I'm Just Carryin' on an Old Family Tradition

Earlier this week I was cleaning out my pantry. It had gotten pretty disorganized in there and summer vacation seems like the best time for this sort of job. As I was tidying up I had a breakdown.

My dad’s dad was known for his stockpiles of stuff. When I discovered six unopened boxes of Crystal Light packets, three opened boxes of them, and enough canisters of Crystal Light to make 32 quarts of beverage, I called my mother and cried into the phone, “I’ve become my grandfather!”

I can’t drink a Dr. Pepper without thinking of him. My grandparents lived in Philadelphia, so we usually visited them once a week while we were growing up. One of the first things Dave and I would do when we got to our grandparents’ house was head for the mudroom behind the kitchen and grab a Dr. Pepper. There were always cases of soda back there.

If we ever got a toy or a game that required batteries we waited until we went to Pop & Gig’s house (that’s what we call them, go with it). Pop kept a box full of batteries in the back of the house (beside all the Dr. Pepper), so we would just raid the battery box and begin playing.

This year for my birthday, a couple of dear friends sent me a Taste of Philadelphia box. In it were Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews, a kind of candy my grandfather always kept on his kitchen table. If someone had handed me a Dr. Pepper while I was eating one of those peanut chews, I probably would have forgotten where I was.

Pop, and my father and I after him, could not resist a good deal. If he saw something on sale and it wouldn’t go bad, he bought it. But here is the thing about Pop—when he bought this stuff, I don’t think he bought it just to have it. He bought it because someone else might need it or want it. In the 16 years I knew him, I never saw him drink a soda and it wasn’t his Walkman using all those AA batteries.

Pop was wise about his money so that he could be generous. He bought shore houses for the family to enjoy. He and my grandmother gave Dave and me a weekly allowance. He bought me so many McDonald’s hash browns on Saturday mornings that I started to look like one. He would take us out for steak dinners and, during the meal, would ask, “Did you get enough to eat?” No matter how you answered the question, he would cut off a piece of his steak and put it on your plate.

As I think about Pop, and my dad, on this Father’s Day, I am thankful for the lessons they’ve taught me and for their tradition of stocking up. But if there’s an area where I really want to grow, it’s to learn their generosity. So if you need some Crystal Light, call me!

One more anecdote about Pop, unrelated to those above: A couple weeks ago while I was ranting about being at the shallow end of the family gene pool, my dad pointed out that Pop's genes gave me my singing voice.

Who's That Girl?

I have never been someone who sweats a whole lot. To illustrate my point, I will share the two times in my life when I can remember sweat rolling off my face.

First, the summer before eighth grade at basketball camp. We worked out in an old gym with a few oscillating fans to cool us. After a summer spent lying on the couch watching Dirty Dancing every day, my middle-school body was not used to such exertion.

The second occasion was the summer I worked at Sesame Place. A few times, instead of my regular character bodyguard duties, I was assigned to wear a character costume and walk around the park greeting children. As soon as the final snap on the Honker costume snapped, my pores ranneth over.

Even when I trained to walk a half-marathon a couple summers ago, I didn’t have much of a sweat situation (although one day after consuming a Power Bar Gel, I sweat salt, like “could put it on corn-on-the-cob” salt).

So given this history of sweat, I am increasingly surprised by how much I sweat these days—like good, roll-down-your-face sweat. This morning I soaked the bandana I wore to the gym. At first, I was simply going to add this phenomenon to the “30 Ain’t No Joke” list, but I’m beginning to think there’s something else going on.

I think this gym thing is changing me from the outside in.

The outside results are kind of easy to notice—old clothes are baggier, new clothes are smaller, I am, apparently, sweatier. The inside results are more subtle; I’m just beginning to be aware of them. One thing I’ve noticed is that this girl who never left the house in sweatpants will now go to the gym and then run errands. I have been around town in stretchy pants, bandana, pig tails and a t-shirt that says, “Happy Birthday, Peachy!” I’m using my blow-dryer less (and my clothes dryer, for that matter). I’ve joined Freecycle. I eat granola!

Part of me hopes I’m on my way to becoming one of those gangsta old ladies who does whatever she wants and is like, “What are you going to do about it? I’ve got newspapers in my house older than you are.”

But the super-self-aware part of me worries that this is just another phase I’m passing through. Today my feet prefer flip-flops, but wasn’t there a time they wanted knee-high boots? Today I’m wearing a t-shirt and air-drying my hair, but it wasn’t that long ago that I sought out Ralph Lauren and Clinique. (Who am I kidding? I still love me some Ralph!)

So I’ve decided to enjoy where I am, for as long as I’m here. Maybe the Joy-of-the-future will laugh at me some day, but I’m not going to sweat it.

It's Two Bare Feet on the Dashboard

Summer vacation is almost here. By this time next week, 10:00 at night will not have to be bedtime.

After receiving some good advice around Thanksgiving, I decided this would be my “summer of intention.” As I consider possibilities for ministry in my future, I want to know what it would look like to fill my days with conversations that are meant to encourage, support, and ultimately, point people to Christ. Is there a need for this kind of ministry? And if so, am I built for it?

These are the big questions I hope to chew on this summer. To that end, I am composing a mental list of all the things I want to do this summer. Here’s what I’ve got so far.

Note: Since I still have my teaching job awaiting me in the fall, there needs to be some vacation in the summer of intention; therefore, there are some fun things on here too.

Sit by the pool with my girlfriends.
Regularly meet with two recent high-school graduates before they head off to college.
Go for a jog/walk with Tracey.
Catch up with my long-lost mentor.
Read the ever-growing pile of books on my nightstand.
Visit Campus Outreach students during Summer Beach Project.
Go to a Phillies game (this could be tricky).
Buy an enormous drying rack for my clothes; use the dryer less.
Take a couple former students to the movies with Shannon.
Read, mark and inwardly digest the Bible.
Spend quiet days by myself, allowing the Lord to restore my soul.
Keep working out every day; add morning cardio classes to my regimen.
Miss my workout partner like crazy.
Have coffee and conversation with lots of people.
Try quilting, or at least find a quilting class I can try.
Talk about starting a multi-generational small group for women.
Facilitate the second meeting of the women’s book club.
Tell my story.
Visit old friends.
Be purposeful.
Build houses and friendships with high school students.
Swim in the ocean.

There's a Secret Garden She Hides

It has not been the easiest week at work. The end of the school year is always a hectic time and it seems like a lot of things have to be checked off the list in a relatively short amount of time.

I was pretty fired up this morning. In fact, I was certain the only way I would feel better would be to write a blog post ranting and raving about all the injustices I was enduring at work. Lucky for you, something calmed me down.

My students have been creating a garden outside my classroom this spring. This morning, as my rage was bubbling away inside me, my extraordinary teammate Shannon and I were looking at the garden. We watched as a hummingbird came to the hummingbird feeder we’d installed last week—the first we’d seen visiting. That brief encounter with the hummingbird caused some of the fire in me to subside. I sent my mom an email that said something like, "I'm overwhelmed and unhappy. A hummingbird came to the feeder. It was lovely."

Earlier in the morning, mud-covered and hair wild from the humidity, I dumped 12 bags of gravel into the garden area so that we could move a picnic table into the center. Then, around 11, I went outside to lay some mulch as well. I invited different students to come out and help spread the mulch. (Nevermind what the other students were doing while I was outside with a few—they were safe, orderly, and busy.) As we worked outside in the sun, what was left of my righteous wrath went away. When Shannon and I are in the garden with the kids, we can relax and laugh with them. We solve problems and find slugs. It's been so sweet to watch kids teach each other how to plant something, or how to water things.

Starting the garden has not been easy. We received a grant to subsidize it and I’ve been fretting over the paperwork this week. Shannon and I have been shopping and debating how to spend the grant dollars for weeks. We’ve wrangled with the county grounds keepers for permission to install the garden, and we’ve waited for various workmen to make sure there are no pipes or wires underground. I’ve lifted heavy things and covered my best running shoes in mud. And yet, when I see the garden through my classroom window, it is all worth it. Something about the garden eases my mind.

Earlier in the week I read this quote from a book called Serve God, Save the Planet by J. Matthew Sleeth:
Late in the day we sat together to weed the strawberry patch. A feeling of joy and peace overcame me. I felt close to God. I experienced “the peace that passes all understanding.” I was in communion with the saints and with [my wife]. Do you know why?
God created a man and a woman to work together in a garden. We were doing what our Maker designed us to do, and we were reaping the spiritual blessings.

When I read that quote earlier this week I liked it, but today, I lived it.

Born to Run

My family doctor in Philadelphia had a way of making everything about my weight. I would go see him for strep throat and he would find a way to connect it to being overweight. “Maybe if you didn’t eat so much, Joy, your throat wouldn’t be so taxed and susceptible to strep.” OK, he never really said anything like that, but I knew a visit to him for a tetanus shot or an antibiotic would be accompanied by a hefty dose of guilt.

The only exception occurred in the late 90’s. I lost 65 pounds, went to him for some malady and he didn’t say word. I went in fully anticipating a, “Wow! Great job, Joy!”, but all I got was a prescription. It was because he didn’t recognize me. He later told my mother he had no idea who I was.

I tell you this as background. Doctors are not people I see often. I’m blessed to be very healthy, so I rarely darken the door of a medical practice. This spring, though, I decided to take action against some varicose veins in my legs. Since there is no at-home cure for them, I have found myself out of my comfort zone, sitting in doctors’ offices.

Before my initial consultation with my new family doctor, I was anxious and worried that she would blame me, and my weight, for the varicose veins. I was prepared to defend myself—I am on my feet all day teaching! Cute shoes are not supportive! I’m trying to lose weight! Instead, she was super understanding and quickly referred me to a vein specialist.

When I got the referral message, they told me the doctor’s first name was Todd. It freaked me out. Todd is the captain of the soccer team, the cutest guy in school. I did not want that guy touching my legs while I was wearing paper shorts. Thankfully, if Dr. Todd was that guy, it was a long enough time ago that it was not awkward to have him feeling my calves. (In case you’re wondering, I still shaved my legs for the occasion. No reason to make the experience unpleasant for all of us.)

This morning I met the vein specialist. I prayed that he would be kind, that he would take his time with me, that he would not blame me for my nasty veins. When I walked into the waiting room, the average age dropped by about 50 years. As I talked with the nurses, I got the feeling they don’t see many patients my age. While one nurse took pictures of my legs, I joked about working my angles and making Tyra proud. When they told me I’d have to wear compression hose for three months I told them I hoped the What Not to Wear cameras wouldn’t be following me around. They were all very kind to me and I was greatly relieved.

In three months, after I have tried compression hose, Dr. Todd will do something magical to my veins that will close them off. He will then snip out the busted-up parts of my veins that show below the surface of my skin. My legs will no longer look like they belong in assisted living. Hopefully, they will look like the legs of a 30-something girl who runs a couple miles every day.

To get my compression hose, I had to visit a medical supply store. While I waited for a fitting room to become available, I sat in the store surrounded by the inevitable: guard rails for your bed, walkers, toilet railings, and boxes containing something called a cervical collar that I am really afraid to Google.

I often tell my younger friends that 30 is no joke—your body starts doing things you don’t want it to do. After sitting in that store today, I realize 30 is just the beginning. Right now I can avoid seeing doctors, but how long will that last? The reality of my body breaking down scares me.

What do I do when something scares me? I run. If it means waking up at 4:30 in the morning to get on a treadmill before work, I will run. If it means running on a beach with a good friend while everyone else eats breakfast, I will run. I will run from diabetes. I will run from stroke. I will run from heart disease. I realize this will only postpone the inevitable, but if it gives me a few more years to live a life that glorifies my Father, I will keep running!

I share this with you for a couple reasons. First, I wanted to give an update about my health that would inform and (hopefully) entertain. Mostly, though, I am inviting you to hold me accountable to my commitment to running. And, if you're so inclined, I invite you to run with me.

'Cause Down the Shore Everything's All Right

As I sit here typing with my windows open (not only am I cheap, I am a Northerner) I hear joyful sounds from the pool across the street. In the four summers I’ve lived across from this pool, I’ve been in it a handful of times. There are many reasons I avoid the pool—corn hole tournaments, eight-year-olds wielding pool noodles—but the main reason I steer clear is because I have a greater love.

My grandfather bought a simple shore house back in the 1960’s. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, detached garage. To the casual observer, this little property in Villas, New Jersey (“the little house”) is nothing special, but my grandfather’s wise investment was one of his greatest gifts to my family. We spent many weekends down the shore as I was growing up. Even the house grew up when my grandfather built a larger home on the adjoining lot. To this day, that house (“the blue house”) is my home away from home.

The location of my family’s beach houses has made me a different kind of beach-goer. First of all, the Jersey shore is 90 minutes away from where I grew up in Philadelphia. This allowed me to be a frequent beach-goer. Nothing to do this weekend? Let’s go down the shore. Friends coming to visit? Take them down the shore. President’s Day, New Year’s, any time school was closed on Monday—off to the shore!

Since the Villas is a 15-minute drive from the beach, I developed beach stamina. There was no walking back to the house for lunch, no going inside for a nap in the air conditioning (there was no central AC down the shore, just open windows and a bay breeze). When my family left for the beach in the morning, we took with us our lunches and all the entertainment we could want for the day. We traveled with an umbrella, comfortable chairs, L.L. Bean tote bags packed with amusements, and Twizzlers, there were always Twizzlers.

I’ve come to appreciate the beaches of North and South Carolina. The water is always warmer. I can’t say I miss the cost of New Jersey beaches—remembering to bring a beach tag or carrying quarters to feed the parking meters. Perhaps my favorite thing about Southern beaches is the peaceful coexistence of man and seagull. I have yet to have my sandwich ripped from my hand by a predatory laughing gull and for this I am eternally thankful.

This weekend I spent a delightful time in Sunset Beach, NC with some friends. It was glorious to be there—someone even had Twizzlers. I hope it becomes an annual trip for us. The weekend reminded me that the beach is my great love and for this reason, I’m not picky about which beach I'm on. But until I can establish some coastal Carolina traditions or until Curley’s Fries opens shop in Calabash, I’m afraid I will always feel a little home-away-from-homesick.

Learned the Hard Way

At our youth group’s senior banquet, one of my church’s pastors gave a great exhortation to our graduates. He encouraged them to plug into a campus ministry right away, telling them it is a great way to make friends and to grow in their Christian walk while at college. Then he said something that got me nodding like a bobble head doll. He told the seniors that if, or when, they don’t walk like Christians at college, Jesus would welcome them back. Our pastor assured them that Jesus would love them and their parents would love them, even if they messed up. It made me want to turn to the senior girl sitting beside me and say, “That’s my story!”

I know that my four years of college would have been different if I had joined a campus ministry (the “God-bless People” as my roommate and I called them). What I continue to wrestle with is, would those years have been better?

The grown-up Christian answer is, of course they would have been better! What my heart says is different. To do-over my college days would be to disown dear friends. It would mean trading in the sorority-house politics that developed my leadership skills. Gone would be the disappointments I faced as I pursued my own glory and good reputation—disappointments that left me humbled and wiser. And even though many of my stories may be unfit for youth group banquets—I had fun!

I have to look below the surface to see the consequences of my college choices. I was a spiritual late-bloomer. For some of my friends, college was a time of expansive spiritual growth. They reached young-adulthood grounded in biblical truth, ready to make an impact for the Kingdom. I left college grounded in self-justification, ready to follow Dave Matthews around the East coast.

I broke my parents’ hearts. I don’t think this hit me until a few years ago when I found a letter my dad wrote me while I was a junior in college. It was a simple note, sent along with a piece of music I’d asked him to send me. But in its lines, there was pain as he urged me to go to church.

Even with this knowledge, I can’t bring myself to regret my college experience. God has redeemed my misspent days. Because I wandered away from the flock, I know what it is to be pursued and rescued by my Good Shepherd. My relationship with my parents has been restored. I have experienced repentance, forgiveness, and abundant grace!