tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68873138721476403842024-03-05T13:41:03.103-06:00Jamie JanoszJamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.comBlogger233125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-15708974975122845002023-01-31T10:06:00.002-06:002023-02-20T09:29:37.192-06:00Does God Answer Stupid Prayers?<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIGJnNlVeKmk0HzNCgTHzXaIMzk2beqQcSuP4C1YQ4sddNaRgWim2YHAQXKvhAnOzUb_c3JKVIalKYk2xG1FRzv_BDE2LdJkXuykxaJehBv74oQdE93g5lQUzC_VLNlUgy5anEf5NKWD8HUClTe38Kk_1z4C9AKjbMl3aivVZp82Rgz7h-Cb5MdzTW/s570/coin%20purse.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIGJnNlVeKmk0HzNCgTHzXaIMzk2beqQcSuP4C1YQ4sddNaRgWim2YHAQXKvhAnOzUb_c3JKVIalKYk2xG1FRzv_BDE2LdJkXuykxaJehBv74oQdE93g5lQUzC_VLNlUgy5anEf5NKWD8HUClTe38Kk_1z4C9AKjbMl3aivVZp82Rgz7h-Cb5MdzTW/s320/coin%20purse.jpg"/></a></div>
One day, I prayed to God about a stupid mistake I had made.
My nine-year-old daughter and I had been out for a Saturday of shopping errands. As we hurried from our home to the car, Sabrina handed me her coin purse. Without really thinking, I dropped it into my lap for the short drive to the store.When we walked to the first store, I was holding her purse in my hand. But when we got ready to leave, I no longer had it.
As we headed for the check-out my daughter asked, “Mom, can I have my money?”
“I don’t have it,” I replied.
“Yes, you do,” she insisted. “Remember? I gave it to you.”
At that moment, I had absolutely no recollection of taking the coin purse from her. None. Then she added to my stress. She explained, “I had all my vacation money in it: thirty dollars!” My heart sank. My hands were sweaty as the details of my day ran quickly through my mind. It was one of those bad mommy moments. Could my memory be failing me?
We rushed out of Walmart and headed to our car. We searched the front seat and the back, but there was nothing but a crumpled Kleenex and a few pennies. “Please God,” I murmured, “Help me find Sabrina’s purse. Help me at least to remember where I might have lost it.” I grabbed her hand and headed back to retrace our steps. We went into the shoe store and walked the aisles. By the women’s shoes – I saw it.
In that crowded store, filled with visitors and left for almost two hours, lying by itself on a bench, was my daughter’s little black leather coin purse. It was bulging. I opened the zipper and saw that it still contained thirty, crumpled up dollar bills. Incredibly, nothing was missing.
“Oh Sabrina,” I said. “I can’t believe it!” I hugged her and waved the purse in the air. “Let’s thank God right now!”
So there, in the middle of Payless, we held an impromptu prayer meeting. I thanked God for helping us, even though it was my own stupidity. I thanked him for protecting Sabrina’s little coin purse filled with $30 of her hard-earned money. Our smiles lit up that shoe store.
I thankful that day for this simple answer to prayer. But one thing troubled me. Does God care about coin purses? Does he want to know when we panic, when we stumble, when we are stupid and simply forget?
I think He does.
The Jesus I pray to is the same Jesus who spoke of lost sheep and lost coins. He is the God of Peter who feared walking on water, the God of the disciples who whined when they were hungry and the fish weren’t biting. He walked among humanity. He sees it all. Yet with all of the larger concerns in the world, the earthquake in Haiti, the economic crisis, the sinfulness of mankind, I can sometimes feel a bit presumptuous assuming that God will take a moment and listen to my whispered prayers. How can I bother the God of the universe? Should I?
But from the time I was a little girl, I was taught that His eye was on the sparrow, and thus, on me as well. I was taught that God wants to hear me, and that He doesn’t mind when I turn to Him with even my smallest needs. In many ways, what I call my “stupid” prayers are my way of being sure God is listening, that I am practicing his presence in each moment of my life.
C.S. Lewis once said that he prayed not to change God, but to change himself. In the same way, I pray not just for answers, but to be heard. I pray to keep myself mindful that God is there, that He knows me, that He is listening, and that He is intimately involved in my life.
Prayer, even about the stupid, ordinary, mundane things of my life, has a way of changing me.
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-87340584799828559332023-01-11T13:07:00.000-06:002023-01-11T13:07:49.845-06:00My Big Toe in the Water<p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTUaM3mbVZ1MvOEXV6NF_ioC8B7J8I-nvWAH-uLkEYzNicZ9UK2ioMbkYJR5zIf8jPF6Z3bAoqpmUboVSnc9WJ6-YPTHh6TONxVXxgDdF4WQWfkXcI6Znp-X9c4Y_jIFXlhAMV8JJYj1sZAWWhTIRBkK7PfwO4UhYvlgXjr_23qkjgiHnkVe0ACfH8/s2701/vincentiu-solomon-kzSD3xh9tNA-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2701" data-original-width="2615" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTUaM3mbVZ1MvOEXV6NF_ioC8B7J8I-nvWAH-uLkEYzNicZ9UK2ioMbkYJR5zIf8jPF6Z3bAoqpmUboVSnc9WJ6-YPTHh6TONxVXxgDdF4WQWfkXcI6Znp-X9c4Y_jIFXlhAMV8JJYj1sZAWWhTIRBkK7PfwO4UhYvlgXjr_23qkjgiHnkVe0ACfH8/s320/vincentiu-solomon-kzSD3xh9tNA-unsplash.jpg" width="310" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div><i>Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@vincentiu?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Vincentiu Solomon</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/feet-in-water?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></i></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>I've been away from this blog for awhile now.</p><p>Why? It's not because I have nothing to say. But, there has been so much going on in my heart and mind that it has been difficult to take the plunge and put those emotions into words.</p><p>But it's a new year, and so I'm doing it now.</p><p>Putting my big toe in the water.</p><p>It feels cold. My body feels a chill rippling through it as I test what it feels like to see my thoughts displayed in black and white.</p><p>Writing is vulnerability.</p><p>Writing is seeing with our eyes what is felt in our hearts.</p><p>Writing allows others in.</p><p>Writing forces us to reckon with the many ideas fighting for attention in our brain, nailing them to the wall in a way with each letter, with each word.</p><p>Okay... that was dramatic. But I feel it. And maybe you do too.</p><p>Has it been awhile since you've written? Would you like to join me?</p><p>Let's do it! I'm in water up to my ankle now and it isn't too bad. In fact, I'm getting used to it, wriggling around a bit, contemplating. going up to my knees.</p><p>Here's to 2023. May our words increase.</p>Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-78474506008843291322019-11-07T06:31:00.000-06:002019-11-07T06:31:31.282-06:0054 Years, 54 Memories<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In the wise words of Ferris Bueller: </span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Life moves
pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss
it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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54 memories on my 54<sup>th</sup> birthday….in no particular
order<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Camping in Acadia National Park in Maine (with
no flashlight) on our honeymoon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Seeing our daughter for the very first time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Walking by the ocean at sunrise with the pounding
sound of the waves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Setting up our family’s pop-up camper in
Peninsula State Park.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->2<sup>nd</sup> grade stamp club with Mrs. Candy
Heart (my favorite teacher).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Singing “Victory in Jesus” at 1<sup>st</sup>
Baptist with my Dad playing piano.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">7.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Playing Barbie Miss America with my neighbor
Lynn, every day, all summer long.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">8.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Playing cards and drinking tea with Milt, Dale,
and Kathy in their Wicker Park loft.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">9.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Sleepovers at Janet Aarup’s, making an air-tent from
sheets and a box fan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">10.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Walking
Michigan Avenue between Columbia College and the Art Institute with Mandy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">11.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Waiting
for my mom to bring my sister Julie home for the very first time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">12.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Helping
my mom decorate her school classroom at Parkside and Glenwood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">13.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Opening
day of our gift and antique shop, Favorite Things.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">14.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Following
Milt out of a summer party to introduce myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">15.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Long
walks with Beth through Lincoln Park.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">16.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Current
scones with clotted cream and jam at the 3<sup>rd</sup> Coast.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">17.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Singing
in children’s church led by Rich and Cheri Strahm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">18.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Staying
up all night on New Year’s Eve with my high school youth group.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">19.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->My
surprise 16<sup>th</sup> birthday party after a dinner with my family at Yesteryear
in Kankakee.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">20.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Learning
to make Swedish Pancakes with my grandma, Honey.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">21.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Winning
a spelling bee in 8<sup>th</sup> grade, after being the first one out the year
before.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">22.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Door
County sunsets and Far Away Joe’s pizza on the Ephraim town shore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">23.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Shopping
at Marshall Fields with my Mom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">24.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Buying
snacks at the canteen at Pine Trail Camp.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">25.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Catching
lightning bugs in the front yard with my best friend and neighbor Michelle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">26.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Walking
to Parkside elementary school, trying to avoid the barking dogs at each fence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">27.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Giving
a tour of Moody to Chicago’s Mayor Daley.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">28.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Meeting
Johnny Cash and shaking his hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">29.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Crying
in Notre Dame cathedral.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">30.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Eating
sushi and other mysterious items from a food truck in Okinawa, Japan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">31.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Walking
and crying through the World War II peace museum in Okinawa.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">32.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Moving
into my own apartment at Illinois State University.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">33.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Teaching
my very first college class.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">34.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Cutting
Milt’s hair, on our honeymoon, and leaving a weird hole on the side off his
head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">35.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Driving
up to our Florida home and Nana saying, “Wow, you have a lot of work to do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">36.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Junior
high marching band with Mr. Pitts and lots of Sousa tunes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">37.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Antique
shopping at the Covered Bridge festival.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">38.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Opening
Christmas stockings and playing the Johnny Cash Christmas album.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">39.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->My
first real news reporting assignment at the capital in Springfield, Illinois.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">40.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Reading
Flannery O’Connor for the first time because of Rosie de Rosset.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">41.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Evenings
on Culby 2 at Moody, the snack shop crowded with my friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">42.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Researching
my book in the University of Wisconsin Madison library.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">43.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Attempting
to wait tables at the Summertime in Fish Creek<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">44.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Dancing
with our entire family at Mom and Bob’s wedding.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">45.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Fishing
with Honey and Papa.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">46.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Christmas
bingo and molasses cookies at Grandma Storms house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">47.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Buying
our dog Buddy after he put his paw up to the glass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">48.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Sabrina’s
kindergarten graduation – which dissolved me in tears.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">49.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Swapping
shirts with Sabrina on an unexpected picture day so she could look presentable.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">50.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->New
Year’s Eve celebrating with Dan, Jill, wearing vintage, of course.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">51.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Fondue
New Year’s Eve party in our very first house – crowded into the basement.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">52.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Trick
or treating in Thornton, spending all night going house to house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">53.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Looking
out at my family & friends, at LaSalle Street Church during my wedding.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">54.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Sitting
in my Florida house and feeling overwhelmingly thankful.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br /></div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-67825693923850085342019-07-25T15:23:00.002-05:002019-07-25T15:25:58.158-05:00Airport Incubator<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPs8s_2Fv2gI01B9YvsIzAUybGPjhUUftKrxGz8sa8rytffF4q4RGxVZSwmaA5iaTAIx1LkIan-urOgqORR5wkboN1KfzJP4pZGm1K1-AqczmbkWpI-16r-9vlAabPGELW7LLncksUCo/s1600/IMG_9711.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPs8s_2Fv2gI01B9YvsIzAUybGPjhUUftKrxGz8sa8rytffF4q4RGxVZSwmaA5iaTAIx1LkIan-urOgqORR5wkboN1KfzJP4pZGm1K1-AqczmbkWpI-16r-9vlAabPGELW7LLncksUCo/s400/IMG_9711.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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I’m sitting in the airport at Charlotte, North Carolina, on a Thursday afternoon. I am on my way home after a business trip. To my left is a grand piano where a pianist is offering a very energetic rendition of the Friends theme song. Also to my left, is a blue haired young man in his 20s with a nicely contrasting lilac bandana across his forehead.<br />
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<br /></div>
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He is sitting on the ground, back against the staircase, enthusiastically singing along
with the piano player, throwing in special requests (Do you know any Beatles?)
and then, without luck, asks if he could jam on the piano for a bit. To my
slight right sit two suit-coated men. The older man has white
hair, a mustache, and glasses. He’s slowly drinking a beer. His lunch companion
(it’s almost 4 pm, so maybe not lunch in airport world?) is a tall young man
that looks like a mix of Anglo and Asian. He’s sporting a pin striped linen
sport coat that is slightly wrinkled. All of a sudden they jump up and gather
their suitcases, leaving behind 1/3 of a beer and 4 pieces of sushi.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It is such a microcosm of humanity, airports, and a rather safe
one since we’ve all been screened – shoes off, everything in a plastic bin. Put
your feet apart. Keep your hands over your head – don’t overlap them – just touch
them together.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVTxcOi8YzU2sIhZjrNlsbN99KhIeE7wvcvqkYHeZypJCG28RTUWg1PwzlAzssHzTAzNaj6azBGPIsFUsfTfcUD8Fgl4bvYseQhKHPW6TIepdIhJIS7KObDz4wGeed4Fq_Y4_2WsrwAw/s1600/fullsizeoutput_3d2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1446" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVTxcOi8YzU2sIhZjrNlsbN99KhIeE7wvcvqkYHeZypJCG28RTUWg1PwzlAzssHzTAzNaj6azBGPIsFUsfTfcUD8Fgl4bvYseQhKHPW6TIepdIhJIS7KObDz4wGeed4Fq_Y4_2WsrwAw/s320/fullsizeoutput_3d2.jpeg" width="289" /></a>Relieved after such intense scrutiny, we wander through the
airport world towing wheeled luggage and babies and staring at our cell phones.
Some people are running – dashing for a missed flight. Others are strolling, sipping
giant cups of soda that will no doubt send them dashing down the aisle to pee in
the tiny airplane bathroom in just an hour or so. Every so often you see children
running, escaping their mom’s hand, tripping adult passengers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVF0WBU7m4TnJoERvI_H-yLxIFg_ebd7Y_60pE2ZXSDqdb3b82RmfOOaX1h11tZ1mUawUMoQ5axrWCJTm7UACjoC5HuZ5vHoupOOaTtWGExitQ2B0xAdmdE0AQ__l9TWOH3_tpM7OSxjM/s1600/fullsizeoutput_3d1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVF0WBU7m4TnJoERvI_H-yLxIFg_ebd7Y_60pE2ZXSDqdb3b82RmfOOaX1h11tZ1mUawUMoQ5axrWCJTm7UACjoC5HuZ5vHoupOOaTtWGExitQ2B0xAdmdE0AQ__l9TWOH3_tpM7OSxjM/s320/fullsizeoutput_3d1.jpeg" width="240" /></a>Glancing up, I see a giant American flag hanging from the glass
atrium, and more pieces of Americana flags on the airline tails I can see
behind the glass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The piano man and the blue hair boy are making friends now. They
are opposites – the piano guy is prematurely balding with a blue striped polo
shirt, grey Dockers and dorky black gym shoes – the kind that look completely
vinyl and a bit elderly orthopedic. Now they’re making a video – the blue hair
boy just did the rock star hand thing with his two outside fingers up. He’s
interviewing the piano player and giving him a shout out on Insta. I think they’re
exchanging phone numbers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now they’re singing – and a woman jumps up from her seat
and dances to their impromptu duet, right in front of the grand piano. And when
they quit, people all across the atrium area burst into applause.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is a sweet place, airports. Filled with frustration but
also anticipation. They are a place of odd community – people brought together
by a desire to go someplace else. We are together for a brief moment – just this
one spot in the grand scheme of life. Most of us passing by one another,
hurriedly, on our way to the next gate, the next place.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But a few of us stop, smile, snap a photo, request a song,
make a friend.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our world can be a crazy, mixed up angry place sometimes. But today the little instant friendship that formed in this airport brought a tear to my eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br /></div>
</div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-62548903286723343912019-07-18T17:28:00.003-05:002019-07-18T17:29:19.729-05:00Your Roots Are Showing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<br />
I'm older. I know that. But, honestly, I still feel pretty young. Well, most days at least<br />
<br />
Today I received a not-requested senior discount at Einstein Bagels. It appeared as a $1.03 credit on my receipt, along with the cheery explanation. And if other people don't <i>tell</i> me I'm older, my body definitely does.<br />
<br />
I traveled to and from Chicago last week with my daughter and her friend. Being the self sufficient woman I am, I helped the girls boost their luggage into the airline's overhead bin. Later that day, I felt my mistake. My back has not been happy ever since. I've been putting those sticky heat patches on it, Ben Gay rub, ice, heat wraps, you name it. And still when I turn incorrectly . . . ouch.<br />
<br />
There are other signs too. I wear glasses now . . . all the time. It started with readers, and then progressed to progressives. And I HAVE to color my hair now. Those pesky roots keep reappearing in an ever-shinier shade of silver. I (briefly) considered embracing my gray, but as you can see in the photo above, I'm still having my favorite stylist slap some color on it every 5 to 6 weeks. I'm not quite ready to say goodbye to my dark hair yet.<br />
<br />
This middle age thing is not completely unwelcome. It has its rewards. I find I am far less self conscious than I've ever been. I am able to talk to strangers without wondering what they think of me. I'm less worried about my career moves. I'm no longer as self-conscious about my body. I don't get acne. And I've entered the glory days of menopause with no more excruciating cramping (I won't get into the downsides of that one).<br />
<br />
No one asks me if I'm dating anybody, when I'm going to get married, what I'm going to be when I grow up, or when I'll have children. Those milestones are pretty much behind me. What's done is done. The critics have finally stopped asking.<br />
<br />
I don't know any of the latest musicians. I perpetually call things by the wrong names. I honestly still don't know how to say <i>meme</i> or <i>giff</i>. Is it jiff?<br />
<br />
I don't care if what I wear matches the latest trends. I'm like that "I will wear purple lady" with the red hat. Who cares if I stick out like a sore thumb?<br />
<br />
It's pretty good overall, this aging thing. You see more. You relax more. You understand more. You enjoy more. I know who I am. I know what I believe. I have embraced my quirks, my failures, my annoying little habits.<br />
<br />
I am plumper, grayer, blinder, sorer . . . but probably quite a bit happier.<br />
<br />
And, by the way, I don't care if the Russians steal my identity. But I also don't need a phone app to tell me what I'll look like.<br />
<br />
I'm pretty much there already.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-27481004312631856082019-07-04T17:58:00.000-05:002019-07-04T17:58:35.910-05:00Small Town Parades<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
There is probably not much my dad loved more than patriotic celebrations, especially when they came with a parade. Every Memorial Day and 4th of July I remember sitting on the cement curb in Thornton, Illinois, or neighboring South Holland, with my skinny legs stretched into the street waiting for the parade to begin.<br />
<br />
Even though the sun was blazing, we always arrived early, which was okay with me. After all, you needed to be up front and center to catch the wrapped tootsie rolls they would toss out of the cars.<br />
<br />
The parade always began with local celebrities like the town mayor perched in the back of classic cars. My dad could care less about the people, his eyes were only on the cars. He could name every one: "Yep, Fifty...Two...Ford....Galaxie. Sharp...Sixty...Nine...Vette." Each word would be emphasized and deliberate. When one passed by that he loved, he'd let out a long, slow whistle. I intravenously absorbed car knowledge just sitting by his side.<br />
<br />
Next came marching bands with drums, tubas, and the requisite John Phillips Sousa tunes. In junior high school, I joined the marching band playing the flute, glockenspiel, and even (once) the huge bass drum. I can still do the marching band arm move, snapping it up and back in rhythm. Next came the Shriners in those little zig-zagging clown cars, kids on bicycles, sometimes a karate group, the local tumbling gymnastics class, and a bunch of meandering boy and girl scout troops.<br />
<br />
The fire-engines were last, with their loud, sustained screaming horns and whistles. I would clamp my hands over my ears, barely dimming the blaring sirens. It seemed to last forever. As if our town's police and fire department weren't enough, neighboring towns would send their ambulances and fire engines to join the party. Hundreds of them. My dad would look down at me and laugh. He loved it all. And we stayed firmly planted from the very start until the last ambulance faded into the distance. We were parade faithful.<br />
<br />
When the street cleared, we would fold our chairs and blankets and make our way back to our family Malibu wood-sided station wagon. I held his hand as we meandered through the dense crowd, wiping the sweat off my forehead. I can remember it like it was yesterday.<br />
<br />
As an adult, the 4th has lost some of its luster for me. I'm not a huge fan of grilled food, hot sun, neighborhood cookouts or bugs. And the 4th always seems a bit melancholy. As a student and then a professor, the celebration signaled that summer was halfway gone, and fall quickly approaching. It felt like sand slipping through my fingertips as freedom disappeared.<br />
<br />
Tonight we'll head to our Florida neighborhood celebration, sitting near the causeway bridge as they shoot fireworks high in the sky over the Halifax River. We'll tilt our heads up to watch the explosive light and those new delightful dripping fireworks that look as if they're melting. And I'll enjoy this big party that celebrates who we are and the country in which we live.<br />
<br />
We are holding a party not because we have to, but because we can. We celebrate who we are with our penchant for hot dogs and popcorn, apple pie and peanuts. We'll play frisbee and baseball, water ski and hang glide. We'll sit on cement curbs watching long, never-ending parades, and wear bedazzled t-shirts in red, white, and blue.<br />
<br />
We are messy and loud and amazing. I'm glad to be an American.<br />
<br />
God bless the U.S.A.<br />
<br /></div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-39558482185332342492019-06-22T08:00:00.002-05:002019-06-22T13:42:12.915-05:00Chosen Families<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
I am the oldest of three children. I have a brother Tim who is three years younger than myself. And my sister Julie, is eight years behind me. We are bonded by blood and childhood memories, but as adults we are quite different individuals, living from coast to coast in the United States.<br />
<br />
Tim is a zoo veterinarian in Seattle, Washington. This does not surprise me. When we lived at our Thornton, Illinois, home, Tim's room was filled with animals, from wallpaper to stuffed animals. I remember one time when he thought he was an actual lion and tried to bite me. Luckily, I survived. How fun it is to see him now as he attaches shoes on a baby giraffe or performs surgery on a gorilla.<br />
<br />
Julie is an elementary school teacher in South Holland, Illinois, recently celebrating 25 years in the classroom. Her students adore her, and she has also become an accomplished cook. She makes her own bagels and pasta! This from my little sister who never babysat and didn't like to help out in the kitchen. How did she get all the culinary skills when I was the owner of a well-used Betty Crocker kid's cookbook?<br />
<br />
But in addition to Tim and Julie, I was given two additional siblings . . . Tom and Jimmy. My parents were foster parents. Even though my parents had very busy lives as full-time public school teachers and extremely involved members of our Baptist church, they signed up to care for children in need. I remember when the phone rang asking if they could bring a child over who needed help "right now." My parents were stunned but said, "yes." And with one word our home and our hearts were forever changed.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVllbxpBLFs3I4PZ3z7M-0717I5JdG66lLxPAU6my7PuWCNADNUx8u00W-cas95rslDvIebTkx6XCSvv1BGs__qn1i7GK03QQoPNrke3GWWQ7clo5GzhO_DIEyLBu7OMEDi2vH5SvGw_s/s1600/1932720_694730908169_3665141304676182848_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVllbxpBLFs3I4PZ3z7M-0717I5JdG66lLxPAU6my7PuWCNADNUx8u00W-cas95rslDvIebTkx6XCSvv1BGs__qn1i7GK03QQoPNrke3GWWQ7clo5GzhO_DIEyLBu7OMEDi2vH5SvGw_s/s320/1932720_694730908169_3665141304676182848_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom (left), Tim, Julie, and myself at Easter.</td></tr>
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What an amazing opportunity it is to open your home to a child in need. I understood that in part as a child, by watching the generous love my parents showed to Tom (who was with us for about five years) and to Jimmy (who stayed just a short time).<br />
<br />
But recently my heart has been impressed by two families who have opened their home and adopted teenagers.<br />
<br />
<b>Frances</b><br />
<br />
My friend Frances is a natural mom. She is warm and loving with a ready smile. And she was one of the first people to welcome me to Florida and to our church. She and her husband Jeffrey longed for a baby. Little did they know that a teenage girl would show up in their lives to fill this hole in their hearts. When they met their daughter-to-be, her life was a tough one with a mom who couldn't care for her. So my friends took the young girl into their home to shelter her from the storm of her circumstances.<br />
<br />
As the situation progressed and deteriorated, it became clear that this young woman didn't need a temporary home, she needed a permanent one. And so my beautiful friend, who had prayed for God to send her a child of her own, now realized that she had one standing right in front of her.<br />
<br />
Over coffee yesterday, Frances shared that at the official adoption ruling, the judge asked Jeffrey and their daughter to make a statement. As her husband and daughter shard their stories of hardship and love, Frances saw the tough security guards wipe tears from their eyes. The road ahead will not be without bumps. Their daughter has been through a great deal. But I've no doubt that this loving couple is exactly what she needs.<br />
<br />
<b>Tabitha</b><br />
<br />
I have another friend Tabitha, a former student of mine. Tabitha is creative and quirky with a big smile and ready laugh. She and her husband decided to take part in a summer program where Russian orphans are brought to the United States for rest and care. The teenage boy who came to stay with them needed everything from clothing and medical attention. But he was smart and loving and funny. They did fun things like teach him video games. But they also brought him on his very first visit to a dentist. And, when Tabitha asked why he wasn't wearing the new clothing they'd purchased for him at Target, he said that he had never owned new clothes before, and he wanted to bring them back to the orphanage to show the other kids.<br />
<br />
Of course, when the summer ended, Tabitha and her husband and their son were head over heels in love with him. They did not want their boy to leave. He wasn't just an orphan - he was their child! So they've started the paperwork. It is intensive and expensive. The process is long. And they are trying to be patient and wait. Because they know that he is meant to be their son. They've chosen him for their family.<br />
<br />
What a blessing it is to be a part of a family, to be loved and to be known. For some of us it happens naturally. But sometimes, families happen in another way. We open the door of our hearts to new people. We make space for family to begin.<br />
<br />
There are so many more children and teenagers who need homes, who need people to love and care for them.<br />
<br />
I'm so thankful for people like Frances and Tabitha.<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Also - if you'd like to help bring Tabitha's son to the United States and take this FINAL step of their adoption journey, the link is <a href="https://www.plumfund.com/fundraising/bring-our-kids-home-phase-three?fbclid=IwAR1wD23qjvkcn8Zb0zbcDiGYYARnJiTCDAz7RVrjVOIY5X_jKBeFAbsT6Wo" target="_blank">here</a>!</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-30486471703236916932018-08-21T07:03:00.001-05:002018-08-21T07:16:36.251-05:00My Own Personal Lifeguard<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
My husband often jokes that if he can't find me, I'll be at the lifeguard station a few miles south of us. We stopped there once - when we first moved to Florida - to ask about vacancies at an oceanfront hotel. I started to get out of the car only to see a dozen nicely tanned, muscular men jogging past me. It was like <i>Baywatch </i>come to life.<br />
<br />
But seriously, the red lifeguard stands dot the Atlantic coast. Most of the time, I do not see an actual person sitting atop the own at our location. Budget cuts mean lifeguards only truly guard the more popular areas of the beach. Ours often sits empty.<br />
<br />
And while it is beautiful, the beach poses real danger. There have been the occasional shark sightings. And, there are often viscous rip currents. Special flags are used to warn swimmers to take caution. But people don't heed the warnings, and there are too often accidents where someone is swept out into the ocean with no one around to help or rescue.<br />
<br />
As I passed this empty lifeguard station, it made me stop and whisper a prayer of thanks.<br />
<br />
Because I have a Lifeguard who is always on duty. He never leaves His station. He never takes His eyes off of me. While I may not always be mindful of God and His watchful plan for my life, He is constantly present.<br />
<br />
Proverbs 15:3 says, "The eyes of the Lord are everywhere, keeping watch on the wicked and the good."<br />
<br />
Psalm 139:2-3 assures me, "You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways."<br />
<br />
And my favorite verse: Psalm 32:8, "I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you and watch over you."<br />
<br />
Friend, you and I are <i>known </i>by God. He loves you and sees you. He has His eye on you.<br />
<br />
What a blessed assurance that is to me, to know that I am not alone, that I trust in a God who is completely available and dependable. I can go to Him at any moment, cry out in need, in my worry, in my fear. I will never be turned away. I will never be ignored.<br />
<br />
In the truest sense, God is my constant, faithful lifeguard.<br />
<br />
I have a sparrow tattooed on my right shoulder, and it reminds me of this passage in Matthew: "Are not two sparrows sold for one penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows" (10:29-31)<br />
<br />
The hymn, His Eye is On the Sparrow, was inspired by this verse. The author speaks this truth simply and clearly: "His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me." Here is a beautiful rendition of this hymn by Mahalia Jackson for you this morning: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eM_JRAPSwVM" target="_blank">His Eye is on the Sparrow</a><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-54110876309593585372018-03-01T14:42:00.000-06:002018-08-17T15:26:17.127-05:00Airline Adventures<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
It was Friday, and I wanted nothing more than to get back home.<br />
<br />
I visit Chicago four times a year for work meetings. And, despite the hassles that come with travel, I love those visits. I soak in face-to-face time with my coworkers (not on a little Skype screen), have dinner with my sister Julie, and squeeze in as much girlfriend time as possible.<br />
<br />
But by Friday I am definitely ready to head home. My introverted self often feels exhausted after a week of non-stop work and visiting.<br />
<br />
So I headed to Midway airport with plenty of time before my 4:15 p.m. departure time. Tucked safely inside four ziploc bags was a frozen pizza for my husband. He is still in deep withdrawal from Chicago pizza (not the thick crust variety, but thin crust, cut-in-squares, from Aurelio's - extra sauce).<br />
<br />
My trip was off to a good start. The TSA line was miraculously short. In fact, they had a new bin procedure that allowed four people at one time to empty their bags, take off their shoes, and shuttle their belongings on the conveyer belt.<br />
<br />
I dutifully removed my puffy coat, my boots, my laptop. I even removed the pizza . . . just in case.<br />
<br />
Stepping through the x-ray machine, I noticed that two of my bins were being channeled away from the rest. Separated by Plexiglas, they were awaiting further screening by an agent.<br />
<br />
Sigh. So after being cleared, I stepped aside to wait. I was behind a middle-aged women wearing sweatpants. She had three children under the age of 12 jumping up and down behind her. Her husband (I'm guessing) sat on a bench and watched.<br />
<br />
"Don't touch my stuffies!" exclaimed the youngest child. She wiped her runny nose with one hand, the other flailing desperately at a pile of stuffed animals that were popping out of the suitcase as the TSA agent opened it.<br />
<br />
I stood back, trying to dodge any renegade flu germs she was spewing in my direction.<br />
<br />
"Ma'am, you have to keep your children out of the way while I check your luggage," the TSA agent said.<br />
<br />
"He's touching my stuffies! What's he doing to my stuffies?" The child was shrieking.<br />
<br />
The mother swatted one child behind her, and the TSA agent rooted around in the bag for the offending item. Then he pulled out an enormous Ziploc bag filled with 12 individual applesauce cups.<br />
<br />
"Ma'am, you can't have these in carry-on luggage," he explained.<br />
<br />
"But the Disney mom website said you can," she said. "They're 3.4 ounces."<br />
<br />
"Well, I don't know what they told you, but you can't," he said. "You can check them if you want."<br />
<br />
"What am I going to feed my kids all week at Disney?" she said.<br />
<br />
At this point I was seriously contemplating pulling out a $20 bill and offering it to her for snacks at Disney. Her husband was equally perturbed by the delay. "Oh for god's sake, throw them out," he said.<br />
<br />
"I can't throw them out!" whined the mom. "What will we I give the kids for snacks at Disney?"<br />
<br />
This went on for a bit as the mom's lip quivered. Apparently applesauce cups are a rare commodity at the Magic Kingdom. As they debated their options, I glanced at my phone, the time ticking by quickly.<br />
<br />
"Okay," said the TSA agent. "I'll tell you what. I'm having a good day. I'm going to let you keep them." The children cheered, still grabbing for the stuffies.<br />
<br />
He zipped up the bag, and I sighed with relief. But then the mom said, "That's our bag, too."<br />
<br />
Sigh...really?! A second bag?<br />
<br />
So the TSA agent zipped open the second suitcase, and - get ready for it. I am not kidding. There were FOUR more gigantic Ziploc bags of applesauce cups. FOUR! That means about 60 applesauce cups in all. AND, another Ziploc bag filled with peaches.<br />
<br />
The TSA agent looked equally angry and overwhelmed by his job, "No way. You can't take this much on board. Can't do it."<br />
<br />
The mom shrieked again. The dad gave a loud exploding moan and slammed his hand down on the bench. The kids circled with nervous energy.<br />
<br />
"Throw em out!" yelled the dad. "No!" yelled the mom. And the TSA agent looked as pained as I felt.<br />
<br />
"Look," he said. "You can just check them."<br />
<br />
"But then we'll miss the Magical Express," said the mom. "We sent our other bags onto the Magical Express shuttle."<br />
<br />
Finally they discovered an extra sticker for the Magical Express and slapped it on the treat suitcase. The dad agreed that he would return to check-in and check the bag. And, if it somehow missed that magical shuttle, he would Uber to Disney.<br />
<br />
God has a special reward in Heaven for that man.<br />
<br />
Finally it was my turn. They swabbed each of the four bags of frozen pizza and then swabbed my laptop (which had been randomly chosen). I was still laughing to myself as I pulled up to the Southwest gate, only to discover two things:<br />
<br />
1) My plane departure was delayed.<br />
2) Applesauce lady was on my flight.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-3875101199929641512017-11-29T13:38:00.000-06:002017-11-29T13:38:39.855-06:00In Praise of the Good Guys<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijcnDqEjAVRHXxibRZRSZK4QIBNlF2colJdhxkiZa3DZQNcaRecIoRcVOp2eo5brNtUvJ_DkRz9YWE-FIP0tB1cdZqpOxT2mOICA8781KUIrOrJeZhXcbLZcXq7YYLtD_BwTxG8MwwjPg/s1600/business+people.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="247" data-original-width="367" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijcnDqEjAVRHXxibRZRSZK4QIBNlF2colJdhxkiZa3DZQNcaRecIoRcVOp2eo5brNtUvJ_DkRz9YWE-FIP0tB1cdZqpOxT2mOICA8781KUIrOrJeZhXcbLZcXq7YYLtD_BwTxG8MwwjPg/s320/business+people.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
We've heard an awful lot of horrible stories about men recently. Famous men who with prestigious jobs have fallen from grace as brave women stepped forward to tell of sexual harassment and inappropriate behavior in the workplace.<br />
<br />
One by one their names appear in the news. And each time, I recoiled a bit in astonishment. Really! Another one?<br />
<br />
But at the same time, it is not altogether unexpected. Is it? Nearly every woman I know can tell a story of sexual misconduct or inappropriate treatment. In fact, today I was sitting next to two young women at Starbucks who were discussing the latest news, that Matt Lauer, of <i>Today Show</i> fame, had lost his job.<br />
<br />
The one girl said to the other, "It's almost a rite of passage to be harassed."<br />
<br />
Incredibly, the other one nodded.<br />
<br />
This is terribly, horribly sad.<br />
<br />
I am a 52-year-old mom, and I can only hope and pray that my 20-year-old daughter does not have to suffer this type of treatment by her professors, her bosses, or the other men who cross her path. I am glad women are speaking up and pushing back. I am thankful the issue is being addressed.<br />
<br />
At the same time, I feel obliged to note that I have worked with men who have treated me with dignity and respect. They are the good ones. And I am thankful for them.<br />
<br />
These men gave me credit, in public, for accomplishing a job. They took chances on me, even fresh out of college, and treated me seriously. They promoted me. They listened to what I had to contribute at meetings, calling me in to ask for my opinion and advice.<br />
<br />
They told me I looked nice without making me feel demeaned or uncomfortable. They laughed at my jokes. They asked about my family. They complimented not just how I looked, but who I was as an employee, a mother, a creative professional.<br />
<br />
They rode alone in elevators and in cars with me. We went on business trips, and their behavior was always above board, never making me feel less than or imposed upon.<br />
<br />
They talked to me, taking me seriously, looking me in the eyes, and valuing me for far more than being a pretty face. They hired me for hard jobs. They confronted me when I was wrong. They expected me to do great things, sometimes beyond what I felt I could even accomplish.<br />
<br />
When I cried, they took compassion and offered a kind word or a Kleenex. They prayed for me. They asked how I was doing. They wrote me notes of encouragement when I needed it most.<br />
<br />
These are the good guys. No, these are the great guys.<br />
<br />
For each of them - for my friends, my colleagues, my neighbors, my bosses, my professors, my mentors, my dates, who made me feel respected, loved, and valued as a person, I give you heartfelt thanks.<br />
<br />
In this current climate, where men are being scrutinized, you are to be praised. Thank you for setting an example that others should follow.</div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-16195589951187218322017-09-10T08:01:00.000-05:002017-09-10T08:01:25.629-05:00Fear Not: Even When Irma is Breathing Down Your Neck<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSnbZBxVQ2WTAJCcYsTFSvRqfTL4hCGbeDRvrPn5cnVv_VYz8_YpnlycMV62R9PUbcH7s85yqmhxLc_nGhXDey-Rz-xonBLRkE-QzsaqhrndliW9ThThyphenhyphen6UKvkFCG2uHqmWsEi1FHBZw/s1600/hurricane-irma-watches-and-warnings-1221pm-abc-jt-170909_16x9_992.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="992" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhSnbZBxVQ2WTAJCcYsTFSvRqfTL4hCGbeDRvrPn5cnVv_VYz8_YpnlycMV62R9PUbcH7s85yqmhxLc_nGhXDey-Rz-xonBLRkE-QzsaqhrndliW9ThThyphenhyphen6UKvkFCG2uHqmWsEi1FHBZw/s320/hurricane-irma-watches-and-warnings-1221pm-abc-jt-170909_16x9_992.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Just a few mornings ago, I was listening to Jen Hatmaker's audio book <i>Of Mess and Moxie</i> as I walked the Atlantic beach. Hurricane Irma was still dancing in the distance, and I was trying to figure out lots of details: evacuation possibilities, canceling travel plans, where to get gas and water, whether or not to pick up my daughter from college. The usually peaceful walk was being marred by my ADD mind of distressful random concerns.<br />
<br />
But in her "I've got your back friend" kind of way, Jen gently spoke into my earbuds, "We are not to be consumed by a spirit of fear."<br />
<br />
And then, she said something that made me tear up a little bit, "Remember...fear is a liar."<br />
<br />
She's right, you know. Fear tells us crazy, horrible things. Fear whispers into our deepest insecurities and shouts that we are never, ever going to make it through whatever trial is ahead. But God tells us something else.<br />
<br />
Over and over again, we read, "Fear not" in the Bible. In fact, it's there more than 365 times - that's one for every single day of the year.<br />
<br />
I don't know what your fear is today. Maybe you're like me, watching weather reports and fretting. Maybe you're worried about a health issue or unpaid bills. Maybe you're worried about your kids - even grown ones off at college.<br />
<br />
It is common to us all. Everyone of us will face those days when the fear is oppressive and close, and it is hard to release the tension in our shoulders.<br />
<br />
To you (and to me), I say, Take a deep breath. This is not the time to let your worries take control. As Jen says so well, don't stand on your toes letting yourself rise into the whirlwind of doubt and fear. Instead, "flatten your feet" into what you know and believe to be true.<br />
<br />
So, in case your heart, like mine, can use a little refresher course on the anti-fear thing right now, here are some truths that I cling to when troubles threaten to undo me:<br />
<br />
<b>"So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and hep you; I will uphold you with my right hand. (Isaiah 41:10)</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>"Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea. (Psalm 46:2)</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The Lord is my light and my salvation--whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life--of whom shall I be afraid? (Psalm 27:1)</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, "Do not fear; I will help you." (Isaiah 41:13)</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when the heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit. (Jeremiah 17:8)</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, 1 John 4:18</b><br />
<br />
Sending love to all of you this Sunday.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-12334823582743048332017-07-29T12:44:00.001-05:002017-07-29T17:05:38.554-05:00Sea Turtles & Watchful Waiting<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Os2506mRIazILpOr4sMKqQ1uPqwBy8JB1DDEZXj34rV-I2GXU3UnaNiA60YsNXM8ldeZQjhJgcX0TmILpIY7sFKIHYAzfrZP23DBNChrJ4clFBWkOa9sSQNgcCbgLbjXNeqSjr-vhK0/s1600/sea+turtle+nest+one.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Os2506mRIazILpOr4sMKqQ1uPqwBy8JB1DDEZXj34rV-I2GXU3UnaNiA60YsNXM8ldeZQjhJgcX0TmILpIY7sFKIHYAzfrZP23DBNChrJ4clFBWkOa9sSQNgcCbgLbjXNeqSjr-vhK0/s400/sea+turtle+nest+one.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
On my morning walk, I saw a 40-something man and woman jump out of their beach patrol van and run to the sand dune about 500 yards
from shore. They were checking a sea turtle nest. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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May to October is sea turtle season on the Atlantic coast of
Florida. This is the time when the mamas come ashore to lay their eggs, and
Floridians takes this sea turtle stuff very seriously. Volunteers carefully
mark and protect each nest, putting wooden stakes in four corners around the
perimeter, securing it with a line and a stern warning sticker – not to disturb
the protected nest. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtBp7LLhx_QuofMXA1KYruhn-7Yvi0NjRhiPT6rHf3QWaflhV0tzBWhYKOaOyh4VbqBGTwjbWRgapg-eks5e_yP04Fub1Y72rjGD43mgd2OhhjXzD5v3ba1HZGKdqWjg0RY_XLrcQSQA/s1600/sea+turtle+nest+two.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtBp7LLhx_QuofMXA1KYruhn-7Yvi0NjRhiPT6rHf3QWaflhV0tzBWhYKOaOyh4VbqBGTwjbWRgapg-eks5e_yP04Fub1Y72rjGD43mgd2OhhjXzD5v3ba1HZGKdqWjg0RY_XLrcQSQA/s400/sea+turtle+nest+two.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Almost every day, you will see volunteers trekking up and
down the beach stopping to check each and every nest on the miles of shoreline.
They’re looking for any damage (there are laws against disturbing the marked
nesting zones), and they set up new markers when beach goers call in a sighting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They’re waiting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Waiting for those babies to hatch. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When they hatch – it is <i>amazing</i>.
The little babies flip forward on the vast expanse of sand, following the moonlight
into the ocean. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Op1S9exRYH1kqQLfZVERgQjAOzFKLpRfn2pqGM3MTAMtdnPEhdX2TAj-5O3Six-IlPRlF83EA8YhUkMQHmSCrV98y8iq6LAbpCZrfeAJ03aRJ3Q8kfuXSKNa2Xdjnv8gKWEqAefQ_4M/s1600/sea-turtles-1503461_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Op1S9exRYH1kqQLfZVERgQjAOzFKLpRfn2pqGM3MTAMtdnPEhdX2TAj-5O3Six-IlPRlF83EA8YhUkMQHmSCrV98y8iq6LAbpCZrfeAJ03aRJ3Q8kfuXSKNa2Xdjnv8gKWEqAefQ_4M/s400/sea-turtles-1503461_640.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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For that reason, the homes situated on the beach are not
allowed to have any exterior lights beach side during those summer and fall
months. They don’t want to confuse the babies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Now, I’ve yet to see a sea turtle hatching. But I’ve seen
video capturing the event – and it’s the cutest thing ever. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you can’t help but admire the diligence of those sea turtle
volunteers. They are so faithful day in and day out. They are motivated by the
knowledge that the hatching turtles could appear at any moment…and they want to
be ready.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was little girl, growing up in the 1970's in a Baptist
church, we talked a lot about waiting and being ready. The Rapture was a favorite subjects for us Baptists who believed
that – at any given moment - Christ could return and we would
be caught up to meet the Lord. Some of the Rapture-talk, especially the eerie apocalyptic film <i>Thief in the Night</i>, made waiting seem an awful lot like dread.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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But in Titus chapter 2, Paul has something else to say about waiting on the Lord's return:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>For the grace of God has appeared that offers salvation to
all people. It teaches us to say “No” to ungodliness and
worldly passions, and to live self-controlled, upright and godly lives in this
present age, <b>while we wait for the blessed hope</b> – the appearing of the glory of
our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ, who gave himself for us to redeem us
from all wickedness and to purify himself a people that are his very own, eager
to do what is good. (2:11-14)</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scripture tells us that we do not know the hour or day when
Jesus will appear, but we are promised that He will indeed come again, and we are to wait, not with dread or fear, but with hope!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We’re supposed to be a lot like those sea
turtle volunteers. Waiting with expectancy. Being assured of what will come gives us reason to say "no" the things that are bad for us, and to say "yes" to what is upright and godly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of these days, I do hope to catch one of those baby sea
turtles wiggling its way toward the water. But, of course, far greater is my anticipation of Christ’s
return. So I will wait faithfully, not with dread, but with this type of energetic, expectancy for the blessed hope that could appear at any moment.<br />
<br />
What a joy-filled day that will be!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
</div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-37533324131838232017-07-19T08:19:00.001-05:002017-07-19T08:19:17.781-05:00Power in the Blood<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ZPyvLwOB-QYH0iQSIdiFGFlT_heAq4xa-HDKTswJHKt4aDHxWyk42IKpwwccTrx70e6Gujb1fTAh4OfuwTW3sC9bNl1KGz2Ra8bQQVc2hvxK6JwDBPZyrI3V5Cm9W6IbljelznFzMvo/s1600/bike+child+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ZPyvLwOB-QYH0iQSIdiFGFlT_heAq4xa-HDKTswJHKt4aDHxWyk42IKpwwccTrx70e6Gujb1fTAh4OfuwTW3sC9bNl1KGz2Ra8bQQVc2hvxK6JwDBPZyrI3V5Cm9W6IbljelznFzMvo/s320/bike+child+pic.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Remember those thick, crusty scabs you would get as a kid?
My skin-the-knee-years were in the early 70s, and I would often return from a wobbly
bike ride with my knee scraped and bloody.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tears streaming down my face, I would park my purple, banana
seat bike – with its white flower-covered plastic basket, in the driveway and
burst into our ranch-style suburban house in search of my mom. She would get the
“cure-all” basket out of our bathroom, wipe the dirt off of my injured knee,
and apply Merthiolate (the pinkish liquid applied with a dropper) to my cut,
blowing on it to soothe the sting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the days afterward weren’t pretty either. The scrape
would scab over. And it was hard to resist picking at its itchy ugliness. Blood,
I learned, was not my friend.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not only did I fear blood, I was terrified of any sort of injury.
A safety first child, I dreaded gym class and even opted out of outings to the toboggan
hill or roller skating rink. Blood and fear were forever linked in my mind. Self-protection
became my mantra.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For me, safety was found at home and at church. First
Baptist of South Holland was a small, sturdy, Dutch congregation with
salt-of-the-earth suburban families. We liked to camp and potluck (both
relatively safe and injury-free activities). And we really, really liked to
sing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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My dad was the piano player in our small congregation, and
he played that instrument with gusto. Visitors would remark that my dad was the
Jerry Lee Lewis of Baptists, and they were right. In fact, if you looked
beneath the piano, you could see an indent in the beige linoleum right where he
would tap his foot in time to the music.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once a month, on Sunday night (yes, we went to two services)
we had choose-your-own-hymn night. My best friend’s dad, Mr. Aarup, would lead
singing. And I was always ready to request one of my favorites: “There is Power
in the Blood.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Written in 1899, by Lewis E. Jones (who happens to be a very
early Moody Bible Institute grad!), the song had an upbeat tempo for its somber
lyrics:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There is pow’r, pow’r, wonder-working pow’r,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the blood of the Lamb.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is pow’r, pow’r, wonder-working pow’r,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the precious blood of the Lamb.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I have to wonder why a 10-year-old girl – especially one
so fearful of injury - was deeply in love with this particular turn-of-the-century
hymn. The music was rollicking, but the words were somber. I was singing about
blood, after all. The thing I feared the most.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nevertheless, I would sing the chorus with gusto, an odd
juxtaposition of my childish enthusiasm and the painful, impactful reality of
Christ’s sacrifice. Jesus bled. He hurt. He suffered. His red, thick, sticky
blood was no different from the stuff that scabbed over on my knobby knee.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But Jesus’ blood did much more. His blood paid my debt and
guaranteed my future. Christ’s blood freed me from doubt and guilt and fear.
His blood was indeed filled with “wonder-working pow’r.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No wonder I felt such freedom when I sang those words. His
power became mine as well. This kind of blood was not the type I feared. It was
rich and healing and life-changing! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Would you be free from the burden of sin?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s pow’r in the blood, pow’r in the blood;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Would you o’er evil a victory win?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s wonderful pow’r in the blood.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That hymn still speaks to me today, some 40 years later. I
may still feel like that wobbly 10-year-old girl with bloody knees, but I cling
to the powerful truth that my sins are covered by “the precious blood of the
Lamb.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-26270649323945718542017-04-28T06:14:00.000-05:002017-04-28T07:24:20.739-05:00In Search of Great Abs: Planks, Faith, and My Inner Core<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
There's this exercise that isn't really an exercise. It's more like an instrument of pain and torture - called the "plank."<br />
<br />
I found it when I was googling "exercises for women over 50," specifically designed to get rid of that annoying pooch that resides right at my waistline. And I've been doing them. Kind of.<br />
<br />
If you know what a plank is, feel free to skip to the next paragraph. Basically, you lie flat on the ground (stomach down). This is my favorite part. Next, you place your palms down, keeping your elbows on the floor (this is my second favorite part . . . it gets harder). Then, you push slightly up, raising your chest, torso and legs off of the ground. Use your upper arm strength, your amazing abs, and your toes. Your body should be straight with your stomach sucked in (more than I'm doing in this embarrassing photo), Your torso should be parallel with the ground. Now you count - oh, and don't forget to breathe. This looks amazingly easy. Unfortunately, it is not.<br />
<br />
I can hold the plank position for a short bit. Ten seconds, maybe twelve. And then I get all wobbly, and sweaty, and eventually collapse back into my favorite position, which is lying down.<br />
<br />
But I'm told the plank is good for me in so many ways. It strengthens my inner core. It tightens my abdomen, shores up my back, and even improves posture and balance. So, planks it is.<br />
<br />
Why am I telling you about this horribly healthy exercise? Because, while I was staring at the ground, trying desperately not to immediately lie back down on it, I had this thought.<br />
<br />
It's good to have a strong core. Not just physically, but spiritually, too.<br />
<br />
As I've waded through the first years of my 50s, I've felt the earth move a bit. I've gone through some major, life-changing, soul-rattling events.<br />
<br />
My core was trembling.<br />
<br />
In the span of about three months:<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>My only child left for college.</li>
<li>My next door neighbor and then a dear friend died unexpectedly.</li>
<li>My mom was diagnosed with round two of breast cancer.</li>
<li>A hurricane blasted our hometown.</li>
</ul>
And it's not even the big stuff; it seems that the list of life-shaking events just keeps going on. Sometimes it's simple things - like when I dropped a glass jar and cut my toe. Or when I was out of town on a business trip and received a tearful, worried phone call from my daughter. Or that time I made a stupid, entirely-my-fault mistake while doing my job. <br />
<br />
Even these small, every day things can cause their own special kind of pain and distress. They make us wonder what to do and where to turn.<br />
<br />
That's where the core part comes in. I really believe that my faith in Jesus keeps me upright during difficult and bewildering times. In my connection to Him, I have been promised an anchor that holds, roots that go deep, and, time and time again, that inner core has kept me from being blown away by life's trauma.<br />
<br />
Psalm 27:1<br />
<br />
<i>The Lord is my light and my salvation: whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?</i><br />
<br />
A stronghold is a fortress, a safe place. Certainly - in times of war - a fortress offered protection from the enemy. The big castle-like structure with enormously thick walls would shield its inhabitants from oncoming attacks.<br />
<br />
When Hurricane Matthew came through our Florida town last October, I realized the importance of a stronghold. I saw enormous trees literally yanked out of the sandy soil by their roots and thrown on the ground. Huge chunks of concrete. Entire boat docks. Uprooted. Tossed aside like they were nothing.<br />
<br />
But I know this much is true. No matter what life has tossed my way, God has been my stronghold - and He can be your stronghold, too. Even at age 50, with my flabby stomach and weak abs, I have a God who offers me His resilient, incredible, unfailing strength - and all I have to do is run to Him.<br />
<br />
When I'm shaking, when I feel weak, when my core trembles,He is my stronghold, my safe place. He gives me strength. No matter when. No matter where. No matter how weak I might feel...<br />
<br />
What do you believe? What holds you firm when the waves of life crash onto your shore?<br />
<br />
Turn to Him today. Give Him your troubles, even the really big perplexing ones. Take a walk. Whisper a prayer. Let God's strength become yours. He promises to be your stronghold, your lighthouse, your safe place.<br />
<br />
Friends, great abs may come and go, but strengthening our inner core has never been more important.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-21034128007031192662017-02-14T11:36:00.000-06:002017-02-16T07:17:46.862-06:0015751 South Park Avenue: When a House is More Than Just a House<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend Janet posted this photo of her childhood home on
Facebook. Someone has rehabbed it a bit (nice tile back splash in the kitchen,
by the way), polished the original woodwork, and is selling it. It is a
charming Chicago-style brick bungalow. But that is not why this photo struck my
heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Immediately my mind was flooded with memories of our time
together as little girls. Janet and I spent many Sunday afternoons in this
house at 15751 South Park Avenue, in South Holland, Illinois. Even if the real
estate company hadn’t given the street address and provided photos I would have
recognized it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Aarup family attended the same church as mine – our parents
were friends. And, I became an honorary Aarup most Sunday afternoons after
church, inviting myself over for Sunday dinner, playing all the way up until
the evening church service. Janet’s house number, 15751, was the same backward
and forward. I had it memorized; I had her phone number memorized also. But
it is her family’s house that will forever be etched in my mind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t think we had air conditioning in those days, so our
families relied on window units and big box fans. On hot summer afternoons,
Janet and I would place a big flat bed sheet on the living room floor and set
books all around the edges. Then, we’d take the living room fan and insert it
at one end of our makeshift tent. It would blow up, igloo-shaped, and we’d sit
inside and giggle and talk. It was all fun until her dad came home and wondered
why we had commandeered the fan that was cooling down the rest of the stuffy
house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also remember spending time in that brown-paneled basement.
We had sleepovers with girlfriends – one time having a spitting contest, propelling grape seeds into the toilet. Again, it was all fun until the toilet
overflowed at 2 a.m. Needless to say, her long-suffering father was not
pleased. I seem to remember steam coming out of his ears.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We also crafted in that indestructible room. We had this
brilliant idea to do a hair transplant from her sister’s doll with her long,
luxurious locks to Janet’s baby doll which had a sad little plastic, bald, molded head. We
put on “lab coats,” after raiding her dad’s closet for white shirts, and set
up a makeshift operating table, laying both dolls side by side.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We snipped away, getting a huge mound of donor hair, and
then set about gluing it to the poor, bald baby doll. Of course, we had not
thought what her older sister would say. When Robin returned she was furious,
and Janet and I got a good scolding. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her house was on a main street, and we could walk down the
block to the South Holland Bowl. They had
a little restaurant attached where aproned ladies served sandwiches to hungry bowlers. I remember
stopping in there for a bottled Coke and taking our time sipping it on our walk
back to her house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had one more escapade in the 15751 house. There was a
huge vacant lot just to the north, and we loved to play there. So when a
builder came and began surveying the lot to build two more homes, we were
upset. We waited till they were done for the day and then quietly pulled out
the stakes, every last one of them. Alas, we were unsuccessful (although
probably criminal). Today there are two houses firmly planted just to the north
of hers, but not without the vigilant, aggressive protest of two young girls.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was nice to see you again, 15751. Thank you for allowing
me to visit, play, and get into all sorts of trouble. You are forever in my heart.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-80983420468987180272017-01-12T07:34:00.002-06:002017-01-12T20:37:50.231-06:00Wait<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxLPV26Rx36ZnbpMVrwLApzeYPxwFGMHBXF019X2LltahpjmtugA7IZq7a-oeUbmFbhTCJjlQEeJ-PfbBQhovZ7mdBLwDcoa0EAlEvdR8Q0lDLGbS-FQ89Q0gxrHFcsFZEufpC3u7YQmw/s1600/wait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxLPV26Rx36ZnbpMVrwLApzeYPxwFGMHBXF019X2LltahpjmtugA7IZq7a-oeUbmFbhTCJjlQEeJ-PfbBQhovZ7mdBLwDcoa0EAlEvdR8Q0lDLGbS-FQ89Q0gxrHFcsFZEufpC3u7YQmw/s320/wait.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been reading a lot about selecting a “word of the
year.” For some, it is seen as a divinely-given word that will help focus their
heart and mind on where God is leading. For others, the word is carefully
selected as a symbol of their focused dreams, desires, or wishes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And even while I admired the word choices of others, I
honestly didn’t feel a desire to pen one of my own. After all, how could I put
my current, mostly muddled feelings into one single word?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But one afternoon, while driving back from Lowe's, I tried to express my current state of mind to my husband. Earlier that morning, in one of those pop-up
Facebook memories (which are quite helpful for a woman of my age), it said that
four years ago, I had published my first (and only) book. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was shocked to realize how time had sped by. In these four years, I’ve often been asked –
what is next? My answer continues to be:
I have no idea.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s plenty of reasons why. Life has been busy. I
uprooted my family and moved hundreds of miles to a new home. I’ve switched
jobs, said goodbye to old friends, and tentatively started to open my heart to a
few new ones. My husband and I have watched our only child graduate high school
and begin college. And (the reason for another trip to the hardware store)
we’ve been painting and rebuilding and cleaning our beloved 1960s beach house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So while the past four years may not look super productive on
my writing resume, I’ve put mile upon mile on this weary soul of mine. Maybe
this is why, as I began this January, I sensed a word quietly resonating in my
soul.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wait.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The word “wait” can have many meanings. To “lie in wait” means
you are going to ambush the enemy. And then there is the type of waiting that
anticipates a very specific event: “I can’t wait until Friday” or “I’m waiting
for my package to arrive from Amazon.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But that isn’t the type of waiting I mean. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was thinking about the unique way the word “wait” is used
in Scripture – to “wait upon the Lord.” It means to have an attitude of your
soul that points God-ward. As one writer explains, “It implies the listening
ear, a heart responsive to the wooing of God, a concentration of the spiritual
faculties upon heavenly things, the patience of faith.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This type of faith contains anticipation, but not merely of
something happening to me – personally, more of an expectant interaction with
the Almighty.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the Psalmist says, “My soul, wait thou . . . for God
only” (69:5).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rather than feeling guilty about not writing, not doing, not
achieving. Rather than seeking out the next project or looking for a new
challenge, I am going to sit back and wait.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, let’s be honest, this type of waiting doesn’t come
naturally, especially for me. I like to do. I like to plan. I like to dream. So
waiting can feel a whole lot like giving up. It can even feel like failure or
laziness. But, this year that word keeps whispering into my heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wait. Wait on everything. Wait on me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so I will.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Friend, I have to tell you – this might be the best New
Year’s resolution I’ve ever made. It feels good. It feels right. Even as it
rolls off my tongue, I can feel the tension in my shoulders release, as I breathe
a sigh of relief. I can wait. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can put off deciding anything and everything in a
God-ordained kind of way. I don’t have to have it all figured out. I don’t have
to worry that I’m not doing enough. I can know for certain that this is the
place I’m meant to be right now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going to sit in this moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going to rest in His peace.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going to push aside the niggling self-induced guilt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m going to enjoy waiting on the Lord with that beautiful
song by Mumford & Sons softly playing as a repeat song track in the background.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When He moves, I will follow.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until then, I will wait. <i>Lord, let me wait . .
. resting my soul in Thee.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-31038610080470382692017-01-01T13:24:00.001-06:002017-01-01T13:33:15.851-06:00A New Year's Blessing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div>
<br /></div>
New Year's Day always feels a bit disconcerting to me.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My Christmas decorations are looking a bit "tired" . . . to put it nicely. One of the sheep in my nativity set has fallen over , and three chocolate bars are laying on the hay, right next to the wise men. It looks a bit like a cryptic crime scene.<br />
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Our once festively decorated dining room is now cluttered with a 50s fiberglass lampshade sitting askew on top of magazine ads, a pile of receipts, unpaid bills, and a Fannie May mint meltaway bar (missing two of the three sections of chocolate).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yep. This is me - not the Instagram version - but the real one. Rumpled and a bit cluttered. Forgetful and uncertain.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is the New Year. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For all of our celebrating, the grand countdown, the auld lang synes, the kisses, New Year's Day always seems a bit ordinary, even a bit disappointing, doesn't it?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So here I sit - still wearing my flannel pajama pants, no makeup, Alfred Hitchcock on the television, Christmas cookies tempting me to put off healthy eating just one more day. My mind is torn between plans and challenges for the days ahead, and the fact that I really, really need to clean my house.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I'm glad that on this ordinary day there is time for me, for all of us, to stop and think. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So before I pull the plastic Christmas bins out of the storage area and pack up that poor, tired manger scene, Before I take a walk or take out the garbage that is piling up, I want to put words to this day. The first day of 2017.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Many of us have said we are glad to be rid of 2016. And, I have nodded in agreement. This year was a tough one. But I'm also realizing that in the midst of 2016 have been precious times with our friends and family. And I want more of those in 2017. I don't want grand, crazy, extraordinary things, just the regular stuff that I love, and a maybe a few special wishes thrown into the mix. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So here is my "ordinary" New Year's wish list...</div>
<div>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>I want to walk on the beach and find another seashell.</li>
<li>I want to go shopping at thrift stores with my daughter, looking for t-shirts, purses, and jackets.</li>
<li>I want to bake muffins and cakes and cookies, and even a few of those recipes I've pinned.</li>
<li>I want to enjoy dinners at interesting restaurants with my husband, and maybe a glass of Chardonnay.</li>
<li>I want time and space to pray and think and read.</li>
<li>I want to work and write. </li>
<li>I want to clean my house. </li>
<li>I want to organize my linen closet, paint the laundry room, throw out junk. </li>
<li>I want my family to be healthy. I want my mom to come through her cancer surgery successfully with as little pain as possible.</li>
<li>I want my friends who have suffered great loss and pain in 2016 to heal. I want them to feel loved and appreciated and find peace.</li>
<li>I want to honor God with everything I do and say. </li>
<li>I want to avoid worry, cast my cares on Him.</li>
<li>And tonight, I just want a quiet family fondue dinner with a late-night showing of Rear Window, and maybe a glass of that almond champagne that's been chilling in the fridge.</li>
</ul>
<div>
Blessings to you, my friends. Thank you for sharing my journey in 2016. And may you get all of your ordinary wishes for the New Year. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Love to you in 2017.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-63067636011000253942016-12-16T07:19:00.005-06:002016-12-16T07:19:50.879-06:00Burnt Out at Christmas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>for those I love who are struggling this Christmas ...</i><br />
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It was only in mid-life that I discovered I adored brussel sprouts. We were having a holiday dinner at my Uncle Jim's house in the backwoods of Tennessee. His mother-in-law, Raymonda, had cooked the little knobby-looking veggies until they were burnt and caramelized.<br />
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Overdone, I thought. But, I decided to brave a taste anyway. Suddenly, a vegetable I knew only as mini, soggy cabbage was transformed. Now these . . . these were magical brussel sprouts, cooked with olive oil and a bit of butter until they were a dark roasted blackish-brown. The charred bits were the most delicious.</div>
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But while brussel sprouts become the best version of themselves when you burn the crap out them, I'm not so sure about people. And, this year, I've felt burnt to the crisp. As December rolls to a close, I feel like I must have charred bits showing from the wear and tear of 2016.</div>
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And I'm not alone. A friend of mine posted on FB that she didn't want any gifts for Christmas. She had lost her parent just weeks before - and it had just been too difficult of a year. Maybe give me a hug when you see me, she wrote.</div>
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<br />
I understand. This has been a tough one for me as well. I feel emotionally spent. What a helluva fall it has been.</div>
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I've gone through an empty nest phase, seeing my one and only leave for college. Just a few weeks later, I lost a dear friend to a horrible accident, leaving his wife, daughters, and the rest of us gasping with disbelief. I lived through a pretty intense hurricane - an actual one - that aimed directly at the beach house we bought just two years prior. I watched as my neighbor lost his battle to cancer, one loved one struggled with depression and chronic illness, and then I received news that my mom has a recurrence of breast cancer. Sigh... I am Burnt Out. Depleted. Exhausted. Worn. Tired. Spent.</div>
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And now Christmas is upon us. How do you jingle all the way when you feel "bleh" inside? How do you spread Christmas cheer when your own light has been dimmed? </div>
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A writer friend commented that there is nothing in Scripture about needing to have the Christmas Spirit. And she is right. There are no easy answers, no quick fixes to snap out of our somber mood, but I would argue that perhaps you don't need fixing. It is perfectly fine to walk through this season of discontent without putting up a tree or hanging a single ornament.<br />
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We can be contemplative and sad. We can look back with longing. We can cling to hope. We can grieve for what is lost. We can be deeply thankful for those we hold dear. We can let quiet hymns soothe our soul. We can hold onto hot mugs of eggnog or mulled wine and let tears flow unhindered when needed.</div>
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So back to those brussel sprouts. Why is it that they are most intensely flavorful when burnt? And is it possible that these difficult times of my own life are actually precious and important? I can't cover them up - I have to walk through these dark days just as I have my happy, light hearted ones. Both the good and the bad have shaped who I am today.</div>
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In my own life, many Christmases have come and gone. They were not all perfect, nor were they easy. So if you too are reeling from the blows life can bring... If you are tired. If you feel depleted of cheer, know that it is okay to sit in its midst and rest.</div>
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Matthew 1:27 says, "The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and they will call him 'Immanuel' (which means 'God with us')." This is Christmas in its essence: God is with us - and He is not present only in the happy. He is with us in the sad and difficult and exhausted as well.<br />
<br />
Jesus, God's Son, became present for us in the itchy hay, in the dirty manger, in the crowded spaces of our lives. He came for the weary. He came to take our burden. He came to be our light in the pitch darkness, our help in times of trouble, our peace in the midst of our despair.</div>
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And for that I am thankful . . . a bit burnt, a bit crispy at the edges, but profoundly thankful. Rest in His peace this Christmas friends, and may God, Immanuel, be with you through it all.</div>
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Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-45495677671908996692016-10-12T09:57:00.002-05:002016-10-12T09:57:50.393-05:00Thankful for the Ordinary - Even Ice Cubes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
I'm reminded today, to be thankful for the normal. Even for
ice cubes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Following the hurricane, there was no electric and no clean
water. Ice became a hot commodity in our community. We arrived at the grocery
store and someone said they had just delivered 10 pallets of bagged ice. People
were joyful - carrying two or three bags in their shopping carts. Milt and I
rushed to the aisle only to find it was gone all of it...not one cube to be
found.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Ordinary ice. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Ice cubes that I take for granted. I throw them out if they
fall on our kitchen floor or if I accidentally put too much into my cup at the
soda fountain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I've received a huge reminder that we are to take nothing
for granted. Normal is so good. And everything that we love or hate or even
whine about can change in the blink of an eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The hot mug of coffee I am drinking is a gift. That bed that
I slept in is a gift. That person who we hug or argue with is also a gift...a
tremendous gift. Even the long commute to work - which I used to complain about
daily - is a gift<o:p></o:p></div>
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We have been given so much - and yet we spend our days
arguing over the small things that divide us. We fail to notice the beauty and
love around us because we are too busy picking at imperfections.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Maybe it takes a hurricane or losing someone we love to make
us wake up and see life around us for what it is. I've been through both in the
past month or so.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And I have been reminded that in the most important ways, I
am incredibly blessed. I am so thankful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For my friends. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For my family. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For my home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For the sunshine. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For electricity. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For clean water. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For a warm bed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For a roof over my head. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For sunshine. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For the air I breathe. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For ice cubes!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Thank you God for the ordinary.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-38130653799336793112016-09-01T18:40:00.000-05:002016-09-01T18:48:44.387-05:00Breathe in. Breathe Out: What It's Really Like to Send Your Child Off To College<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>Breathe in. Breathe out.</i><br />
<br />
The last time I was told to focus on the end product rather than my present, all-consuming pain, I was giving birth. Somehow sending my first and only child off to college 18 short years later feels a lot like that. And, no epidural this time either.<br />
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This college-sending-stuff is hard, and it isn't pretty. We're on the other side now. We survived. And pretty soon I'll lose the memories of the pain we endured. So, before my brain turns mushy and remembers only the good stuff, I want to share a bit about surviving the transition. Because if I did it, you can too.<br />
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At the beginning we were all excited. We went on a beautiful tour of the University of Chicago and found a restaurant that served amazing guacamole with homemade chips. The next year we had fun looking through glossy brochures, laughing about the endless emails that spelled her name "Sabrna" - and going on college tours with their tiny Target-decorated display dorm rooms.<br />
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After a few months, the decision became clear. For our girl, all roads pointed to University of Central Florida just an hour and a half away from us. It was perfect. It had her major. It wasn't too far, but she could live in the dorm. And, bonus, they offered an amazing scholarship. Sold. We felt that God was in this - we could sense His direction. That helped.<br />
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And, we weren't too nervous then because we had the whole summer as a buffer. Glorious days. No set schedule. We binged on Netflix and Haagen Dazs (Dulce de Leche, to be exact) with no bowls, just spoons. And we even enjoyed shopping for her new life. I bought sheets and notepads, extension cords and k-cups. We resisted the Death Star night light. There was just a tinge of dread as the mound on our dining room table grew. We knew, she knew, that soon she would leave the nest.<br />
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I felt prepared. She felt (kind of) prepared, and increasingly anxious.<br />
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But when the big day came, it hit us both like a ton of bricks. The night before was rough. We weren't ready to be done with our "lasts" - last walk on the beach, last dinner at our favorite sushi restaurant, last trip to the grocery store where we nabbed as many free samples as possible. How could this possibly be the last night? We both felt strangled, fearful, anxious, crazy... My Lamaze memories started to feel relevant again.<br />
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<i>Breathe in. Breathe out.</i><br />
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I remember praying with her, and hugging her tight. And then we went to bed. It's amazing that we slept at all. The next morning we were on autopilot, especially me. I woke up early. Ignoring the big knot in my stomach, I focused my mind on fitting the mountain of supplies into the back of our Kia Soul. It was a Tetris-style challenge - and it gave me something to do and think about.<br />
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When we arrived, we were all about the unloading. Thank the Lord for those college student volunteers with their giant wheeled plastic bins. What would we have done without them? Only two trips in the sweaty Florida sun, up 7 floors, and we were in her new home-for-now.<br />
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This is where my mom-genetic kicked in once again. Just like I went to my mental "happy place" during childbirth, I now chose to focus on what I could do about this very emotional situation. I unpacked her new sheet set. I put the Kylo Ren fleece blanket at the end of her bed. I hung up her clothes. I put away bathroom supplies. I wrestled with those annoying shower curtain rings - little silver beads flying everywhere. And then we were done.<br />
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We were tired and triumphant. We were so brave. We tried to celebrate our success over dinner. But dinner was hard. Even though there were delicious lettuce wraps, we weren't hungry. We were tired. She was anxious. I was weepy, holding back the damn. And then the leaving. Even harder. How do you walk away when you know your kid is trembling inside? How do you just leave? But I did. I put one foot in front of the other. Down the hall. Out to the car.<br />
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<i>Breathe in. Breathe out.</i><br />
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Thank goodness for my husband. He was a little bit annoyed . "This is a good thing," he kept insisting, while I blew my nose and glared at him. "She's got this," he said. "It will be great."<br />
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Honestly? Just then I wanted to smack him. Never have I felt less understood. I knew he was right, but it was like the waters were rushing over the barricade. I made it to the car, then cried. And cried some more.<br />
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I fell into bed that night, tired, sweaty, a big ugly bruise on my leg (not sure where that came from), but a bigger bruise on my heart. I didn't walk to her bedroom. I couldn't think about it. I just left a piece of me down the road.<br />
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That was the tough stuff, friend. But, you know what?<br />
<br />
The next morning I got a sweet encouraging FB message from a junior-high friend who understood my pain and voiced his concern. And then, I got a text from my daughter (yay! she's still alive, still breathing), and then (be still my heart) a phone call.<br />
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<i>My breathing became ever-so-slightly more normal. </i><br />
<br />
We chatted while I drank an enormous mug of coffee. She wasn't crying. I was crying just a little bit. She told me about meeting her fourth roommate. She said she ventured out to the student dining room and enjoyed a bowl of Cocoa Puffs (my favorite). A new friend had fixed her wonky internet connection.<br />
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You don't know how triumphant we felt. I felt. She felt. This was not easy. But I am convinced it was worth the pain. It is a big change. A HUGE change. But, we are on the other side now, and we lived to tell about it.<br />
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This is a new normal for us. The jury is still out on whether or not we love it, but we are doing okay. And I am thankful. I moved my office desk into her room. Her giant stuffed Alpaca, Edgar, is looking at me as I type. He didn't fit in the back of the Kia Soul. And, Sabrina and I text everyday and sometimes talk. And we laugh a lot, and sometimes we really miss each other - and Dulce de Leche ice cream. But, we're good.<br />
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So if you're there, if you're getting ready for the big send-off, know that you can do this. You will feel - at moments - like you can't. But you can and will survive it by focusing on the end. And by remembering to breathe. This is what you have been preparing your child for - this is why you've studied hard and raised them right. And really...you don't want a 40-year-old hermit living in your basement, right?<br />
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So, go. Breathe. Sigh. Cry. And then rejoice.<br />
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You've done it. You've given birth to an adult. Congratulations.<br />
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And, by the way, mine is amazing.<br />
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Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-1345755216589063252016-08-01T11:10:00.001-05:002016-08-01T11:10:51.491-05:00The Part Bill Clinton Didn't Say<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
Bill Clinton still has his charm, doesn't he?<br />
<br />
With his white hair and blue eyes, he has a bit of a drawl, a bit of a wink, and an impish, aw-shucks grin. And while I am not a card-carrying member of the Democratic party, I couldn't help but be drawn in by his nostalgic and romantic story of meeting Hillary - the long-haired girl with the huge glasses.<br />
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But as he told the story of how they met, how he pursued her, how she mothered Chelsea, and what she accomplished, I noticed that he skimmed right over the crux of their story . . . his infidelity and their reconciliation.<br />
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That was the part I wanted to know about. Didn't you?<br />
<br />
It's not because I am a scandal seeker. I just want to know how it worked. How did she go on after the Monica affair? How did she forgive his infidelity? Was he remorseful? Was she angry? How long did she hold it against him that their marriage had imploded on a national platform? What did it take for her to stay when she probably wanted nothing more than to run screaming from the White House.<br />
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It was a marital fight gone rogue. And we all had front row seats.<br />
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It felt like I was reading a book with a few chapters ripped out. Or, in the old days, when I missed a few weeks of my favorite television show and couldn't Netflix it to find out what happened.<br />
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I'm sure that they wanted to avoid the topic altogether. But, I think the Clintons missed an opportunity in Bill's speech. If I was his speechwriter, I would have pushed them to deal with it, to put it all on the table. After all, we can learn from mistakes. They are horrible, certainly. They are embarrassing, without a doubt. But in acknowledging failure, we learn and grow. And, by owning them, we earn respect.<br />
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I think that Bill could have talked about how, while he succeeded in politics, he failed in his marriage commitment. He could talk about how he hurt his wife and his daughter. He could explain how, as a couple, they walked through dark and conflicted times, but that Hillary chose to stay, to remain in his life.<br />
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He could talk about what grace and courage it took to make that type of choice and why he respects her today. He could say thank you, publicly, to this woman who he harmed in such a grand way.<br />
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But he didn't. We heard everything but that...<br />
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Of course, I didn't really expect anything different. That's what politicians do; actually, that's what we all do. We smooth over the tough stuff. We delete the ugly photos from our phone. We cover up our under eye bags with a very high quality concealer. We want to put our best foot forward and never let them see us cry.<br />
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But maybe he should have. And maybe we should, too.<br />
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It's in revealing our weakness, in our vulnerability, that we find we are all just human after all.<br />
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Even Bill. <i>Just a guy who met a girl...</i><br />
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Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-56829949346675145212016-07-29T08:51:00.001-05:002016-07-29T08:51:13.877-05:00Walking on Water: When We Feel Like We're Up Against Something Impossible<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
What are you up against right now? Does it seem impossible?<br />
<br />
For me, right now, it is fretting about my daughter leaving for college in just a few weeks. I know that she is perfectly capable of college - she is brilliant and funny and friendly and sensible. And I know that saying goodbye on drop-off day will not mean that we will never see one another again. But I also know that we are both stressed out about it.<br />
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We did a mall trip - one of our favorite things to do together - and then in the midst of clothes shopping we were sad. Everything we bought reminded us of the upcoming event. Everything. So we ate a jalapeno pretzel with cheese sauce and then got really brutal back massages from the mall kiosk people (remind me not to do that again).<br />
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But, for both of us, this whole daunting upcoming thing seems impossible. How will we do it? How will we survive?<br />
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So I went for a walk. I do my best thinking while I'm walking on the beach. It was hot out this morning at 7 a.m., but the cool waves were running over my feet, and no matter how stressed or angry or sad I am, the sight and sounds of the ocean make me calm inside.<br />
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So I walked, and I muttered. No fancy, articulate prayers here. And I worried out loud about how life was changing with our daughter leaving for college. And, I sighed about politics, and how much I hate those discussions on Facebook, and how my husband is watching way too much political television. And I just let it all out like a trail of worries left in my soggy footsteps.<br />
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But in the middle of my prayer-venting, I looked out over the ocean and remembered that time that Jesus asked <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew+14%3A22-33&version=NIV" target="_blank">Peter </a>to walk on water.Well, actually, Peter invited himself. But, Jesus said, "Come along!"<br />
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You know, and I know, that walking on water is physically impossible. You might see an illusion like that in Vegas, but not in real life. It's like the time on <i>The Office </i>where Pam decided to walk over coals.<br />
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I don't like to attempt the impossible. I like the easy to plan, to schedule, to fulfill. I like my world in order. I like things to be under control. I like to know that I am perfectly capable, and that I will not, can not fail.<br />
<br />
But in this story, Peter was being asked to do something impossible. Jesus said, Come to me. Walk on water.<br />
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So, Peter did it. He took a step, one big, crazy, impossible step. And, for a moment, it worked.<br />
<br />
He was walking . . . on water. He was doing the impossible.<br />
<br />
I imagine he kind of freaked out for a moment, and then like a super hero. Wow, am I cool! Look at me - Water Man. I am amazing. I have power over nature. I can do anything!<br />
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And then he sank. He walked on water, and then he sank.<br />
<br />
If you read the story closely, you'll see that the problem wasn't in Peter's technique. He was walking just fine. It was in his focus.<br />
<br />
When he looked at Jesus, when he placed all of his trust in Him, he walked.<br />
<br />
But, when he looked at the water, at the high waves, at his feet which were not finned and did not resemble a paddleboard or other flotation device, he immediately began to sink.<br />
<br />
It's an easy lesson. I'm sure I don't have to spell it out for you. But, how does that apply to me, to doing things I don't think I can do?<br />
<br />
When I was in 7th grade, I was required to walk on a balance beam in gym class. I know. If you know me at all, you are laughing right now. The wooden beam was maybe 2 inches wide . . . maybe. And, it was at least 3 feet in the air. So with fear and trembling, and with a spotter, I walked on it, slowly, my toes curled around it like a terrified reptile.<br />
<br />
But then the teacher wanted me to jump . . . jump on the beam . . . like a ballerina. Right!? Are you kidding me? And, it's better, they said, if you don't look at the floor or your feet. Look ahead. Otherwise, you lose your balance.<br />
<br />
I never did learn how to walk on the beam, or do that weird backwards somersault thing they made me try. But I did learn a lesson a whole lot like Peter's. You can't do the impossible when you are focused on your limitations. Instead, we need to deliberately place our focus on Jesus, and on what we can do through Him.<br />
<br />
If you think that you will fail, you are probably right. You, alone, can't do the impossible. You will sink.<br />
<br />
Look to God, and you will walk . . . even on water.<br />
<br />
- - -<br />
<br />
And, in case you've never read it: MATTHEW 14:22-33 (TLB)<br />
<br />
<div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
<span class="text Matt-14-28" id="en-TLB-20969" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">28 </span>Then Peter called to him: “Sir, if it is really you, tell me to come over to you, walking on the water.”</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
<span class="text Matt-14-29" id="en-TLB-20970" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">29 </span><span class="woj" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;">“All right,”</span> the Lord said, <span class="woj" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;">“come along!”</span></span></div>
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<span class="text Matt-14-29" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;">So Peter went over the side of the boat and walked on the water toward Jesus. </span><span class="text Matt-14-30" id="en-TLB-20971" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">30 </span>But when he looked around at the high waves, he was terrified and began to sink. “Save me, Lord!” he shouted.</span></div>
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<span class="text Matt-14-31" id="en-TLB-20972" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">31 </span>Instantly Jesus reached out his hand and rescued him. <span class="woj" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;">“O man of little faith,”</span> Jesus said. <span class="woj" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;">“Why did you doubt me?”</span> </span><span class="text Matt-14-32" id="en-TLB-20973" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">32 </span>And when they had climbed back into the boat, the wind stopped.</span></div>
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<span class="text Matt-14-33" id="en-TLB-20974" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="versenum" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;">33 </span>The others sat there, awestruck. “You really are the Son of God!” they exclaimed.</span></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-72244509266923422302016-07-22T10:07:00.002-05:002016-07-22T10:12:40.990-05:00Old Timey Religion<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><br /></i>
<i>Nowadays the word "religion" gets a bad rap. </i><br />
<br />
But add "old-timey" to it, and, well, it just doesn't feel so bad. It's a bit odd that, as a city/suburban girl, I'm often drawn to backwoods expressions of faith.<br />
<br />
This morning, I was listening to a rendition of "Build Me a Cabin in Gloryland" by Hank Williams. Its twangy, foot-tapping beat resonate with my soul. I think of the old classics like "I'll Fly Away," "Power in the Blood," and "When the Roll is Called Up Yonder"...<br />
<br />
These gospel tunes make me want to attend a little church in the holler where they have wood floors, hard pews, and a preacher that yells a bit too much. I want a choir that is out of tune and a piano player that can hammer on those keys. I want to see the sunlight streaming in a window with just a little bit of dust floating in the air.<br />
<br />
I used to watch Little House on the Prairie on television, and I loved when Pa and Ma would load Mary, Laura and little Carrie into the wagon and head to church in Walnut Grove - the church that also served as the schoolhouse. I think one time even grumpy old Mr. Edwards attended.<br />
<br />
<b>What is it about those plain, unvarnished days that seems so appealing?</b><br />
<br />
Certainly, the church in those days was filled with characters. Have you seen the movie <i>The Apostle</i> with Robert Duvall? If not, you should. He is rough, messed up, a bit crazy, and totally sold out for God.<br />
<br />
He's like a character right out of a Flannery O'Connor's southern short stories. And then, there's the true story a real-life character, Ed Stilley.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Ed lives in Hogscald Hollow, Arkansas (you can't even make a name like that up). He is 90-something years old and has pastored and homesteaded in the hollow all of his life.<br />
<br />
But one day, after falling asleep with a gun across his lap, Ed heard the voice of God telling him to make instruments to give to little children. Ed had never made a guitar (pronounced gee-tar) in his life. But he couldn't ignore God, so he went out and cut some lumber and soaked it.<br />
<br />
He bent it and began to form crudely shaped guitars. He used whatever he could find - a pork chop bone for a bridge - and carved words of faith on the front. He gave the guitars away for nothing, to children. And they made beautiful music - who says you can't make an instrument from rough wood.<br />
<br />
Ed isn't pretty. He isn't polished. His Bible is as ruffled as a wet chicken's feathers after a rain storm. But that's because he's read it . . . a lot.<br />
<br />
And maybe that's why Ed represents true religion to me. It is the best kind.<br />
<br />
Pure and simple. Listening to God. Doing what He asks (no matter how crazy it may seem). Reading His Word. Being kind and generous . . . even musical.<br />
<br />
I think we get it awfully messed up these days. We have made it fancier, more polished and appealing. We've tried hard to be less offensive. But we've also lost the charm and power of the gospel message. So when I hear a story like Ed's, it sticks with me and cuts to my soul.<br />
<br />
Take me back to the holler. Give me that old time religion. As the song says, "it's good enough for me."<br />
<br />
To read more of Ed's story, go <a href="http://hyperallergic.com/272977/the-wild-handmade-guitars-of-a-man-on-a-mission-from-god/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-2208605449694983982016-07-14T22:31:00.000-05:002016-07-14T22:31:17.664-05:00An Anchor in the Storm<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
I remember going to the grocery store after my dad died. I was pushing the metal shopping cart from one aisle to the next, but I wasn't really seeing anything. The world was foggy.<br />
<br />
As I pushed my cart from aisle 6 to aisle 7 to aisle 8, I eventually ran into someone, rammed my cart smack into their back. The person cried out, and I jumped back, startled. I was so in my own head, in my state of sadness and grief, that the other shopper's reaction came as a surprise.<br />
<br />
For a moment, the fog cleared. I looked up and realized where I was. A grocery store. I needed milk, and eggs, and butter. Even when my dad had just died of a massive heart attack.<br />
<br />
How do we process grief in the midst of the mundane? How does the shocking exist among the ordinary?<br />
<br />
The past three weeks we have been inundated with emotion and horror. Innocent people have been slaughtered. I feel numb, really. I heard the news of 70-something more people killed in Nice, France, and I turned the channel, switching to an episode of <i>Everybody Loves Raymond</i>.<br />
<br />
I can't bring myself to watch any more. I can't continue to see death. I can't watch news where ambulance lights are flashing and angry politicians are accusing one another, asking, "Who is to blame? What should we do?"<br />
<br />
I just can't.<br />
<br />
It is so big. It is so stunning. It is so reprehensible. It is so beyond my comprehension, that I find myself shutting down.<br />
<br />
How do we comprehend such acts of evil? How do we process this grief?<br />
<br />
For tonight, I brushed my teeth. I put on a clean nightgown and sat directly in front of the fan (after all, it is Florida in July). Next, I will go to sleep. And after I sleep, I will get out of bed and drink coffee from my heavy stoneware mug. And I will face another day in this crazy, rampaging world.<br />
<br />
One thing I've realized. In the midst of the crazy, we need the ordinary. It anchors us.<br />
<br />
I read about a technique for surviving panic attacks. Psychologists call it grounding. When panic sets in, you are supposed to start to name things. First, you name five things you can see. The bedroom lamp. A straw sombrero. My bottle of hairspray. Then, you name five things you can feel. The keys of this laptop. The pillow at my back. You name five things you can smell and hear and so on and so on. With each thing you name, out loud, you force yourself out of your head, out of the madness, and into the present. You anchor yourself in the here and now.<br />
<br />
For me, lately, especially the past three weeks, the grounding is in the ordinary acts of life. I don't think we can survive this horrible stuff without them.I baked muffins. I went for a walk. I planted orchid seeds, and tried to remember to water them. I trimmed my dog's unruly fur. I scoured the kitchen counter.<br />
<br />
And it helps. It helps to turn off the television. It helps not to overanalyze. For me, it helps to pray, to anchor myself in my faith. I am grounded by reading the words of Scripture and knowing that this seemingly new level of horror is not beyond the scope of God's control.<br />
<br />
This grounding is enough for tonight . . . and this anchor will hold tomorrow.<br />
<br />
Deep breaths, my friends. Peace to you and yours. May this verse, which I memorized as a little girl, be a comfort to you tonight.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Arimo, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">"Thou wilt keep </span><i style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Arimo, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">him</i><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Arimo, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"> in perfect peace, </span><i style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Arimo, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">whose</i><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Arimo, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"> mind </span><i style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Arimo, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">is</i><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Arimo, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"> stayed </span><i style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Arimo, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">on thee</i><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Arimo, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;">: <br />because he trusteth in thee." (Isaiah 26:3)</span><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6887313872147640384.post-41574004445710888292016-05-27T08:10:00.003-05:002016-05-27T08:10:42.337-05:00To my daughter on her graduation day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
Was it 14 years ago that I sat in a festively decorated
school auditorium and watched my four-year-old daughter “graduate” from
pre-school?</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Thornridge Preschool did not skimp on the pomp and
circumstance. Our daughter, Sabrina, wore a tiny white satin gown and a
matching white graduation hat. The teachers made dozens of pastel tissue
paper flowers that covered the small stage. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Our daughter was over-the-moon excited for the celebration.
She had ordained that the post-graduation festivities would include McDonald’s Happy
Meals for everyone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That night, her dad and I sat on metal folding chairs and
watched our little daughter walk up the aisle then sing with her classmates. The
whole thing was adorable. Most of the time, however, Sabrina was distracted,
admiring the little boy named Riley standing next to her. Riley was the class
clown, and whenever they sang, Riley would sing theatrically, throw his arms out
to the side like Pavarotti. Sabrina thought he was hilarious. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When it came time for the end, the teacher had the children
read a graduation poem. I don’t remember the exact words (something about I’m
leaving you forever), but I do remember that I began to weep profusely. It was an
over-the-top, stick-a-knife-in-your-mama’s-heart song about growing up and
never being your baby again and how life was going to change and waving
goodbye.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought my heart would crack in two.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And now I am on the morning of my daughter’s graduation from Seabreeze High School. In the blink of an eye, fourteen years have passed. And in her
closet hangs a red satin graduation gown and cap waiting to be worn. I am proud of
her, much more proud than I was when she was four.<br />
<br />
How can my heart contain so
much? How can the memories not spill over in one huge hormonal wave of
sentimentality?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Certainly this graduation carries more weight. She has
accomplished a great deal. She has a perfect academic record: straight A’s from
kindergarten to senior year. She has studied long hours and carried a monstrosity
of a backpack. And she has had challenges. She faced off with a classmate bully
in fifth grade, a girl who stole her best friend. And, then we moved her from one state to the next in the
middle of high school. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But through the good days and the hard ones, my daughter
continues to amaze me. She has earned the title of National Merit Scholar and
then an incredible college scholarship. She is beautiful, and talented, and
kind. She can draw the perfect cat’s eye liner and singlehandedly got the
school newspaper up and running. Not only that, but she just found an elusive
creature on her Nintendo DS Pokemon game. While I don’t always completely understand, her joy makes me happy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I know her. I love her. And, I’m so incredibly proud of her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So when she crosses that stage this time, I know I will be a
mess. A big, fat, sloppy mess. Because this time means even more. We are in
transition, her and I. I know that life is changing. And this graduation is the
real thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So today I’ll focus on the now, not tomorrow. I’ll celebrate
her yesterdays and hold my breath just a bit as I think about our future. I’ll
take it one step at a time and thank God from the bottom of my heart for this
gift of us, of today, of joy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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So proud of you, Sabrina.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jamie Janoszhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01449767562868031644noreply@blogger.com0