``Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.''
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Accomplishments
"`Then,'' observed Elizabeth, ``you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.''
``Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.''
``Oh! certainly,'' cried his faithful assistant , ``no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.''
``All this she must possess,'' added Darcy, ``and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.''
``I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.'' "
-Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
I was recently an observer in a conversation in which a gentleman shared how he and his wife had been criticized about something when they were raising their children. I don't recall the specifics, but it was something trivial which is probably now discussed in 30-40 different parenting books (all of which will likely draw completely different conclusions on the topic). He concluded that he was very proud of how his children had turned out (all adults now), "My sons have wonderful wives and my daughter has blah blah blah degrees"
I was struck that his daughter (single) got credit for education, while his married sons got credits for starting families. This led me to consider my own family. My brother has both a wife AND is a semester away from finishing his Master's...My parents are proud of both of us. Though, I am oh-so-hopeful that my relationship status doesn't give or take away from that because then I might just have to cry, and cry, and cry.
I have been asked "What do you do with all your free time?" My answer is always the same and always pretty lame. I hang out with friends, I read, I cook, I walk the dog, in the winter I shovel snow, in the summer I mow the lawn and garden, I recover from the day/last week/last 2 weeks of work by surrounding myself with people and make-work-errands and random acts of kindness or isolating myself and temporarily cutting all but a select few out.
On Ash Wednesday I decided to kibosh the "sleep button". I have been using this sleepyti.me app online. I click "I am going to bed now" and it gets me the best times to wake up, I choose the best one for what I have to do that day and I set my alarm and I get up. It's been giving my day more purpose/awareness. If I am reading a book, I am intentionally reading that book. If I am not washing the dishes, I am intentionally NOT washing the dishes. Etc. Etc. Etc. All this from waking up intentionally! (granted, I have only been doing this since Wednesday and Daylight Savings just came and messed everything up!).
Since reflecting on the conversation, I would like to be intentional in acknowledging my accomplishments. Even though they do not include "having a good husband" (or dancing or singing or modern languages) I am hopeful to somehow honour God through them.
Though, right this second, I am setting my alarm for 8:10 and calling it a night! Goodnight
Right this second, though,
``Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it.''
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Instead of Ashes I See Snow
On this snowy Ash Wednesday I am drinking a glass of wine, baking chocolate cupcakes (the plan of topping them with peanut butter icing is being entertained), and listening to Avici.
Sounds like a little too much luxury and indulgence for the start of Lent, doesn't it? It would be considered an epic Lent related fail if I had given up chocolate, sweets, music or wine; but that's not the plan.
My normal morning routine involves an alarm going off (ok, actually 3 alarms going off)and me hitting the snooze button around 11 times. Usually when I went to bed the night before I would have planned for me to shower and/or make breakfast and/or make my lunch and/or read my Bible and/or walk the dog, and/or do some yoga. Of course, after that 11th 5 minute nap it's actually time for me to do the bare minimum in time to dash off to work a solid 5 minutes late (which I tell myself is because of traffic, obviously). This is why I am giving up the snooze button for Lent. It's going to be a difficult habit to break, but I am hoping to inject some intentional living into my morning routine. Stop my time wasting, and embrace the day God is blessing me with. Since I am anticipating all this free time in the morning, I am also adding in the Lenten Reader that the Evangelical Covenant Church of Canada (ECCC) compiled. I am looking forward to the addition of scripture and reading/responding to the reflections of my across-the-country-church-family. I'd like to use this time wisely, and listen and trust and practice my gifts. I'd love to write. I'd love to bake gifts for friends and neighbours. I'd love to sing, dance, play piano, and embrace joy.
Making my intentions public is the first step. Next, I am going to lick the beaters from the peanut butter icing.
Goodnight!
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Of Camp
After racing around DC, I returned, worked 2 days and 1 night and was chauffeured out to camp.
Yes. Camp was so desperate for any sort of staff that they were willing to drive me there. I also have a soft spot for camp, so was willing to go despite tortuous sleep deprivation.
For the first time ever: I was OFFICIAL kitchen staff. Previous years I was the camp nurse and just helped out in the kitchen because it was where the people to hang out with were...and a pretty central location if anyone needed to find me to take out a sliver or hand out tensor bandages for twisted ankles. This year though, ALL my time was spent in the kitchen. Chopping. Peeling. Stirring. Cleaning. Planning. Sweating. Swatting mosquitoes. Etc. My head chef and I were amazed that we made it through the week AND did not run out of food...and we came close multiple times.
When I am old and don't remember anything, I am sure I will still remember this week of "loaves and fishes" (the kitchen theme of the week that we said half-jokingly, half eternally gratefully).
I lost the tan I had sweat for in DC. I still have a faint ring of mosquito bites on my ankles. I have 2 scabs on my left leg that were mosquito bites I couldn't stop scratching. I haven't had more than 1 day off at a time, and haven't had time to sleep on those lonely islands of "rest" days because camp was an extra week of not working I hadn't actually planned for originally and I am so exhausted that I am feverish as I write this.
Yet, I am so very glad that I went.
My first camp experience was at Redberry Bible Camp, somewhere in Saskatchewan. My mom and grandparents drove me out to camp, and I locked myself in the car and cried hysterically. Not how you were expecting that story to end, right? Eventually I was coaxed/dragged out of the car, settled into my cabin, and reassured that I was going to love it there. I sincerely doubted it. The next day, my Grandpa drove out to see if I needed rescuing, but I was so busy swimming and playing that I hardly took the time to wave. Camp was that awesome. My grandpa was that awesome.
A couple years later, my family moved, my new classmates hated me, and they were also my new campmates. From then on, camp was fun, but not the same free-happy-go-lucky fun because I was keenly aware that I was not popular and did not have a group to which I belonged. Covenant Bay Bible Camp was a much smaller camp. So, everyone already knew eachother, and had known eachother for ages. On my registration I requested the one person I knew, and she cried hysterically until she was moved into the cabin with her friends. I know I had great times at Covenant Bay, and I dearly love the place, but when I am there I have this awareness that I didn't really belong. (Disclaimer: I have that awareness almost everywhere I go)
Yet, I love camp, and have a soft spot for camp, and will be eaten alive by mosquitos to make sure that camp goes on. I went to one chapel, and the kids were singing a song, and doing the same actions I had learnt when I was their age. It made my heart so glad that camp goes on. I don't know what these kids will think of when they look back on their camp days, but when I heard them singing, and saw them "not be shaken" my crazy emotional side went all bleary eyed because camp hasn't changed. It's still this awesome place kids go to hang out, play games, laugh, scream, yell, get bit by mosquitoes. It's profound and powerful. And God is in it. It's a relief to see that even though every one of those kids probably has an iPhone (and I don't) they are still so enthusiastic and joyful that they jump to the side when they sing "I will not be moved".
Which leads to the most obvious point of this entire post: camp is awesome, and we should have actions with the songs in church every Sunday.
Yes. Camp was so desperate for any sort of staff that they were willing to drive me there. I also have a soft spot for camp, so was willing to go despite tortuous sleep deprivation.
For the first time ever: I was OFFICIAL kitchen staff. Previous years I was the camp nurse and just helped out in the kitchen because it was where the people to hang out with were...and a pretty central location if anyone needed to find me to take out a sliver or hand out tensor bandages for twisted ankles. This year though, ALL my time was spent in the kitchen. Chopping. Peeling. Stirring. Cleaning. Planning. Sweating. Swatting mosquitoes. Etc. My head chef and I were amazed that we made it through the week AND did not run out of food...and we came close multiple times.
When I am old and don't remember anything, I am sure I will still remember this week of "loaves and fishes" (the kitchen theme of the week that we said half-jokingly, half eternally gratefully).
I lost the tan I had sweat for in DC. I still have a faint ring of mosquito bites on my ankles. I have 2 scabs on my left leg that were mosquito bites I couldn't stop scratching. I haven't had more than 1 day off at a time, and haven't had time to sleep on those lonely islands of "rest" days because camp was an extra week of not working I hadn't actually planned for originally and I am so exhausted that I am feverish as I write this.
Yet, I am so very glad that I went.
My first camp experience was at Redberry Bible Camp, somewhere in Saskatchewan. My mom and grandparents drove me out to camp, and I locked myself in the car and cried hysterically. Not how you were expecting that story to end, right? Eventually I was coaxed/dragged out of the car, settled into my cabin, and reassured that I was going to love it there. I sincerely doubted it. The next day, my Grandpa drove out to see if I needed rescuing, but I was so busy swimming and playing that I hardly took the time to wave. Camp was that awesome. My grandpa was that awesome.
A couple years later, my family moved, my new classmates hated me, and they were also my new campmates. From then on, camp was fun, but not the same free-happy-go-lucky fun because I was keenly aware that I was not popular and did not have a group to which I belonged. Covenant Bay Bible Camp was a much smaller camp. So, everyone already knew eachother, and had known eachother for ages. On my registration I requested the one person I knew, and she cried hysterically until she was moved into the cabin with her friends. I know I had great times at Covenant Bay, and I dearly love the place, but when I am there I have this awareness that I didn't really belong. (Disclaimer: I have that awareness almost everywhere I go)
Yet, I love camp, and have a soft spot for camp, and will be eaten alive by mosquitos to make sure that camp goes on. I went to one chapel, and the kids were singing a song, and doing the same actions I had learnt when I was their age. It made my heart so glad that camp goes on. I don't know what these kids will think of when they look back on their camp days, but when I heard them singing, and saw them "not be shaken" my crazy emotional side went all bleary eyed because camp hasn't changed. It's still this awesome place kids go to hang out, play games, laugh, scream, yell, get bit by mosquitoes. It's profound and powerful. And God is in it. It's a relief to see that even though every one of those kids probably has an iPhone (and I don't) they are still so enthusiastic and joyful that they jump to the side when they sing "I will not be moved".
Which leads to the most obvious point of this entire post: camp is awesome, and we should have actions with the songs in church every Sunday.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
642 Things to Write About: A Woman thinks she might be living next door to her grandson
She spent her spare moments, and retirement gave her many, gazing out the window waiting for him to come or go. Each brief glimpse revealed something she thought she recognized. Her daughters wavy black hair. Her husbands nose and chin. Her son-in-laws broad shoulders and towering height. Once, he'd passed her on the street, and her own dark green eyes looked back at her.
She knew it was wishful thinking. The chances of him being here, next to her, wer so slim; but it fuelled her. There was a chance that these features she recognized were more than just what she wanted to see. There was a chance that he was her grandson.
If she could just figure out what to say and how to say it, she could fix everything, and end her loneliness. Unfortunately, in the last three years, she had not figured out what to say or how to say it. She was not sure if he would know who she was. She could only guess what her daughter and son-in-law had told him about her. What if they had told him the horrible things she had said? What if they had filled him with fear? Or, worse, what if they had never mentioned her at all?
These were the questions th at had plagued her since that rainy day in June when the moving van pulled up to the house next door. It was a terrible day to move. The wind drove the sheets of rain at an angle, soaking everything and everyone. She had just retired, and the loneliness had settled, and promted her to adopt a dog, when she opened the door to let the dog into the front yard she'd heard this young man calling to someone in the van, and there was something in the tone of voice, in the inflection, in the phrase used that made her think of her daughter. Whatever it was he said, it was long lost to her, was said in the same way that Natlie would have said it.
She could not see his face through the rain, and his head was covered in a hood, but from that moment on she obsessed. She gathered bits and pieces of information and pinned her hopes of a happy reunion on them. Three years of timid detective work left her certain of a few things. His name was Daniel (and hadn't Natalie loved the name Daniel as a child?). His parents had died when he was young (her grandson had been orphaned when he was eight). He had moved to the neighbourhood from the East, and had spent several years abroad (she thought Natalie's sister-in-law had been a photographer or writer or some sort of traveller). Every bit of overheard conversation was something to obsess about. Anything could be a clue.
Natalie had been such a boisterous child. Always singing and dancing and shouting. She wanted adventure; she didn't realize that it was safer at home. Always safer at home. She had accused her mother of being "old fasioned," but what was old fashioned about needing to know her daughter was safe? When Natalie turned 18, she left for college. She went as far away as she could, sent an occasional letter, made the even more occasional phone call, and in four years, when she returned, she brought Paul with her.
There was no reasoning with her! She was being flighty and irresponsible! She had to be reined in! To keep her safe! These things could lead to heartbreak, they could lead to terrible pain. Natalie didn't understand! Then, Natalie and paul vanished. One night, they left. No note. No explanation. Just gone.
Two years later, a note came in the mail. No return address, just a Boston postmark on the envelope. The scrap of paper inside read: We had a son. He has your eyes.
Eight years after that she saw Natalie and Paul in the news. They were dead. Their orphaned eight year old son was fine, and would be cared for by an aunt. A drunk driver was responsible. There was no keeping Natalie safe now.
No one sent her a letter or a note to let her know her daughter was dead. Perhaps no one knew that Natalie had a mother, or perhaps everyone knew that Natalie wanted nothing to do with her mother. Years passed, she was alone. Working at the library, looking after her flowers, eating toast and soup. The time came when the library asked her to retire, and so she did. Retirement isolated her, making her loneliness her only company. Joints stiffened with age, and the garden became too much to keep up: just the bed outside the front window with some low maintenance blooms to make her go outside. She hired a boy to mow the grass or shovel the snow. The days, and seasons, and years blended together, and she wished she'd been able to keep Natalie safe.
Then, he moved in, and everything changed. A voice in her head woke up, and chanteed "It has to be him! It must be him! It can't not be him!" She imagined scenario afte scenario in which she found a gentle, clever way to tell him the truth; to reveal that she was not alone, that she had him! Yet, three years had passed, and other than the occasional neighbourly wave as they passed on the street, she had made no progress.
If only she had found a way to keep Natalie safe, with her! Then she might know her grandsons name. She would have been a part of his life, instead of wondering if he was this young man. She could have spent her retirement years chatting freely with him, sharing in his day, visiting his wife, and sneaking cookies to the children after school.
It was a sunny afternoon when pain suddenly crushed her chest, and she collapsed while fumbling in the flower bed. She heard the frantic voices of the children next door calling to their father. He ran to her side, leaned over her and told her that help was coming. She looked up into his eyes-her eyes-and prayed for a glimpse of recognition as the pain went away and his face blurred into darkness.
The paramedics came, and took her away. No, no one knew if she had any family. No, they had never seen any visitors, just a dog. Yes, they could look after the dog until someone claimed her.
A few weeks later the public trustee assigned to the case cleared out the house. The dog was left with the family next door, they didn't mind, she was well trained, and the kids had become attached. A new family moved into the house, they had children close in age to the children next door. After school the two yards were filled with shouts, screams, and laughter as the boys teased the girls, and the girls shared their secrets with eachother.
A box was found in a space under the stairs, there was some rubbish, old keepsakes, and among them a framed newspaper photograph of a young boy, with a piece of paper, worn from much handling, on which all that could be read was "He has your eyes." They showed what they found to Daniel and his family, wondering if they had known anything about the previous occupant and her past. They passed around the photo and the note; spending the evening speculating about the boy and the mysterious past of the lonely old woman. In the morning, the phot and the note went out with the trash, and were never thought of again.
She knew it was wishful thinking. The chances of him being here, next to her, wer so slim; but it fuelled her. There was a chance that these features she recognized were more than just what she wanted to see. There was a chance that he was her grandson.
If she could just figure out what to say and how to say it, she could fix everything, and end her loneliness. Unfortunately, in the last three years, she had not figured out what to say or how to say it. She was not sure if he would know who she was. She could only guess what her daughter and son-in-law had told him about her. What if they had told him the horrible things she had said? What if they had filled him with fear? Or, worse, what if they had never mentioned her at all?
These were the questions th at had plagued her since that rainy day in June when the moving van pulled up to the house next door. It was a terrible day to move. The wind drove the sheets of rain at an angle, soaking everything and everyone. She had just retired, and the loneliness had settled, and promted her to adopt a dog, when she opened the door to let the dog into the front yard she'd heard this young man calling to someone in the van, and there was something in the tone of voice, in the inflection, in the phrase used that made her think of her daughter. Whatever it was he said, it was long lost to her, was said in the same way that Natlie would have said it.
She could not see his face through the rain, and his head was covered in a hood, but from that moment on she obsessed. She gathered bits and pieces of information and pinned her hopes of a happy reunion on them. Three years of timid detective work left her certain of a few things. His name was Daniel (and hadn't Natalie loved the name Daniel as a child?). His parents had died when he was young (her grandson had been orphaned when he was eight). He had moved to the neighbourhood from the East, and had spent several years abroad (she thought Natalie's sister-in-law had been a photographer or writer or some sort of traveller). Every bit of overheard conversation was something to obsess about. Anything could be a clue.
Natalie had been such a boisterous child. Always singing and dancing and shouting. She wanted adventure; she didn't realize that it was safer at home. Always safer at home. She had accused her mother of being "old fasioned," but what was old fashioned about needing to know her daughter was safe? When Natalie turned 18, she left for college. She went as far away as she could, sent an occasional letter, made the even more occasional phone call, and in four years, when she returned, she brought Paul with her.
There was no reasoning with her! She was being flighty and irresponsible! She had to be reined in! To keep her safe! These things could lead to heartbreak, they could lead to terrible pain. Natalie didn't understand! Then, Natalie and paul vanished. One night, they left. No note. No explanation. Just gone.
Two years later, a note came in the mail. No return address, just a Boston postmark on the envelope. The scrap of paper inside read: We had a son. He has your eyes.
Eight years after that she saw Natalie and Paul in the news. They were dead. Their orphaned eight year old son was fine, and would be cared for by an aunt. A drunk driver was responsible. There was no keeping Natalie safe now.
No one sent her a letter or a note to let her know her daughter was dead. Perhaps no one knew that Natalie had a mother, or perhaps everyone knew that Natalie wanted nothing to do with her mother. Years passed, she was alone. Working at the library, looking after her flowers, eating toast and soup. The time came when the library asked her to retire, and so she did. Retirement isolated her, making her loneliness her only company. Joints stiffened with age, and the garden became too much to keep up: just the bed outside the front window with some low maintenance blooms to make her go outside. She hired a boy to mow the grass or shovel the snow. The days, and seasons, and years blended together, and she wished she'd been able to keep Natalie safe.
Then, he moved in, and everything changed. A voice in her head woke up, and chanteed "It has to be him! It must be him! It can't not be him!" She imagined scenario afte scenario in which she found a gentle, clever way to tell him the truth; to reveal that she was not alone, that she had him! Yet, three years had passed, and other than the occasional neighbourly wave as they passed on the street, she had made no progress.
If only she had found a way to keep Natalie safe, with her! Then she might know her grandsons name. She would have been a part of his life, instead of wondering if he was this young man. She could have spent her retirement years chatting freely with him, sharing in his day, visiting his wife, and sneaking cookies to the children after school.
It was a sunny afternoon when pain suddenly crushed her chest, and she collapsed while fumbling in the flower bed. She heard the frantic voices of the children next door calling to their father. He ran to her side, leaned over her and told her that help was coming. She looked up into his eyes-her eyes-and prayed for a glimpse of recognition as the pain went away and his face blurred into darkness.
The paramedics came, and took her away. No, no one knew if she had any family. No, they had never seen any visitors, just a dog. Yes, they could look after the dog until someone claimed her.
A few weeks later the public trustee assigned to the case cleared out the house. The dog was left with the family next door, they didn't mind, she was well trained, and the kids had become attached. A new family moved into the house, they had children close in age to the children next door. After school the two yards were filled with shouts, screams, and laughter as the boys teased the girls, and the girls shared their secrets with eachother.
A box was found in a space under the stairs, there was some rubbish, old keepsakes, and among them a framed newspaper photograph of a young boy, with a piece of paper, worn from much handling, on which all that could be read was "He has your eyes." They showed what they found to Daniel and his family, wondering if they had known anything about the previous occupant and her past. They passed around the photo and the note; spending the evening speculating about the boy and the mysterious past of the lonely old woman. In the morning, the phot and the note went out with the trash, and were never thought of again.
642 Things to Write About--intro
I've been wanting to write, but never know what to write about, and then I found this book called "642 Things to Write About" and it looked interesting, but I didn't buy it. Until yesterday, I bought it, and now I shall write, and it might all be terrible, but it will be written, and maybe I'll share some of it. This is just to explain what you will see in some of the posts. When you have no idea what I am talking about or why: it is because 642 Things to Write About told me to.
So there.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
If You Nap all Day is it Still a Nap?
I don't even care if it's not a nap if you nap all day...I had 5 days off, and they were relatively busy, and now worked 1 day, and have 1 off (for babysitting) and then work and then on Saturday I'm going to a Introduction to the Enneagram (it's a personality thing that I expect to tell me why I'm a bad decision maker and only make plans that never get followed through...so just you wait...I'll be living overseas by Monday!)
Actually, I work Monday. And babysit next wednesday, and work Thursday and Friday and babysit saturday and work monday and tuesday and thursday and saturday and sunday and monday and tuesday and thursday. Then March is over.
I think I'd like March to be over NOW. Then I can go to Norquay and see lovely people and, Psalms are soothing, and by then I'm going to need soothing. Or the world will have become all Psalm 88 on me. It's only been all Psalm 88 on me once before, and I'd rather not go back there.
Speaking of Bible-y things, I realized that I wrote a panicked blog about having no ideas for Lent and never wrote the next one about having too many ideas for Lent, or the one after that about how I couldn't narrow them down and now have like 4 things for Lent.
1. Added: random acts of kindess every day...which is challenging, in a couple ways: I did it last year, and mostly did things that I was comfortable with, helping people who I am close to already. This year I'm trying to edge out of my comfort zone and do things for people I don't totally know all that well. It's also challenging because I tend to be all-or-nothing and I seem to think that my random acts HAVE to be huge lifechanging events, and I forget that little random acts like, calling my grandparents are good things to include and not at all cop-outs.
2. Subracted: weighing myself. Because that is a negative way in which I measure my value, and I truly believe that God wants me to measure my value in some sort of qualitative way that has nothing to do with weight.
3. Added: working on some scripture memorization, specifically the Sermon on the Mount, while also going through my Sermon on the Mount class notes from CBC. I've pretty much acknowledged that I'm not going to get through all 3 chapters, but I am at least halfway through the 1st chapter (although...technically that part is just re-memerizing what Kristina and I learnt while walking in Spain), but it is something good to dwell on...even though sometimes, when I'm falling asleep and trying to recite it, somehow it becomes the ABC's..."Now when Jesus saw the crowds he went up on a mountainside and sat down. His disciples came to him and began to teach them. He said, "ABCDEFG..."' Yeah. That's the NEW TNIV version.
4. Subracted: all beverages except water, this was an idea someone else had to remind them to be greatful for the water we have and the abundance we have in general, because so many people in the world do not have clean, fresh water available. At first I really missed juice and pop and coffee. And my boss tried to convince me that tea is really just water with salad in it. But I'm keeping on, and it is getting easier. I had a coffee on Sunday, and it was good, but didn't make me want to leap of the wagon. I'm getting by on water, and truly do appreciate the fact that it is available along with so many other things.
That is all. I suppose I ought to let my dog out and then go to sleep. If I can't nap all day, I'm sure as heck gonna try to nap all night!
Actually, I work Monday. And babysit next wednesday, and work Thursday and Friday and babysit saturday and work monday and tuesday and thursday and saturday and sunday and monday and tuesday and thursday. Then March is over.
I think I'd like March to be over NOW. Then I can go to Norquay and see lovely people and, Psalms are soothing, and by then I'm going to need soothing. Or the world will have become all Psalm 88 on me. It's only been all Psalm 88 on me once before, and I'd rather not go back there.
Speaking of Bible-y things, I realized that I wrote a panicked blog about having no ideas for Lent and never wrote the next one about having too many ideas for Lent, or the one after that about how I couldn't narrow them down and now have like 4 things for Lent.
1. Added: random acts of kindess every day...which is challenging, in a couple ways: I did it last year, and mostly did things that I was comfortable with, helping people who I am close to already. This year I'm trying to edge out of my comfort zone and do things for people I don't totally know all that well. It's also challenging because I tend to be all-or-nothing and I seem to think that my random acts HAVE to be huge lifechanging events, and I forget that little random acts like, calling my grandparents are good things to include and not at all cop-outs.
2. Subracted: weighing myself. Because that is a negative way in which I measure my value, and I truly believe that God wants me to measure my value in some sort of qualitative way that has nothing to do with weight.
3. Added: working on some scripture memorization, specifically the Sermon on the Mount, while also going through my Sermon on the Mount class notes from CBC. I've pretty much acknowledged that I'm not going to get through all 3 chapters, but I am at least halfway through the 1st chapter (although...technically that part is just re-memerizing what Kristina and I learnt while walking in Spain), but it is something good to dwell on...even though sometimes, when I'm falling asleep and trying to recite it, somehow it becomes the ABC's..."Now when Jesus saw the crowds he went up on a mountainside and sat down. His disciples came to him and began to teach them. He said, "ABCDEFG..."' Yeah. That's the NEW TNIV version.
4. Subracted: all beverages except water, this was an idea someone else had to remind them to be greatful for the water we have and the abundance we have in general, because so many people in the world do not have clean, fresh water available. At first I really missed juice and pop and coffee. And my boss tried to convince me that tea is really just water with salad in it. But I'm keeping on, and it is getting easier. I had a coffee on Sunday, and it was good, but didn't make me want to leap of the wagon. I'm getting by on water, and truly do appreciate the fact that it is available along with so many other things.
That is all. I suppose I ought to let my dog out and then go to sleep. If I can't nap all day, I'm sure as heck gonna try to nap all night!
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