Beyond the Duct Tape Fix

Enter: the new thing in life right now.  In June, my husband and I joined the Marching Ravens because that's what music teachers-who-are-too-old-for-DCI-and-too-nerdy-not-to-give-up-the-once-held-passion-of-performing-in-front-of-massive-crowds-of-unsuspecting-fans-who-thought-they-were-going-to-watch-a-football-game do.  Every game day, we arrive at the practice facility several hours before kick-off to practice the pregame and halftime show.  During this rehearsal, a brief incident (probably 15 seconds, max) took place that I've been thinking about on and off ever since.

A little background info, first: At the end of the pregame show, we form RAVENS on the field and launch into the fight song.  I stand at the top of the R which lines up with the rest of the other letters in line across the field.  The move immediately prior requires that I march in a backward diagonal leading into this line.  For anyone who has marched before, you know that keeping in the form trumps getting to your exact, assigned blade of grass on the field.  So if you're in a line or form that is moving too slowly, you sacrifice your exact destination for maintaining the shape.

So we were moving into this shape, but the line was about a yard closer to the sideline than it is supposed to be.  On the last step, several people in the middle (where everything is based off of) realized this and took a huge step backward on the last count.  Because I (and others close to me) had been in line but couldn't react to this compensation, we wound up being about a step closer to the sideline and slightly out of formation.  Now, this is practice.  It's the time to fix things and make final adjustments.  As soon as the song concluded, another band member stormed over to me and yelled, "You HAVE GOT to stay in LINE.  You are WAY too far forward!"  I expressed that I had been in line but couldn't react in time when the center of the line took a big step back on the last count of the move.  She swore, spun around, and went back to her spot.  

This woman has never spoken a word to me before, she isn't a section leader, and felt that, regardless of reason, me being a step out of formation was justification enough to walk 15 yards to loudly confront me about it.  I don't mind that she said something to me about it, but in mulling it over a bit more, I started seeing similar patterns. What is it that allows us to feel yelling at someone is an acceptable thing to do?

What is yelling anyway?  I'm not talking about calling the dog from outside; I mean angrily expressing one's point of view toward another.  It assumes fault based on personal perspective and conveys, "You screwed up, you inconvenienced me, you should feel badly, and now go fix it!"  Yelling dehumanizes the other person by devaluing them... and usually over something simple that really isn't that big of a deal.  I'm certainly not advocating for a coddling culture, nor am I suggesting that we habitually overlook things that should be corrected.

But what if we considered briefly, before opening our mouths, that the recipient of our words (and, perhaps more importantly, the tone of our words) is someone who has purpose and put thought behind their actions?  We would see the person as more important than the actions they do.  We might discover that the action we thought needed to be corrected is just a byproduct of incorrect thinking.  If we discovered this, we could more quickly get to the root of the problem rather than a duct-tape fix on the surface.  

...Though duct-tape is pretty amazing.

Of Writing and the Me Monster

Now that our house is back into the swing of the school schedule (it's more like a tire swing spinning around and around than a leisurely back-and-forth-pump-your-feet type of swing), I have been trying to prioritize the various aspects of my life.  What is energy sapping but worth it?  What is energy sapping and not worth it?  What keeps me going and brings joy to those around me?  What can I do with my time that blesses and uplifts my husband?

I decided in May that I wanted to build regularly writing into my schedule once the fall started up rather than just fitting it in when I felt inspired.  For a few years now, I have been tossing around an idea for a book on a subject that published media seems to be severely lacking.  It seemed like now would be a good time to build the discipline of regularly writing to coincide with this whole book endeavor.

In the two weeks that have passed, I have quickly realized the big temptation that is present when the idea is to capture thoughts into words on a topic that little has been written... With the eventual intent that others will read.  That temptation is to allow, as Brian Regan* so perfectly puts it, the "Me Monster" to influence my attitude.  The Me Monster manifests itself by suggesting, sometimes subtly, other times with zero subtlety, "Wow, you're pretty important, aren't you?"  "Yeah, yeah.  I AM pretty special.  I am sure something else, huh!" I don't mean to say that what I am writing is NOT important, but what is becoming more evident is that whenever we offer our own opinion on a given subject, whether through conversation, a blog post, a potential book manuscript, it can be easy to think much higher of oneself than is realistic.  Yes, what you have to say matters, but it isn't the end-all-be-all-trump-card of opinions.  Please pray that God would continue to grow me through humility.

*if you don't know what I am talking about, see the first minute or so of the following stand-up gem:

The Post I Didn't Want to Write

About a month and a half ago, I nervously pressed "Publish" on a blog post that I would have preferred, at the time, to hit "Delete."  I half-assumed no one would ever say anything about it, after all, my intention wasn't to attract attention from the ends of the earth.  I half-assumed that a couple people might comment, given that I knew my struggle wasn't mine alone.  What I never assumed as the comments and page views and shares and messages and conversations to follow rapidly began to roll in five minutes after posting was the overwhelming response I received from people near and far.

Here is what the past five weeks have taught me: People deeply appreciate and esteem transparency, sincerity, and authenticity.  I always knew this, but as family, friends, acquaintances, even near-strangers, flooded me with encouragement and candid openness about their own struggles I began to realize this on a completely new level than ever before.

There's a face that we wear in the cold light of day

It's society's mask; it's society's way

And the truth is that it's all a façade.

There's a face that we hide till the nighttime appears

And what's hiding inside behind all of our fears 

Is our true self locked inside the façade...

The remainder of "Façade" from Jekyll and Hyde is not only a lyrical masterpiece, in my opinion, but also quite an accurate picture of the inward, humanly fight against living with transparency.  The line and I'm certain- life is terribly hard when you're life's a façade contains so much truth not only because keeping up a perception is life-draining, but because transparent living also allows for greater community.  Is it challenging?  Undoubtedly.  But rewarding?  Absolutely.  

Transparency, alone, I'm convinced, isn't the key though.  Simply sharing one's deepest secrets or sins or fears may attract attention as a sideshow, but doesn't necessarily build community or provide encouragement to others.  Without living in sincerity, that life will not incur respect.  Building a life around claims that lack follow-through exhibits shallowness.

What if I stumble, and what if I fall?

What if I lose my step and I make fools of us all?

Will the love continue when the walk becomes a crawl?

What if I stumble, and what if I fall?

(I can't help the musical references.  The music teacher in my blood will never run dry).  Staying true to convictions isn't going to happen every minute of every day, but accompanied with transparency, as conveyed in these words that filled every Christian radio station in existence 18 years ago (wow) matters.

Transparency, sincerity, and authenticity together is what, I've discovered, has drawn so many to lay their hearts out for me to see in the past five weeks.  They have allowed me to see the shadowy, hidden corners of their lives and the yet-raw wounds that battered their hearts.  I feel completely unworthy but entirely honored that so many of you have opened up your world to me in such an intimate way.  You have been such an encouragement to me; you have helped heal me and "let go" in ways I never thought possible by simply publishing the post I didn't want to write.  Thank you.

The Post I Don't Want to Write

The following post is brought to you by several days of avoidance, multiple heated inner debates, the desire to immediately hide behind the couch for a week after pressing the "publish" button, and is roughly nineteen years in the making.  In short, this is the post I have been dreading to write.

This is the post that began with a close friend in elementary school who poked my 8-year old stomach a few times and brought it to my attention that I was pudgy.  This is the post that continued to develop the following year when "The Santa Clause" came out containing the line, "A little weight?  You call this a little weight?" and inspired my brother to want to take a family picture reinacting Tim Allen's character holding handfuls of belly fat out from beneath the bottom of his shirt... and the ensuing mortification of being coerced to do so.

This is the post that was written by watching other middle school girls cake on makeup many times a day and don shirts that showed off their midriffs to adolescent boys who I was told were actually worth it.  Still more was added on when a friend stayed overnight but had forgotten pants, and after asking to borrow mine exclaimed that she could fit at least two of herself in them.  This post has also been brought to you by an older relative who immediately upon seeing me on one occasion said, "well, you look fat."

This is the post that continued in high school when a friend and I were taking a picture of ourselves and she held the skin around her thighs back so they wouldn't appear to be larger than desired, and by the horrifying experience of having to try on costumes for the musical and not being able to squeeze into outfits that my peers could easily slip into.  When suggesting to the teacher helping find suitable costumes that it "didn't fit right" and hearing "put it back on so that I can see where exactly it doesn't fit" (which fueled even more embarrassment, if it was possible), I did so and was met with, "Hmm.  You know, you're not a big girl- you just stick out in the wrong places."  NOT reassuring.

This is a post about a topic I've wrestled with more than any thing else in my life.  It is brought to you by the lunch periods I skipped to work on the school newspaper in part so no one would realize I was only consuming milk for lunch, the nutrition matrix that first fueled my obsession to count calories, the diet pills in college that didn't work, the post-college multiple-times-a-day intense workouts, the South Beach craze, when we had to practice measuring body fat during gym classes, and the school nurse's annual height/weight checks.

So why on Earth, if this is the post I don't want to write, am I writing this?  It has nothing to do with learning to "love my curves" or "being content" or blaming those in my past who have wounded me or even losing weight.  No, no.  There is something so much greater, and that is this:

My story does not end with my past.

The fact is that God has gently showed me that it is time for Him to take over this scar- this heavy burden- this obsession- this idol.  In John 8:34-36, Jesus said, "Truly, I say to you, everyone who commits sin is a slave to sin.  The slave does not remain in the house forever; the son remains forever.  So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed."  While it is true that myriads of events have shaped my view of food, diet, and my body, I am not innocent.  I've made decisions that lacked trust in God's plans for me and wrongly obsessed over food to the point of making having or NOT having it an idol time and time again.  This is slavery.  It's not freedom. 

Yet, that's not the end of the story.  I know that God sacrificed Himself so that I have freedom to leave this idol behind.  That's what this post is about.  If it encourages you, great.  If it lets you know who I am better, fine.  But that's not my main purpose.  This post is what God has not allowed me to avoid because He is teaching me to seek His help every day to loosen my grip on this bondage.

And this is me letting-go, today.

Curling Cake (Or, "How a Bag of Marshmallows Almost Did Me In")

A bag of marshmallows almost got the best of me yesterday.  Almost.  What I CAN tell you is that this bag of marshmallows did get the worst of me.

Last week, my husband asked me to make a cake for his curling league's snack.  This particular league happens to be a men's league, and what that means to the baker providing food is that any cake-serving chart can be thrown out of the window.  Eeking twenty servings out of a 6" cake ain't gonna cut it for forty men who have just been curling for 2 1/2 hours.  So 11x17" it was.  

I made a White Almond Texas Sheet Cake, whipped up some strawberry mango cream cheese filling to put between the two layers, and crumb coated the whole caboodle with vanilla-almond buttercream.  Lovely.  

And then came the fondant.  Now.  Making and working with fondant is typically one of my favorite parts of decorating because it is essentially edible playdough. (If you care to hear about my mild obsession with playdough, please invite yourself over sometime for a cup of tea and playdough snail-making tutorial).  Ohhhh catharsis... At any rate, every other time I've made fondant from marshmallows, I have used Wegman's brand (which I may or may not be equally or more passionate about than playdough) of marshmallows.  Since we now live 20 minutes from one and I couldn't justify driving that far for something I could get ahold of 2 minutes down the road, Giant it was.  

Eventually, my fondant was made and it was time to cover the cake:

  Step 1- cover fondant mat with thin film of shortening

  Step 2- roll fondant in ball and roll out to correct size

  Step 3- add more powdered sugar so rolling pin doesn't keep sticking

  Step 4- using four hands, place mat over cake and start to peel fondant off

  Step 5- plead with fondant to come off of mat like it always does; remind it that this is not a difficult task

  Step 6- urgently beg tearing fondant to correct its wayward path

  Step 7- angrily pull mat off and throw pathetic-looking fondant shreds onto counter

  Step 8- grab fistful of sugar and throw it on fondant; begin shoving it into sticky areas of dough

  Step 9- turn down husband's offers to go pick up pre-made fondant "just in case it doesn't work out"... and for a glass of wine

  Step 10- try re-rolling out on fondant mat mat on top of more sugar

  Step 11- thrust fondant mat to side of counter, giving puppy who hasn't yet experienced sugar something to get excited about as a layer coats the kitchen floor 

  Step 12- toss out Wilton method of fondant cake covering out the window and opt for British fondant method, despite not having a large enough rolling pin

  Step 13- cover cake successfully; high-five husband and "woop!" excitedly

So, what have we learned from this?  Always go to Wegman's.