I Triple-Dad-Dare You….Happy Father’s Day!
When I met my husband six years ago, it was – as they say – love at first sight. I was a single mother of two adolescent daughters, and he was a single father to one. His girl was the same age as my oldest, who was about to turn 14.
If you know anything about teenage girls, you know about fourteen. Brutal on both child and parent….fourteen is parental boot camp.
While we were dating, my Beloved swept me off my feet with romance – but really wowed me with his fathering abilities. His daughter was his heart….and because she was – he melted mine. He was so committed to her and to the job at hand – being the best dad he could be.
A little over a year later, he and I took “love at first sight” to “I thee wed”. With our vows, he went above and beyond in assuming the daily fathering duties of his new wife’s daughters. The carpooling, trips to the dentist’s office, and buying the school supplies. This previously single father of an only child tripled his “dad-ness” factor practically overnight.
He is the bravest man I know.
The adjustment was not easy or seamless. All three daughters lived with us in our “blended” family (which at times was more of a pureeing than a blending). After all, our daughters hadn’t fallen in love with one another; they were at the mercy my husband and I – and our commitment.
If parenting teenagers is walking through a minefield, step-parenting is navigating a minefield during a hurricane while under nuclear attack, without even having had the benefit of boot camp. It’s intense.
Yet he stayed present, committed to the job….
He has been through fourteen three times over now. Our daughters, now 17, 19 and 20, still all live at home. Our little pureed family is strong because my husband is strong, and committed to the job.
Through the usual growing pains of our daughters’ having boyfriends, breakups and broken hearts (and yet more boyfriends) – he offers advice and more importantly, sets the bar for how they should expect to be treated by the way he treats me. Through graduations and awards, he lets them all know he is proud. He has sat through three times more middle school band concerts, chorus performances and class plays than he ever imagined when he was the father of one child.
He doesn’t flinch when buying Midol, knows what time of the month to bring home extra chocolate and doles out the best hugs in the household. He knows all the little things that make the girls unique…his daughter, who is still his heart, and both of mine, whom have come to love him deeply.
And he makes me a better mother, because I know that he and I don’t just ‘present a united front’ to the girls. We are united.
The bravest man I know.
To my husband, you are truly, the most amazing husband and father in the world. The girls love you, and I love you. Happy Father’s Day!
Great Faith and the Bigger Picture
By: Jana Greene
“And so here I am, preaching and writing about things that are way over my head, the inexhaustible riches and generosity of Christ. My task is to bring out in the open and make plain what God, who created all this in the first place, has been doing in secret and behind the scenes all along. Through followers of Jesus like yourselves gathered in churches, this extraordinary plan of God is becoming known and talked about even among the angels!” – Saint Paul, Ephesians 3:9-10
I am inspired by The Greats. Saint Paul was definitely a great man.
As was C.S. Lewis, the Oxford-educated Novelist who penned The Chronicles of Narnia, among other works. He himself had been a staunch atheist before his conversion to Christianity, explaining that in his youth, he had been “very angry with God for not existing”. I have read everything I can get my hands on by Mr. Lewis and have an appreciation for his amazing mind. Still, I would love to sit down and have a cup Irish tea with him, and pick his brain.
I’ve a feeling that his musings might be “over my head”.
There are so many things I don’t understand. What is God doing about the things that seem to make no sense? What about the good and lovely human beings who suffer with cancer or mental illness or addiction and whose lives are claimed by those things? The ones who fight as hard as they are able and trust in God’s strategy in spite of the predicted outcome?
Those people – they are The Greats as well.
Yesterday, the world lost such a great man. He was a dear friend to my husband and I – an amazing husband to his wife of forty-eight years, and an incredible father to his daughters. He was a gentle giant, a man who trusted that God was working behind the scenes. He suffered intermittently with cancer for twenty-two years, and although he doesn’t walk with us on earth anymore, the cancer did not win.
My friend – The Great – is in paradise now, whole in his brand-new glorified body. The cancer is dead.
I was blessed to be able to talk to This Great about his struggles. Frankly and plainly, he talked about dying sometimes, but more often he talked about living. He was a living example of the inexhaustible riches and generosity of Christ; about the life he was honored to live – however long that might be. He made plain the word of God with his faith. He would never want his passing to be considered tragic. He would want others to look at the bigger picture. How many lives did he impact with twenty-two years of unrelenting faith and love for other people?
Am I angry at God for existing, but not stopping the disease that claimed my friend’s earthly life?
Perhaps a little, if I’m honest. But God looks after The Greats, he looks after all of us. Even in issues that seem to be over our heads. The things that make no sense make no sense because we aren’t privy to the back-story, the Master strategy. That’s just simple faith. Simple, life-giving faith.
C.S. Lewis also said: “Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave with regret? There are better things ahead than any we should leave behind!”
That, I can understand.
Today, Heaven rejoices that my friend – The Great – suffers no more. I like to think he might be sitting down to a cup of Irish tea with Mr. Lewis, considering things that remain over our earthly heads.
With the Father whose plan is perfect, there among the angels.
I’m ALL in! A Reintroduction to the Beggar’s Bakery
Hello, and pleased to meet you – or meet you again! Today I’m re-posting the first piece from The Beggar’s Bakery as a reintroduction. God bless you, and thanks for your readership!
By: Jana Greene
Welcome to my little piece of Real(ity)Estate on the web! It took a long time for me to create one; I could not imagine anyone would read it. (I hope it turns out that I’m wrong, but if not – I get LOTS of writing practice!)
I also hope that you might take something away from it each day. I am going to try my level best to keep it real (probably too real at times).
So what you should you know about me?
There are the usual stats and facts:
I am happily married to Bob Greene, whom I don’t write about in the public forum often at the risk of sounding like I’m bragging. He really is – cliché not withstanding – my best friend, and I’m so glad to be doing this crazy life with him. We have been married over five years and have blended a family that contains three teenaged daughters; two mine, one his. (Yes, they all live with us, and yes….He IS practically a Saint!) The blending is harder and sweeter and more challenging and more rewarding than I could have imagined.
I gave birth to two daughters, now 16 and 19, and I mother my lovely stepdaughter (nearly 20) when she lets me. They are my heart walking around outside of my body, if my own heart chose to drive me absolutely crazy (which it has on occasion). I love them fiercely and will try to respect their respective privacies here, although you can expect a good many pieces about my frustrations as I learn to let them go. If they get bored enough, they might read this one day, in which case I have TONS of chores for them to do.
I’ve worked at insurance and real estate agencies, mortgage companies, law offices, and as a day-care teacher. As a single mother I worked several at a time – including a hardware store paint-slinger and as a part-time hotel maid. All were character building. But I’ve been a writer – legit or not – since I could hold a crayon.
I am imperfect all the way. As a writer, I use the forbidden “three dots”…too often and cannot bear to part with the text-forbidden smiley faces 🙂 and sometimes use run-on sentences because I think they convey stream-of-consciousness better and yes, I know all of these are against the Strunk and White’s “The Elements of Style” guidelines. I have written for a small local paper,and although I couldn’t make a living at it, it was the best job I ever had. Also, I have a terrible “wordi-ness” problem, but I’m working on it. Sort-of. I write for the selfish reason that it helps me productively process the pain and pleasure in life when I pour words onto a page. And for the selfless reason that I cannot help anyone else find the “Bread of Life” if I don’t show them where I found it.
Because, all of these things I tell you about me, are true, but none define me. I am a Christian and a beggar. That is my most accurate self-description.
Over eleven years ago, I came to the end of myself and all of my delusions of put-together-ness, which is to say – I got sober. If you know me even casually, you know I am an alcoholic. I haven’t had a drink in that long, but I am still – forever – in recovery, something that keeps me humble and coming back for more of what got me clean in the first place. Every single day. I keep it “out there” because there is somebody, somewhere who is hiding bottles and drinking that “two” beers just to stop the shaking and who is so, so, ashamed. I know shame. Or maybe he/she is addicted to drugs, or porn, or the approval of others – it’s all the same to your soul – or cannot seem to find a reason to wake up in the morning. I can’t tell you how to fix it, but I can tell you who can. I can tell you that I 100% expected to die during that hard time, and sometimes would have considered it a relief. I still have bad days (that “One Day at a Time” thing…) but I have the clarity to enjoy the GOOD ones, of which there are many. Faith and humor are key. Oh, and boundaries, on occasion.
One Day at a time, by the Grace of God. Even if I might have bad days, or whine a little. You know, just to keep it real!
One beggar showing another beggar where she found food. When I couldn’t love myself enough to lift myself up, I crawled back to Jesus, and He said “You look hungry… come to the table!” Redemption is the best feast ever.
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Gather by the River, and Touch the Hand of God
By: Jana Greene
A lifetime ago, I had a dream.
There stretched before me, under a lavender sky, a wide ribbon of water. I approach it alone at first, barefoot and wearing a robe of opalescent linen. As I draw closer to the river, others come, too. Feeling a soft tug at each of my sleeves, I know by instinct that my children are by my side and I clasp their hands. I look down at two heads shining blonde in the bright moonlight, their gazes focused forward.
The river is mighty, but sounds like a tinkling brook of a million bells. I see multitudes of people at the river’s edge and more spilling from the hilltops beyond and through green valleys – all resplendent in the whitest garments. I instantly understand that some had been blind in earlier times, for their eyes took in more than mine. For others, the river bells were the first sound to befall their ears. Some were skipping, as though they had never walked before. Everyone is in a slow rush to get to the water.
Everyone is at such peace.
My children were pulling me now, their voices joined in with an ancient song that grew with the masses, as if known by instinct. Nothing I’d ever heard compared with this music, composed by angels.
Across the river! There is my Papa! My beloved grandfather’s eyes were clear of the depression he carried when I was young. And next to him was my grandmother, healthy and alive! Oh how I want to run to her and bury my face in the familiar softness of her shoulder. And my mother, there, too…ever beautiful, now serene. And all the ones I loved so much – who struggled with all kinds of issues and hurts – are here, with whole minds for their bodies, whole spirits for their journey to the river’s edge.
One by one we gather until there are too many to count.
Closer, closer to the river now, I am desperate for the water. I wade in until my tunic is wet to the waist. The current is cool and swift, but I am not moved by it.
I absolutely must reach Jesus. I know He is here.
See? There He is – holding out His arms to me! There are so many, many people here, but He is waiting to embrace me! When I can no longer touch the soft sand of the river bed with my feet, the current starts to move me gently toward Him, and the music surrounds me – fills me –clearer and more harmonious than anything I’ve ever heard, and I am almost close enough to reach the Living God.
But, wait. I can’t see His face. Why can’t I see His face?
With all my might, I try to hurl myself sideways against the water that now rushes. But my strength is not enough and I fall just short of brushing His fingertips with mine. My tunic is suddenly so heavy. Isn’t this the living water? Why is it so heavy, then? Within moments, it is burdensome, like swimming in jelly.
Your face, Lord….I am seeking your face now!
And then I wake with a sudden, terrifying start in the darkness of my bedroom. I am panting with suffocation, and my arms ache with having been outstretched in my sleep. Heart racing-skipping randomly like a rabbit in the brush- body drenched in a detoxifying sweat. The beautiful music has been replaced by an eerie sobbing – my own – and though it is pitch-dark, I close my eyes as hard as I can, grief-stricken that I am back in my heavy, wet, hurting body.
It is day three of this thing called sobriety, and I almost touched the hand of God.
Parenting for the Potty-Mouthed but Well-Intentioned
Potty-Mouth Parenting
Or, When Your Adult Children Live at Home
By: Jana Greene
Let me sing for you” the song of my people”.
It goes a little like this: “ &@#*&!#@!!!!
(Chorus: &*@!%!, #%*!@)**!!!))
A few days ago, I had a huge blow-up argument with my (nearly 20-year-old) daughter about something that was not a big deal to her, but was a really big deal to me. The thing that made me the angriest was that I felt it should be a big deal to her, too.
She and I are very close. We “get” each other. But nobody reaches The Point of no Return faster than she and I. Like (and I really hate to make this analogy) two poodles yapping at one another through a glass door. Not seriously out to do damage, but competing for the loudest yip, the most audacious showing of teeth. We can take it from 0 to 60 in seconds, feeding off of one another’s tone of voice, pushing the buttons on the customized panel of emotions in record speed.
As Chef Emeril says – BAM!
Sometimes, I yell at my kids.
Sometimes, I say curse words.
Sometimes, I use curse words while yelling at my kids, but not often.
I’m a follower of Christ. I am supposed to know better. And I do.
I’m not proud of either the cursing or the yelling. As a matter of fact, I’m ashamed. I am asking God to help me in the times that my tongue is swifter (if not mightier) than the sword; the times when my words become the rudder for my ship of thoughts before I can tell which way the wind is blowing.
I have to give it to Christ constantly, my itchy trigger-tounge.
In days of yore, kids generally moved out at 18, at just about the time you reached the end of your proverbial “rope”. I always kind of simultaneously dreaded and looked forward to “18” for that reason. I had preconceptions about that magical age.
Now, more adult children are living at home than ever. You hear a lot about the effect on the kids – not so much on the hapless parents who dearly love them but are ready to enjoy the fruits of what they’d long ago decided was ‘successful parenting’.
In my particular parenting fantasy, the children would move away to college at 18 (on scholarship, of course) but come home frequently to visit. While they are living apart from us in a learning environment, I imagine their activities being scholarly in nature… you know:
- Studying so hard that they regularly shut down the library (I like to picture them using old Encyclopedia Britannicas and a card catalogue. Hey, it’s my fantasy!)
- Leading peaceful youth rallies for conservative reform (again…its my fantasy)
- volunteering in soup kitchens in their free time (or some other completely unselfish pursuit)
But they didn’t move out. These beloved girls of mine are now almost 17, 19 and 20. And their undertakings are not all scholarly in nature.
I know I am the mother, and that my adult daughter is still the child, and that those parameters are a constant; they never change. But they do morph as kids grow up. And because I’m the mother, there is a pushing away on her part.
In a climate in which five adults live together, there is bound to be conflict. I’m learning to accept that reality. I’m learning that my fantasies of parenting college-aged children are not rooted in much reality at all. I just want my kids to be happy and successful, whatever that might be to them.
The good news is that the “trigger tongue” gets a little less itchy each time I ask God to help me with it and that forgiveness reigns supreme, in relation to God’s grace and between my daughter and I.
Long after I am flogging myself with the torches still hot from the last argument, she has forgotten the whole poodle-esque drama.
The wonderful thing about our relationship is that she and I feel the same urgency with forgiving one another as we do in escalating the fight. We want to make things right, because LOVE is the greatest of all four-letter-words.
So then comes the true “song of my people”. It mostly goes like this:
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean what I said.
I love you.
(Chorus: you drive me CRAZY, but I love you still!)
BAM! Right in the soul.
Jesus in the Bathtub
By: Jana Greene
Jesus is everywhere at one time.
My little niece (not by blood, but by blessing) Madelyn reminded me about Jesus, and his penchant for being everywhere one day after church. I was making her a peanut butter sandwich for her lunch. She was sitting at the kitchen table, swinging her feet high above the floor, and humming.
“What did you learn in Children’s church today?” I asked her .
She stopped kicking her legs and said, “That Jesus is everywhere.” Her arms made a broad, sweeping motion to illustrate the concept of omnipresence. Then she put her elbows on the table then, and rested her face in her hands . “But He lives in your bathtub.”
I laughed out loud. At nearly three years old, Madelyn has a host of imaginary friends, so I was not surprised that she concocted a scenario in which Jesus lived in my bathtub.
It wasn’t until I took her to the potty in that same bathroom later that day that I saw Jesus in the bathtub, too.
“See, Aunt Jana? Jesus.” she says, pointing to the wall behind me in a tiny (but utterly confident) voice. “He’s right there.”
There, on a shelf behind the garden tub, is my favorite sculpture. It is a bearded man carved from wood with long locks of intricately whittled hair. At about a foot tall, it is hard to miss. I’m not sure of its origins but I suspect my husband acquired it on a trip to the Caribbean years ago. The expression of the wooden man is peaced-out, contemplative and focused all at once.
I always kind of thought he was Bob Marley…..but okay. Jesus works, too.
“It’s Jesus,” Madelyn repeated, as if reading my thoughts.
Later that day, this exceptional little girl informed me that Jesus also lives in her heart.
Kids are so literal, believing that when Jesus is “in your heart”; he is in your heart. And they are so faithful to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that even though He lives in my bathtub, He is still everywhere all at once.
Not like an imaginary friend, who can only be in one place.
But everywhere, peaced-out, contemplative and focused on us.
Time Management
By: Jana Greene
There is a commercial on television recently in which a husband asks his wife, “Honey, can I quit my job and start a blog?” and it comes on frequently. I’ve no idea what it is advertising, because I always feel a little squirmy when I see it and forget to pay attention to the product. Inevitably, it runs when my husband and I are cuddled up watching NCIS or the 20th special showing on Avatar on FX.
I quit my job and started this blog. Although that was not my intention when I put in my 2-weeks notice. I meant to take a little time to get healthier and reassess my goals and maybe do a little writing between interviews for a new, less stressful position. But two days after my last day of work, I broke my leg and had a metal plate, pins and screws surgically implanted so that I could walk again. This unforseen accident serendipitously allowed for more writing time than I expected. I would, I avowed, write a book – which is at the top of my bucket list anyway, so why not knock it out?
Except – as I mentioned – I started this blog. And I love writing for the blog! I’m walking again, so I’m enjoying all of the domestic things I was too tired to do when I was working fulltime – cooking, cleaning, a little reading, spending time with my family. And I’m blogging, sometimes for hours. The days fly by at warp speed, and the days are good. Because I’m walking again, it is getting to be time to seek financially gainful employment, not just spiritually fulfilling purpose. I’m so grateful that I’ve had this block of time to focus on just writing.
So, I might not be posting for The Beggar’s Bakery every single day. I’d like to concentrate a little on writing an actual book. I’m not that swell with time management; if I’m going to do it, I have to make it priority.
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A big, fat THANK YOU to everyone who reads The Beggar’s Bakery. The biggest, fattest thanks for my Most Excellent Husband, who believes in my writing; who believes in me, period. It’s so cool to be married to my best friend and have his unwavering support. I have to pinch myself most days to be sure it is all real; that I’ve gotten to write every day, that my husband encourages me to blog honest, that my friends cheer me on even though I sometimes embarrass myself, and that God just keeps showing me such grace in recovery and in life.
I can’t wait to see where God takes me next, and to share it here.
God bless!
The Shock and Awe of Forgiving Yourself
By: Jana Greene
“Many promising reconciliations have broken down because, while both parties came prepared to forgive, neither party came prepared to be forgiven.” – Charles Williams
The gesture of forgiving someone else is often referred to as “extending the Olive branch.” How peaceful is that imagery? The phrase conjures a picture of biblically attired individuals, stepping forward in dusty, sandaled feet and stretching out a hand to offer and receive a leafy twig in reconciliation.
Self-forgiveness doesn’t feel like that at all to me. When it comes to forgiving myself, it’s not a peace-summit olive branch that comes to mind. It’s more like a flag raised on a bloody battlefield.
Part of the difficulty is that as long as I carry guilt, I can trick myself into feeling like I’m paying back some of the debt that I drove up in my sin.
That’s why grace is so mind-blowing a concept…it is undeserved, given by God in love.
No martyrdom required.
The other part is that I forget that unforgiveness is a weapon of warfare. Self-condemnation is my using the enemy’s bullets and firing at my own spirit. How long I suffer is up to me….the enemy will keep engaging in that battle until I surrender my sins at the cross and leave them there. At the cross…where the war has already been won.
Regret for bad choices is healthy; it keeps me from repeating the past. But hauling around self-condemnation and accepting it as collateral damage is not what Christ came to earth and died for. Like many wars, He fought for freedom – but on the ultimate level.
Good vs. evil. Life vs. death.
So, today – I am choosing to forgive myself.
And by doing so, I am choosing to drop an atomic bomb on the devil’s ammunition storehouse, so that he cannot use my past against me anymore and call it “friendly fire”. A dusty, barefoot soldier raising a flag red with the blood of Christ, even though I don’t deserve to even carry it.
It feels like shock and awe.
It feels like victory.
The Changing Room
By: Jana Greene
Embarking upon recovery from alcoholism years ago, I realized that everything about my thought process had to change from the inside-out.
But how?
From my experiences, I had already learned that the ways ‘tried and true’ were not always true for me. If I were to get sober, I would be scrapping my own blueprint for my life. When I chose sobriety, I felt like an infant who lacked even the most basic instincts for survival, since what I had counted on to survive had nearly killed me.
The standard learning model did not work for me in early recovery, because alcoholism is not a rational disease. Despite having read every self-help book I could get my hands on (there it is again…..self) and having listened to motivational speakers, preachers, and my own bullhorn of self-condemnation, I had failed repeatedly to get sober.
Then I attended some AA meetings. It was not until I surrendered my own strategy and listened to other addicts in 12-step meetings that I began to accept that recovery was not about learning to change at all.
It was more about changing to learn.
In that room, I changed. I listened. I heard from people who somehow – and this is the miraculous part – did not drink. They did not drink, but sometimes still wanted to….and when this occurred, they looked to 12 remarkable steps for living and to each other, and it saved their lives. They worked on recovery even when it wasn’t fashionable to be in recovery, when they really didn’t feel like it, when nobody else understood. And they committed to sobriety in a way I never imagined possible, because they would never, ever be able to drink “like everyone else”, no matter how many meetings they went to. Until this point, I thought meetings were a kind of means to an end….like perhaps once you “graduate”, you can celebrate with a Zima or something.
But no.
I would never graduate from alcoholism, and that was depressing.
But I would gradually LIVE, fully and joyfully….and that was exciting!
The successfully sober people I met were from all walks of life, but they all had one thing in common: they just didn’t pick up a drink. No matter what.
“If your ass falls off on Main Street,” I remember one Old-Timer saying. “Don’t pick up.”
I really never forgot that, and I’ve felt like my ass was going to fall off too many times to count, truly.
I also felt like I would die from the shakes or from the pain of de-toxing alcohol. I felt like I would die of isolation because nobody close to me knew – or understood – the magnitude of what I was facing. I felt incredible shame as a mother for all the nights I put my kids to bed early so that I could start drinking early.
I felt, felt, felt, felt…..like every nerve ending in my body was on fire and every piece of my spirit was shredded. When will all of this FEELING end? (Thankfully never, because I learned how to feel GOOD things, too 🙂
I kept feeling, but I didn’t pick up. I tried to gather up all the nerves and soul-shreds and bring them to God, but I missed a few pieces in the process. No matter; He found the ones that needed to remain a part of me and we decided to discard the ones that kept me in bondage, and bit by bit He is still restoring me.
I’m still a hot mess in some regards, but I’m God’s hot mess and I’ve decided to spend the rest of my life letting people know that He is utterly faithful and sobriety is a crazy-wonderful-life-saving thing.
Nearly a dozen years into recovery (thank you, Jesus – and one day at a time), I am still changing in order to learn. I have a long way to go yet, but the learning; it just keeps coming. No matter what.
Because nothing changes if nothing changes. Yeah, I learned that in a 12-step meeting, too.
Lazy Cat’s Guide to Restful Faith
By: Jana Greene
Why is it that I struggle with resting? I feel like I must be doing something at all times. I tire, but feel guilty for doing nothing, because there is always something to do.
To clean.
To work on.
To write.
It is Sunday, the Day of Rest, but before I get out of bed, I am already formulating plans. With my husband home with me on Sundays, I want him to see how busy I am, how efficient. I could clean the closet out, write an outline for a book I am working on, wash the rugs, bathe the dog, do fifty sit-ups, work on the family budget, vacuum the cat hair off the bedroom floor.
I am already exhausted, just from the formulating a plan.
While I am still thinking about the endless bounty of cat fur, one of our cats walks into the bedroom. He is grumpy from the long journey (the garage across the hall) to get to his food in the master bathroom. He hadn’t eaten in at least an hour….
”How do you people expect me to survive?” he seems to be saying, “I should call the SPCA!”
Although he has done absolutely nothing all day long but eat, sleep and poop, he only makes it halfway through the room, collapsing in high-drama. He rolls upside down with all four legs in the air so that I should be able see his ribs. Except that nobody has ever seen his ribs. At 21 pounds, we aren’t sure that this of fat, ill-tempered feline even has bones. And then he takes an impromptu nap.
He had to stop and rest. And he doesn’t feel guilty at all…he knows that he will eat, sleep and poop another day.
The Bible says in Hebrews 4:4 (Message): “If we believe, though, we’ll experience that state of resting. But not if we don’t have faith. “
It takes faith to enjoy a state of resting?
I sometimes wonder if work and rest is akin to faith and deeds, in that you can’t have one without the other. Good deeds without faith is empty, work without rest counterproductive.
In the lost art form of doing nothing, great ideas are conceived; in rest, energy is stored up for the work of birthing of those ideas. I must have faith that the world will go on without my constant, busy choreographing in order to take the rest I don’t feel guilty for taking.
Somehow, it does go on.
There will always be things to do.
To clean.
To work on.
To write.
But, it’s Sunday, that day of rest, and so I don’t get out of bed right away. Laying back against my pillows, I try un-formulating my plans.
Today, I most likely will not impress my husband with a whirlwind of activity. My husband doesn’t expect me to be efficiently busy; he loves me just the way I am. I won’t clean the closet out, write an (entire) outline for the book, wash all of the rugs or bathe the dog. I can almost guarantee that sit-ups will not be a part of this day (as they are not a part of any other), nor will working on bills or vacuuming up the cat hair.
But I will feed the cat. He has work to do, you know.
Reminding me to have the faith to rest.
13
I wrote this poem for my youngest daughter when she was going through a rough time, and I’m posting it with her permission. (She has grown up to be all the good things that her mama predicted, by the way….she was all along – she just had to figure it out).
By: Jana Greene
“13”
She sees herself in dimmest light,
All shadows that she doesn’t like
And awkward features
In her mind all,
Predicting every trip and fall.
She feels alone in mass of crowd
And tries to hide within her shroud
Of shortcomings,
All in her mind
Afraid of what the light may find.
She only knows that it’s not fair,
That “perfect girls” with flaxen hair
And flawless looks
And stellar grades
Really sometimes feel just the same.
She sees herself as in the dark
Inadequacies in contrast stark
To the proud and bright and secure around.
So, feeling small… she makes no sound.
If only she could stand outside
Those limits that she sets and hides
Behind as if they were in stone….
She isn’t falling.
She’s not alone.
She’s beautiful
This much is true,
But her brown eyes should see it too.
Proud and bright, secure and true?
One day, her eyes will see it, too.
From Outside of the Circle: My 50th Blog Post
By: Jana Greene
Observations from Outside of the Circle
A Writer Looks at 50 First Blog Posts
My dear friend, Liz, and I were at the beach, watching her six-year-old son play. He had found a long stick of driftwood and was using it to draw a tight circle around himself in the sand. When he was done, he sat down in the center, knees drawn up to his chest.
“It keeps the monsters out,” he said, matter-of-factly. With the imagination of a child, he enjoyed the safety of his circle. Pleased with himself, pleased with the illusion that he was safe…that although he could get out, nobody else could get in. It reminded me of writing.
I don’t think I’ve ever written every day for fifty days in a row before. Even though it’s my passion, I’m too wonky and inconsistent to employ the self-discipline. But today, as I write the 50th blog post for The Beggar’s Bakery, I am keenly aware that I have so much to learn about the craft.
Learning be true to my own story. God didn’t give me a love for writing so that I can be someone else’s mouthpiece. I’m working on the bad habit of second-guessing myself all of the time.
Learning to be as honest as I can. This is difficult, because when I write in my most honest voice, I will potentially offend/shock/elate/disappoint/inflame/inspire/make nauseous any number of friends and strangers.
Learning to treat heavy subject matter with gentle care. Addiction, rejection, the difficult aspects of parenting and marriage, self-condemnation and the theology of grace. And that could be the combined topic for any given Tuesday. “Keeping it real” may help someone in a similar situation know that they are not alone. At the very least, it helps keep me humble, sober and realistic.
Learning to appreciate the writing community. I have gotten to know other writers who, much like sponsors in recovery, love to encourage new bloggers. They are amazingly, selflessly supportive.
Learning to let others IN. Anyone who has battled addictions knows that you protect your secret with your life, until it becomes your entire life to protect it. By it’s very nature, alcoholism demands keeping others out. It just makes sense to me, then, that recovery means letting others in.
At some point during the past 50 days, I realized that I don’t want to live in a tight little circle anymore; writing to be pleased with myself, pleased with the illusion that I am safe…. that although I can get out, nobody else can get in. That self-drawn circle is cramped and predictable, and the edges are the same in every direction. Writing is stepping out of self-preservation in order to let others in. It is running full on- to the sand, inviting others to join me, even though the tide keeps rearranging the landscape.
Constantly rearranging it.
And what about the monsters that the circle was supposed to keep out?
Honestly, none of my monsters has ever respected my boundaries anyway.
Swamp Blogger
By: Jana Greene
The Mister and I went for a car ride last Sunday afternoon, deep into wilderness of Pender County, North Carolina. I was grumpy and fretful with the busy thoughts, and he doesn’t seem to mind being in an enclosed area with me when I’m like that, God bless him.
So, off we went with a half-tank of gas and our trusty camera.
The further we drive away from named communities with neat, rowed housing, the more interesting the scenery. My mind slips slowly out of busy-ness and eventually relaxes somewhere between the first blueberry field and the fifth “No Trespassing” sign. By the time we get to the old river roads, find something to worry about becomes find something beautiful.
Beauty is everywhere.
Pender County is locally famous for being a filming site for the Discovery Channel show, Swamp Loggers. The Cape Fear River winds black and lazy through the land, in such a vascular way that the ground never feels quite solid enough to walk on. Water, water everywhere, and everywhere you sink.
On the river, it seems that everything in sight was, is or will be some shade of green in its existence. Animal, mineral, vegetable…covered in either water or algae or moss, and wild.
We stop at a “boat access”, although it is only wide enough to put in a John boat, or a couple of kayaks. I take pictures of a family of ducks, an old hollow stump and some moss in a tree.
We get back in the car and ride around for several minutes without saying a word. I see a bunch of insanely yellow flowers blooming by the roadside and stop to capture the visual Prozac on film. Later that day, we snap photos of a tree that seems to have a goiter in its trunk, and a random puppy flopping through some tall grass with his family at another boat access. Anything anomalous, anything strange and wonderful……*click*. The transmission has completely slipped at the crossroads of my grumpiness and fret, like a rusty old pickup truck resting like sculpture in a field by the riverside.
But, it is also the quiet that disarms me most there; humid, comforting silence. Quiet from modern life…quiet from myself.
I don’t have a lot of that in my mind. I’ve always been a worrier, and although I know it is the least useful (and faithful) venue for my brain to seek out, it knows the way so well it sometimes gets there before me. Half of the battle is getting out from the worn ruts. Driving into the swampy country in Pender County, North Carolina is like taking my spirit off-roading in the best way possible.
Find something beautiful.
Beauty is everywhere, messy and wild.
Wet and green.
Blogging by the seat of my pants!
Hi, readers 🙂 A big ‘thank you’ for following this blog….and just a little fyi…changed my settings to NOT automatically publish comments, as I want to respect privacies. Please send your email addy to me @ jana.greene@yahoo.com if you’d like so that i can reply in private when necessary. Sorry about the confusion…I’m STILL learning the ropes here!
First Do No Harm
By: Jana Greene
I’d written the post I’d set out to write for the blog, but hesitated to hit “publish”.
It was a pretty raw piece about addiction and motherhood; two things I have experience with that often end up awkward bedfellows in my writing. Addiction and motherhood don’t belong in a single story, but long ago they had an affair, and the resulting lovechild was a story about my grieving choices I had made but reveling in the grace of Christ.
Still staring at the glow of the laptop screen. Perhaps I shouldn’t put this ‘out there’, I thought, finger hovering over the enter button.
Some Christians will be offended. They will judge me twice; once for being the person I was, and again for admitting to being that person. They might think I am playing fast and loose with the Gospel of Jesus Christ, a poor representation of a Christian. I would never want to do that.
And – far more importantly – what about those who don’t know Jesus yet?
Still, I can’t shake the urgency to write about these things, to ‘put them out there’. So I pray….
”God, first let me do no harm.” A spiritual Hippocratic Oath of sorts –“ let me do no harm to Your name”.
Be the beggar, I feel Him saying. Stop trying to “bake”…..
Sometimes, writing, I feel like a rebel deserter of my formerl self; a New Creation counting on Christ to do the jousting because I am rusty from old war injuries. A grateful and humble flawed veteran…not measuring up to what the world thinks a Christian should always be, but gratefully not of this world.
Old war stories sometimes need to be told, and telling half-truths distorts history.
I press the Enter button to Publish. And revel in the grace of Christ.
One Ridiculously Important Thing
By: Jana Greene
Jesus replied: Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All of the Law and Prophets hang on to these two commandments. – Matthew 22:36-40. (NIV)
Recently, the “weird and ridiculous” advertisements are all over the internet. I cannot seem to surf a news site, weather channel blog or Facebook page without being promised “a ridiculously easy trick to stop smoking for good!” Or, “one old, weird tip for cutting belly fat!”
Although I quit smoking in 2006, I am still tempted to click on the links. Who doesn’t want to know a ridiculously easy trick? And a singular old and weird tip for cutting belly fat? Sign me up! I’m oldish, definitely weird, and a big fan of the ridiculous.
And marketers know: The word “one” appeals to us. If it only takes ONE step, most of us figure we can handle that. One-step solutions promise us the same results as those requiring work, but without as much of it. And tricks? We all like magical resolution– “trick” implies that NO effort on our part to take even the One Easy Step.
Jesus said there really is One Thing. Love your God with all of your heart, all your soul, all your mind. Everything else will fall into place if you do that One Thing, in regards to what really matters (which turns out not to be belly fat). Certainly not ridiculous or weird, and with no trickery involved:
He never said it would be easy; most things worth with permanent results are not.
God’s advertisement strategy for His love is not proclaimed in internet pop-ups or one-click promises. His advertising is the word of mouth and love in action of His people. He isn’t seeking a quick sale…He wants a relationship.
I imagine that’s why it’s so important we remember The One Thing, so we can keep loving people the way He loved us while we were still sinners. The wonder of grace is that it promises forgiveness, but through relationship and acceptance instead of work. There is no trickery to it; our only effort to receive is to seek Him and ask for it.
No sleight of hand, just willingness of heart. The One Thing: Love.
How to Accept a Magnolia Blossom
A few weeks ago, my husband and I were out riding around in the car. I don’t remember where we were headed, if anywhere. Sometimes we just ride a few blocks together to get away and be alone, decompressing from the estrogen-laden drama factory that is our home with three teen daughters.
Our conversation turned to trees, somehow, and what we might like to plant in the front yard someday. It was a short topic of discussion, as neither he nor I can name more than five different kinds of trees. We like things in our outdoor space to be more green than brown on the color wheel, but are not otherwise yard-workers.
“Magnolia trees,” I said offhandedly, “I love Magnolias; I think they are my favorite.”
We quickly decided that a Magnolia probably wouldn’t work in the space available in the yard, and that was that. Besides, I am not contributing to the family income right now. Until money grows on trees, we shouldn’t be buying any.
Several days later, my man came home from work with a huge Magnolia bloom. The flower was still tightly compacted around itself.
He remembered I had mentioned liking Magnolias.
It’s the little things that drive you crazy in a household. It’s also the little things that keep you afloat.
I placed the flower in a bowl of water, arranging the big, dark, waxy leaves around the bud just so. The flower would open in time, but it wouldn’t be rushed.
“Thank you, Baby,” I said, kissing my husband, not knowing what else to say.
That particular day, I had been in my PJs all day long and never managed to get dressed. I wrote and wrote and wrote, yet managed to produce nothing publishable. The house was messy and dinner hadn’t been started. I felt a little embarrassed receiving the flower because I hadn’t accomplished much at all.
I am in a season of accepting things right now, but earning was easier.
Earning was easier, because I felt like I had contributed to the outcome of things. But the best things in my life have all been undeserved and given to me through grace, not ability. Certainly not through my earning them.
It’s humbling, really. It is a mental holdover of self-condemnation. From impromptu flowers from my husband to the miracle of God’s grace, I am learning how to be a gracious accepter who doesn’t have to feel she has to earn every good thing.
For the next few days, the Magnolia blossom lived on a table behind my writing desk…it’s big, soft pillowy white petals opening a little more each day. And every time I passed by it, the bloom opened just a little more. ..rusting around the edges as a Magnolia blossom does. Just a little more….just a little more…..until it was open completely. It would not be rushed.
The entire house was filled with Magnolia perfume. It blessed everyone who lives in the estrogen –laden drama factory as it opened. Isn’t that just like a simple, thoughtful gift unearned to spread like Magnolia petals?
Gracefully.
Open Arms
By: Jana Greene
Happy Sunday, day of Worship and Rest!
I just wanted to share a very short devotional with you today. Mercifully short, in comparison to my usual blog posts, you might say!
This morning, I opened my Bible to Romans 14:1 and read about how love and spiritual hospitality meet in a place of tolerance and acceptance. I’ve been trying to read scripture lately with an “amnesia of the preconceived”. Praying that my blinders will be removed (while being scared that they actually WILL!) just soaking in what the Word says without my personal moral preferences auto-correcting everything I read.
Welcome with open arms fellow believers who don’t see things the way you do. And don’t jump over them every time they do or say something you don’t agree with – even when it seems that they are strong on opinions but weak in the faith department. Remember, they have their own history to deal with. Treat them gently.
Hmmm. Whether I “know” I’m “right” or not?
Would I rather be strong in my opinions or strong in the faith department?
I’m learning that its hard to be both!
Dear God,
Forgive me for judging those who have their own history to deal with, and help me to show them YOUR love, uncontaminated by my own point of view. Oh, and Lord? As you remove my blinders, please treat me gently, too. Thank you, Jesus.
Musings of a Gypsy Soul 