It all started when got on the plane for a short stay in Wisconsin after a long school year. I could feel it crawling down my spine and into my legs as I boarded. Sitting on the plane, gazing out over the clouds, the feeling grew stronger and moved into my ankles. I got off the plane, and the feeling was in my toes. It's an uncomfortable feeling. A restless feeling. It's an itch. There is an itchy feeling in my feet. I have been diagnosed with Itchy Feet.
At first I told myself it was just a summer itch. I thought the symptoms would go away after a day or two. But as I relaxed at home day after day, the feeling wouldn't go away. I thought if I began to research, maybe that would sooth the restlessness. I began to read up on forgein countries, places of interest, excitement, and the unknown. My itch quickly became a dull ache which I knew could only be soothed with one thing...I must travel! Yet there I sat only reading about it.
Days later, I took a drive to the Minneapolis airport to pick up my brother after a two week adventure in China. His stories turned the aching in my feet to an actual throbbing pain. So many amazing and spectacular things he shared with me! What an interesting place to visit and take in! I began to wonder...what are you doing standing around for? Go somewhere!! My feet were killing me.
Lucky for me, a short family vacation is a short-term fix. Turns out - I have never been to Chicago. We are here. We are visiting. We are tourists. We are loving it. Glad to be here, scratching my feet. But I can already tell this remedy is only temporary. My traveling bug is on its way to remission. But will surface again. The funny thing is, for some reason that possiblilty doesn't bother me. Itchy Feet is the best kind of diagnosis I can imagine. Bring it on!
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
I’m okay, God
I am sitting at Gate C1 at Detroit International Airport. A mother and daughter of 4 sit across from me. Mother looks as if she has been traveling for a few days. Her eyes are heavy. Her smile is faded. Her shoulders sag. Her young child in tow is wide-eyed and full of energy. “What are we doing, Mama?” the inquisitive girl asks her exhausted parent.
Mama replies with more patience than I could muster, “We are waiting for them to tell us to get on the plane. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes!” the little girl exclaims. In a flash, she grabs her toy Delta airbus and takes off into a crowd of deporting passengers. Mama, in surprise, jumps up, turns to watch her young girl nearly trampled by several 200 pound men, zooming roller bags, and deadly pairs of 6-inch heels.
“CJ!” She calls out, “CJ! Be careful!”
From the midst of the crowd a small, clear, voice emerges, “I’m okay, Mama. I’m okay.”
“I know you’re okay. I know,” a stronger and clearer voice reassures, “But you must stay close. You will get hurt if you aren’t close to me.”
I can’t help but watch this scene and make a comparison to my own life. How many times have I been little CJ? I find myself asking God, “What are we doing now, God?”
“We are waiting, my Child.” He replies. “Do you think you can do that?”
“Sure,” I say, “For a minute.” Then I’m zooming off to spend my time waiting for the next thing. And God calls out to me…”Whoa! Slow down! What are you doing!?”
“Just waiting, God. Like you told me to. But I got bored. I have to do something with my time. But, I’m okay, God. Don’t worry.” An ignorant voice answers.
“You are okay. But you need to be careful.” My Father says sternly.
“OK,” I sheepishly respond.
Then, as a mother cradles her toddler in her arms for safety, my God holds me to his chest and whispers, “Just stay close to me. You will not get lost. You will stay safe. You will be surprised by how quickly the time will go, if you just listen to me. Believe me, you are much better off.”
In my mind I think, “But God, this is not exciting! This is not what I want to do today. I’d really just like to play with my toy airbus in a crowd of strangers…even if I do get trampled.”
“I know,” God says with a smile. “But I will not let you get trampled. Even if that is what you want.”
My heart swells with joy when I remember I have a protector bigger than the world I live in. A person who knows when I say, “I’m okay,” what I really mean is, “I need you and I always will.” How can I help but smile when the words he declares, prove true in my everyday life? He says to me, “I have graven you into my palms, you are mine.” Happy tears of relief and love spring forth as my whole life begins to change. What can I do but shout from the roof tops, “You are a great God! Thank-you. Because of you, I am okay. I am okay, and I can do what you say. I can wait.”
Mama replies with more patience than I could muster, “We are waiting for them to tell us to get on the plane. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes!” the little girl exclaims. In a flash, she grabs her toy Delta airbus and takes off into a crowd of deporting passengers. Mama, in surprise, jumps up, turns to watch her young girl nearly trampled by several 200 pound men, zooming roller bags, and deadly pairs of 6-inch heels.
“CJ!” She calls out, “CJ! Be careful!”
From the midst of the crowd a small, clear, voice emerges, “I’m okay, Mama. I’m okay.”
“I know you’re okay. I know,” a stronger and clearer voice reassures, “But you must stay close. You will get hurt if you aren’t close to me.”
I can’t help but watch this scene and make a comparison to my own life. How many times have I been little CJ? I find myself asking God, “What are we doing now, God?”
“We are waiting, my Child.” He replies. “Do you think you can do that?”
“Sure,” I say, “For a minute.” Then I’m zooming off to spend my time waiting for the next thing. And God calls out to me…”Whoa! Slow down! What are you doing!?”
“Just waiting, God. Like you told me to. But I got bored. I have to do something with my time. But, I’m okay, God. Don’t worry.” An ignorant voice answers.
“You are okay. But you need to be careful.” My Father says sternly.
“OK,” I sheepishly respond.
Then, as a mother cradles her toddler in her arms for safety, my God holds me to his chest and whispers, “Just stay close to me. You will not get lost. You will stay safe. You will be surprised by how quickly the time will go, if you just listen to me. Believe me, you are much better off.”
In my mind I think, “But God, this is not exciting! This is not what I want to do today. I’d really just like to play with my toy airbus in a crowd of strangers…even if I do get trampled.”
“I know,” God says with a smile. “But I will not let you get trampled. Even if that is what you want.”
My heart swells with joy when I remember I have a protector bigger than the world I live in. A person who knows when I say, “I’m okay,” what I really mean is, “I need you and I always will.” How can I help but smile when the words he declares, prove true in my everyday life? He says to me, “I have graven you into my palms, you are mine.” Happy tears of relief and love spring forth as my whole life begins to change. What can I do but shout from the roof tops, “You are a great God! Thank-you. Because of you, I am okay. I am okay, and I can do what you say. I can wait.”
Sunday, May 15, 2011
fish sticks and fry sauce
Everybody has pet peeves. Some find nails on a chalkboard completely repulsive. To others it’s the sound of chewing. I've met people who hear the sound of cracking gum and it causes the hair on the back of their neck to stand straight. My list isn't very long and tonight I hadn't really thought about my list of pet peeves, but in the interest of this entry, here goes. I am annoyed by dust, commercials, dial-up Internet, dog hair, cats, red lights, people who run red lights, very-windy-and-blustery-days, sweat, messy handwriting, and cherry popsicles. Tonight I add one more peeve to this pessimistic list: smoke detectors.
These useful home additions wouldn’t bother me at all - if they actually alerted me of danger. If the intended purpose for these inventions was accurately carried out, I don't think I would have a problem with them. I think I wouldn't even notice them, to tell you the truth. I rarely look at the ceiling. I might even venture to say, I would love smoke detectors, if they existed for their meaningful purpose. Unfortunately, this isn't the case in my small, two-bedroom duplex. Those sneaky little detectors remind me of their awful existence weekly and this makes me hate them.
At least once a week, I am in the kitchen, minding my own business, beginning to enjoy the fact that I can make more than spaghetti and macaroni, when out of nowhere...BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
But I don't hear BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
I hear, "Your pizza's burning again. HA! HA! HA!"
I don't hear, "You better turn on the fan and open a window or you'll inhale smoke."
Instead I hear, "Your cookies are roasting, and I'm going to tell the whole neighborhood about it!! Hee! Hee! Hee!"
I find myself rushing to the aide of the smoke detector, waving my towel wildly in circles, thinking, "Please shut-up, Please, shut-up! Please, oh please, oh please."
When the device finally decides to quiet its alarms, I heave an exasperated sigh of embarrassment, pull my crispy meal from the billowing oven, open a window, turn on the fan, and recline to devour the charred...something. It’s not bad enough my dinner has turned to ash, but my pride has taken a fall as well. Now my neighbors and anyone within hearing distance knows I cannot cook.
Maybe it’s not the detector which gives me annoyance, but rather the action which causes the detectors alarm in the first place. If I knew what I was doing, the detector would not go crazy, and I would not get annoyed.
Tonight the detector gave out its shrill warning cry once more. This time, I had had enough. After a wild wave and gentle dismantling, I removed that detector from its home on my ceiling. It now sits on my kitchen table, unaware of its surroundings and unaware that I am in the midst, learning to cook, and smoking the place to pieces. Ahh, and for once I can sigh, smile, and eat my meal without the rest of the world knowing my fish sticks are black as night…except, of course, for you, dear Void. You know. And for some reason I am not annoyed by that.
These useful home additions wouldn’t bother me at all - if they actually alerted me of danger. If the intended purpose for these inventions was accurately carried out, I don't think I would have a problem with them. I think I wouldn't even notice them, to tell you the truth. I rarely look at the ceiling. I might even venture to say, I would love smoke detectors, if they existed for their meaningful purpose. Unfortunately, this isn't the case in my small, two-bedroom duplex. Those sneaky little detectors remind me of their awful existence weekly and this makes me hate them.
At least once a week, I am in the kitchen, minding my own business, beginning to enjoy the fact that I can make more than spaghetti and macaroni, when out of nowhere...BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
But I don't hear BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
I hear, "Your pizza's burning again. HA! HA! HA!"
I don't hear, "You better turn on the fan and open a window or you'll inhale smoke."
Instead I hear, "Your cookies are roasting, and I'm going to tell the whole neighborhood about it!! Hee! Hee! Hee!"
I find myself rushing to the aide of the smoke detector, waving my towel wildly in circles, thinking, "Please shut-up, Please, shut-up! Please, oh please, oh please."
When the device finally decides to quiet its alarms, I heave an exasperated sigh of embarrassment, pull my crispy meal from the billowing oven, open a window, turn on the fan, and recline to devour the charred...something. It’s not bad enough my dinner has turned to ash, but my pride has taken a fall as well. Now my neighbors and anyone within hearing distance knows I cannot cook.
Maybe it’s not the detector which gives me annoyance, but rather the action which causes the detectors alarm in the first place. If I knew what I was doing, the detector would not go crazy, and I would not get annoyed.
Tonight the detector gave out its shrill warning cry once more. This time, I had had enough. After a wild wave and gentle dismantling, I removed that detector from its home on my ceiling. It now sits on my kitchen table, unaware of its surroundings and unaware that I am in the midst, learning to cook, and smoking the place to pieces. Ahh, and for once I can sigh, smile, and eat my meal without the rest of the world knowing my fish sticks are black as night…except, of course, for you, dear Void. You know. And for some reason I am not annoyed by that.
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