else or just skip it.

This destroyed me today.  I know it’s not the end of the world.  But I was so looking forward to this.  Giving a gift that isn’t important enough to her to change the wrongly scheduled plans on her part… my feelings are hurt, I guess.  I’m a little offended.  I’m trying to judge favorably.  Seriously, either my  hormones are in full swing or I need to up my dosage of Prozac.  Probably a little of both.  But hey, at least I’m not constipated.

All the boys in my house are at a men’s retreat.  My husband, 16 year old son, and father in law are about three hours away in the mountains.  While I am bountifully glad for their chance to relax and renew, I’m even more glad to have a  few days to myself (almost).

To sleep right in the middle of the bed.

To not do a single dish all weekend.

To not trip over some manner of my son’s guitar equipment.

To not hear my father in law sneeze violently and scare me to death.

To not be needed for “wifely duties.”

To not be awakened or accosted by a single fart for three days.

To not hear my husband the pastor’s phone ring or beep every 10 seconds.

To wonder what my life would be had I taken a different path.

To read my bible.

To reconnect with God’s heart and my heart.

To shop for as long as I want.

To try on 10 pairs of shoes and not buy a single one.

To take a surprise lunch from Chic-Fil-A to a poor sales girl at the shoe store who was going to be there by herself all day.

To rent an embarrassing chick flick and watch it without being made fun of by at least one male.

To have the house quiet, so that I can hear each creak and groan, each gust of wind outside my bedroom window that I crack open at night.

To practice the spiritual discipline of solitude and quietness.

Sometimes in my own house, it’s hard to find that series of moments where I can feel Him.

There is this place that I got to visit a couple of years in a row… up above the city of Los Angeles in a state park.  You can climb the path alongside a trickling brook that is more waterfall in some places, find a dry rock, and be with God.  I can feel Him there.   Nature is the great medium that helps me go back to that childlike faith every time…  maybe because I can find solitude out in His creation.  But that’s not the only place.

There’s a rooftop at an orphanage in Mexico, a meadow in Ouray, Colorado, a rest area on Mt. Evans, and a cemetery in Houston where my son is buried… thank goodness I can feel Him there.

But I know it’s not the place.

It’s not the solitude.

It’s not the quiet.

It’s not just when I’m quiet.

Because He’s everywhere, all the time.

It’s my mindset.

It’s a discipline.

Relationship through solitude.

This week, I am so there.

What a couple of years this has been- maybe even going back three.

When you have SLE (lupus), you pretty much attribute everything bigger than a sniffle to it.  I’ve been living with lupus since I was 18, and 8 times out of ten, whatever is going on with my body is because the antibodies in my white blood cells are freaking out.  Oh, those crazy antibodies of mine… they’re like a drunk uncle who never wants to leaves the party.

Anyway, for the past several years, I have been basically healthy… no bad arthritis, my kidneys aren’t declaring mutiny… things have been smooth.  Just crippling fatigue and a couple of other nusiance things- like hand tremors.  I was worried about those, but they didn’t seem to be worsening or moving anywhere else.  My exhaustion got to the point that if I would avoid doing simple things like putting more ice in my glass if it meant I would have to get up from the table or off of the couch.

At one of my regular appointments with my rheumatologist last year, he diagnosed me with an iron deficiency- so I was put on iron pills.  And they were awful.  No matter how I took it… with food before, after, or sandwiched in between… it would come back up in 15 minutes along wtih whatever I ate to try to keep it down.  And then some.  After trying different brands of iron pills with no success… we settled on the long haul with a daily multi-vitamin.  I am slowly approaching the normal range.  Take that, Iron Defficiency!

This year, some fun (I’m using my sarcastic voice) new things started happening.  The tremors got so bad that my own mother couldn’t read a thank-you note I sent to her.   I was hot all the time… sweaty at night and with any exertion… out of breath all the time… had extreme muscle weakness in my arms and legs…and had heart palpatations.  One evening, my husband decided to take my pulse and I had a resting heart rate of 125 beats per minute.  Any exertion brought it up to 165- like from walking from the kitchen to my bedroom.  I started dropping weight like crazy with no change in my eating habits (not a bad thing for a girl, but not a fun way to do it).

So, yeah… looking back, I should have noticed that something was seriously going on… but when you feel bad all the time for so long, you accept that as your new normal and get on as best you can with your crazy-busy life.  Luckily at another regular check-up, my rheumy noticed two huge lumps on either side of the front of my neck and asked, “Have you ever had thyroid problems?”  His bloodwork lead to a diagnosis of hyperthyroidism and a visit to an endocrinologist with a waiting list three months long.  So I waited.

Last week, I finally got to go to that appointment.  Within ten minutes of talking to me about symptoms, looking at my records, and feeling my giant thyroid gland, I had a new diagnosis: Hyperthyroidism and Graves Disease.  It sounds worse than it is… from what I’ve figured out, one way or the other, it’s more medicine every day for the rest of my life.  We’re seeing how medication works now- but the doctor said I will probably need my thyroid removed at some point.  So, it’s medication with or without the actual thyroid gland.  I’m not particularly attached to it (haha!), so I don’t care one way or the other… I just want to feel alive again!

I have pills for my thyroid, and in six months, it should be back to normal size and producing the right amount of thyroid hormone.  The doctor also gave me a beta-blocker that has lowered my heart rate dramatically and I’m already remembering what it’s like to be able to get off the dang couch and get my own ice if I need it.  It’s awesome and I’m starting to feel better!

So, note to self: Pay attention to my body!  And get better!  And write more!

Take that, Thyroid Gland!

Be His Helpmate.

Wash his underwear.  Think about dinner before he has to rush off to the third meeting this week.   Ask him how that meeting went.  Listen.  Offer your thoughts.  Share your secrets.  Support his decisions.  Encourage him. Wear that ridiculously tacky snap-crotch nightie on occasion. Let him lead you.  Know how to lessen his stress.  Be his friend.  Be his fan. Be his lover.  Correct with gentleness. Respect him. Help him pick out the best tie for his outfit. Watch sports with him. Let him unwind.  Go to the movie he wants to see every once in a while. Help him in ministry. Make home a haven, a place he wants to be. Help him succeed. Make him laugh. Laugh with him.

Even though I work full-time.

Even though I have Lupus and am tired so much of the time.

Even though I want to be served.

Even though I hate ironing.

Even though I have a headache.

I am not a feminist. I am also not June Cleaver.  I am not his maid, his life coach, his cook, or his mistress… I am everything put together in one big ball of woman. I am his most valuable team mate. I am his wife, and what I do for him honors God and comes back to me ten-fold, because he is my helpmate too.

I am not perfect, and I fail just as much as I succeed.  I just know that when I take good care of my  husband, he takes very good care of me… and it’s wonderful.

Did I mention the snap-crotch nightie?

It is so hard to fight with your husband when he’s a pastor.

We have arguments just like the next couple… maybe more, in fact…  because we work together too.  Some people think it’s so great that we get to spend all day together, and then go home together as well.  Maybe it is great sometimes.  You know, those times when no one in the church is dissatisfied with your husband, when your offerings are adequate enough for payroll and bills, when no one is complaining about the worship pastor, when you haven’t accidentally offended someone, or when you disagree wildly with something that’s been decided by the elders.   Yeah, it’s great then.  Those of you in the ministry know just how often that is.

So, maybe I should rephrase.  It’s not hard to fight with your husband if he’s a pastor.  Fighting is the easy part.  It’s hard to fight with your husband when he’s a pastor because that leaves you virtually no one to talk to.  I can’t vent or get a girlfriend’s confirmation about what a jerk he’s being because I’m afraid it will change their perception of him as their pastor.

I know, I know.  I should have friends outside of the church… maybe even another pastor’s wife, because she would surely understand.  Believe me, I’ve tried reaching out, with no success.  Maybe it’s because we’re so busy. Maybe it’s because there is an idiotic sense of competition between the churches in our small town (which I hate!).  Maybe it’s because we’re concerned with what it would look like to call our husband a butt-head (or a few more colorful words) to another PW with a seemingly perfect life.  Whatever the reason, I don’t have a close friend to go to for perspective on who’s being the jerk when my husband and I have an argument.

We fought yesterday evening about a tough situation that we see very differently.  No one’s opinion is going to change.  We just disagree and last night, it exploded all over us, even though we were both trying to be rational.  Our words were chosen carefully, but they still cut.  I cried a lot and he went to sleep with no real resolution.  Today, he’s acting as if nothing happened and I can’t think of a thing to say.

I really wanted someone to talk to… but there are some things you just don’t risk with friends in the congregation.  So guess what?  I’m talking to you, my virtual friend!  Thanks for listening, and thanks for your sympathy; I am imagining that you landed firmly on my side after you heard all the details and I can feel your warm cyberspace hug as I type this. 

So yesterday at church, I see a lady I haven’t talked to in a while.  I’d heard she was divorcing and wondered how she was doing so I caught her after service, put my arm around her, and asked if she wanted to talk.  She immediately started crying and nodded so we sat down.

She told me what had been going on, how miserable she was, how upset the kids were.  We talked back and forth a bit as I tried to encourage her to hang in there.  She had a “but” for everything I said and just as I was about to end the conversation by asking if I could pray for her, these other words that I hadn’t even been thinking of burst out of my mouth:  “Are you involved with anyone else?”

She hesitated.

I asked ”Emotionally?”

She nodded.

We talked about how it was coloring her desire for divorce from a husband who definitely had some faults, but said he loved her and didn’t want to separate.  Then we talked about the fact that even though the grass looked greener on the other side of the fence, it was most likely astroturf.

I don’t know where those words came from that sprouted from my mouth (yes I do), but I do know it opened up a whole ‘nother view of how things really were.  I have been praying for years that the Holy Spirit would speak through me… help me when I had no idea what to say… so why am I always surprised when He does?

I used to love being on a stage.  In high school, I starred in a few productions, and had smaller roles in a whole lot more.  I was in an improv group and loved every minute of it.  I acted in community theatre productions and once stole the show as a french maid named Fifi in a melodrama called “Love Rides the Rails,” where I sat on the lap of the mayor of Sugar Land, dusted his bald head, and then left a bright red lip print.  I got a rave review in the small-town paper from the local critic.  There was something wonderful about stepping into someone else’s shoes and learning the lines that showed the character’s heart and thought process. Sometimes I miss that stage.

I’m on another stage now and am conscious of it frequently.  People watch the pastor’s family.  I can best describe it as the dread of being on stage when I don’t know my lines.  We came to full-time ministry in our 30′s and it certainly wasn’t in my life plan.  I don’t always know what to say.  I have felt the pressure of holding back something hilariously funny (and quite possibly innappropriate) because I’m the PW… and I’ve felt the pressure to say something brilliant and spiritually dripping with comfort when frankly, I’ve got nothin’.

Ministry isn’t easy, especially when I feel like that trio of gossipy ladies that sit together in the fifth row each Sunday morning are just waiting for something to criticize… whether it’s what I wear or how I flip my hair. (Let it be stated that I am from the South and hair flipping is inborn, it cannot be helped.)

I have picked up a few strategies this past six years.  I have learned to rely on the Holy Spirit to put words in my mouth when something needs to be said and to shut my mouth when it doesn’t.  I’ve learned to pray in the middle of a conversation with someone; sending out one of those three word prayers that I shoot up to heaven with a slingshot: “Help me, God!”  I’ve learned that sometimes you feed people, and sometimes you just hold them.  Sometimes, you ignore what’s coming out of their mouth, and sometimes you have to say hard things.

I have to keep reminding myself that people may be watching, but the only One I need to be concerned with is watching from above and is the most gentle critic around.

Missing you is just a part of living
Missing you feels like a way of life
I’m living out the life that I’ve been given
But baby, I still wish you were mine.
- Amy Grant

What would our life have been like with three boys in the house instead of two?  I wonder that a lot, especially on October 13th, the day you were born.  I think I remember all six and-a-half pounds of you: quiet and so precious, with your dark hair and ears like your daddy’s.  With your sweet face and your still heart.  I only knew you inside of me… but I love you like you were with me from twenty-four years ago until today.

Yours will be the first face (after Jesus, of course) that I seek out when I enter my new life.  I cannot wait for that embrace.  One thing your Uncle David said to me after your funeral was that I would never have to explain to you why I aborted you… and by the grace of God, I didn’t.  As young and afraid as we were, we kept you, prepared for you, and grew so excited.  And I’m so glad we did, even though heartbreak came with your birth.

But just as one looks forward to spring after a hard winter, heartbreak gives way to anticipation- for better days ahead, for hugs that never were, and “I love you’s” that were never said face to face.  I can’t wait to look in your eyes and say, “I love you.”  Or touch your face… and see bits of your father and me.  And take a step back… and wonder at how tall and handsome you are.

To happier days ahead, longed for with anticipation.  Happy birthday, Paden.  Oh, how I love you.

I always thought this song by R.E.M. was about someone turning away from God.  Then I listened to the lyrics I was singing along to…and discovered that wasn’t it at all and in fact, I tend to “lose my religion” and get angry at silly things on a regular basis. 

I lost my religion today with a waiter. You know, the disappearing waiter.  The one who comes right away to take your order and bring your drinks with a big smile.  He looks so promising.  Then he just doesn’t come back.  Not even when the people in another waiter’s section who arrived twenty minutes after you have already received their food and are working on dessert.  You know… that waiter. 

The one who breezes by your table and, when stopped to ask when your food will be out after you’ve been waiting for 35 minutes, gets testy and says, “It is being prepared,” and you have a sinking feeling that it’s been sitting under a warming lamp for half an hour while he took his smoking break and your sandwich will now have a spitefully placed chest hair plucked fresh from his roommate who’s working the grill.  Remember him? 

The guy who finally brings your food and then doesn’t come back to refill your first Coke or check to see if everything is ok, forcing you to choke down your lunch sans liquid?  And then he only appears with an annoyed expression on his face after you’ve asked another waiter to track him down so you can get a refill and swallow your food? The one who made your fellow diners feel uncomfortable because I was gazing longingly at their drinks?  Yeah, that one. 

My husband got an earfull from me… but wouldn’t say anything to the manager about our service or the rudeness of our waiter.  His repeated words were, “Ang, chill out!”. 

So how did I lose my religion with him?  With a spray of angry, unchristian words?  A nasty note to the manager?  Trashing their restroom? 

Nope.  I only tipped him 10%. 

Can anyone say BURN?!?!  Didn’t think so. 

And that is why I had to come home and write about it.