What Was That about the Contingency Plan?

Posted on April 5, 2013 by vanderbiltwife

It’s been a year since our friend Mike, once my “future husband,” a groomsman in our wedding (yes, how’s that for irony?), the biggest smile I’ve ever met, killed himself.

I can’t erase the finding out, texting the news to my best friend (obviously I had lost my mind, how insensitive could one be?), watching the amazing funeral service via live stream on our giant-screen Mac next to my husband, blubbering.

We hadn’t seen Mike in years, we didn’t have any idea what was going on with him, but obviously he was an important person in the formative years of our relationship and thinking of him taking his own life haunted me for weeks. It still does, of course, but not to the same degree.

Just before then, I was writing gung-ho on my devotional. In February, after last year’s Blissdom, I wrote about canceling my contingency plan. I was writing fervently, convinced I could finish the composition in April and work on editing and design in May, hoping to release the e-book on May 26, 2012 … my 30th birthday.

Before April 4, the morning we found out, the words flowed freely. After, they stopped. I spent so much time haunted by nightmares and waking thoughts there was no room left for biblical peace to flow.

And then in July I got pregnant unexpectedly. And if you know me and this blog at all, you probably know that I am an absolutely miserable pregnant woman. The shock of the pregnancy, the sickness that followed, the attempt just to keep up with my other kids until Joshua was born on March 16th … it was all I could do.

During October I wrote 31 Days of The Book. It brought new air to me spiritually, and I usually found something to write about. But I also don’t want to recycle a lot of already-published posts for an e-book. I want at least half of it to be fresh.

And here it is, April again, with nothing but 7000 words in a Google doc titled “devotional” staring at me.

With Jeff Goins, whose blog and story have meant a lot to me the last year, I am forcing myself to shout I AM A WRITER. No matter how much it doesn’t feel true right now. Even in newborn exhaustion, sciatic pain, feelings of absolute psychosis … I am still a writer. It is what God made me. And I still want to finish this book and see where it goes. So much.

One Day in July

Posted on January 9, 2013 by vanderbiltwife

Today is ranking up pretty high on the Crappy Days meter, which reminded me that I’ve been meaning to write this post for awhile. So maybe it will distract me from the screaming kids and flu-bug husband.

Did I ever tell you about the day I found out I was pregnant with this baby (Joshua)?

In case you weren’t aware, we were actively trying not to have a baby. After having two kids 26 months apart, we wanted to wait until David was 3 to have a third. I was a little more than slightly overwhelmed when David was born, juggling a needy 2-year-old and a very-needy-and-didn’t-sleep-and-nursed-32-times-a-day infant. (And God laughed. David and Joshua will be 27 months apart.)

THAT day, I took Libbie and David to the pediatrician. David was 19 months and needed a weight check, because he’d lived happily on the 2nd percentile for months. Aaand he still hadn’t gained any weight. The pediatrician told me I HAD to see a GI doctor, when I was pretty sure having a 5’5″, very small daddy is reason enough to have a petite but healthy child.

Then we went over to our friends Miss Ann and Mr. Bill‘s house. The kids were playing contentedly on their patio while I shared about our recent trip to the Outer Banks for my best friend’s wedding. Libbie picked up a watering can from their patio to pretend-water some flowers …. and a whole swam of wasps flew out. She got stung twice on her little hand and was, understandably, absolutely inconsolable. It’s been a long time since I had a sting, but those suckers hurt. Especially from wasps.

So I gathered up the crying little ones, retreated to our car, and came home. And took the test which I was about 95% would be positive. I don’t know why I waited until then – I think maybe I wasn’t sure I had one, but I did, a little lonely dollar-store thing shoved in a cabinet.

The day before this, I had slept the entire day and chalked it up to exhaustion from traveling and the emotions of the past several weeks, plus a lot of medicine for my back. But seriously. The whole day. And then that night, I had a very vivid, um, hormone-charged dream. Which only happens when I am in my first trimester. And that’s how I knew, or at least suspected.

I peed on the stick in my kids’ bathroom because my husband was in the shower. It was hot pink right away, that plus sign of mixed emotions bright as bright can be.

I barged into our bathroom and loudly proclaimed, “David has to go see the GI doctor, Libbie got stung by a wasp, and I’M PREGNANT.”

Subtlety is not my strong point.

Suffice it to say, Mr. V was much more graceful and excited about the pregnancy than I was, although I’ve gotten there. (Of course, he doesn’t have to lug a baby around in HIS stomach for 9 months.) And you would think that was the end of a day of emotional lows and surprises.

But oh, no!

That very same afternoon, I found out my debit card number had been stolen and there were 20 or more transactions I didn’t make on my account, adding up to hundreds of dollars. So in my state of pregnant shock, I got to spend the whole afternoon on the phone with Bank of America, trying to fix that issue.

At least it served as a distraction.

Today doesn’t seem so bad in comparison to that July day, actually.

So do you have any REALLY BAD DAY stories?

Addendum on the Letter to My Teenaged Self.

Posted on September 19, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

I can picture myself on the first day of high school, waiting for the bus.

I wore my treasured dark purple shirt with the gray-and-purple flannel shirt over it. I didn’t paint my nails purple because I was afraid people would think I was weird.

I didn’t know what a hindrance it would be to find myself at the school, 140 new students and me, and only know one person from my middle school – and not someone I called a friend, really. The first few days … weeks … were miserable. I begged my mom to let me go to my “regular” school. She bribed me with clothes from Express. (This was 1996, after all.)

I didn’t figure out how to let go of all my shy and awkward until I was at least 19.

Then I see another mind-snapshot. I am sitting in my high-school graduation, which still frames itself as one of the best days of my life. Because I was done with high school. We had what simply must be the best graduation ceremony of all time. Our class band sang “American Pie.” The class officers scared us all by saying they were going to draw a name out of a hat to make a speech … but it was a ploy to get the ousted co-president on the stage to speak.

Other than the oppressive pain I felt from the fact that we had filed in wrong and the pile of flowers representing our newly deceased classmate ended up right by me … it was an awesome day. I hugged nearly everyone in our class, friends or foe. All rejoicing. I’m out of here.

I knew I’d talk to very few of them ever again. Facebook didn’t exist in 2000.

But that one more thing I wanted to tell myself in my letter was: it was worth it. Going to the small, magnet school. Feeling awkward and stupid for not getting a 1590 on my SAT … it was still worth it.

Learning Chinese, that was worth it. Making sushi in class, taking “field trips” to the Chinese grocery store, picking up M&Ms with chopsticks … well worth it.

Taking second? third? place in the International Bowl, all five wearing black and pink, feeling the sassiest I’ve ever felt in my life – that was worth it. Going with these same girls to the beach, watching eyebrows being pierced, fake tattoos being applied, dancing in a club – so worth it.

Realizing it’s OK to be intelligent and embracing a college life that would push me, not be easy – so worth it. I watched many peers who didn’t know how to write an essay or read a book critically in college. And I did.

So, high school self, suck it up and stop feeling sorry for yourself for going to a school with almost no drama program. Relish in the 10 languages offered. Love that you eat lunch outside, sit on the senior table, and everyone else is quirky too, whether they’ll admit it or not.

Trust me. It’s all worth it. One day you’ll learn that you’re not some invisible 14-year-old who wouldn’t wear purple nail polish. It’s OK that you were dying to leave high school. You’ll learn, simply, how to be yourself.

A Letter to My 16-Year-Old Self

Posted on September 13, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

Dear 16-year-old Jessie,

I’ve been trying to write this letter for days, and I hadn’t, because I knew I would boo-hoo through the whole thing. Yes, you are still an emotional wreck – sorry! Good: in college, you will discover clinical depression and antidepressants. Bad: you are pregnant with your third child and not taking them. Don’t be too scared about that three kids thing, OK?

But I guess it’s safe to say your fear of never meeting your true love, of never getting married (or GASP it not happening until you’re like TWENTY EIGHT) was unnecessary. You have an awesome, loving husband. I’m not going to tell you where you meet him, though, because that’s half the fun.

But seriously, lay off the worrying about boys. I do realize you’re 16 and never been kissed, and you know what? Good for you. You’re going to date someone before too long, and then the rest of your life wish it had never happened. You’re going to have to learn where your morals really lie, and that’s not as easy as it sounds. Please TRY to remember in the future that just because a boy might be interested in you doesn’t mean you are interested in him.

I know you spend a lot of time feeling fat and ugly, and trust me, YOU ARE NEITHER. Exercise a little more and feel good about your body. Don’t worry one-tenth as much about what people think about you. Guess what? They aren’t thinking about you nearly as much as you think they are.

Cling to the good friends and most of all, keep holding onto Jesus with a death grip. There are some hard times ahead. You’ll feel abandoned and unloved, but Jesus is going to hold you in His hand. Choose the narrow way and you won’t regret it for a second.

I wish I could tell you that things will be easy, but they won’t be. I can tell you you’re going to have a heck of a lot of fun in college, make lifelong friends, meet your husband, and go on to have an amazing life, obstacles and all.

So stop being so shy, embrace how lovely you are to others and to God, and enjoy life a little bit more.

Love,

Your 30-year-old self

______

In honor of her new book for teens, Graceful, Emily Freeman is doing a link-up tomorrow 9/14 of letters to your teenaged self. So go get a little weepy, share some embarrassing pictures, and join in at Chatting at the Sky.

Make Love Happen

Posted on July 3, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

I’m reposting this from September 2009 to see if anyone’s met their spouse in the last almost-three years or has a new online dating story they want to divulge. I hope you’ve never been as stupid as I was at 17.

This past Saturday, Mr. V and I invited a few of his fellow teacher-friends over to our (basically unfurnished) house in Chattanooga. He had connected with some of the other new teachers at a conference they all had to go to in July, and he was eager for me to meet them.

Being old and married, I had to giggle when the conversation turned to something I am completely unfamiliar with: online dating sites. Apparently there are more than I had ever dreamed of—not only match.com and eHarmony, but also okcupid and plentyoffish and christiancafe, just for starters.

It made me very thankful to be married. Mr. V’s friends repeatedly told us that we were very lucky to not have to be dating, and I wholeheartedly agree.

Many, many moons ago, online dating was just a spark in someone’s head and meeting people from the Internet almost assured you’d be found somewhere dead, cut into pieces, and stuffed into a shoebox.

Which is why what I am account to you is one of the stupidest things I’ve probably ever done.

One of my best friends in high school, Cynthia, and I worked together in an aftercare program at the daycare at our church. One day she came in and said that she was going to get together that night with her Internet boyfriend and she wanted me to come along. Her guy would invite a friend for me.

It was a little daunting, but we would drive separately and meet them in a public place, so how bad could it be? Plus I had had a sum total of maybe two dates all of high school. So, I mean, really.

So we went to wherever we were meeting them, and they were going to follow us to the movie theater. Which is when we noticed that one of the tires on my car was nearly flat.

Oops.

So Cynthia and I let them drive and we all went together. In a car. With guys from the Internet. (My dad may kill me for this NOW, 11 years later.)

The sad part is, it was fine. And I really liked the guy they set me up with. And he never called me again.

Not even guys from the Internet liked me.

But now, I’m happily married, and I hope that guy is looking for dates on RednecksConnect or something.

I wonder if, 20 years from now, everyone’s parents will have met on the Internet. There won’t be as many cute, saw each other across the room stories. But it is interesting, people connecting (somewhat) for personality more than looks. (Maybe? Again, I’ve never done any online dating site stuff.)

I have to know: Have you ever met someone from one of these sites? Your spouse? Spill!

Dogwood Dream

Posted on March 22, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

source: kcolwell

On my favorite Christmas Eve, we had an ice storm.

I was in high school and woke to a world with no power, and my parents outside assessing the situation. I heard their voices through my window (signs of a house built in 1990?) and as I peered through, I nearly cried.

My beloved dogwood tree was bent to the earth, weeping with the ice crystals.

My first question to my parents was if my little dogwood would make it through the storm. I remember being criticized for caring about a tree when we had no power for the foreseeable future, no way to travel, no generator.

But at that moment all that seemed to matter was my tiny tree, which could be seen from my window and only mine. Its white blossoms felt hopeful each Spring. No matter the heat, the tree bloomed, the chinks in its petals setting it apart from all other trees.

This morning I walked across campus, breathing in the beauty of the dogwoods. We have pink, cream, and white ones, all gloriously blooming on our mini-mountain.

Have you heard the legend of the dogwood? It says that the cross of Christ was made from a dogwood tree. After the crucifixion, God cursed the trees so they would not grow as large anymore.

The interpretation I read even said that pink dogwoods are pink because they are embarrassed at their part in the crucifixion.

source: circulating

A more solid connection is that believers saw the dogwood flower as a symbol of the cross: the notches in the petals symbolized where the nails were placed, and the small rust dots on the petals were like blood.

Already this morning I was counting the precious pink petals among my thousand gifts. With the further meaning, it makes my heart swell.

I may not have a dogwood outside my window right now – merely an amazing view of the Tennessee River – but it’s a future possibility as we may move around campus. As long as we live on campus, though, I’ll always have dogwoods nearby.

I’ll let their image imprint my mind and mingle with that of the cross. A perfect Easter gift, nature crying out in praise.

Help Settle the Painting Feud, or How Trading Spaces Warped My Mind

Posted on March 13, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

My mom was obsessed with Trading Spaces.

Surely you remember the uber-famous, turn-of-the-century, decorating show on TLC? Two families would trade their homes for a week-end, each family given $1,000 and a decorator to help them re-do one room. Sprightly Paige Davis would pounce back and forth between houses, her bright smile encouraging homeowners as they glued feathers to the wall or hung a chair upside-down from the ceiling.

I imagine the homeowners prayed long in advance that they would not be given Hildi as a designer. This was one of her infamous room makeovers, where she stapled silk flowers on the bathroom wall.

Inspired, our house underwent several transformations during those early 2000s years. Our more-formal living room was the most Spaces-esque: eggplant-colored walls, a giant gilted mirror above the piano, a new couch with a dark green and purple floral pattern.

Our family room became beach-themed eventually, thanks to the large number of cruises my parents have taken.

My bedroom – at some point – was painted a golden yellow, including the ceiling, with Asian themed bedding and a Chinese lantern hanging in the corner.

It’s probably because of this history of redecoration that I cannot seem to understand my husband’s aversion to painting. It’s a simple thing, isn’t it? You move in somewhere, you paint it a color you like. When we moved into our first apartment, I insisted on painting our living room a trendy cranberry color. To this day, I still claim it’s the closest we’ve ever come to divorcing.

Mr. V seems to think my desire to paint is insane.

I think I’m normal.

I’d like to hear your two cents.

Poet

Posted on March 6, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

My earliest memories of writing are poems.

My mother claims she was so proud of me when, at a very young age, I wrote a story that was slightly nonsensical but did have a beginning, middle, and end. But my first real memory of putting words together is sitting at our computer (in the 80s! My parents were on the ball!), typing up a poem I had written for my second-grade class.

In second grade, I went to a magnet elementary school and I had the most amazing teacher ever. She didn’t believe in homework. My creative spirit thrived in her classroom.

It was an assignment, that poem, and I recall it was about the wind flowing through a house. I’m certain I remember that much from rereading it many times; a copy exists in my scrapbook at my grandparents’ house.

Mom and Dad were so proud that we printed out many of those copies on dot-matrix reams, and relatives received the same faded-gray-ink on paper as Mrs. Hilliard.

In fourth grade, I tackled limericks. My wallpaper-bound book was the only piece of nonfiction in my class. A cross librarian helped me figure out the Dewey Decimal number for it while the rest of the students unshelved every book in the school library.

The limericks are pathetically awful, but my teacher – my most-beloved teacher of all time, Mrs. Titus – poured accolades on me for taking a chance.

I wrote many volumes of fiction during my childhood, including Hanson sagas and a series of stories about little girls named after flowers that I told and retold to my little sister in the car.

But these short poems are the firsts, the beginnings, the earliest times I was called “writer.” The etches on my heart speak poetry.

Dear 2011

Posted on January 1, 2012 by vanderbiltwife

source: juliejordanscott

Dear 2011,

You have been a strange year.

You’ve been the year of learning to parent two. Despite the fact that sweet David was born in 2010, he only shared 11 days with that equally awkward collection of days. I’ve learned about parenting a boy, about the mother-son connection, about passionate nurslings and mama’s boys. All those things I heard about having a son? They’ve proven themselves true.

I’ve also learned how to survive with only a fistful of whole night’s sleeps in an entire year.

2011, you have not been a year of travel. In the past I’ve gone to Brazil, Thailand, Mexico, Montana. The furthest I flew from Tennessee was Boston. My first venture into New England, and a very fun one.

You contained a lot of heartbreak over our little condo, my first “owned” nest, the home I brought my daughter to and that I still can’t ponder without a slipping-down feeling. God has worked in my life and mind and heart a great deal through this experience, but I can tell you one thing, 2011: this experience gave me a pounding about our idea of ownership. And a lot of lesson about pride in our credit score.

You brought a new home, a new life, a new society. Thank you for that. But you also brought some severe bouts of depression and the worst self-doubt I’ve ever faced. I’m not sure I can handle ten more months of age 3, by the way. Could we move Libbie’s birthday to May, perhaps?

Unfortunately I’ve spent this last day of your melancholy year battling a 3-year-old whilst trying to remember that it’s no good to battle. Nights of lost sleep, post-vacation recovery, and a house that is still sparkling with Christmas lights and mess while my mind is ready to move on has made a mess of me. It’s 7:30 p.m. and I’m considering going all Bridget Jones’ Diary and eating all the chocolate and singing something pathetic … or just going to sleep. Probably the better option.

Good night, 2011. I tuck my hopes and dreams into your final moon, imagining it as the shield of God and knowing only He can fight these battles for me. The battles against myself, my will, my dark places.

As I watch the sun rise over the Tennessee River and Lookout Mountain tomorrow morning, I will breathe deeply and pray thankfully.

—-
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Costumed

Posted on November 2, 2011 by vanderbiltwife

My mother sewed a hula hoop into one of her old prom dresses from the dress-up box. (We had the lottery of all dress-ups: my mom has four sisters, and thus bridesmaids dresses from their 70s weddings.)

The dress was brown and foofy, and, with the hoop, I was convinced it was positively Civil War.

I declared myself Beth from Little Women. I don’t think I had ever made it farther than halfway through Little Women, so I didn’t know Beth’s fate … just that she was quiet, peaceful, loving. Of course I wanted to be bold, confident Jo, who would chop her hair off and was a self-anointed author. But still buried in shyness, I couldn’t even costume my desire. Beth was safe.

I didn’t foresee the issue of waddling up neighbors’ porches in a hula-hooped prom dress. I tripped. I bumped. I was embarrassed. I had to tell everyone who I was, and got quizzical looks in response.

Obviously not the Halloween costume, but around the same time.

It’s troubling to me how often I view myself as the clumsy, chubby, bucktoothed, bespectacled child I see in my mind’s eye there. (Thankfully, braces got rid of the buck teeth.) I may still be clumsy, chubby, and bespectacled. But I like to think I’ve gained confidence despite – and because of – those things!

I am not an 8-year-old in a new school, frightened. I am not a 12-year old, dreaming of thin while being mocked in the cold hallways. I am not sweet 16 and never kissed; I am not 18 and unsure what college will bring and if relationships will break or boomerang.

I am a 29-year-old woman, a wife, a mother of two precious children. I am a homemaker, a cook, a writer, an editor, a reader. I am a lover and pursuer of Jesus. I am what I always wanted to do and be.

So why do I – do we? – live in these awkward memories instead of forging ahead?

—-
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