Resolved

I could start this off with the intriguing news that I started off the New Year by waking up in a bed that was not my own...But I doubt any of you would believe that was indicative of anything truly scandalous or exciting, and you would be right.

I woke up in Annie's bottom bunk because Superdad was so wheezy and stuffy and coughy and gross last night that I wasn't sleeping anywhere near his germ-ridden face. The lower bunk down the hall was my best option, especially once I convinced Annie that it really was too tight for us to sleep in the single bed together and that this was a golden opportunity for her to have her inaugural overnight on the top bunk. We both fell asleep to the sound of pre-midnight fireworks and Annie didn't even stir when the big ones erupted at the strike of twelve. Upon waking this morning, Annie pronounced our New Year's Eve sleeping arrangement absolutely perfect and declared she and I should be permanent roommates. I don't think I am going to take her up on that offer but I love the sweetness behind it. I figure, how many more New Year's do I have left when she thinks a sleepover with Mom is the best way to ring in January 1? I'll take it while I can.

All in all, a nice beginning.

But, that's enough fluffy, cuddly stuff... it's time to get down to business. New Year's is the time for taking stock, reflecting and then pushing forward with new determination and focus. And even though it's easy to make fun of all the unfulfilled New Year's resolutions, I am of the mind that we should always support one another in our efforts to grow, learn and improve. So it might be more of a one step forward, ten steps back kind of thing...so what? At least you took that one step, and maybe next time it will be ten steps forward!

(Yes, I have been accused of being a bit of a Pollyanna. Whatever. Better than being called Debbie Downer, am I right?)

So, please know that if you are the resolution kind of person, I got your back. I am cheering for you and pulling for you and when you conquer that goal I will be the first one to say, "I knew you could do it!" Because anything less than that doesn't look much like friendship, does it?

Resolution People- I'm in your corner.

Goals People- You can count on me to give a standing ovation every time you check one off.

No-Resolution-No-Goals-I'm-Just-Trying-To-Be-Better People- Amen and amen. I'm right there with ya.
                   
This past year what I opted to do in lieu of any specific goals and resolutions was to go the One Word route along with a Verse of the Year.  My word this past year was "diligence" and my verse was Ephesians 6:10-11 (Nope, I'm not going to tell you what it is. You have to be diligent and look it up yourself if you want to know. Hee hee. Boy, I'm sassy this first day of the New Year!)        

Like resolutions, goals etc... that may sound pointless to some people but, honestly, it really worked for me. When I would feel myself floundering in some area, or procrastinating, or wishing magic fairies would come and solve some particular problem, I would ask myself, "What would diligence look like right now?" And usually it bore very little resemblance to what I was actually doing.

I have not yet chosen my One Word for this year but I have chosen my verse. I have to admit, it is a similar theme to last year but I think that is because my greatest weakness hasn't changed. My greatest weakness that is also one of my strengths (as they so often are) is contentment. That is, contentment run amok. Because while contentment can truly be a gift, taken too far it starts to look more like complacency. And complacency easily slips into laziness. And, for me at least, laziness oozes and morphs into sloth.

Good ol', one of the seven-deadly-sins...sloth.

Sloth is sometimes defined as: "Failure to do things that one should do." It can be both physical and spiritual. It has also been said that this particular sin is defined by its end result which is a failure to use one's gifts and talents. Ouch.

I mean, what better word is there to describe it? Sloth. I am a sloth. At least, I am sometimes...and more often than I should be.

So, that is why I need verses that remind me to GET UP and DO SOMETHING and more importantly, DO THE RIGHT THING. RIGHT NOW. TODAY. THIS VERY MINUTE. And quit acting like you are too tired, because you are not. You are just being slothful.

Do you hear what a tough inner voice I have? Well, she has to be. I can be very stubborn in my contentment/complacency/laziness/sloth.

So, in order to combat my slothful tendencies the words I am leaning toward right now are:

Energy (a little new-ageish for me...but maybe)
Give (as opposed to Take)
Hospitality (looking at it as service to others)
Discipline ('nuff said)
Honor (honoring my abilities, gifts and good health by doing the things I ought)
Persistence (too much like diligence, I know)

Anyway, it's a work in progress. I hope to have my One Word nailed down by the weekend.

But, in the meantime, I have my verse I can go to for motivation. And...here it is...

(No, I won't make you look this one up. The sloth in me is always sympathetic to the sloth in others.)

My 2014 VERSE OF THE YEAR is;

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.
~Galatians 6:9               

And if I were going to rewrite that verse in my own words, I would say something like:

DO NOT get tired of doing the right thing, because the blessings that come from giving your best far outweigh your momentary fatigue. But you can't GIVE UP!!


I'm tempted to add "you lazy slug!" to that last sentence but that doesn't strike me as very biblical so I'll just let my inner voice add it.

For me this verse can apply to every aspect of my life, from the biggest things like Loving God and Your Neighbor, to the littler stuff like good health choices, parenting, home maintenance, and putting dinner on the table seven nights a week (ugh). 

So, there it is. That is the verse that will be ringing in my ears from now until New Years Day 2015. And, please, if there is a way I can encourage you or be of help to you in 2014, please don't hesitate to let me know. Like I said, I'm on your side.


Happy New Year, Friends!!

Imperfectly perfect

Whenever I see posts from people saying goodbye to their beloved pet, it seems like most of them have beautiful, touching things to say about their furry friend.

World's Best Dog

My Best Friend

One of a Kind

Today we said goodbye to our 10 year old Golden Retriever, Reagan, and I can say almost none of those things about him.

He was not the World's Best Dog.

He was not my "best friend". In truth, at times he felt like my nemesis.

But, he was indeed, one of a kind. And in the end that is why we are shedding tears and mourning the passing of our big, crazy-making, food-obsessed, disobedient, infuriatingly lovable dog.

He was not the "World's Best Dog". But he was our dog.

And in fairness to Reagan, he didn't come to us at the easiest time. We didn't know it was a bad time, or that it would become a bad time, but maybe we should have known better. We had two young boys and I was pregnant with twins. Probably not the best time to bring a puppy into the family. But we were grieving the loss of our Labrador, Shelby, and getting a dog seemed to make sense. We were not thinking clearly.

But we did indeed get a puppy. An adorable, high energy Golden Retriever puppy. Reagan became a part of the family and we never looked back.

He was horribly nippy and mouthy and food obsessed from the get-go. He tormented five-year-old Timothy relentlessly. Reagan clearly decided that Tim was low-man on the totem pole and he was going to at least get above him in the hierarchy. If I turned my back for a second I would hear Timothy screaming for help in the backyard as Reagan had ahold of the edge of his shirt or, worse yet, the crotch of his shorts and wouldn't let go. I hate to think back on how many of Timothy's shirts and shorts were ruined that first summer Reagan came home.

Even after we got past the mouthy puppy behavior, Reagan continued to be a handful.

He flunked Puppy Obedience. We sent him away to Boot Camp and even those seasoned trainers could only shake their heads and say, "Good luck" when they returned him to us.

He would gulp down socks (not chew...not shred....GULP) which resulted in a very expensive surgery during which they removed two socks and a dishtowel from his small intestine. Our children quickly became experts at keeping socks out of reach. We became the household that routinely had piles of socks sitting in windowsills or on the tops of bookshelves.

He would steal any food within reach.

He ate the Christmas lights.

No amount of training ever got him to properly walk on a leash without the use of a prong collar.

He would never come when called unless bribed with food.

He was big and pushy and stubborn and I spent many years wondering if this dog would ever reveal any redeeming qualities.

And then, Annie came along.

Our sweet, dog-loving Annie. Maybe she came into the world pre-programmed to be the dog-lover that she is, or maybe it's because she was born into a house already over-run with one giant, larger-than-life dog. But whatever the reason....Annie loved Reagan.

She just loved him.

She never saw him the way the rest of us did. She had no negative memories, no torn shirts, no lingering resentments over money spent on surgeries, failed training and replacement clothes. She only knew him as the older, more mature dog that he had become and she loved him.

And her pure, unconditional love and acceptance of Reagan, helped the rest of us to love him, too.

Annie's love cast Reagan in an entirely new light.

We were reminded that he didn't have a mean bone in his body, and he never had.

That in the same way Annie loved him, with all his quirks, faults and foibles, he gave us that same love in return. We weren't perfect either. We hadn't always been able to give him all the time and attention he needed. And yet, he still loved us.

And maybe we would have come around in his senior years either way, but aided by the love between the two of them, we are happy to say that we spent the second half of Reagan's life enjoying him and appreciating him in a way that I can't really say we did for the first half.

Reagan was not by any stretch the World's Best Dog. But he was a good dog. He was our dog. And in his final act of graciousness he spent the last two years of his life being an exceptionally good role model and companion for our new dog.

You forget what puppies are like. We didn't realize what we would be asking of Reagan bringing a puppy into his life when he himself was a senior citizen. We had moments of wondering if we had made a terrible mistake.

But I don't worry about that anymore. Reagan helped Rooney to settle into his new home. He taught him to swim. He gave him companionship. And in return, I think Rooney gave Reagan companionship, too. I think he made these last years more interesting and playful. I think it was good. I hope it was good.

And so, we say goodbye.

Goodbye to our faithful friend.

And in saying goodbye, we will remember all that was good about our Reagan.

He was so friendly.

He was tolerant.

He was a champion swimmer.

He never met a meal, a morsel, or a crumb he didn't like.

He was handsome.

He was quiet and unflappable.

He loved us.

He was loved.

Believe

I've taken a little heat for the speed with which we moved onto decorating for Christmas this year. The turkey carcass was practically still sitting on the counter when we hauled all of the Christmas boxes up from storage and started decking our halls with boughs of holly. I could give you a long list of reasons why we were completely justified in leaving Thanksgiving behind so quickly but the biggest reason of all, the one that I challenge any of you to try to resist, would have to do with one little girl who simply loves Christmas.

It really isn't her fault. She cannot be judged for her inordinate love of all things Christmas-y and tinsel-y and Christmas carol-y...because, the thing is, it's in her blood.

At the risk of blowing your mind on this early Monday morning and sending you running for that second, third or fourth cup of coffee, I have a pretty big secret to share. Well, at least it's a secret to some of you. Some of you, and you know who you are, won't be the least bit surprised. But the rest of you...well...you see, what you might not realize, and will likely come as a bit of a shock to those who have only known me as an adult is...okay...brace yourselves...

I grew up as the daughter of Santa Claus.

I'm sure some of you are smiling, or perhaps wrinkling your brow in confusion, or chuckling, imagining that I am simply telling a cute joke. I am not joking. And I can assure you that any of my oldest, dearest friends- those closest to me and my family as a child-some of whom might be reading this at this very moment-are not chuckling. They are nodding in all seriousness, and would solemnly tell you if asked, "Oh, yes, it is absolutely true. Her father was Santa Claus."

Because they know.

And it wasn't just because my father donned his red suit and beard almost every year of his adult life, thrilling children and adults alike with his booming laugh and jolly spirit.

It wasn't just because he always seemed to know the right thing to say to encourage a shy child to share their deepest heart's desire.

It wasn't just because both babies and awkward teenagers never seemed to balk at taking their place on his knee, sensing him completely worthy of their trust.

It wasn't just because of who he was on that one day each year.  Even though everyone saw and knew and believed he was Santa Claus on that one day.

But the real reason we knew, why we still know, was because everyone saw and knew and believed he was Santa Claus everyday of the year.

He laughed like that everyday. He could get any child to warm up to him, everyday. He loved babies and teenagers alike, everyday. He gave and he gave and he gave....everyday.

And I miss him...everyday.

But especially at Christmas.

For as long as it lasts

This morning, Annie asked me what superpower I would choose if I could choose any power from the infinite store of superpowers in the universe (okay, she might not have said it exactly like that).

Me: I would choose the power to keep you my little girl forever and ever.

Annie (indignant and annoyed): No! You have to choose a power that will SAVE THE WORLD!

Ah, details, details.

Of course, she was right. Pretty selfish of me to muddy up my one chance to dramatically alter the course of the universe with my own petty, small feelings. But in that moment, as I brushed her hair, braiding her still-growing bangs out of her eyes, it was what I really wanted. Just for that moment.

The other night I proposed getting a special doll for Annie's big Christmas gift. Superdad had his doubts about my decision. He asked, "Does she really need another doll? How much longer do you think she is even going to play with those dolls?"

Something along these lines is what erupted from my mouth:

But that's exactly why she needs a doll for Christmas! Because she's still asking for one! Because she's not asking for a cell phone or an iPod or make up or a belly ring! She still wants A DOLL! She still gets that catalogue and pores over it showing me all the things that would be "so cute" and "so fun" and tells me she is going to ask Santa for that doll because even though she knows she doesn't need another doll she thinks it's okay to ask Santa because that doesn't cost us anything. SHE STILL BELIEVES IN SANTA, for goodness sake! SHE STILL WANTS A DOLL AND NEXT CHRISTMAS THAT MIGHT NOT BE TRUE ANYMORE SO WE ARE GETTING HER A DOLL!

I can't say for certain because it's all a little foggy after that, but I'm pretty sure Superdad responded with,

You are absolutely right, Honey. Get her the doll.

He's not only a super dad, he's a smart husband.

A lot of my writing this past year has focused on our eldest child leaving home and going to college and it's true there has been a lot of letting go involved in that process. But, truth be told, a lot of letting go had already happened long before we got to the final launch.

I'm sure every parent has different weak points. Maybe you crumble a little seeing your baby grow into a walking, talking toddler. Maybe it's that first day of Kindergarten. Maybe it's their first real dance or getting their driver's license. Maybe it's their first summer sleep-away camp. Most of those were pretty easy for me. Sure there was wistfulness or maybe even concern for their well-being, but none of those things brought me to the moment of truth. That moment when you know you have to let go and yet all you want to do is to hold on tight.

I'm realizing that for me that moment isn't a moment at all. It happens over days and weeks and months. It is that imperceptible line that separates little kids from big kids. It is the point you realize they don't get out their toys anymore. That vague realization that you don't hear them talking to themselves in their rooms anymore pretending to be...something. When you notice that prized Captain Hook doll never comes out of the toy box anymore. The costume box sits undisturbed and in place of cars and dinosaurs and dolls strewn about, there are sports shoes and hand held electronics and garbage from that late night snack.

I love my big kids. I truly enjoy many, many things about having teenagers. And I will enjoy Annie as a big kid and teenager, too. I will. But I will feel a little sad when she is done with dolls and stuffed animals and her beloved Dog Academy figurine set.

The hard truth is, there have been too many reminders for me in this past year that to see your children grow up is nothing short of an incredible privilege and blessing. To wish it to be otherwise is forgetting what that would really mean. So, I do not really wish for the power to keep my girl a little girl forever.

But I will enjoy it while it lasts.

And she IS getting a doll for Christmas.

No two are alike

This was originally written five years ago. At that time, I was asked by a collaborative online grief support site to write about the intersection of loss and faith. It's a long story as to how and why I was asked, but I was and I did. I have written a lot of things over the years but this one has always stood out for me as one of the most honest things I've ever written. It has become a sort of testimony for me in the larger sense of the word. It is my story and it is my truth. 

I have updated it to reflect this 10 year anniversary, which has felt strangely significant. I don't know why a number should matter so much but it seems to. So, thank you to the friends and strangers reading this who will allow me this 10 year mark to be a bit sentimental. I'll try to tone it down for the 11th. 

And just in case this story makes you concerned that I am spending my day tucked in bed with the covers over my head, I'd refer you to my post of the other day. I am completely okay. I'm just using this mile marker as an opportunity to share some things I haven't before. Sort of a release before I move on to the next phase of the journey. 

So, I'm okay, friends. But I'm not ruling out a nap.

No Two Are Alike

It was January and it was snowing. Great big fat flakes were floating down and, even more exciting, they were sticking to the ground. It was enough to make two young boys nearly hysterical.

I helped them piece together whatever suitable outdoor clothing we could find and sent them out the door in ill-fitting snow boots from last year and adult sized stocking caps that kept falling down over their eyes. They whooped and hollered and started scraping together snowballs from the wafer-thin blanket of snow that had accumulated on the grass.

I retreated upstairs to my bedroom, my sanctuary, and leaned on the windowsill watching them from above. It had been less than three months since I had birthed, held, loved and said good-bye to my other two - the two that now existed only in my dreams. Silent tears slipped down my cheeks as I struggled yet again with my inability to find joy in a scene that was nothing less than joy-filled. Two glorious, living, breathing, sturdy boys. Mine. But my thoughts were consumed by the two that were missing.

During those long three days in the hospital prior to Joseph and Molly’s birth, and then death, I felt held. I prayed only for God’s presence and He was there.

He was there in the nurses who ministered to us with such tenderness and mercy. He was there in the family members who waited with us in silent support even when we refused to see anyone. He was there in our friend, an ordained minister, who abandoned all of the duties of her own life to come to us in our time of need. He was there in the remarkable peace that surrounded us during the hours we held our babies, loving them, memorizing them, struggling to figure out how to let them go. I felt sustained by the prayers and rituals of our faith that were offered up on our behalf. Tears were everywhere, but so was grace.

I thought that presence that had been so easy to recognize in the hospital would follow me home. It didn’t.

I thought the peace I had felt when my babies were here would continue in their absence. Again, no. Life moved on so quickly, it had to.  Boys at the ages of five and eight don’t understand periods of mourning, or a mother who can’t find the energy to help them with their homework or to volunteer in their classroom. Guilt heaped on top of grief and I found myself drowning. 

Through it all I tried to pray. I tried to cling to all that I had always known to be true in the hopes that it would bring some kind of comfort. I tried. But most of the time my prayers didn’t get any further than, God, please help me...

Help me what? Help me heal? Help me still be a mother to the children who are here with me? Help me stop torturing myself with all of the things I believe I should have done differently? Help me stop doubting my babies’ value, and my right to grieve their absence? Yes, all of that. That, and so much more. 

I gave into many demons during those days. I agonized myself with all that I had done wrong, and shut myself off from everyone who cared. But the one voice I never gave credence to was the one that tried to claim this was God’s will. The devil didn’t win that one. I had reconciled long before this tragedy that I was a part of a larger story; a story of a broken world and a broken relationship with God. Accidents, illness, disease, all evidence of a creation gone wrong. As a Christian, I believe the Incarnation and the Resurrection restored our relationship to God, but Creation is still in need of repair. The Kingdom has not yet come. The world is still broken and we see that brokenness in a thousand different ways every day.

Leaning on my windowsill that snowy afternoon, I felt myself slipping into doubt, into despair. Over and over I thought of the cry of that anguished father in the Gospel of Mark: Lord, I believe; please help my unbelief. And in that moment I felt something. It wasn’t peace. It didn’t erase the sorrow in my heart. It was more like awareness, a window opening to a place that I hadn’t seen before.

In that space, for just a moment, I heard His voice.

I’m here. They mattered. They matter to me. They were my beloved. You are my beloved. They are with me and they are perfect. You will be okay, I promise. I am here... I am always here.

In the quiet of that blessed assurance I looked out the window and saw my boys working together to try and gather every ounce of snow they could find to build a miniature snowman. From the depths of my soul, I smiled.

It’s been ten years now and I still hold onto that moment of clarity.

It is the voice that tells me it is okay that I am still here, still writing about them, still remembering them, and still missing them. It is also the voice that tells me it is okay that I am happy again, that joy returned. It is the voice of love in all its forms. The love that weeps over those we miss, and the love that rejoices in the blessings of today.

I believe in love.  I believe that God is the source of that love. I believe we are called to love and that in doing so we assist God in repairing the world. And I believe that my babies, my son and daughter, are wrapped forever in eternal love - both mine and God’s.

I believe.

Beautiful and terrible things

Ah, if only you knew the peace there is in an accepted sorrow.

~Jeanne De la Motte-Guyon

The first time I read this quote, it annoyed me.

It felt just a little too much like being patted on the head and gently chucked under the chin while being told to, "Buck up, little camper!"

But then I couldn't get it out of my head. It just stayed there, whispering to me through the years, as though it really did know something that I didn't.

Now when I read those words, I hear an entirely different voice. I no longer hear the condescending, chiding tone telling me to "get over it" that I once heard. Instead, it is the sound of a gentle friend, patting my knee, offering a glimpse of hope while at the same time still honoring a very real and present pain.

For me, these are the words you think to yourself- while wishing them for someone else- but never saying them out loud. Because if it is too soon, then they will be just what they were for me- annoying. Or worse yet, hurtful.

These are the words you come to when you have reached the other side.

Occasionally, I write about stuff that's a little deeper than my usual fare. I'm always appreciative of my friends and readers who seem to be able to tolerate the whiplash that must come from reading this little blog. Entirely lighthearted stuff mixed in with the heavy can make one a little seasick sometimes, but I'm finding it's hard for me to do otherwise because that's really what life is. It's messy.

This post generated more traffic than anything I have ever written which surprised me as much as anyone. I don't write here with the purpose of developing a large readership. I really just write for me and for the handful of people in my life who seem to enjoy hearing what I have to say (probably because I've always communicated better in writing than in actual speech-go figure). Which is why it was startling to see the number of "hits" on that post go steadily up and up and up, knowing that most of those people reading my words had to be strangers to me. It's an odd feeling.

But what this tells me is that we all secretly crave a certain measure of vulnerability in our lives. I think all of us, at one time or another, have wanted nothing more than the assurance that our feelings and experiences are not completely outside the range of "normal". We all want to know that we are not crazy! 

So, to the extent that I might have been able to offer that assurance of normalcy to other people in the world, strangers or not, I am glad.

The only complication I have in writing about some of my experiences is I fear it can make people think they need to offer me something. That I am seeking condolences or support or sympathy. I felt that after writing "Stay" and it was a little uncomfortable for me because I didn't really intend that to be about myself. It was more of an encouragement for others facing more recent losses and the friends who might be struggling to support them.

This post is ending up even more rambling than usual (which is difficult to do) so let me try to arrive at a point here. This is a poignant week for me. These are days of remembering our babies who both arrived and left too soon, whether I want them to be or not. Even when I try to make it otherwise, my body and my heart force me to remember. I can't explain it, so all I can do is embrace it. I live these days with a heightened awareness of both their presence in my life and their absence. And I know that at the end of this month it will fade again and the memories I carry of them will settle back into a quiet, unobtrusive place in my mind.

That's all true. But what is also true is that I am okay. I don't share these things to garner attention or words of sympathy. I write because I am compelled to and because it seems like every once in awhile something I say actually helps someone else.

And perhaps, a small part of me shares these things in an act of rebellion against a culture that would rather we all keep our more difficult emotions to ourselves. With the exception of ranting about politics or the manufactured social divide of the day, I think we all know we aren't really allowed to be too open about ourselves, right? We are supposed to be fine and busy and just great when people ask how we are.

So, once again, this is me...being a rebel.

But, the truth is- really, truly, for real- I am okay.

There really is peace to be found in an accepted sorrow.

But you gotta travel a long path to get there.

In your own time. In your own way.

Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid.

~Frederick Buechner

Boxes and Labels

I have a friend who way-back-when worked as an organization development consultant (or something like that) for one of our big tech companies up here. I'm sure she was good at it because she is super smart. I'm also sure she was good at it because they ended up promoting her to the European division after which she and her family moved to Paris for several years where she did leadership training all over Europe and the Middle East. She is also one of the funniest, most magnetic people I know.

Anyway, about a million years ago, she and I were chatting and I was telling her about my tendency to start strong with things and then lose interest somewhere down the line and wish I'd never started the thing in the first place. I can't remember exactly what tiresome project/plan/organization I was referring to, but I must have been growing weary of something I'd agreed to.

She listened intently, nodding along very seriously. Then, in her bright, ever-optimistic way, she smiled widely and slapped me on the leg and said, "Well, that all makes perfect sense! You are an Initiator not a Sustainer!"

I stared at her silently for probably a full five seconds as I let this revelation settle in and then I burst out laughing. Hysterically.

I congratulated her for finding a way to put a pretty label on the reality that I am a lazy slacker with grand intentions who eventually wants everyone else to do all the work.

We laughed and laughed together with her assuring me that Initiators were every bit as valuable in the world as Sustainers, and me shaking my head and saying, "Uh huh. I'm sure that's how those dependable, reliable Sustainers look at it. Thanks a lot, Initiators. Don't worry about us as you flutter off to your next project, we'll keep this thing rolling..."

And even though that conversation was at least a million years ago, and was always something I remembered with great humor, I also never forgot it.

I catch myself evaluating different decisions I make, projects I start, committees I'm considering and thinking, "So, Lori...is this something you can sustain? Is it necessary to be able to sustain it? Do you want to?" Which are all really very good questions to ask of anything we are considering giving our time and energy to.

It also makes me look at my kids and quietly evaluate their tendencies. I have one that definitely exhibits a preference for Initiating things over Sustaining, one that shows all the signs of being a stalwart Sustainer, and one that is a little hard to tell. None of it changes how I relate to them or what I expect of them, but it's an interesting distinction to ponder.

Let me be clear, I don't really believe in boxing people into labels. I'm also certain my friend doesn't either and if I ever reminded her of this conversation she would probably say, "I said what?!?" And then we would laugh hysterically about it all over again. But I do think there is something to this. I do think there are people who are better at generating ideas and energy and enthusiasm, and there are people who are better at buckling down and keeping the day to day operations of things rolling along.

This blog is a good example of my struggles with Initiation vs. Sustaining. It's true I have Sustained the blog but I also have done a terrible job of sticking with the original intention behind its Initiation.

But here's the thing:

I completed high school, college and graduate school.

I've been happily married for 21 years.

I have one friend whom I've known since infancy and two others since preschool. We are still very connected to one another and have been long before the advent of Facebook.

I just returned from a reunion with some of my college girlfriends (for those keeping count, that would have been 20+ years ago). We do these reunions every other year and they only get more and more fun. We pick up right where we left off every time.

I talk to my sister and my cousin (who is like a sister to me) almost daily.

My house is reasonably tidy (but please don't stop by unannounced).

I have been in my Director of Children's Ministry position for two years now and I have no interest in stepping away anytime soon.

If I do agree to see a project through, I really will (it might just happen in the 11th hour).

Last time I checked, I never stopped being a mom for the past 18+ years.

So...what's my point?

Maybe I'm a Selective Sustainer? (I just created my own new group functioning term, I hope my friend is impressed). Maybe I am more than capable of sustaining the things and relationships that really matter but anything else has to be weighed against the energy I'm already pouring out. Maybe I recognize there is only so much of me to go around so I keep a handful of things in the "Sustain Permanently" column and everything else goes in the "Sustain Until I No Longer I Have the Energy" column. Actually, I'm pretty sure there is a third column titled, "Avert Your Eyes, Keep Your Head Down and Do Not Agree to One More Thing". That third column is a biggie.

So, that's what I'm going with. I am both an Initiator AND a Selective Sustainer. I will not be contained by labels and boxes. I am going to be like a human Venn Diagram with a foot in each circle. I am the embodiment of "and/or"and a living oxymoron.

I'm such a rebel.

Just don't ask me how the Great Bedroom Switcharoo Project is coming along...