What I'm Doing About My Obsession With Mail

I have this long-standing love affair with mail.  E-mail.  Snail mail.  I love it all.  I remember going out to get the mail when I was a child and finding what seemed to be endless amounts addressed to my parents. Nearly every.single.day.  It didn't matter that the majority of it was either bills or circulars.  From my perspective, the fact that my parents would merit the sending of something  through the mail made them somewhat heroic.  Because I loved getting anything in the mail.  Still do, actually.  Excepting the bills, I suppose.

Magazines.  Love them.  Lands End catalogs.  Uh-huh.  I even like getting those little cards reminding me that I have an upcoming dentist appointment.  But nothing beats the excitement I feel when I sort through the mail and find some sort of hand-written note or card.  Especially when my name is on that top line.  Upon discovering it, I rush inside before opening and reading it so I can soak in every word that was written just for me.  **That wait is not as easy as it once was now that I live in the country and have a pretty long driveway.  And, I feel convicted to confess to you that I don't always have the fortitude to wait.  Sometimes I just rip it open on my way up the driveway.  Then I get inside and read it all again.  Since we're on the topic of confession, I also struggle with waiting until my kids get home to open the occasional invitation or card.  And I actually called my husband at work one time to ask if I could open a piece of mail that he got before he got home.  Okay -- now that I've spelled it out, I feel better for getting it off my chest and at the same time kinda' concerned.  Maybe this obsession with mail is something I need to deal with?

I've handed it down to my daughter as well.  In fact, when she was three-years-old, she loved mail and mailboxes so much that I actually put one in her room that I decorated just for her.  She still has it.  And it's stuffed with cards and postcards and notes.

There is just something about getting mail that warms my soul to its very tendrils.  Something about knowing that somebody thought of me for a long enough period of time to form those thoughts into words and send them to me.  It's proof that somebody thought about me and wanted me to know it.

And, though the obsession might be a bit extreme (already admitted), I don't think I'm alone in this.

So I wonder why I'm not more intentional with my written words.  Why is it that I don't take more time to encourage others the way that I love to be encouraged?  Like the great aunt whose husband has been ill for months and must be as exhausted as she is faithful.  Or the friend who opens her home every Thursday morning after getting her three kids to school so a group of us can pray for each other and our families.  Why don't I just send even a short note to thank them?  To let them know I think of them and pray?

I've been reading this blog called (in)courage.me for a while now.  It's purpose is encouraging women.  That's where I learned that today is the National Day of Encouragement.  Didn't even know there was such a thing.  And that's why I accepted the challenge to encourage someone with a card from one of Dayspring's new line of Hope and Encouragement cards.  They gave me the cards (I know!) and I agreed to use them and write about it.  What a great challenge.

So here I am.  Challenged.  Willing.  Encouraged to encourage.  Encouraging you to do the same.

Happy National Day of Encouragement. :)

No Place Like Home

After about five hours in the car yesterday and ten hours of (really amazing!) sleep in my own bed with my own pillow, I am home.  So why do I feel so . . . blah?  That I-don't-know-what-to-do-today-so-I'll-just-do-nothing-and-hope-my-kids-don't-notice kind of blah.

I mean, I was refreshed.  Replenished from five days spent with the friends who became family during those nine years we lived away from blood relatives.  And yesterday when my kids and I loaded up the car through the tearful goodbyes, I somehow felt ready to return to my own home of three years.  Freshly.  With rested mind-eyes and renewed intention.

Because time spent with a good friend doesn't just make you feel better, it makes you better.   Not just in conversation.  But in the way she serves her kids and loves your own.  She makes you a better mom.  A more intense lover of Jesus the King.  A more wholehearted wife.  A better friend.

It's why we cried yesterday as we drove away.  Because those water droplets that fall from heartstrung eyes know the truth of a good friend.  And they don't want to exchange the moment for the memory. 

But we must.

Because, in spite of it all, there is no place like home.

And now, after three years living here, four and a half hours from there, this is home.  Not just where we abide.  It's where we live.  And so, I begin to pray that my heart can catch up with the here and now.  That my children's hearts can do the same.

So today, we will transition.  Letting our hearts figure out the moment to memory exchange.

And then we'll probably call our friends and let them know we made it...

home.

He Loves Me So Much He Likes Me

I ran four miles with God today.  Well it was more walk than run, but that's not the point. 

photo courtesy of http://www.dreamstime.com/

I usually pray during my walk/runs, so I started my requests in the usual way.  "God, use me as I train for this half-marathon in May.  PLEASE free those children and use the money we raise to bring more of them in out of the disgust and evil in which they are trapped.  And, God please, You know that my family is hurting right now.  Please, God. . ." 

But I couldn't get any more words out.  Like laryngitis in my soul, I was unable to express my heavy heart.  I tried to pray for that painful family crisis.  I tried to lay it all out plainly for Him to take.  Again.  But I couldn't.  My heart just fell silent.  My soul was tired.  Like muscles fatigued after lifting weights.  Or a four-mile run.  And I could not get my heart to utter another word.

Please don't get me wrong.  I love a quiet spirit.  Quiet and calm in my inner being -- oh yeah, I am all about that.  But this silence was different.   Like some sort of expression that I needed to get out, but was unable.  And it struck me with a feeling of the exact opposite of quiet and calm.  It made me feel guilty and uneasy.  But just as my loud thoughts and anxious spirit started to spiral downward, I heard a whisper in my soul.  It said:

"Let's just walk together."

"Really, God?  Don't you want me to lay my burdens down before you again?  I mean, that's our routine when we walk and train.  Shouldn't I keep praying?  Shouldn't I keep searching for words?"

"No, Bria, let's just walk."

Because He knows my heart anyway.  He knows . . .  

And He just wanted to be my training partner today.

And isn't it the companionship that makes the training more bearable?  In running.  In life.

I love the stuff I learn when I hang out with God.  Like today, when I realized that He not only loves me, He also likes me.  Words or no words.

So today, I am unwrapping the gift of God's unendingly kind companionship.  His always.  No matter what.  Come on over to Emily's Tuesday's Unwrapped McKlinky party at Chatting at the Sky.  It's always such a great time.

Nostalgia From The Bend

I've had some pretty deep thoughts going on in my head lately. So it would have been nice to blog about them. But, obviously, I have not. And, now that I am actually sitting down and taking the time to blog, the thoughts are mostly gone, which leads me to wonder what I am actually going to write about....

There's oh so much that's gone on these last few (ok, more than just a few) months. My husband's settling into his new job in the bioenergy field, which has deepened my commitment to recycle more and more. (Here in this town that's not really a town, we have to actually drive our recyclables to a central drop-off spot and separate them into their appropriate containers. It actually is somewhat of a commitment.) It has also gotten me thinking that I'd like to start composting sometime. I am so proud of him and the job that he's doing. And I am so in wonder and awe that God picked him up out of the struggle of the automotive industry and put him into an industry that's exciting and growing. At least once a week, I find myself just thanking God for getting him out of there. Not knowing why He chose to be so kind to us, but thanking Him all the more. He is so good!!

And, in the midst of it, last week I followed my thoughts to my life as it was in South Bend. Since that day, I still haven't totally returned to the pleasure of life here. I miss my old life in a lot of ways. Don't get me wrong -- there are so many things I absolutely love about living here -- the beautiful hills and trees of Wayne and Holmes County, the awesome church we get to be a part of, the great school that Grace goes to, living in the country next to some awesome neighbors, not to mention the number one best part of living here -- being so close to our families and all of the many amazing benefits of that. But I felt like, in South Bend I was just settled into my routine (as mundane as it sometimes was) in a more wholehearted way. Mostly, I miss my friends.

"Friends are the family we choose for ourselves." I have a plaque that says that. (I think I may have written that here in a previous blog.) And that was true of our lives in South Bend. Because our families were four to five hours away, we had to choose some for ourselves. Actually, I believe God chose them. And allowed us to develop those friendships to the point of kinship. I miss them. The girls and I got to go there for about a week in August. We stayed with some of these dear and kindred friends. Oh, it was so great. And it was good to come back to my husband's hometown, too. I guess I'm just feeling sentimentally nostalgic. I love you, my friends. And miss you.

Family Friends

When I was growing up in California, we had these really good family friends, the Jameses (their last name was James, and I still to this day am not sure how to pluralize that). They were my parents' best friends in high school and had actually been responsible for the blind date on which my parents met each other. They had two boys close to the same ages of my sister and me. We were very close, like sisters and brothers almost. In fact, many of my childhood memories include them. Family vacations. Summer days. Playing after school. Going to church. As I said, we were very close. Family friends.

I've always thought that the meaning of that phrase "family friends" meant "friends of the family", which it does. But now that I'm grown and have a family of my own along with family friends of our own, I'm starting to find a better meaning. Friends as well as Family. I have a plaque that says "friends are the family we choose for ourselves." It was intended to be a gift for a good friend who moved away, but I never actually sent it (unfortunately this happens way more than I would like to admit -- a card, a note, whatever, that is never sent -- sorry to those of you who have been victimized by this major shortcoming of mine). Anyway - after spending a day with some good family friends from Indiana on Tuesday, I found myself treasuring this new meaning. Loving that my young family has such friends. Such family. And very, very thankful that, even though we moved "home" to be close to our family, we still have "family" in Indiana. And I believe we always will