Plane Coffee Mom

Chatting about Mission Aviation over coffee

Tag: choices (Page 1 of 2)

Happy Thanksgiving 2017

Thanksgiving. One of the most American holidays ever, complete with underlying values and heavy with tradition. A day to celebrate all we have and to share a meal with family and friends. A day that nearly everyone cooks, apparently. A day that is synonymous with family and food and relaxation.

 

Happy Thanksgiving! I hope your day is full of the best parts of each of those things: that the traditions you follow bring joy, that the thankfulness you express today is a gratitude that is lived most days, and that the food you prepare is truly enjoyed.

I realized yesterday that we have no traditions for this holiday as it isn’t one we have often celebrated. Most Thanksgiving days in our lives have been spent as regular work days, with maybe a few moments set aside to read about the celebrations going on in the USA or Canada, as the case may be.

Still, as long as I can remember I’ve seen beautiful photos of a loaded Thanksgiving table with a large family gathered. I have a mental picture of what Thanksgiving could or should be, and I’ve tried hard to recreate it sometimes. The perfect turkey with delicious stuffing, cranberry sauce, sweet potato something, and pumpkin pie with coffee to finish it off. This amazing meal followed by a time of sharing gratitude for the people around the table and the things we enjoy.

No matter how hard I try, the experience simply doesn’t meet my expectations. Usually by the time the food is on the table there have been frustrations that make me harried. We cut into a turkey that isn’t perfect, nobody really enjoys cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie isn’t a family favorite. Thanksgiving feels forced and my sons mumbled thanks feel like a reflection on my poor parenting. So, for all my effort, it’s empty. Disappointing. Discouraging.

I still hold to the thought that for many people, the pictures in their mind of a Thanksgiving celebration are based on a reality that has grown over their years of childhood and into the present. What they expect is maybe much closer to what they get. And for them, the effort they spend on Thanksgiving creates a reality that connects them to one another and to the past and their heritage. For the rest of us, it’s a different story.

This year as we celebrate Thanksgiving in the USA, I am trying to carve a new path based on reality and our history. As I ponder the things that I am truly thankful for, they are people and experiences. The people who have helped us grow and the ones we’ve been privileged to help. Our family who lives scattered by calls that are unique  but hearts that are similar. The people we have served and the ones who have served us.  The people who have prayed with us and cried with us. The places we’ve lived and the ones we’ve visited. The cultures we’ve experienced that have changed our biases and taught us new things. The places that felt like home when we arrived and the ones that became home only by a force of will. The teams that welcomed us and the ones we tried so hard to join. These are the things that make our history and define us as a family, and today I am celebrating each one of them.

In fact, in the process of blogging I’ve come up with next year’s menu: Rice, carne mechada, black beans, chipa, and a side of pancit. Leche flan with a cup of cafe con leche for dessert while we remember and give thanks.

May your Thanksgiving be filled with thanksgiving.

The Street Corner

We recently took a trip to Seattle and Garry dropped me off at one of my favorite coffee shops. I ordered a drink and did some people watching. Beside me was a guy with a guitar and dreads laboring over a small notebook. I noticed how the barista acted like the bar was a shield between her and the customers. In the corner sat an older man working diligently on his computer between smoke breaks.  I did some writing. I enjoyed the experience, and Garry was due to pick me up soon. Due to the parking situation I decided to wait for him outside.

I stepped out of the welcoming coffee shop and on to the street corner. It was a handy place to stand because I could see traffic in so many directions. But it was cold, and in less than two minutes I began to feel awkward.

A younger guy who was high on something stumbled by. A well-dressed guy kept eying me  while acting like he was doing something on his phone. A scantily dressed woman walked by, swinging her hips and trying to catch the eye of the guy just down the street. Two guys sauntered by, holding hands and looking into one another’s eyes. I looked behind me and saw a small band of poorly dressed young adults apparently fighting over something they were examining from an old grocery bag. An older lady, shabbily dressed but with steps of purpose, walked by carrying her groceries.

Garry didn’t come.Both our phones were nearly dead, and for just a moment I imagined what it would be like if he never came back. Seattle with no money in a less-than-desirable neighborhood. Suddenly I knew that my few “good ideas” about downtown were sorely disconnected from reality. I imagined how hard it would be to actually get out of this neighborhood if you were born here. I imagined what kind of help you might need to get a better job, how much effort it would be to change your self-perceptions, and the long journey to better habits. The complexity of the conversation hit me hard.

Soon Garry came and we returned to our safe world. The mental photos and haunted feelings remain as a reminder to pray for so many who are caught and for those who reach out to them.

This House of Ours

I like our house, I really do. I can’t say I love it simply because I don’t get that attached to places. Yet it is where we live so much of our lives. The early morning tea and night snacks before we turn in. Meals around our table and chats while I’m cooking. I like it. I like the fact that we have a roof over our heads and that our space is heated.

Yet it’s struck me again this week that a house takes a lot of time. In reality, the rent I pay on this place is far more than the check I write out at the beginning of the month. It’s the small repairs Garry does and the cleaning that’s required. It’s the lawn mowing and shoveling, the sweeping and dusting and scrubbing. You see, this place doesn’t take care of itself: that is our job.

And there is a balance where the more time I spend on the house the more I like it. It’s far more comfortable to work in a clean space than a cluttered one. But that takes time. It costs energy. And sometimes I get tired of this house of ours that seems to rent me as much as I rent it. 

I realize that this is true not only of the house and yard, but of our bodies as well. These are places where the real us resides, and while the external is not as important as the internal, it does matter. Our bodies need food and rest, cleaning and exercise. And that takes time. Time that I must plan for or I begin to resent what it costs. I sometimes forget that being alive means I need this body, and I need it to function, so I better take care of it.

This reflection leads to another one, the fact that my spirit is also a place that needs care. It deals in the currencies of faith and rest, stress and worry. The real me must be cleaned and renewed by the Word. Without faith it grows weary and burdened. Without attention it begin to shrivel and focus inward.

And my pondering leads me full circle to the fact that these houses of ours are both a privilege and a responsibility.

Old while Young

I felt old as a teenager and ancient in my early twenties. My memories of pain-free days as a young mom are few and far between. Now in my forties, I feel younger than I did two decades ago. While it strikes me as strange sometimes, it shouldn’t surprise me. Until my early thirties I struggled with chronic fatigue and fibromyalgia. Every day began with the same mantra, “I can do this. I can make it through another day.”

All that changed with a simple, faith-filled prayer late one night. There had been many simple, faith-filled prayers before that one, but that night God answered in a miraculous way. Things changed. I woke the next morning with energy and a new hope for the day. I’ve been sick, I’ve been discouraged, I’ve been weary since then, but neither the chronic fatigue nor the fibromyalgia has returned. It’s an undeserved blessing, one for which I am grateful every day.

I would hate to return to the fatigue of those years, and yet I would hate to live these years without those experiences. There are so many things I learned in that time that I need every day. God used sickness in a powerful way to dispel my independence and to teach me about prayer. I began to learn about empathy as I lay exhausted on the couch, trying to pay attention to my two-year-old. I had to say “no” more times than I can count, and yet it’s a skill that still comes hard to me. Sickness taught me to value the temple that our bodies are and to take care of myself and others in ways that have proved valuable.

Chronic illness was a school that taught me things I would have otherwise have had no interest in learning. It pushed me into places that I would not have chosen to go. It changed my perception of myself and of others. In some ways, I experienced age before my time and am now given the opportunity to live my real age.

What has caught my attention lately is how common this is. Maybe not the exact circumstances, but the reality that we experience things for a purpose. Today’s trials have every opportunity to be tomorrow’s joys. Today’s hardship is training for tomorrow’s joy, and for tomorrow’s challenges. What we do with today matters, not only for how well we’ll sleep tonight but also for how well equipped we will be for tomorrow and the days, weeks and months that follow.

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