Sunday I turned 40.
I wasn't sure how I would feel about reaching this milestone. In the last year I've really started to feel my age. My knees complain loudly when I sit too long on the floor with my kids. I've begun to notice those fine lines (as the cosmetic companies like to call them) developing around my eyes and mouth. More and more stubborn gray hairs are coming in and my little box of hair coloring is becoming less and less effective. Everything seems to be sagging a bit, heading south, but not just for the winter.
My initial dismay about these changes was a bit perplexing to me. After all I've always prided myself on not being absorbed with my looks. I guess I was just in denial about how important my appearance is to me. The last few months I started looking at women in their 40s in magazines. They look really good, I thought to myself. Then I realized that most of them have had a little help to help them look that good. A little plastic surgery goes a long way.
I scorned the thought of having work done. I would be proud of my wrinkles. I'd wear my age like a badge of experience. Every time I saw the lines around my mouth, I'd remember they were caused by fits of unrestrained laughter. Those wrinkles around my eyes are from smiling at my kids or winking at my husband. Why would I want to erase the effects of happiness?
Whom do I want to look younger for? My kids? My husband? No, I really want to look younger so other people won't think I look old. My family loves me for who I am, not what I look like.
Sometimes I get down when I think of all the things I wanted to accomplish by this time in my life. All the things I've wanted to do but haven't yet. It's funny though, the things we think we will do in our lives are always events like getting married, having children, and getting a dream job. But these aren't the only things that make up a life. What about the innumerable little things we do everyday. Taking time to encourage a friend, playing with your children, praying with your spouse, giving to someone in need, feeling the love of God. It's these tiny, everyday things that make up a life, but never show up in an obituary.
All of these thoughts caused me some distress leading up to my birthday. But last weekend changed all that.
Saturday was going to be a relaxing day. I had nothing scheduled except dinner with my parents that night. I decided I needed to wash the gray out of my hair before I turned the big 4-0. There I was in my kitchen, a strong chemical smell wafting from the damp hair piled up on my head, when the doorbell rang. I tried to get one of the kids to answer it. When yelling for my kids didn't work, I went to the door myself. There was my entire family--my parents and my brother, his wife, and their kids--standing at the door. Of course they were videotaping me and my beautiful hair.
I was wisked off to the spa, then a hotel with a water park, and then dinner. The next day there was a birthday party with cheesecake. To top it all off, my mom and sister-in-law created a memory book for me. They contacted over 40 people from my life, both family and friends who wrote messages to me. There were notes from people I hadn't talked to in years. It was amazing to see my life contained in one book. Even now I get a lump in my throat thinking about all the people I've impacted in my life. It was strange to see them all contained in one book. In a weird way, it was like seeing all the little things, the day to day things I've done for my entire life, captured in a book. I felt both humbled and encouraged.
After last weekend, I haven't been too worried about those lines and wrinkles. I'm less concerned with which bathing suit will cover up the cellulite on my thighs. (Okay, a LITTLE LESS concerned, but I'm only 40. I'm not dead.) Friends keep telling me that the forties are best decade yet. I plan to make sure they are.
Thanks to everyone who helped make my day special.
Love,
andrea
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Paradigm Shift
She was just the lady in the cubicle across from mine.
Well, to be honest, she was "the rather annoying lady in the cubicle across from mine." She was negative, always complaining about something—work, the weather, co-workers, the government—you name it, she'd complain about it. I'd plaster a sympathetic smile on my face and politely nod as she talked, but in my head I wrote her off. I'd already cut her up and put her into neat little boxes.
Thirtysomething, married, no kids—probably too caught up in herself to have children. She seemed to avoid getting to know people at work—anti-social. Pessimist. Complainer. I stuck on all my neat little labels, dusted off my hands, and felt rather satisfied with myself.
Then today, she shattered all my boxes.
She came over to my cubical and asked me to pray for her. Okay, I said. Then she explained that she had to have a difficult conversation with a friend about a man the friend was dating. She was concerned that the man might be abusive. "Of course, I tend to be overprotective." she said. Then she paused and said, "You know my story, right?"
I shook my head. No, I didn't know her story.
There in the middle of my cubicle the words tumbled out in hushed tones. She had been married to an abusive man. They had a beautiful little girl who charmed everyone. "My daughter even talked to me about God and Jesus," she said, her eyes large with amazement, "and I NEVER took her to church." The woman explained that when she couldn't take the abuse any longer, she took her six-year old daughter and left him. She was getting help, turning her life around. Then one day while the daughter was in the care of some friends, the ex-husband came and took the girl. He killed her and then himself.
That was eleven years ago. Since then she had slowly put her life back together. She had married a man who was honest and stable. She was working toward her life-long dream of owning and training a horse. "But I don't think I could ever have any more children. No one could take the place of my daughter."
I felt as if someone had taken a bat and hit me in the head. All my neat little glass boxes shattered into pieces. There were tiny shards in my hair. I could hear the glass crunch under my feet. Before my eyes, the labels suddenly changed. Selfish, negative, and complaining melted into wounded, courageous, hopeful, resilient.
At first I wept for my co-worker and her pain. Then I wept angry, remorseful tears for myself. How could I be so judgmental? Why do I feel the need to label people? Perhaps I'm lazy. Loving people unconditionally takes time and who has a surplus of that? It's faster and easier to stuff people into boxes. Perhaps I'm stingy with my love. I only have so much emotional energy—barely enough for my family and friends. Sorry, folks, but some of you get written off.
Unlike Jesus, we can't go up to the woman at the well and see everything she had ever done. We only get what people choose to reveal to us, and often those insufficient glimpses color our entire attitude toward the person. Grace tells us to love people whether or not they chose to reveal the forces that have shaped their soul. Grace compels us to love people whether or not we feel their backstory justifies their behavior. Grace refuses to affix labels or stuff people into boxes. Loves always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
So I sit here in my little cubicle and vow to change. No more boxes. No more labels.
Excuse me, but I've got a mess to clean up.
andrea stark
"It is a serious thing . . . to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no 'ordinary' people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. . . . And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner . . ."
—C.S. Lewis
Well, to be honest, she was "the rather annoying lady in the cubicle across from mine." She was negative, always complaining about something—work, the weather, co-workers, the government—you name it, she'd complain about it. I'd plaster a sympathetic smile on my face and politely nod as she talked, but in my head I wrote her off. I'd already cut her up and put her into neat little boxes.
Thirtysomething, married, no kids—probably too caught up in herself to have children. She seemed to avoid getting to know people at work—anti-social. Pessimist. Complainer. I stuck on all my neat little labels, dusted off my hands, and felt rather satisfied with myself.
Then today, she shattered all my boxes.
She came over to my cubical and asked me to pray for her. Okay, I said. Then she explained that she had to have a difficult conversation with a friend about a man the friend was dating. She was concerned that the man might be abusive. "Of course, I tend to be overprotective." she said. Then she paused and said, "You know my story, right?"
I shook my head. No, I didn't know her story.
There in the middle of my cubicle the words tumbled out in hushed tones. She had been married to an abusive man. They had a beautiful little girl who charmed everyone. "My daughter even talked to me about God and Jesus," she said, her eyes large with amazement, "and I NEVER took her to church." The woman explained that when she couldn't take the abuse any longer, she took her six-year old daughter and left him. She was getting help, turning her life around. Then one day while the daughter was in the care of some friends, the ex-husband came and took the girl. He killed her and then himself.
That was eleven years ago. Since then she had slowly put her life back together. She had married a man who was honest and stable. She was working toward her life-long dream of owning and training a horse. "But I don't think I could ever have any more children. No one could take the place of my daughter."
I felt as if someone had taken a bat and hit me in the head. All my neat little glass boxes shattered into pieces. There were tiny shards in my hair. I could hear the glass crunch under my feet. Before my eyes, the labels suddenly changed. Selfish, negative, and complaining melted into wounded, courageous, hopeful, resilient.
At first I wept for my co-worker and her pain. Then I wept angry, remorseful tears for myself. How could I be so judgmental? Why do I feel the need to label people? Perhaps I'm lazy. Loving people unconditionally takes time and who has a surplus of that? It's faster and easier to stuff people into boxes. Perhaps I'm stingy with my love. I only have so much emotional energy—barely enough for my family and friends. Sorry, folks, but some of you get written off.
Unlike Jesus, we can't go up to the woman at the well and see everything she had ever done. We only get what people choose to reveal to us, and often those insufficient glimpses color our entire attitude toward the person. Grace tells us to love people whether or not they chose to reveal the forces that have shaped their soul. Grace compels us to love people whether or not we feel their backstory justifies their behavior. Grace refuses to affix labels or stuff people into boxes. Loves always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
So I sit here in my little cubicle and vow to change. No more boxes. No more labels.
Excuse me, but I've got a mess to clean up.
andrea stark
"It is a serious thing . . . to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree, helping each other to one or other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no 'ordinary' people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. . . . And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner . . ."
—C.S. Lewis
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