tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4881987884206046962024-03-12T22:00:24.529-05:00Cari KaufmanSpeaker. Author. Everyday Woman.Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-66870102291773402142011-03-21T21:41:00.000-05:002011-03-21T21:41:22.968-05:00Long time...no postSo it's been quite a while since I've posted here, mostly because three blogs is just simply too much! So I have been doing most of my posting over at <a href="http://www.stringsattachedministries.com/">www.stringsattachedministries.com </a>...if you want to know what I'm up to lately...you should check out that site. <br />
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Doesn't mean I won't show a little love over here now and then, but for the most part, I'm setting up camp over on the ministry side of the house. Why don't you come visit?Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-40476021333190417242010-12-20T08:47:00.000-06:002010-12-20T08:47:13.997-06:00Be Joy<center><a href="http://sarahmarkley.com/"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_lCeOMfY0_fQ/TPFxBRk-QpI/AAAAAAAAErI/i8jsUXzpfIg/s200/100joys.jpg" /></a></center><br />
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Today, in my morning time with Jesus I received what felt like the most peculiar direction. <br />
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<b><i>BE JOY.</i></b><br />
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<i>Huh, God? How do I do that? How do I be joy?</i><br />
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<i><b>There is no DO....there is BE. BE joy to the world today, Cari.</b></i><br />
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Ok, ok...I know what you're thinking....yes, in my head, God sounds like Yoda. I think he's ok with that. I also think Yoda is the perfect metaphor for my big-power-speaks-softly-but-carries-a-big-stick kind of God, but that is a whole other blog post. <br />
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In this 100 joys series, we are all discussing things that bring us joy, looking for joy in our everyday lives, but what about BEING joy. What does that look like?<br />
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What is joy exactly? Webster's dictionary defines it as a state of happiness or felicity or a source or cause of delight. Which honestly didn't answer any questions for me. So I asked God. What is joy....and a list of words came slamming into me...I can't fully recall them all, but here's a start:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><i>Gratitude</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><i>Love</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><i>Compassion</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><i>Worry-free</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><i>Light</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><i>Unity</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><i>Harmony</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><i>Peace</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><i>Stillness</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red; font-size: large;"><b><i>Presence</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><b><i><br />
</i></b></span></div>The list continued to run through my mind for over a minute. A barrage of words that summed up the meaning of joy. So today my challenge is to LIVE these words. To become the physical embodiment of these words in the world. My challenge is not to look for joy, or recognize joy or even to DO joy. Today my challenge is to <b style="font-style: italic;">BE JOY. </b> Will you join me?<br />
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<i>In the spirit of sharing Christmas joy, I would love for you to share a comment with me. One lucky commenter will receive a copy of my book, Living Life with Strings Attached as a gift. Comment by midnight on December 24 to win. </i><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;"><i><b>What words mean joy to you?</b></i></span></div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-50478161940043426332010-12-07T00:11:00.000-06:002010-12-07T00:11:10.661-06:00Joy on the Team<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://sarahmarkley.com/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img height="200" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_lCeOMfY0_fQ/TPFxBRk-QpI/AAAAAAAAErI/i8jsUXzpfIg/s200/100joys.jpg" width="200" /> </a></div><br />
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Great Joy comes with great relationships! Thank you Jesus for creating us in your image...as relational beings. Being with friends and family...working together as a team, these are things that bring me joy...and lately, I've had lots of opportunities for that.<br />
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My sisters in Christ bring me great joy. They are great allies on this battlefield we call life. These are some of the photos from our November Princess Retreat. This retreat is always so near my heart because, while I lead it, these women KNOW me. They are my sisters, they hold me accountable and love me...and I love them...They are my team. <br />
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IBC Princesses are some of the finest women in the world! I am blessed and honored to be a part of them!<br />
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Speaking God's love, sharing his message brings me great joy. It's in these moments, I glimpse what I was created for.<br />
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Sharing God's love through prayer is a sweet joy. <br />
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But the purest joy of all is spending time with these crazies! What precious rays of sunshine my family are! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/TP3L7hyXJJI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/-VVg73QaBYs/s1600/IMG_1209.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/TP3L7hyXJJI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/-VVg73QaBYs/s400/IMG_1209.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-68686044140694587662010-12-06T09:00:00.007-06:002010-12-06T09:00:05.572-06:00Book Review- Inspired Design<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.christianspeakerservices.com/blogtour/InspiredDesign-cover_140.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.christianspeakerservices.com/blogtour/InspiredDesign-cover_140.gif" width="153" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span></strong></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><strong><strong><em>Inspired Design</em> by Roxanne Hughes Packham and Hannah Packham (Inspired Designs Publications, 2010)</strong></strong></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><strong>Drawing from the highly-published designs she's created for hundreds of clients, Packham will inspire you to create a home that touches the souls of those within. Amid Stunning photography, stories of treasured family traditions and poignant observations by 16 year old daughter Hannah, she shares ideas that will help you create beauty, warmth and passion in your home, and make it an inspired design. "Do not underestimate the power of your home, nor its ability to change lives," writes designer Roxanne Hughes Packham. "A cup of hot tea and an hour in a cozy nook spent listening to a friend can be life-altering. "Sending well-loved, cared for children into the world to contribute to our society in positive meaningful ways is one of the most significant contributions, if not the most significant contribution, you will ever make, and your home is a major part of this endeavor.</strong></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><strong>Even better than the beautiful photos, 100% of the profits of this book go to charity: Heart of Hope, Local Food Pantry, Inspired 31 and more. <strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span></strong></strong></div><div style="display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><strong><strong>Written by Granddaughter of Allan Adler, noted American silversmith, and Great Granddaughter of Porter George Blanchard, also known as "silversmith to the stars", Packham's history and knowledge of silver and flair for table settings prove to be a winning combo. Ideas for Sentimental Parties, and occasions for teenage girls, and mothers & others, Celebrating friends & friendship. Inspirational for incorporating family history, talents, and passions into the design of the family home.</strong></strong></div><br />
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</strong></div><div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><strong>Why did you write <em>Inspired Design</em> with your daughter?</strong></div><div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">My grandfather (Silversmith Allan Adler) passed this love of design to me, so it just seemed a natural, alongside a book about the design and subsequent use of our homes, infused with family heritage that my daughter who lives along side me take a large part the powerful subject of "the home". I also wanted to create a place where we could initiate, create, and complete a project where my daughter, Hannah, could learn along side me both the practical and the ethical implications of a project this size, where all the profits go to a charity that is dear to our hearts, Heart of Hope Ministries, Intl. I wanted show her an example of using our talents and gifts for the enjoyment of others, while benefiting others, not ourselves. It wasn't to be pious, but just a fun way to give back and truly make a difference while doing something together that we loved!</div><div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><strong>What is <em>Inspired Design</em>?</strong></div><div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">A book about three aspects of the home and how it's power to touch the souls of those within. Those three aspects are Designing for warmth and beauty to nurture others, meaningful touches and gestures to celebrate and honor your loved ones on special occasions and ordinary days, and lastly that it is not what we have or do not have that blesses others, and changes lives, but how we use what we have. It is about incorporating YOUR family heritage, and your unique gifts, into making a beautiful, family home.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><strong>I know that a mother-daughter ministry, "Inspired 31", has begun along side of <em>Inspired Design</em>, why do you think it has resonated so powerfully?</strong></div><div style="font-size: 13px;">Especially in this economic climate so many women are more resolute than ever that their families are the most important thing in their lives and their daughters, or close friends, should be celebrated and cherished. Without exception our gatherings (3 so far, in it's first 3 months) have attracted hundreds of mother/daughter/sister/friend combinations wanting to come, for 2 hours, and celebrate what is good, pure, worthy of praise especially each other. Inspired 31's mission is to teach girls (and now even woman of all ages) to find and follow God's unique path for their lives. We have inspiring speakers, and a wonderful positive/uplifting program. We have people inquiring about beginning a chapter in their area, in many cities.</div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><strong>Where can we purchase a copy of <em>Inspired Design</em>? Also, we heard this book is helping orphans and teenage girls as well.</strong></div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><strong><em>Inspired Design</em></strong> makes a perfect gift with so many ideas for making Christmas, or any holiday, more special with all kinds of thoughtful little details.</div><div style="font-size: 13px;">100% of the profits go to Heart of Hope, which benefits orphans in Romania, and Inspired 31, a Mother-teenage girl ministry. With each purchase you are helping all kinds of different children.</div><div style="font-size: 13px;">Please visit my web site at <a href="http://inspireddesignpublications.com/" style="color: #642200; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; text-decoration: none;">http://inspireddesignpublications.com/</a>.</div><hr style="font-size: 13px;" /><b><br />
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</i></b></div><div class="style220" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: bold;">About the Authors</div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><strong>Roxanne Hughes Packham</strong> is an acclaimed interior designer whose classic designs grace hundreds of California homes from San Francisco to San Diego. She comes from a long line of gifted artisans, including world-renowned silversmiths Allan Adler (her grandfather) and Porter Blanchard (her great-grandfather). Roxanne is a graduate of the University of Southern California and Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising, Los Angeles; she studied design at Paris Fashion Institute and the Sorbonne. Her work has been featured in numerous design publications, including Life: Beautiful, California Homes, Dream Homes of Coastal California, Kitchen Style & Design, Dream Log Homes, Westlake Malibu Lifestyle, Kitchen Ideas That Work, Bath Ideas That Work, The Smart Approach to Kitchen Design, The Smart Approach to Bath Design, The Color Idea Book, The Window Treatment Idea Book, and more. She makes her home in Southern California, with her husband Scott, and their children, Hannah and Justin.</div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><strong>Hannah Packham</strong> is continuing her family’s long tradition of design excellence. Last summer, Hannah studied design at the University of Southern California. Hannah is a top scholar, and has been named to the Headmaster & Deans List at Oaks Christian High School, where she is currently a student. She was selected to represent OCHS as a member of the “Lion’s Voice,” a school-selected tour guide program. She is also a varsity athlete in pole-vaulting and studied pole-vaulting at the University of California Los Angeles during the summer 2009. Her interests include Classical ballet dancing, skiing and modern dance. She has made mission trips to Costa Rica (2009) and Romania (2010). She has been selected to participate in Rotary Leadership Conference 2010.</div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><strong><br />
</strong></div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><strong>Mark Lohman</strong> is a southern California-based photographer whose specialties include interior, garden and architectural photography. His distinctive photographs have appeared in numerous design and architectural publications, including Veranda, Architectural Record, Luxe, Coastal Living, House Beautiful, California Homes, and many more. Mark is a graduate of the University of Southern California and Brooks Photography Institute.</div><div style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
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</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">A complimentary copy of this book was provided to me as a blog tour host by Inspired Design Publications in exchange for posting this interview on my blog. Please visit Christian Speaker Services at <a href="http://www.christianspeakerservices.com/" style="color: #642200; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; text-decoration: none;">www.ChristianSpeakerServices.com</a> for more information about blog tour management services.</span></i></span></div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-77647158722546972172010-12-03T09:06:00.000-06:002010-12-03T09:06:10.126-06:00Guest Post- Going Fast<div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"><i>My fellow blogging sister, Sarah Markley at T<a href="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/">he Best Days of My Life</a> is starting a series called <a href="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/2010/11/one-hundred-joys/">100 Joys.</a> I love this series...her challenge: in the month of December, choose Joy, and then write about it. Every Monday we'll link up and share with one another. I love the idea, and already find myself loving the posts...but this one in particular spoke to me today. There is something joyful about the wind in your hair, zooming through life fast...and yet sometimes fast can be scary, or overwhelming or just plain too much. God is calling me to slow down and quiet...to <a href="http://stringsattachedministries.wordpress.com/2010/12/02/upgrade-your-spirit-fashioning-our-own-desert/">solitude</a>, but I like fast! This post really spoke to me, I hope that it will to you as well. I will be linking up with posts on Joy...won't you join us?</i></div><br />
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I’m lacing up shoes that need to see miles and hiding cold hands inside the sleeves of a sweatshirt. And running. I’m not racing for speed or checking off boxes on a to-do list. But I’m running because that’s me. And I’ve lost some of me over the past few years.</div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/2010/12/going-fast/joy11/" rel="attachment wp-att-4552" style="color: #176093; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="aligncenter size-large wp-image-4552" height="320" src="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/joy111-600x400.jpg" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px;" title="joy11" width="480" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Here I am again. In my athletic shoes. Waiting to go fast.</div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">One or two days a week <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>I watch my oldest daughter ride a horse</strong></span>. She’s strong and sure and she’s already fast. Already, at roller-coaster-loving eight-years-old, she’s fast. It’s the speed, I think, that she likes. {12}</div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/2010/12/going-fast/joy12/" rel="attachment wp-att-4553" style="color: #176093; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="aligncenter size-large wp-image-4553" height="320" src="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/joy12-600x400.jpg" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px;" title="joy12" width="480" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">And she pauses in the corner of the arena, for a minute, between speed bursts and pats his neck.</div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;"><em>You’re doing great</em>, she whispers to him. And I think what she means is <em>Thank you for being you</em>. <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>It satisfies me that she’s doing something she loves</strong></span>. And she’s doing it well. Sometimes I don’t take the time to “be proud” of her. But this afternoon I do. I watch. I listen. And I love her by thinking about the WHO of her. {13}</div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/2010/12/going-fast/joy13/" rel="attachment wp-att-4554" style="color: #176093; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="aligncenter size-large wp-image-4554" height="320" src="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/joy13-600x400.jpg" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px;" title="joy13" width="480" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">I called Chad on the phone in the middle of the day.</div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">“The stress is literally strangling me, ” I said to him.</div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">“What can I do to help?” is usually not what he asks but this time it was different.</div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">I just let out a long sigh. There was no joy in this kind of fast. If I can only get the rhythm down between moving too fast or not fast enough then things might. just. work. I’m moving too fast, I felt. The list is getting longer and not shorter, I now have to swipe the page down to see all of it.</div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/2010/12/going-fast/joy14/" rel="attachment wp-att-4555" style="color: #176093; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="aligncenter size-large wp-image-4555" height="480" src="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/joy14-448x600.jpg" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px;" title="joy14" width="358" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">So I take a couple or three hours in the morning while the girls are at school, with my laptop and Jack Johnson in my ears and <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>sitting with a cup</strong></span>. {14}</div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Quiet.</div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">Still.</div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/2010/12/going-fast/joy15/" rel="attachment wp-att-4556" style="color: #176093; text-decoration: underline;"><img alt="" class="aligncenter size-large wp-image-4556" height="480" src="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/joy15-400x600.jpg" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px;" title="joy15" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px;">I’m allowing the slowness of life to refill me and not the stress to fix its hands around my neck. <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><strong>Finding the slow</strong></span> in a busy month {busier than I would have ever chosen} is helping my attitude. It’s beginning to help me see what is important. These joys, so far, are changing me. {15}</div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><strong><em>Have you been changed by JOY?</em></strong></div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><strong><em><a href="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/2010/12/going-fast/100joys-4/" rel="attachment wp-att-4561" style="text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="alignright size-thumbnail wp-image-4561" height="90" src="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/100joys2-150x150.jpg" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; float: right; padding-bottom: 10px; padding-left: 10px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center;" title="100joys" width="90" /></a></em></strong></div><div style="font-family: 'Lucida Sans', Tahoma, Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 14px; text-align: right;"><strong>This a post in the <a href="http://www.sarahmarkley.com/2010/11/one-hundred-joys/" style="color: #176093; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">100 Joys project</a> we are doing this month. Get ready to link up your posts on Monday and get the badge in my sidebar. Look for joy. Find it beneath your fingers.</strong></div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-89028494512988279432010-12-01T14:46:00.000-06:002010-12-01T14:46:55.044-06:00Guest Post- Ellie and the Weeds<div style="border: solid #F4F4F4 1.0pt; margin-left: 14.05pt; margin-right: 0in; mso-border-alt: solid #F4F4F4 .25pt; padding: 0in 0in 0in 0in;"> <h3 style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; margin-bottom: 13.15pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; padding-bottom: 0in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 23px;">It was hotter than it should have been for that day as my daughter and I were evaluating the state of our lawn. We walked hand in hand, barefoot in the tall grass, and I bent down to pull up a weed. Ellie looked at me with an expression of outrage that belied her age.</span></h3></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Mommy, why you pull that up?”</span></em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Because it’s a weed, honey.”</span></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">My fingers reached over and over again into the warm earth as my thoughts drifted elsewhere. I thought about what I was going to make for dinner, what time I needed to wake up the baby, where my lost car keys could have gone, and many other seemingly important questions. I felt a tug at the back of my shirt and shifted my focus.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Hi, Ellie. What do you need, honey?”</span></em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><b><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“What’s a weed?”</span></b></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">The curious blue eyes were searching me, waiting for an answer that would clarify why mommy was tearing up the yard that daddy had been working so hard on this summer.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Oh baby, a weed is not a good thing. It is going to try and kill all of our grass.”</span></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">I tried to read her face to see if this explanation satisfied her. I imagined it would; at the tender age of three and a half, she had already become my rule-enforcer, my child of justice, the one who always pointed out the color of upcoming traffic lights as we drove and corrected children on the playground for using “potty talk.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Her eyes widened and she crouched down, eye to eye with the killer weeds. An air of righteousness overtook her, as she said in her sternest voice,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Oh dear. You are trying to kill grass. Naughty, naughty.”</span></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">She tipped her chin back to look at me, the sun flooding her face, and she smiled the smile that meant,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em><span style="font-family: Georgia;">“I took care of it.”</span></em><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I patted her fiery red head.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Thanks Ellie. Now run along and play.”</span></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">I watched as she dusted the dirt cautiously from her knees and shifted her hair out of her face. As she started walking towards her twin sister, she announced,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><strong><i><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Abby, those weeds are trying to kill something. We gotta get ‘em.”</span></i></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Abby, more similar to Ellie in looks than moral reasoning, turned briefly and gave a supportive horrified look to show Ellie she had heard the news. Then she went back to drinking water from the sprinkler while doing what looked to be a choreographed frenzy of joy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">The next day, Ellie approached me while I was sitting in the yard, watching the sun set in the trees behind out house. My heart was heavy with the gravity of daily life, and as she always did, Ellie sensed that something was not right.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Mommy, why you feeling that?”</span></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Her choice of words took me off guard; I myself unable to identify the “that” in what I was feeling. Her tiny, sweaty hand ran along my arm and I looked into a deep place in her, replying gently,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Today mommy is feeling kind of down. It‘s alright, mommy is ok. Just thinking about things.”</span></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">I didn’t want her to feel my burden, so instead of letting my thoughts get the better of me, I began to tickle her and roll her around in the hot grass. A look of shock came over her and I pulled my arms back, trying to imagine what could have upset her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Baby, are you ok? Did mommy hurt you?”</span></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Her eyes were looking over my head and I tried to follow her gaze.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“No. I think I see a wicked. I gonna get it.”</span></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></i></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Arms on hips, she walked a few steps from where we were, her tiny sneakers carving a path of determination. She lowered her body deliberately and pointed at a weed that was towering over the grass.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Look.”</span></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">She turned to see what effect her discovery would have on me. Assured that I had seen the problem, she clarified her concern.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><b><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Is that a wicked or a grass?”</span></b></em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Where she heard the word wicked in reference to a weed, I don’t know, but I do know that there was great importance in the elimination of the correct green species in our yard. God forbid she should pull up a piece of healthy grass!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">What a funny little girl, I thought, and then I realized something . To the three year old eye, and maybe even to the thirty year old eye, weeds and grass look very similar. Same color, same feeling, same texture.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">In fact, I realized that the “wicked” and the grass were only discernibly different to me because I had seen them for enough years to know the difference. I looked down into red cheeks and pursed lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><b><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“That’s a weed.”</span></b></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">She gave a nod of supportive confirmation and turned toward the little green enemy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Hmm. You tryin’ to kill something?”</span></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">She interrogated the weed, either out of a sense of power over it or a sense of unease about what was to come next. She looked at me one more time, waiting for me to tell her, as I do several times each day, that this was not a good choice. My silence must have been translated as permission, and she reached, gently, to touch the weed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">But instead of pulling the whole thing out, she touched the tiny leaves of the “wicked,” and pulled it just enough to remove a sliver. She discarded it quickly and reached in for more. I watched as she did this several times, not at all put out by the fact that she appeared to be doing very little to stop the killer weeds that were threatening our grass as we knew it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">It was at this moment, as I sat beside her in the grass, that<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><strong><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I realized God was teaching me more than proper lawn care.</span></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I thought about how many times, even in a day, I reach to pull the “wicked” one leaf at a time, and all the while it is growing bigger and stronger all around me. I am seasoned enough in my walk to identify the weeds in my life, and much too tentative at removing them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">I sat and stared at my Ellie, so much like her mommy in so many ways, as she delicately plucked leaf from leaf. I wanted her to learn more from the moment, as I had, and so I put my fingers around hers, noticing that we both had dirt under our fingernails. I moved her hands away and took firm grip on the base of the weed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><em><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“Here, let me show you.”</span></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">I jiggled it as I went to make sure the root came up as well. Side to side, delicately at first, and then when I sensed it would come up in one whole piece, I tugged it out in one quick motion.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Ellie marveled at the long roots dangling down and the gap left in our ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><strong><i><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">"See how mommy got the whole thing? You want me to help you learn?”</span></i></strong><span class="apple-converted-space"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">She nodded and I pointed to another weed a few feet away. She rose confidently and approached the “wicked” with a new realization: I know your secret.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">We spend the next hour walking side by side, saying very little, rejoicing in the holes that were cropping up all over daddy’s lawn. For both of us, there was a sense that they were a small price to pay for the greater good.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">We both got better as we went along, learning the way different weeds come up out of the dirt. Some are long and skinny, and those just take one good pull. Others are leafy and the roots are stubborn.. Sometimes you have to dig all around it and tug gently. We became a great team.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">As the waning sun looked down on us that Thursday night, I learned something about the boldness we should claim in approaching our sin.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><em><span style="font-family: Georgia;">We kneel, we face it eye to eye, we clarify that it is not of our Lord, and then, in utter confidence, we grasp it by its strongest point and destroy it. We don’t have to do it alone, and we don’t have to do it in fear.</span></em><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><strong><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">We are tended to by the great Gardener Himself, whose deepest longings are met as we walk in the joy of gaping holes that He can pour Himself into and raise anew.</span></strong><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">I pray that you learn to be bold with the sins you face in your life, not as one who fears the gardening, but as one whose desire to be holy, blameless and pure as they sense their Father beckoning them through the grass.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="color: #6c1074;">by <a href="http://audreycaroline.blogspot.com/">Angie Smith, Bring the Rain</a></span><span style="color: #6c1074; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><br />
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 17.55pt; margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt;"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Cari/Documents/Musings%20and%20Stories/Guest%20Post-%20Ellie%20and%20the%20Weeds.doc"><span style="color: #6c1074;">Subscribe by Email</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.55pt;"><span style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt;"><a href="http://addthis.com/bookmark.php?v=250&username=jlane03"><span style="color: #6c1074;">Share</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.55pt;"><span style="color: #4c4c4c; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1026"
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o:href="http://cache.dayspring.com/external/incourage/bios/angiesmith.jpg"/> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div><h5 style="margin-bottom: 3.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.3pt;"><i><span style="color: #1f9aa5; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 10.5pt; font-weight: normal;">About the Author<o:p></o:p></span></i></h5><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 14.05pt;"><b><i><span style="color: #707070; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 9.5pt;">Angie</span></i></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><i><span style="color: #707070; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 9.5pt;"> </span></i></span><i><span style="color: #707070; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 9.5pt;">is the proud wife of Todd Smith of Selah, and the blessed mommy to Abby and Ellie (6), Kate (3), and Audrey Caroline, who passed away the day she was born...</span></i><span style="color: #707070; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><h1 style="margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span style="color: #707070; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 9.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.incourage.me/about.html"><span style="color: #6c1074;">Full Bio</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></h1><h1 style="margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span style="color: #707070; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 9.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://audreycaroline.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6c1074;">Visit Her Site</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></h1><h1 style="margin-bottom: 8.8pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 8.8pt;"><span style="color: #707070; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 9.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://twitter.com/angelac519" target="_new"><span style="color: #6c1074;">Follow on Twitter</span></a><o:p></o:p></span></h1><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-33800294702802237182010-11-19T11:55:00.000-06:002010-11-19T11:55:52.244-06:00I Dare You to Move....<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I dare you to move<o:p></o:p></span></i></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I dare you to move<o:p></o:p></span></i></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor<o:p></o:p></span></i></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I dare you to move<o:p></o:p></span></i></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I dare you to move<o:p></o:p></span></i></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Like today never happened<o:p></o:p></span></i></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Today never happened<o:p></o:p></span></i></pre><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">I was on my way to work this morning and I heard this song by Switchfoot that I have heard a million times on<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my very favorite Christian radio station, <a href="http://klrc.com/home.asp">KLRC</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a musician and poet at heart, so I listen to the lyrics of things. Take them apart in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I don’t know why, but I have always heard this song in a different way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I always heard the first three lines:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I dare you to move<o:p></o:p></span></i></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I dare you to move<o:p></o:p></span></i></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor<o:p></o:p></span></i></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";">And in my head created this anthem about continuing to move forward in this lost and dying world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I never really soaked in those last three lines and what they might mean for me as I walk this world.<o:p></o:p></span></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I dare you to move<o:p></o:p></span></i></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I dare you to move<o:p></o:p></span></i></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Like today never happened<o:p></o:p></span></i></pre><pre style="line-height: 13.1pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Century Gothic"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Today never happened</span></i><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></pre><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">What would that look like? If I moved like today never happened before?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who would I be like? If I woke up each morning and greeted the day with the excitement and anticipation of a truly extraordinary beginning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How would that feel?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Who would I show up as if I believed that the slate was wiped clean every morning? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I was free from all the hurt and unforgiveness in my heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Free from all the sin and shame that burdens my thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I greeted each moment, each person as if they were a brand-new-never-before-seen-or-heard-or-felt experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How would that change my world?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">The truth is that God wants us to live life this way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wipes the slate clean whenever we ask….but do we?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t let go, forgive, walk away from the past hurts and shame, but instead carry it with us into every experience and interaction that we have each day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Today, I dare you to move. Experience the wonder and fullness and amazing abundance of God’s grace and beauty in this world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See the world with new eyes, hear with new ears, and drink in the immense creation God’s given us. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>I dare you to move like today never happened before.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;"><i><b>What would your world be like if you moved like today never happened before? Who would you be?</b></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><i><b> </b></i> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-31664627789158850372010-10-24T21:00:00.001-05:002010-10-24T21:00:02.372-05:00Guest Post- We Aren't Islands<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tapeka.com/images/Bay_of_Islands_Aerial_View_to_Cape_Brett.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.tapeka.com/images/Bay_of_Islands_Aerial_View_to_Cape_Brett.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10.5pt;">Many of us long to live in a world where we shouldn’t have to do anything for anyone else. We set the course for our own lives; we decide what paths we will take; and nobody should have the power to derail our dreams. Freedom is our rallying cry!<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
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What I can’t figure out, though, is why freedom is so great. So many of us are so busy proclaiming our autonomy, saying “you can’t make me do this,” that I wonder if we’ve ever stopped to question whether being beholden to someone is actually such a bad thing.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
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Modern day feminists, for instance, cry that no man should be able to tell a woman what to do, and that no woman should twist herself in knots to get or keep a man. Instead, she should seek to fulfill her dreams, and any guy who wants to tag along had better adapt.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
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Yet speaking as a woman who is greatly in love with a certain man, I have to wonder why it’s so bad to want to please him? What’s wrong with wanting to make the house nice for him to come home to after he’s been on call for thirty-six hours straight and he’s exhausted? What’s wrong with doing his laundry? After all, he gives great foot massages, and he contributes more of the income! But even if he didn’t, isn’t it nice, sometimes, to have someone to fuss over?<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
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I don’t do these things because I have to; I do them because I want to. I know some would call me an oppressed wife, but I don’t think those people have ever really experienced the joy of a give-and-take relationship. Besides, he cleans off the car for me, takes out the garbage, and figures out how my Bluetooth device works. It’s a two-way street.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
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It’s not only feminists telling women that they should never change for men, though; a new cohort of young men has concluded that they don’t need relationships, either. One night stands might be fine, but commitment is out of the picture. In fact, one man in a very open relationship once reported to me that he was as happy as he could imagine; neither of them made any demands on the other, and because of that the relationship was perfect.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
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Five years later that relationship is long gone, and I often wonder if ultimately they would have been happier if they had made demands on each other—demands that they stay faithful, do things together, be nice to one another, forge a life together instead of just side by side.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
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When we focus our lives solely on what we want life becomes rather shallow and awfully erratic. We can never achieve real intimacy with anybody, whether friend or significant other, for when we don’t make or accept demands, nothing can be permanent. And if nothing is permanent, we can’t be vulnerable. We can’t really open up. Sure, you may be able to pursue surface things, but what about our deepest needs to be accepted, loved, affirmed, and cherished? Without vulnerability and transparency, which can only come when we do make demands on each other, real intimacy can’t be achieved.<br />
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Loving someone isn’t a burden; it’s a privilege. Sometimes we should do things we don’t really want to do. Sometimes we should let someone else set the course. True love, after all, whether it’s with a sibling, a spouse, a child, or a friend, is so much better than autonomy. And, in the end, it’s far less lonely.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
</span><i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">Sheila Wray Gregoire</span></i><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">is the author of four books, including</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></span><b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">To Love, Honor and Vacuum: When you feel more like a maid than a wife and a mother</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">. She blogs at <a href="http://tolovehonorandvacuum.blogspot.com/" target="_new"><span style="color: #1900ff; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">http://tolovehonorandvacuum.blogspot.com</span></a> and has a great newsletter called Reality Check.</span><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
</span><em><b><span style="color: #663366; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">Don't miss a Reality Check!</span></b></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><i><span style="color: #663366; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></i></b></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10.5pt;"><a href="http://sheilawraygregoire.com/columnsignupc37.php"><em><b><span style="color: #663366; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">Sign up</span></b></em><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><i><span style="color: #663366; font-size: 10pt;"> </span></i></b></span></a></span></span><em><b><span style="color: #663366; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">to receive it FREE in your inbox every week!</span></b></em><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> </span>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-44883239732151117962010-10-22T09:33:00.001-05:002010-10-22T09:33:00.758-05:00The Truth About Elvis<i>I wrote this several years ago, but it's still one of my favorite quirky stories about myself...Note to self: remember to add this to my quirky facts list. I wish I could say it's a made up story, but it's not...what can I say? I was a creative kid.</i><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">When I was eight, I married Elvis. No, not the singer... but he did come complete with the black leather jacket, slicked back hair and chops. He even smoked at the tender age of ten and a half. He was so very cool. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">We were married in a simple ceremony on the back fire escape of the Episcopal Church on </span><st1:street><st1:address><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Morningside Drive</span></st1:address></st1:street><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> in </span><st1:place><st1:city><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Hopkinsville</span></st1:city><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">, </span><st1:state><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">KY.</span></st1:state></st1:place><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> It was a beautiful fall day; the leaves had just started to turn fiery red and amber gold. He wore his best leather jacket (it had zippers every where) and his good jeans, the one's without the holes in them. I wore my Easter dress and my white patent leather shoes. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">I had a fourth grader help me with the marriage license. It seemed only proper to have a marriage license to make the whole thing legal; after all, this was the man of my dreams, and the one I would live with for the rest of my life....after I graduated from elementary school, of course. I was pretty sure one wasn't allowed to buy a house of one's own until you were at least in junior high. We hand wrote the marriage license in ink, the writing utensil of permanence, on Red Chief writing paper (you know, the writing tablet with the lines...I wanted everything to be straight and all.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Once the legal document was prepared, we talked one of the altar boys from the church into officiating the ceremony and marched up the fire escape to the sounds of my friend, Elizabeth, humming the wedding march. The altar boy said some very official sounding stuff about "sickness and health, life and death, richer or poorer (I just knew we would be some of the richer though)" and then, "husband and wife...you may (insert snort and snicker here) kiss the bride." Elvis leaned over and laid a small peck on my cheek (my first kiss) and it was all official. We were married. I was thrilled. My parents, while they indulged my overactive imagination, were not nearly as happy with my chosen husband as I was. I didn't understand. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">You see I had chosen the son of THE prominent figure in our town. He was a Grand Wizard! Of what I didn't know or understand until later, but at the time it seemed such a very big deal. Everybody knew who Elvis' daddy was, and were, on some level, afraid of him. I thought it was a great match. Everybody knew my daddy, too. He was the Parks and Recreation Director- a public figure of great importance in a town the size of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Hopkinsville</span></st1:place></st1:city><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">. It was perfect. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">For three weeks, I lived in wedded bliss. Elvis would walk by my house on his way to school to "pick me up." He would carry my books for me, and sometimes even hold my hand when no one was around. I was simply mad about him. In return, I would buy him cigarettes at the local Jiffy Mart when Mama sent me for groceries. We would meet on the BMX track behind our houses and trade: a peck on the cheek for a pack of Marlboros. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">It was a fair deal, I thought. Until I got caught. My Mama was so mad at me she made me go to my room and sit in the dark for the whole night. I thought about running away to live with my husband's family, but I couldn't get my window open, so I just sat there, miserable, dreaming of my knight in black leather. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">I wasn't allowed to buy groceries at the local store after that. Mama had called the owner and told him to, under no circumstances, allow me to purchase cigarettes (I had been telling him they were for her...believable story; she did smoke at the time). Without the cigarettes to bond us together, Elvis and I could find nothing in common. Our relationship disintegrated. He stopped walking by my house in the morning, or looking at me in the halls when we passed for lunchtime, or stopping to say,"Hi" when we were out riding on the BMX track. I went back to the fourth grader to file for divorce. We drew up an official document, signed in cursive and everything, but I had to have the fourth grader "represent" me....Elvis wouldn't even come to the door when I tried to serve him with the papers. I was devastated. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">I later discovered that Elvis had been forbidden to see me shortly before our divorce. You see, my daddy had built a basketball court on the “colored” side of town. Elvis' daddy, being a Grand Wizard of the KKK and all, got upset and burned a cross in our yard. I didn't understand what burning crosses had to do with basketball or marrying Elvis, but it did open my eyes to a very cruel reality: people, in general, if left to their own devices, will, eventually, break your heart (especially really cool guys in black leather). I still don't know for sure if Elvis really loved me (and we were torn apart by his parent's bigotry) or my cigarettes (and we were torn apart by my parent's discipline), but I did finally figure out why my parents had discouraged our star-crossed union.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">I still have those "official" documents. Both neatly printed on Red Chief tablet paper. The marriage license in ink, supposed to be permanent, forever. The divorce decree in pencil, I didn't want that to be permanent, in case Elvis decided cigarettes were less important to him than his young wife. Both signed in the shaky cursive of a third grader. One forged with all the innocent naiveté of a girl who had not yet begun to truly understand people and ulterior motives. One written with the desperate hope that some terrible misunderstanding had taken place and would all be worked out in time. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">But both taught me a very valuable lesson: </span> If you have to trade cigarettes for kisses, don't write anything in ink. </div></i>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-45989756903997695712010-10-20T09:26:00.000-05:002010-10-20T09:26:00.482-05:00Guest Post- Just as Easy<i>Ralph Marston is a fabulous thinker over at <a href="http://greatday.com/">The Daily Motivator</a>. His posts are short, sweet and to the point. This is one of my favorites.</i><br />
<div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span></b></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> It is just as easy to focus your thoughts on something positive in your life as it is to focus on something negative. </span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 11pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It is just as easy to be sincerely thankful for your blessings as it is to be bitter and angry about your problems. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Maintaining a positive outlook on life requires no more effort than it takes to go around with a negative attitude. And that positive approach will bring much more value, meaning and fulfillment to your life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Staying positively focused requires no special skills or resources or position. All it takes is a choice. <br />
<br />
</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">All it takes is the conscious choice to break away from the burdensome habit of negativity. It is a choice you can make right now, and in every moment that follows. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Make that choice, and your limiting fears will be overwhelmed by purposeful determination. Make that choice, and your most difficult challenges will become your greatest opportunities. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Living with a positive focus is just as easy as spending your precious time immersed in negativity. And it's a whole lot more enjoyable, too. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="line-height: 14.4pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">-- Ralph Marston </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-72297690385607895532010-10-18T09:21:00.001-05:002010-10-18T09:21:00.508-05:00Vision and Invitation: The Fast<div class="MsoNormal">Hi. My name is Cari and I am addicted to Facebook…(nervous giggle) It sounds silly when I say it out loud, but it is true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have known I have a problem for a while, but recently I’ve been under much conviction to take some time away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So that’s exactly what I am going to do. Thanks to God’s thirty <a href="http://stringsattachedministries.wordpress.com/2010/10/18/vision-and-invitation/%20%E2%80%8E">second horror movie</a> (did I mention I was a big weenie when it comes to scary images- I am, ask my friend Heather..),<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been spurred into to action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am writing this to let you know that I am taking a hiatus from social media and television for the next few weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s not you…it’s me <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span> , but<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I promise I am not breaking up with you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do know that I need time to get back with my God, to soak up his words for me instead of what my friends in <st1:state><st1:place>Florida</st1:place></st1:state> are doing. To get my head back in the clouds so to speak. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have scheduled several posts for you to enjoy while I am exploring God’s invitation to spend more time with Him, so in all actuality, you will be getting more posts from me that usual- how’s that for a little time apart, huh?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How about you? Do you need to lay something you do down so you can get closer to God? Will you do that today?<o:p></o:p></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Share it with us in the comments and let’s pray each other through this time of centering…<o:p></o:p></div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-35233016257759035302010-10-17T15:56:00.000-05:002010-10-17T15:56:34.798-05:00Life in the Medium Lane<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/S0FUL7SUorI/AAAAAAAAAGE/Act1uptl1D0/s1600-h/pool.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422707990200623794" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/S0FUL7SUorI/AAAAAAAAAGE/Act1uptl1D0/s320/pool.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 124px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 170px;" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The dressing room was completely empty this morning as I prepared for my morning swim. I love a calm swimming pool…a quiet dressing room…perfect morning. As I walked out of the dressing room and into the pool, a little girl inside jumped for joy. <i>Just me! I can pick ANY lane I want! YAY!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p>As I looked across the pool, with it’s quietly rippling surface, the six lane lines floating unassumingly along the top of the water, I glanced at the shallow end of the lap lanes…and felt all my exhilaration fall away. There, on the deck, at the end of the pool stood the label for each lane. You know the little yellow bi-fold signs that say “Fast,” “Medium,” and “Slow?” </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p>As I scanned those signs, I could almost hear the little girl inside cry out, “Nooooo!”</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p>See, now I can’t choose any lane I want…I have to take the lane I’m “supposed” to be in. This is my paradigm.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p>Now freeze frame here for a moment. Picture me, standing in front of a completely open pool, thinking to my black and white conscience, <i>I must choose the lane I am supposed to go in…medium, I think…yeah, I am a medium swimmer.</i> To be quite honest, I have no frame of reference for which lane I should be in. I have never had someone tap me on the shoulder and say, “You really should be in the medium lane.” But I put myself there anyway. Because somewhere in the back of my mind I have the belief that I haven’t put in the time, effort or haven’t the skill to swim in the fast lane, and thus don’t deserve to be there.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p><b><br />
</b></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p><b>Even when no one else is in the pool with me.</b></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p>The weight of this revelation and the implication in my life sat with me as I stroked my way through my workout. With each stroke, I wondered how much faster I would have to swim to be a “fast swimmer.” I wondered who would have to define that for me? Would I ever believe it of myself, without acknowledgement from an outside expert? How do I hold myself back in my life due to this same belief?</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p>And then, a single thought entered my mind and hung there in the splish splash rhythm of my freestyle stroke…a thought striking enough that I stopped swimming.</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p>My adult, wise self had a meeting with that little girl inside. And said something to her that I have said to my children countless times before. Wise Cari said to Baby Girl Cari-</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">EVERYTHING is a choice. Choosing to follow the rules is a choice. Choosing to label myself a “medium” swimmer is a choice. Choosing to get into the “medium” lane is a choice AND choosing to believe that I am not good enough and must rely on someone else to tell me that I am is a choice. Now CHOOSE to stop doubting and CHOOSE to get your butt over to the fast lane.</span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Which is exactly what I did. Maybe just for today, I swam in the fast lane. Tomorrow, perhaps I will swim in the medium lane again. I did find myself pushing a little harder, resting a little less and being more conscious of the technical aspects of my stroke, and I realized that, frankly, I am not sure if I WANT to swim in the “fast” lane. However, whether I want it or not is not relevant to this post. What is most important is that, regardless of whether I want to live life in the fast lane or the medium lane, or even in the slow lane, I never forget that I have the power to CHOOSE.</span></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><o:p></o:p></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/S0FUL1eLj8I/AAAAAAAAAGM/sJcWAymMDTA/s1600-h/fastlane+sign.jpg"></a></div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-68176388895968197042010-09-07T09:24:00.000-05:002010-09-07T09:24:27.954-05:00Go Pluck Yourself<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/TIMGq7377QI/AAAAAAAAAQM/w1qOMxtPlvA/s1600/plucking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/TIMGq7377QI/AAAAAAAAAQM/w1qOMxtPlvA/s200/plucking.jpg" width="132" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I grab the tweezers and lean in close to the mirror. Bracing for the pain, I stretch the skin taut and take a firm hold on the stray hair- and then *pluck*! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">OWWWWW! Man..that one smarted!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Let me just say before I jump into the life illustration, the woman who told me “the more you pluck, the thinner and less likely your eyebrows are to grow back” <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">lied through her teeth! </b>But I whole-heartedly believed her because, well, she was one of those women who so obviously had suffered a vicious waxing/plucking accident losing any trace of brow in the process and overcompensated by drawing a crazy-high arch in the middle of her forehead with a pencil that clearly was not in the range of natural hair color. But I’ve been plucking for years and so far, no luck in the “not growing back” department.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This morning when I was jerking short, fat-follicled hairs out of my eyebrows it occurred to me that habits-good and bad- are quite like my eyebrows.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">1)<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>I have sparse, but super-long eyebrow hairs for the most part. I’m consistently doing the eyebrow version of the bald man’s comb-over. Kind of like the good habits I have, I’m often found stretching them, fitting them in places where they don’t necessarily belong in an effort to hide the places there is a lack.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">2)<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>I have a uni-brow. It’s tragic, but true. I have tons of eyebrow in places where I clearly don’t want them to be (think soul patch in the middle of my forehead.) Like bad habits and sin, I have to regularly pluck these lil devils- sometimes daily- to keep them from cropping up where they are not wanted.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">3)<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Sometimes good ones have to be trimmed or plucked for the good of the overall brow. Every now and then there are a couple of hairs that are normally well-behaved, that just won’t conform to the comb-over. Most of the time I trim these, in the hopes that they will continue to grow in a way that works with the whole brow- but sometimes the good ones have to be plucked out to make room for an even better one to grow. Much like habits, sometimes you need to change even a good, successful habit in order to make room for an awesome one.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">4)<span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"> </span>Plucking hurts. Sometimes it makes my eyes water and leaves a red mark. Sometimes I barely notice it. Most of the time, the hairs I have to pluck over and over again are less painful to weed out. Just like behaviors and habits and sin that have to die each day as we grow and change and groom ourselves to be beautiful reflections of God’s image, those things we have to pluck out each day become less painful in the long run.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">So there you have it- life lessons from eyebrow plucking. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in; text-align: center;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What about you? What habits do you need to pluck out today?<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-75120098646879313392010-09-04T21:48:00.000-05:002010-09-04T21:48:05.563-05:00Expectations Can Get You Lost<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://amassblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/package5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="http://amassblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/package5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">“It’s A-L-M-O-O Street .”</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">“Got it, Alamo St.”</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">“No…No…Al-moo…you know, moo like a cow.”</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">“Oh, ok. I’ve got it Alamo. Thanks.”</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" mce_name="em" mce_style="font-style: italic;" style="font-style: italic;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" mce_name="em" mce_style="font-style: italic;" style="font-style: italic;">*Sigh*</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">That’s a package that’s not likely to make it here....</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">I blogging about expectations and final destinations over at <a href="http://stringsattachedministries.wordpress.com/2010/09/04/expectations-can-get-you-lost/%20%E2%80%8E">Strings Attached</a>...Won't you come join me?</div><div><br />
</div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-52014873547251688812010-08-26T21:50:00.000-05:002010-08-26T21:50:15.602-05:00Following My Own Rules<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/THcnO-79xOI/AAAAAAAAAQE/1Eh7YRMwuFM/s1600/house+rules.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/THcnO-79xOI/AAAAAAAAAQE/1Eh7YRMwuFM/s320/house+rules.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Hmmmm.....so tonight I learned a valuable lesson- I am a very smart mom. <i>Who knew?</i><br />
<br />
Probably has something to do with coming from a long line of smart moms and dads and having a fabulous husband to bounce ideas off of, but nevertheless, I learned tonight that I might have a tiny smidge of insight into parenting. <i>I totally ROCK! </i>:-)<br />
<br />
Ok, I can't take all the credit...my husband helps too.<br />
<br />
Today, I learned that I set some pretty awesome rules sometimes! You see, in our quest to be more structured in our evening routine and hopefully (in some round about logic) prevent the perpetual tardiness we experienced last school year, Charlie and I instituted a new rule in our home.<br />
<br />
<b><i>No computer, TV, or video games until 7 pm, and only after all school and extracurricular assignments are complete</i></b><i>. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
I ain't gonna lie though...I was terrified when we called the family meeting to discuss the new rules. I just knew the kids would whine and complain and we would have to fight EVERY night to keep the rule in place. And the beauty is WE HAVEN"T! For over a week now, they have accepted the rule and all that it entails as law and haven't bucked it once. <br />
<br />
But in the interest of full disclosure and tying this allegory up nicely- I have to be honest. I haven't followed my own rule. Nope, I Facebook while I am waiting for dinner to cook and check and return email while the kids are doing homework. Or I did. But God got a hold of me and I realized that I wasn't following my own rules. I wasn't willing to lead from the front...OUCH!<br />
<br />
So tonight I decided to discipline myself and unplug until 7 pm...And it turns out- I am a very smart mom. I knew what I was doing when I set that rule in place! I sit here, at 9:30 pm with the dishes done, the living room cleaned, the downstairs vacuumed, lunches packed for tomorrow, dinner prepared, eaten around the dinner table and put away AND I ventured down the street to connect with a friend I haven't seen in a while....All before 7 PM. I just gave myself back two hours of my day I had forgotten I had. <i> I totally rock!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>What about you? What rules do you set for others, but don't follow yourself? </b></i></div><i><br />
</i>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-30441022305077426772010-08-12T08:09:00.000-05:002010-08-12T08:09:29.231-05:00Guest Post- Joy the Color of Fireflies<h3 class="entry-header" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1px; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #45818e;">My sweet friend, Holley Gerth, who blogs her heart at <a href="http://blog.dayspring.com/2010/08/joy-the-color-of-fireflies.html#comments">Heart to Heart with Holley</a>, has a way of making my heart sing, "Amen, Sister!" with her words. I want to share some of them with you today! If they make yours sing too, won't you go leave her a comment on here or over at her <a href="http://blog.dayspring.com/2010/08/joy-the-color-of-fireflies.html#comments">bloggy home</a>.</span></h3><h3 class="entry-header" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #c60000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1px; text-align: left;"><br />
</h3><h3 class="entry-header" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #c60000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1px; text-align: left;">Joy the Color of Fireflies</h3><div class="entry-content" style="clear: both; color: #424242; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 20px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; position: static;"><div class="entry-body" style="clear: both;"><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/coso_blues/3214093297/" style="color: #317dad; float: right; text-decoration: none;"></a><a href="http://roylessin.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8342086bb53ef0133f2d324ab970b-pi" style="color: #317dad; float: right; text-decoration: none;"></a>The sky is inky blue, a swirl of dark and light. <em>Day and night do a slow dance before the moon rises high above the trees.</em> The music we can't hear beckons the fireflies from their hiding places. One by one they appear, little lights twinkling against the backdrop of an early summer evening.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/search/?l=4&w=all&q=fireflies+and+summer&m=text" style="color: #317dad; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="Fireflies photo by Coso Blues (flickr creative commons)" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8342086bb53ef013485f6bb23970c " src="http://roylessin.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8342086bb53ef013485f6bb23970c-500wi" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; width: 472px;" title="Fireflies photo by Coso Blues (flickr creative commons)" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">I first caught fireflies as a girl of seven or so. Taking my brother and I to the porch, my grandmother handed us a mason jar. <em>"Be gentle,"</em> I'm sure she told us.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">Then she watched and smiled from the edge of the flowerbed in a wheelchair.<em>(She had polio at age 29, younger than I am now.)</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">I don't know where these creatures live, what they do in the winter, why they come again...<em>but I do know each one is like a bright and beautiful memory floating through the air.</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">And, because of this, I still catch those flickers of brightness even though childhood has long gone. I place them<em> (gently, yes)</em> into jars, water bottles, whatever I can find. When I have twenty or so I let them go and watch the homemade fireworks display.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">Saturday I did this for the first time of the season. Our dear friends, Sean and Kim, were there. We sat on the patio and as the fireflies appeared, I begged my guests to go with me. Sean joined the chase while Mark and Kim watched from the patio at our crazy zig-zags across the yard.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;"><em>In my firefly moments I feel more alive, happy, and closer to heaven than I do almost any other time all year.</em> It's as if everything that's sweet, good, and right is made real in tiny flashes of light as I think of my Grandma and all she taught me of joy.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">In the hospital after being told she would never walk again, her pastor said,<em>"Frances, you can choose to let this make you bitter or better."</em> She would tell me again and again with a twinkle in her eyes, <em>"I chose better."</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">My Nana knew joy, like a firefly, flits about you. <em>But if you are serious about it, you must pursue it.</em> And she knew joy, like a firefly, often comes surrounded by darkness. <em>Perhaps that is what makes it so brilliant and beautiful.</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">Yes, on the porch beneath a summer sky I still sense my grandmother's smile. And as the last lingering firefly disappears into the night I smile too...knowing I'm sure to find it <em>(and joy)</em> another summer evening or, when least expected,<em> it will once more find me.</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;"><em>What's a little thing that brings you joy?</em></div></div></div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-28035055399990700012010-07-30T17:17:00.000-05:002010-07-30T17:17:18.211-05:00The Tight-Clenched Fist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/TFNPBsjeOcI/AAAAAAAAAPk/yh7Tts-KgX8/s1600/bn259100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" bx="true" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/TFNPBsjeOcI/AAAAAAAAAPk/yh7Tts-KgX8/s200/bn259100.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><br />
“Pressure kills everything it touches.” – John Eldredge<br />
<br />
PUSH THROUGH!<br />
<br />
That’s my instinct…Go til I drop. Do it all. <br />
<br />
Don’t say “No!” <br />
<br />
Or<br />
<br />
“I quit!”<br />
<br />
or heaven forbid <br />
<br />
“I can’t!”<br />
<br />
I surrender. Please, help me. These are not part of my standard vocabulary. They should be…but they aren’t.<br />
<br />
I guess I thought if my cup running over was a good thing, my plate running over would be even better!<br />
<br />
I am doing some of the most rewarding work in my life, but it is also some of the most exhausting. I have had to be super disciplined with my schedule, specifically creating time to write. The problem with that? “Pressure kills everything it touches.”- especially creativity. <br />
<br />
I am back to stealing moments of quiet, quick breaths above water before being buried by the next wave. I am drowning in a sea of my own created chaos, trying to impose some sense of order with an iron fist, and I realized that “pressure kills.” <br />
<br />
So here I am, Lord, opening the tight-clenched fist. Softening to you, again. Letting go of the control, I surrender, Lord. Guide me with your peace, Lord. Let your words flow through me again…and help me to create the time and space to share them. I invite you into this controlling place of my heart and ask you to heal me here. Show me the why and the how of it. Show me, guide me, help me restore order to our lives. Dear Father,everything I have is yours. I give it all to you. <br />
<br />
What about you? What is it that you control with an iron fist? What is God asking you to surrender?Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-42522062149624746962010-07-21T07:30:00.000-05:002010-07-21T07:30:52.925-05:00Guest Post- When You Don't Know the Next Step<i>Holley Gerth is one of my new favorite authors...who am I kidding? She's one of my new favorite people. This post is from her blog, <a href="http://blog.dayspring.com/2010/07/when-you-dont-know-the-next-step.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed:+dayspring/aSfH+(Heart+to+Heart+with+Holley)&utm_content=Yahoo!+Mail">Heart to Heart with Holley</a>, and it spoke to me volumes about where I am in my walk right now. I am honored to share it with you!</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #424242; font-family: Verdana, Geneva, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-style: normal; line-height: 18px;"></span></i><br />
<i><h3 class="entry-header" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #c60000; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: medium; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1px; text-align: left;">When you don't know the next step...</h3><div class="entry-content" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 20px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; position: static;"><div class="entry-body" style="clear: both;"><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/shelaya/3605055802/" style="color: #317dad; float: right; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="Shoe photo by Shlala (flickr creative commons)" class="asset asset-image at-xid-6a00d8342086bb53ef0133f26ab3b6970b " src="http://roylessin.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8342086bb53ef0133f26ab3b6970b-250wi" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; width: 250px;" title="Shoe photo by Shlala (flickr creative commons)" /></a>I see you peering down the path.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">Wondering, <em>can I do this?</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;"><em>Am I enough?</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">Yes to both.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">And then asking, <em>Do I take this step?</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">I've asked this question too...<em>staring at the ceiling in the night, over coffee with friends, driving in my car.</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">Then I think of this verse, this bit of wisdom from Proverbs 19:21--</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #00bfbf;">You can make many plans, but the Lord's purpose will prevail.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">If we've prayed, asked wise counsel, then we can go with confidence. <em>Even if our first step is imperfect, perhaps not even in quite the right direction, God will align us with His purpose by the end.</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">But here's the thing.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;"><em>You can't redirect someone who is standing still.</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">Yes, there are seasons for staying.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">This is about the seasons of going, setting out, those times when your heart is restless and your feet are ready.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;"><em>If that's you then go without fear.</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">God is with you, for you, behind you, and ahead of you.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">And even if you lose your way for a bit. Even if you grow weary. Even if you don't know which direction to go at times. <em>His purposes will prevail.</em></div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">Take that step, woman of courage.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; text-align: left;">And know that love goes with you all the way.</div></div></div></i>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-52213884438398365402010-06-25T23:16:00.000-05:002010-06-25T23:16:21.465-05:00What I learned on my summer vacation....In true fifth grade style, I am writing my "what I did on my summer vacation" essay. And in true fifth grade style, my desire is to simply say, "lots!"<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>We had a beautiful family adventure across country. First the 1100 mile trek from Arkansas to Maryland for my husband's stepbrother's wedding, and then to the Outer Banks of North Carolina for a relaxing week of sand and surf and then the 1300 mile trip back....wooh, that's a lot of driving!</div><div><br />
</div><div>Ever the dutiful writer, I brought my new prayer journal for all the epiphanies God would show me in my quiet time at sunrise on the beach, and my big 5 subject notebook for all the essays I would write from the great life lessons I learned, and my computer for all the blog posts I would write about my adventures, and even a couple of steno pads for the times when I just felt like jotting brilliant ideas down. I headed out on our adventure, eyes wide open, pen in hand, eagerly awaiting a blog-worthy moment like paparazzi waiting for the latest starlet to hop out of her car with a too-short mini skirt. AND, well, guys...I got nuthin'. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Oh, I tried...I tried hard to write. I got up at sunrise and sat in the quiet light of the sun and the whoosh whoosh of the waves...I hauled paper pads with us everywhere lest I be caught unaware by the writing bug....but nothing. Words wouldn't flow from my pen. My mind was blank....Even God was remarkably quiet about writing. And, frankly, I was a little more than disappointed by that.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And then, one day, after forcing words into a what I called a "poem" just to say I had written SOMETHING, I, in a fit of petulance, I cried out to God, "What is going on!?"</div><div><br />
</div><div><b><i>"Don't write, Cari. ENGAGE! Play! Relax! There is no lesson here except be present with your family and have some fun. Put away your notebook. The words will come when the time is right."</i></b></div><div><b><i><br />
</i></b></div><div>And then I realized that I was viewing my life through spectator's eyes. I was constantly seeking an opportunity to turn life into an object lesson because that's what I love to do...to turn the everyday life story into an universal lesson on life, but I had begun to view my entire life that way and I had stopped ENGAGING the people I love. </div><div><br />
</div><div>How great is God to gently shove me back in the game by silencing my words, knowing that I desperately needed that time of connection with my husband and kids and that I would not choose it for myself because I didn't realize that I had forgotten how. That is what he is teaching me now...through stories like this:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #000055;"><i>A Zen monk, being chased by a bear runs off a cliff. As he is falling, he grabs a branch. He looks up and sees the bear leaning over the cliff, clawing at his head and missing only by inches. As the monk looks down to the ground, about fifteen feet below him, he sees a lion leaping up, missing his feet only by inches. As he looks at the branch he is clutching, he sees two groundhogs gnawing away at it. He watches as his lifeline disappears, bite by bite. As the monk takes a long, deep breath, he notices, next to his branch, a clump of wild strawberries. In the middle of the clump is a great, red, juicy strawberry. With his one free hand, the Zen monk reaches over, picks the strawberry, puts it in his mouth, chews it slowly and says, "Ah ... delicious."</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #000055;"><i><br />
</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #000055;"><b>So, I learned to eat strawberries again.</b> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #000055;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #000055;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #000055;">I am learning to be intentional again. To be present in the moment and take joy in it. To participate in it. It is a beautiful time of renewal for me. So if the posts seem sparse over here, please know that I am in the midst of a wonderful season of growth, and bear with me. I will return with stories soon enough.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #000055;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #000055;"><i>In the meantime, what has God been teaching you lately?</i></span></div><div><b><i><br />
</i></b></div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-88552927271800647752010-06-03T09:38:00.000-05:002010-06-03T09:38:55.687-05:00Guest Post - Worrying too much about trends - Jon Acuff<a href="http://www.stuffchristianslike.net/book/">www.stuffchristianslike.net/book/</a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="145" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/TAe98ro3EII/AAAAAAAAAOQ/kO9P_wWE7qg/s200/scl-web.jpg" width="200" /></div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>I am so excited to feature one of my favorite bloggers as a guest, Jon Acuff from <a href="http://www.stuffchristianslike.net/">Stuff Christians Like</a>. Jon uses satire to pull back the veil on the things we do and say as Christians and take a hilarious look at them. On Wednesdays, Jon breaks a down a bit and gets really reflective. He calls these posts "Serious Wednesday" posts. This Wednesday was all about community, relationship and loneliness. I hope you enjoy!</i></div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Even though I’m not wearing 45 belt loops Z-Cavaricci’s I got at Chess King and ladies have far less perms, our neighborhood pool is very similar to my high school cafeteria.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span id="more-3153"></span>On one end you have the cool table, populated by neighbors who have lived in our subdivision the longest. They drink beer, get tougher than leather tan (Run DMC reference) and feel compelled to play Bon Jovi’s “Dead or Alive,” approximately 37 times.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">On the other end you have a grab bag of dorks, which includes me. This is the end where the guy who swims in a speedo is. This is the end where the first time parents are, a curious couple who have used SPF1000 on their child, creating what appears to be a miniature stay puff marshmallow man from the movie Ghostbusters. Just a floaty wearing, encased in thick white sunscreen monster terrorizing the pool in a swim diaper.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And make no mistake. I am a dork. I had approximately 2 friends in high school, got rejected from every fraternity in college and once shaved a Vanilla Ice stripe in my left eyebrow. That’s right, I emulated Vanilla Ice.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I’m just not a trendy person, but despite that, people often ask me, “What’s next? What are the trends that will matter in the next five years?” That’s a good question and I think I have the answer. I think I have an idea that is not only going to change our next 5 years, but probably our next 500, that’s if Burger King serving ribs was not a sign of the impending apocalypse and we actually do make it another 500.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">But the thing is, I’m not the one who actually decided this idea was important. I didn’t brain storm or create it, God did. And it kind of punched me in the face when I saw it the other day in Genesis.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">In chapter 2, he starts getting down to business and dealing with some serious issues. The first one he addresses is the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. There is death involved and it makes sense that he would so quickly address that situation. But what is the second issue he focuses on? In God’s economy, what is the next big topic he covers as critically important?</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Loneliness.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Immediately following a statement about death, God says in Genesis 2:18, “It is not good for man to be alone.”</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I knew it was important, I knew that loneliness was a painful thing that hurts lots of people but I honestly didn’t see how big it was until God so quickly dealt with it in Genesis.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">When people ask me what trends matter with Twitter or Social Media or the Internet, I often tell them, “The same things that have always mattered.” You see Twitter and Facebook are just mediums. The message, the core issues that really shape people are the same things that we’ve always dealt with. Loneliness, joy, incompleteness, sadness, hope. Twitter is just a vehicle, things like loneliness are what matters.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Why?</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Right now, we have thousands of friends who know the Facebook version of us.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Right now, we can distract you from what we want to hide with mountains of tweets and status updates and rivers of words.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Right now we have more tools than ever before to be someone we’re really not.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Right now, we are connected to more people and known by less.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">If you want to change your neighborhood or your church or your whole community, don’t worry about trends. Focus on truths. Focus on the things God cares about, the things he’s always cared about from the very second chapter of the Bible.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And if you’re lonely, if you’ve created social media scaffolding that presents one view to the world in the hope that you can hide what’s really inside, please know this – God loves you.</div><div style="color: #404040; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">God cares for the lonely. His heart beats loud and true and open to the lonely. God has always cared for the lonely. And all trends aside, the truth is, he always will.</div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-81425849138165928502010-05-29T07:59:00.000-05:002010-05-29T08:01:08.105-05:00Love and Grape Jelly<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0c343d;">“God loves each of us as if there were only one of us. ~</span></i></span></span><st1:city><st1:place><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0c343d;">St. Augustine</span></i></span></span></st1:place></st1:city><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0c343d;">”</span></i></span></span></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/TAEPeSPdgrI/AAAAAAAAANo/5fE4gjA4bBs/s1600/welch-s-grape-jelly-1499-p.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_L439e5AT_oM/TAEPeSPdgrI/AAAAAAAAANo/5fE4gjA4bBs/s200/welch-s-grape-jelly-1499-p.jpg" width="105" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">We were in a hurry. We were late for school. I was rushing and pushing and striving and, well maybe-just a little, yelling. I had woken up as Drill Sergeant Mom and was fully committed to the role at hand. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">Xander was making his breakfast toast. Gluten free brown rice bread with soy free, vegan butter spread and Welch’s grape jelly. A big, giant, brand new, did I mention full? glass jar of grape jelly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Come on, guys. We are going to be late for school! Let’s move!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">“I’m coming, Mom!” Xander exclaimed as he put the lid back on the jelly and shifted the giant jar to his left hand to open the fridge. I turned to give him the “don’t-sass-me” look, and time froze. In the painfully slow motion instant where you just know what is about to happen and are powerless to stop it I watched the giant, glass jar of jelly teeter in his hand and-<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;"><i>fall<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;"><i>to<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;"><i>the<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;"><i>floor.</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">The dull spl-thwack of the jelly glass snapped the space-time continuum back into full speed. I leaped into action as I watched tiny shards of glass spray across the floor- lifting Xander and swinging him out of the blast zone. As I sat him down, I looked into his eyes. Tears were streaming down his face. With huge, remorseful eyes he looked up at me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Mama, I am so sorry. I have made such a big mess, and it’s all sticky and it was a brand new jar and now we’re late and it’s all my fault…”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">You know what my first reaction to his repentant heart was? Was it, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can’t believe you made such a </i></span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">mess? Or clean this up right now? Or even an exasperated sigh and when will you ever learn?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">It was none of those things. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">Upon seeing his heartbreak and repentance, I melted. I immediately gathered him in my arms and held him. Loved him. Soothed him. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">“Aw, Baby…it’s ok. We’ll clean this up together. Everything will work out just fine. Ok?”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">Sniffing back the last of his tears as he started to calm down, “Ok…”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">And then, “Mom…I love you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">“I love you, too, Baby.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">I just want you to hear this one thing-<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">God loves you like that.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">With <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mama-soothing-her-broken-hearted-baby-love</i></b>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">I have lived a good deal of my life with a voice of accusation that I sadly labeled as God. Always believing that He sent his son for <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">US</i></b> to cover our sins, but, in some way never fully understanding that Christ came <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">FOR ME…FOR MY SINS</i></b>…and that nothing that I do could ever change the fact that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #006666;">He loves me so much that He would lay down His crown, put on our icky man clothes, walk among us on this fouled planet, innocently die a horrific, tortured criminal’s death bearing up under the weight of all the sin that ever was and will be, conquered the grave and ROSE AGAIN</span></i><span style="color: #006666;"> </span>(He’s alive, my friends- isn’t that the most amazing thing?)…<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HE LOVES ME</b> that much- and <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">HE LOVES YOU</b> that much too. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">The moment that jar of jelly hit the ground, and I looked into my son’s eyes and saw his despair at what he done, and I felt the immediate, instinctive reaction to soothe that despair, to forgive that mess he had created, to forget it. In that moment, God changed my entire understanding of grace and forgiveness. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">He spoke His word to me,<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> “And now there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus..” </i></b>Romans 8:1<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">I knew that God loved me like that- no, beyond that. That as long as I have a truly repentant heart about the mistakes of my life, God is stirred <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #006666;">to soothe. To forgive. TO FORGET</span></i>. It is the promise he makes us. I knew that the accuser of my soul was not my Lord, my Savior, but an enemy. The enemy. There is no condemnation in Christ Jesus. He speaks to us with words of love, and joy and encouragement. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #006666; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">Thank you, Jesus for ransoming my heart on the cross. Thank you, Lord for rescuing my heart with a broken jar of grape jelly! I love how you use the tiniest of moments to teach us truth….Keep teaching, Lord. I am listening.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 13.5pt;">What small moment has God used to teach you about His love?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-30835693428295422342010-05-06T22:34:00.000-05:002010-05-06T22:34:52.034-05:00Guest Post- The Goodest Mom<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, clean, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Beth's words about being "real" reminded me of a time when I ran across a diary from years ago that I'd tucked away. </span><span style="color: #0e0901; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">I was having one of Those kinds of days when I found it. I'd pretty much blown it as a mother that day and was feeling very low.</span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">One entry in particular caught my eye. It was dated </span><st1:date day="19" month="8" year="1997"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">August 19, 1997</span></st1:date><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">. Our son, Grayson, was only three and a half, and our girls were still in grade school. It read,<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><em><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Today as I pulled Gray in the wagon to meet Lauren after school, he said to me, “Ya know, Mom, you’re da goodest mom I evah seen!”</span></em><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">I laid the diary down and pictured that boy as he used to be in his little denim overalls, with wispy blonde hair, blue eyes and pudgy fingers hanging on to the sides of the red Radio Flyer. I instantly got a lump in my throat. Not just for the sweetness of that time in life, but for the journey that has been Motherhood for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">When I started out as a new mother, I was filled with awe and a sense of destiny in being Someone’s Mom. And while I’ve never really lost that awe, the reality of raising children amidst the stresses of life has sometimes knocked the stuffing out of me. There have been days, like the day I found the old diary, that I’ve felt failure closing in around me. I couldn’t seem to do anything right, and I’ve wanted to give up on the whole business of parenting.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">But those simple words from long ago made me remember what it means to be a Mom. I’m never going to get the prize for “Bestest Mom.” I rarely get ahead of the laundry and my meals are one-skillet-wonders, not gourmet creations. I’m often forgetful and impatient, distracted and disorganized. My kids know what it’s like to wear mismatched socks and eat breakfast cereal for dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">But “<em><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype";">Goodest Mom</span></em>.” Now, that’s something, there. Goodest Mom means that even if you’re not June Cleaver, you’re still just the kind of Mom your kids need. It means that God knew what He was doing when He put your family together. It means that your kids feel loved and that they know they belong to this little operation you’ve got going on. There’s something warm and accepting about the Goodest Mom label.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Maybe it helps not to be called the “Worstest Mom,” but being in the Goodest category means that a Mom doesn’t have to be perfect to raise great kids. The passing of time has given me perspective on those years of hard work, family fun and even the self-doubt. I’ve experienced the mystery of prayer, the challenge of working things out and the beauty of grace in an imperfect family. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">I’d love to go back in time for just a moment, so I could tell myself to lighten up a little bit. To stop worrying about being the Bestest, and just work on being the Goodest. Our kids haven’t needed Perfection, they’ve just needed Real. And maybe in the end, that’s what being the best kind of Mom is all about.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Today I’m going to celebrate the good things that have happened in our family, and I’m going to embrace the imperfections that keep us dependent on a faithful God. I’m going to enjoy knowing that, in spite of everything, my kids still think I’m the Goodest Mom.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">I’m grateful for the journey and awed by the privilege.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">Rachel<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><br />
</span></div><div style="line-height: 15.0pt; margin-top: 0in;"><em><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;">How about you? Will you embrace the imperfections and grace that today will bring? Listen, God didn't made any mistakes when He put your family together...YOU are the Mom your kids need. Enjoy being "Goodest" and leave the rest to Him.</span></em><span style="color: black; font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; font-size: 10.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Palatino Linotype', Palatino, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Rachel Ann Ridge started blogging about creating a home sanctuary a few years ago and discovered a whole new world online. What she found was a wonderful community of readers and friends that she loves to "meet" with each day. <a href="http://www.homesanctuary.com/">Home Sanctuary</a> is where you'll find her when she's not up on a ladder with a paint brush, or here at <a href="http://www.goingbeyond.com/">Going Beyond</a>.</span></div></span>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-46701898522663744132010-04-07T21:36:00.000-05:002010-04-07T21:36:33.334-05:00Guest Post - Improve Through Improv<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"></span><br />
<h2 class="color-dark-publicspeaker" style="color: rgb(41, 86, 103) !important; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Improve Through Improvisation</h2><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">About a year ago <a href="http://www.steverrobbins.com/index.htm" style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px !important; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px !important; text-decoration: underline;">Stever Robbins</a>, the <a href="http://getitdone.quickanddirtytips.com/" style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px !important; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px !important; text-decoration: underline;">Get-It-Done Guy</a>, suggested that I take an <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Improvisational_theatre" style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px !important; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px !important; text-decoration: underline;">improv class</a>. I thought, “Why should I take an improv class? How’s that going to help me?” I decided to marinate my decision. I’m the kind of person that likes to do research and think through my decisions. For example, when I was in school, I was always the last one to turn in my test. Or when I go to buy something, I read all the online reviews first. I'm just not a spur of the moment kind of person. As you might imagine, the idea of taking an improvisation class was something that quite frankly I found a bit scary. </h3><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">But I’ve been working on trying to make decisions faster, so last week, after thinking about it for an entire year (yes, an entire year) I finally took a four day intensive <a href="http://phillyimprovtheater.com/classes/improv_curriculum.html" style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px !important; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px !important; text-decoration: underline;">intro to longform improvisation workshop</a> (I mentioned I like to marinate on my decisions, right?)</h3><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Oh, man, I AM SO GLAD I took this class from <a href="http://phillyimprovtheater.com/about.html" style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px !important; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px !important; text-decoration: underline;">PHIT</a>(that’s <a href="http://www.phillyimprovtheater.com/" style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px !important; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px !important; text-decoration: underline;">Philly Improv Theater</a>)! It's one of those things--you don't know what you don't know--until you know. Not only did I learn about improvisation, I learned (and was reminded of) several important life lessons. So, today, I'd like to share with you some of my "ah-ha" moments. You probably already know this stuff, but I figure it never hurts to be reminded of the important life lesson stuff, right? Honestly, I’m hoping this article might persuade you to take an improv class or at least go see an <a href="http://phillyimprovtheater.com/shows.html" style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px !important; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px !important; text-decoration: underline;">improv performance.</a></h3><h2 class="color-dark-publicspeaker" style="color: rgb(41, 86, 103) !important; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">What Improv Can Teach Us</h2><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">So what exactly did I learn or relearn?</h3><h2 class="color-dark-publicspeaker" style="color: rgb(41, 86, 103) !important; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Lesson #1: Laugh More</h2><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Most importantly, I was reminded that fun, play, and laughter are equally important as serious work. I laughed more in those four days than I had in some time and it made me feel better. Laughter stretches muscles in our face and body, raises our pulse and blood pressure, and causes us to breathe faster. Some researchers say the benefits of laughter are like a mild workout! I know for me, it was great to spend a few days laughing and having fun with other people. It gave me a boost. It definitely put a spring in my step. </h3><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">I've decided to play more. I'm committed to having more fun. I hope that’s why you’re reading this article—because you find it fun (and informative). </h3><h2 class="color-dark-publicspeaker" style="color: rgb(41, 86, 103) !important; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Lesson #2: Commit 100%; Sell It!</h2><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">I was reminded how important and helpful it is to commit to something 100%. In fact, the bolder I was and the more committed I was to my improv character choices the EASIER it became. <a href="http://phillyist.com/2007/03/15/phillyist_inter_26.php" style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px !important; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px !important; text-decoration: underline;">Kristen</a>, my teacher, said several times, "Make a choice and commit. When you are able to commit you can settle into the character and then you'll just know what to do."</h3><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">When I was able to commit 100% to a choice, it reminded me of the feeling I have when I'm been “in the zone” --it gave me that feeling of energized focus. You know that feeling you get when you are so completely absorbed and immersed in the activity that you don't even notice that you’re hungry or that time is passing. </h3><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">When I committed 100% I was able to shake my feelings of self-consciousness and just have fun! And when I wasn't fully committed, I was shaky. I was nervous and struggling with what to say and do. I was full of self-doubt. It was a horrible feeling.</h3><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">So weather you're singing in the shower or delivering a presentation, give it your all. Enjoy the process. Participating fully and relaxing into the activity is what leads to success--no matter what your skill level is. Being bold and committed, regardless of what you are doing, is what makes you a standout. So, I’ve decided to commit to commitment!</h3><h2 class="color-dark-publicspeaker" style="color: rgb(41, 86, 103) !important; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Lesson #3: Make It About the Present Moment</h2><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Speaking of which, toward the end of the last day I found myself not participating. I was thinking about the activities we had done in the morning and I was also worrying about the final performance our group was going to have to do. In essence I wasn't focused on the present moment; I was too busy thinking about the past and the future. </h3><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Unfortunately, my distraction caused me to not participate at all in the game we were playing at that very moment. I later realized that not only had I let myself down, but in a way, I had let the rest of the class down too. Because, I wasn't participating they needed to work that much harder. It reminded me of that John Lennon lyric, "Life is what happens when you're busy making plans." </h3><h2 class="color-dark-publicspeaker" style="color: rgb(41, 86, 103) !important; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Lesson #4: Listen Fully and React</h2><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">During one activity, I missed a big offer. What does that mean? My scene partner said, "Yes, we've had five deaths at these waterfalls." That was a very interesting statement that screamed, "Ask me more about THIS, Lisa!" But, I didn't ask him about it. Why? Because I wasn't fully listening. I was only half-heartedly listening. </h3><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">The irony is that I wasn't listening fully because I was trying to come up with something creative to say. Had I just been fully listening to my partner and not worrying about my response, I would have naturally and easily been able to respond to his big interesting offer with something creative. </h3><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Not listening is a common problem. I think many of us, obviously including me, sometimes start thinking about our responses instead of really listening to what our conversation partners are communicating. And we can miss really important stuff when we aren’t fully listening to what is actually being said. I was reminded that listening requires focus and is critical to team creativity.</h3><h2 class="color-dark-publicspeaker" style="color: rgb(41, 86, 103) !important; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Lesson #5: Be Specific to Build Connections and Relationships</h2><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">One of the rules of improvisation is to be as specific as you can be. That should be a rule for all communicators. Think about how much more you are able to communicate when you are specific. Why should you say, “I enjoyed the party last night,” when you could say instead, "I had so much fun singing Karaoke at my sister Maria's baby shower." By being specific you are revealing significantly more information about yourself and this helps your conversation partner to find and make a connection with you. </h3><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Improvisation, like life, is a team sport. To be successful you need to connect with the other people around you, and then focus and heighten the relationship. Whether you are trying to close a business deal, talking to your significant other, or performing improv, you can build strong connections by being specific. </h3><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Originally, I wasn’t going to write an article on this. I thought it would be best to improvise a show. So, during the workshop, I recorded a short interview with my improv teacher, Kristen Shier. But I realized after we recorded it, that I didn’t fully capture why I was so jazzed and energized. In fact, I’m still not even convinced I’ve fully captured it in this article. So I plan to wrote <a href="http://www.lisabmarshall.com/dev/blog/" style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px !important; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px !important; text-decoration: underline;">a short blog piece on my website about how the class helped me to think differently.</a></h3><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">I can’t express how strongly I would like to encourage you to take an improv workshop. It doesn’t’ really matter what you do day in and day out, it doesn’t matter what your profession is, you will gain significantly. Improv can definitely help you to be a better performer, a better speaker, and a better communicator--perhaps even a better person!</h3><h3 style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 8px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 12px !important; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><i>This is, </i><a href="http://www.lisabmarshall.com/" style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px !important; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px !important; text-decoration: underline;"><i>Lisa B. Marshall</i></a><i>, </i><a href="http://www.lisabmarshall.com/" style="color: #555555; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px !important; font-weight: normal; line-height: 17px !important; text-decoration: underline;"><i>The Public Speaker</i></a><i>. Passionate about communication, your success is my business. Your homework for this week is to take an improv class or if you’re not quite ready for that yet, go see an improv performance or at least just go have some improvised fun. You’ll be glad you did!</i></h3>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-488198788420604696.post-54062497397480292012010-03-25T21:41:00.001-05:002010-03-25T21:41:45.863-05:00Ask Who Not How....<div class="MsoNormal">So I was in a coaching session yesterday (my own, not a client’s…yes, I too have a coach!) and my coach said something to me that really shook up my thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said, “when we ask how we get totally in our heads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It becomes completely mechanical thinking. But it’s not our head that moves us to action. It’s our heart.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dang! Preach it, Brotha!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then I started to analyze my thinking this last few weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my journey to create this women’s retreat ministry, what has my main focus been?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s been HOW!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How do I get it started? How do I market it? How much do I charge? How much is it worth? How do I set it up? How, How, How….But too much HOW sucks the like out of life. It’s too mechanical. It’s all in our heads. It’s too much about the plan, the schedule, the process and not enough about the experience, the joy, the passion in the journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also leads to overwhelm, stress, procrastination, and in my case, mental and physical exhaustion. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">See if you’re brain is like a computer (and it is), spending all your time in the HOW sucks up RAM (random access memory….aka desktop space) at an unbelievable rate, and the end result is paralysis, the inability to do ANYTHING! Believe me, sitting on a dream, especially one that is God-given, is a very uncomfortable place to be. Not doing anything is NOT an option!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So what’s a highly motivated, process-oriented girl who’s plagued by procrastination to do? She has to stop asking HOW so much and start asking WHO.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ok…I say to Brook, uh, “what exactly does that mean?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You have to start asking who do I need to be today?” Who needs to show up to achieve this goal? WHO brings us back to the heart, and the heart produces action, motivation, and passion. Wow….so how does this tie into my 30 day mission? Well…follow me on this one….</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If we become what we focus on and we are ALWAYS focused on How to do stuff, we become mechanical, obsessive and overwhelmed. That’s not to say a little bit of how isn’t a good thing…a little bit is necessary to get things done. But if we continually focus on how we do two things: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>We take our focus off of God to provide direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is bad, people…This leads to wondering around in the wilderness. We have to stay open to where God wants us to go and that means taking our hands off the wheel and letting him drive. Only shifting our focus from how to who can we accomplish this.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span>We get totally stuck in the details and begin to worry about success/failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the trap that most people will fall into.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is when we only focus on How that we begin to worry about failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Laser vision on WHO we need to be will allow us to be unattached to the outcome and embrace success…because WE control who we are going to be….it is the only thing we control.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So thanks to my coach for reminding me about all this wisdom that I possess. Ask me about him, I would be happy to share his info with you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But more than that, thanks to God for putting people and thoughts in my path to confirm and guide me in the direction that I need to go!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>Cari Kaufmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07934808896746112315noreply@blogger.com0