Bad biorhythm day

 I'm having what my mom would call "a bad biorhythm day".  First, I was making lentil soup with lots of vegetables.  One of my life goals is to be able to make soup without cutting myself.  The worst was when  I lopped off the end of my pinky finger when I was a teenager making soup for my grandma, and I've been doing it ever since.  So I was chopping vegetables this morning and internally repeating the mantra, "Do not cut yourself, do not cut yourself" and I did just fine chopping 5 carrots, 4 celery stalks, 2 onions, and 6 cloves of garlic.  I was down to the last few cuts on a green pepper when I lost focus and started thinking about something else. Next thing I knew there was searing pain and blood on the finger that I already had a bandage on from cutting it last week. Thanks to God's amazing design for protective fingernails, I didn't lop off the tip of my finger, but I did cut right through the fingernail down into the quick. 

Finished the soup and decided to reward myself with the jello salad I made a couple days ago because I was missing my grandma (the same one I was making soup for when I was a teenager), and it was her recipe.  Somehow, the container did a backflip on the way out of the fridge and dumped itself all over the fridge, my clothes, and the floor. 

About an hour later, Sarah wandered into the kitchen and said, "What happened here?"  I mumbled something about satan, and she said, "Are you just going to leave it like this?"  I said, "Well, I cleaned up half of it so I could close the fridge.  Now I have to take a loud praise break before I can tackle the rest."  But then I discovered that my finger hurt way too much to play the piano as loudly as I needed to in that moment.

Fast forward a couple hours.  I was getting something else out of the fridge and knocked off a container of dip from the top shelf.  It hit the floor and splattered all over the fridge, my freshly-changed clothes, and the cabinets.  I just sat down on the floor and laughed because there's just no way this could be happening again already.  

I should probably just go to bed before it gets any worse.

Another kitchen disaster

 A few months ago, a good friend told me that his favorite pie when he was growing up in Hawaii was lilikoi chiffon.  I made a mental note.  About a month before his birthday, I started researching recipes and I ordered the passionfruit juice from Kauai. I studied the recipe and practiced it in my head several times, because it's complicated.  I decided to make the crust that went with the recipe, even though I have my own preferred crust that I've been making since I was a kid.  That was the first of many mistakes.  

After I made the filling, I decided I couldn't put it into that ugly crust, so I went to Kroger at 9 p.m. last night and just bought a crust like a loser who can't make her own pie crust.  Baked it, cooled it, filled it, put it in the fridge to set, went to bed around 10:30.  

At 11:15, Sarah crashed into my room and announced, "Mom. Your pie fell."  I was sound asleep, but her words made me leap out of bed and rush to the kitchen, where a terrible sight greeted me.  

So here you go, Doug. Happy birthday.  I hope it's the thought that counts, because this pie sure doesn't.

What's my gift?

My parents made me take piano lessons when I was a kid, which I pretty much hated, but now am very grateful.  I am not a gifted pianist, but I very much enjoy playing and get great satisfaction from it.  After my parents let me quit taking lessons, I didn't play the piano at all for several years.  But in college, I lived close to the music hall with its practice rooms, and I found myself playing the pianos in there for fun and relaxation.  When I moved into my first house, the piano went with me, and every time I've moved since then, it has moved with me.  As I got busy with life and kids, my piano playing went mostly dormant for many years, but this year, the music director at our church (who has also become a close friend) showed me how to play without the chore of having to read notes, but just by reading chords. It was like being freed from prison.  Now I play freely whenever I have time, and it is pure fun.  If I hear a song on the radio that I like, I can look up the chord charts and play it myself.  

With this newfound ability to play, I want to sing too, which I do when I'm home alone, but I don't have the kind of voice that people want to hear.  I told my worship director friend Doug that I want to be able to play and sing like Andrea (a worship leader at church who plays effortlessly and has the most beautiful voice) and that I asked God for it and He said no.  And Doug said if I had phrased it differently, maybe He would have said yes. I asked him to rephrase it for me, and he said, "I’ve come to realize that if God wanted me to sing and play like Bruno Mars … he would have made me Bruno Mars … so now I pray like this: Jesus would you increase the anointing on my musical gifts that you have given me so that I can put your glory on display by 

1. Better technique 

2. More creative ways to interact with the musicians around me 

3. And better understanding on the songs 

And to make my voice better in intonation, pitch and tone so that people will want to listen to the lyrics you would like them to hear. Amen."

That left me speechless and pondering for a long time.  What really is my motivation?  Doug's motivation  is clearly to glorify God.  I think mine might be more selfish, and maybe that's why my answer was no. Singing is not my gift.  But maybe it can just be something that I enjoy doing alone with God. Like speaking in tongues.

What then is my gift?  A prophetic man from church just recently prophesied over me that he saw me with golden pen in my hand and that there are things I either do write down or need to be writing down. He said God wants to speak through me through writing. He said God wants to give me heavenly revelations to write down and share. This guy doesn't know that I have a degree in English and have always loved to write. So the question is, how do I use that gift for God's purposes?  I'm on the lookout for ways to do that. Singing in front of people terrifies me, but writing doesn't.

Why do I work at Costco?

I've been working at Costco for about five months now, and it's about time I blogged about how and why I took this job.  Back in March, I was walking down an aisle at Costco, minding my own business, shopping, not looking for a job. There was a woman standing by her food demo cart, talking about granola bars.  I didn't care about her granola bars, but I stopped to listen just to be polite. I had a bag of dried jackfruit in my cart, and she asked me if it was good.  I ripped open the bag and gave her a piece to try.  She said I was just the kind of person they were looking to hire and that I should apply.  She gave me the application info, and I said I would think about it and pray about it and talk to my husband.

I thought about it on the way home.  I prayed about it and got a clear yes from God.  I discussed it with Mike, and he wasn't against it.  So I applied, got an interview, passed a drug test, completed all the forms, and was working within a week.

A little background information.  All my life, I've loved animals more than people, and I've always felt guilty about it and asked God to help me love people.  For some reason, when I woke up on January 1, 2021, my heart was stuffed full of love for a person I had barely known previously, and from there I started being more able to love other people with God's love too.  So as the people are walking by my cart at Costco, I'm praying for them and interacting with them with genuine love. Sometimes it goes way beyond handing them a food sample.  I've had deep conversations with many people and had lots of opportunities to minister to them in various ways.  When I first started, we weren't handing out samples because of covid, so there was a lot of downtime that I filled with prayer and memorizing Bible verses. 

Overall, I love this job, and some days I actually can't wait to get there and see what opportunities God has for me.  On most days, there's at least one thing that happens, or one person I encounter that makes it clear to me that this was my purpose for being there that day.  Some days there are multiple of those.  Once in awhile, there are none.  There have also been difficult situations/people I've had to deal with, and some days I dread going in to work.  At those times, I've asked God if this is still my mission, and He always says definitely yes.  Knowing that I'm where I'm supposed to be, doing what He wants me to do makes it easy and a joy most of the time.  The promotion, raises and bonuses help too. Sometimes I can't believe they're paying me to do this. 

Yesterday I was handing out samples of ridiculously overpriced shampoo and conditioner.  I prayed, "Lord, people are suffering in Afghanistan and dying of a global pandemic.  Why do you have me here hawking hoity toity hair products?" and He said, "I have you there to pray about all those things and to love people."

Why do I take pictures?

 

Yesterday I was looking out the window and I saw a breathtaking dragonfly with his wings spread in the sun, perched on a dewy plant.  My first thought was, "I must take a picture of that."  But I stopped and thought before I acted (which is still rare, but becoming more common as I get older).  And this was my thought.  I could go get dressed, get my camera, hope the battery is charged, rush out there and line up a  good shot without scaring him, and hope to get all that done before he moves or the light changes... OR ...I could just stand here and admire him from the window. I could just look at him with my own eyes instead of through the lens of a camera.  I could appreciate the beauty of this moment without attempting to capture it (and a picture never fully captures the moment anyway, does it?). 

Then I thought to myself, I remember taking pictures of dragonflies before, so I probably already have this shot anyway, and what did I ever do with it?  Nothing.  I didn't enlarge it, frame it, print it, or ever even look at it again.  I started questioning, why do I even take pictures?  I'm thankful that I have thousands of pictures of my kids growing up, but why do I take pictures of beautiful things in nature?  Am I trying to capture something I know I can't hold onto?  Am I afraid I won't remember what it looks like?  Trying to recreate the feeling of awe I had when I saw the thing I photographed?  That never works.  Maybe I take pictures to satisfy the urge I have when I see something beautiful to photograph it and share it with others. So the act of taking the picture is in itself enough.  It doesn't matter if I ever print the picture or even look at it again.  I just like taking pictures.

But sometimes, I'm just going to marinate in the moment, appreciate the glory that's right in front of me, and let go of my urge to capture it.

Red tape, confusion and praise

 When you adopt a child, there's an unbelievable mountain of paperwork that has to be completed.  I remember being overwhelmed by it all with our first adoption, and even more so with the second, because I was sleep deprived and distracted by parenting Noah while trying to adopt Sarah. 

Even after the adoption is finalized, there are still forms to fill out and hoops to jump through, including obtaining a social security card in the child's new name.  I clearly remember the day I hauled 2-year-old Noah and baby Sarah to the social security office in Pekin to get Sarah's card.  It stands out as the day that my usually well-behaved Noah was a horrible brat.  He was wild and climbing all over the place, not listening, screaming and crying, refusing to be placated with snacks, toys, or books. He had never behaved that way before or since.  I remember propping Sarah up on a chair with my foot while I was trying to deal with Noah and fill out paperwork.  So...mistakes may have been made.  Her social security card arrived with her Korean name on it. I was too busy to do anything about it, so I just filed it away and got on with raising kids.  

Fast forward 17 years, and Sarah is trying to get a job, and nobody will accept her social security card with a different name on it.  I have spent HOURS in the last few days trying to figure out how to get this corrected.  Normally, I would just take my 2-foot-tall pile of adoption documentation to the social security office, but they closed for the pandemic and still haven't reopened.  I wasted lots of time wading through the website and filling out online forms. They wanted me to send in original documents through the mail, and I wanted to make sure I sent only the necessary ones. I called the local office, but their number is disconnected, so I had to call the national number, where I spoke with a very unhelpful person who couldn't or wouldn't (but certainly didn't) answer my questions. 

I have most of the documents in binders on the bookshelf, but some of the most important and/or odd-sized ones are in a lockbox downstairs, so I went to the basement to dig through it. I was looking for a naturalization document or something that shows the legal name change. I started praying and took everything out of the lockbox, and at the very bottom of it was....a social security card in Sarah's American name.  I stared at it in disbelief.  I have no idea how it got there.  I had a little praise party right there in the basement. 

Track and chiggers and pervs,...oh my!

We went to Sarah's track meet tonight and watched her do the high jump, 4x100 relay and 200 dash. I'm a little in awe of people who do those kinds of things for fun.

My mom came too. I haven't seen her in way too long.  I love her.

I noticed Mike and I were standing in a huge herd of chiggers, so we moved.  Long after we moved, I could still feel them crawling on me and biting me.  I told Mike I wasn't sure it was actual bugs or if my mind was playing tricks on me with ghost chiggers.  He said, "Ghost chiggers....that would make a good username."  He said he could tell by the look in their eyes that they wanted to bite him.  I said you can tell a lot by looking into the eyes of a chigger, and he said we should put that on a t-shirt.

When we got home, Sarah and Shiloh and I were sitting in the living room and this happened:

Me: Do you want me to groom you?
Sarah: Me?
Me: No, Sarah. I was talking to the cat, unless your winter fur needs brushed?
Sarah: I thought you meant a different kind of grooming.
Me: What kind?
Sarah: Like what child molesters do.
Me: What???? I don't even know what you're talking about, but I'm not a child molester.
Sarah: Grooming is when they try to get close to you to get you to...
Me: I don't wanna know. Don't ruin grooming for me.
Sarah: You should educate yourself.
Me: I'm impervious to your pervy words. I'm going to brush Shiloh now.