Slow Motion?

I forget how the pace of life slows in the breathy moments of adjusting to a new baby. Moments – on life’s grand scale, that is what they are, fleeting ticks of the clock that will pass in and out, and life will go on. Already time is moving fast – our Elijah Owen is almost two weeks old, and my husband, my sweet and giving husband who has poured himself out in servanthood this week, will be returning to work soon.

Time. One of the many paradoxes of motherhood. How can the minutes slug away and fly by at the same time?

Life resumes here. Slowly we must ease ourselves into a new normal. There are sad moments and confusing moments, funny moments and ecstatic moments. I look back on little Eli’s birth with a sort of muddy joy. Always I will remember how Bryan and I played gin rummy as we passed away the afternoon hours in the big hospital room, pausing for contractions as they passed. I will remember how the doctor came in and broke my water with what had to be chop sticks, saying something about speeding the process along. She was in and out of our room so fast, and the rush of hormones and fear overtook me, and I remember thinking (not for the first time that day) how odd it is that an act or a thought done out of routine or convenience for one person can be something entirely momentous and huge for another.

I remember how the evening hours of July 25 passed so quickly, so fluidly, both Bryan and I thinking our baby would be here within the next hour, every hour. How, at 8:00, her hurried down to the hospital cafeteria to grab a bit and hurried straight back, knowing his son could be here at any time. How I finally started pushing at 10:30 that night and how, at a quarter to midnight, I had to stop, because it was time for the doctor and the doctor was in the room next door delivering another baby. How four babies came that night within 15 of each other, and how we were third in line. Eli was the only boy born in the hospital that night.

And he came, beautiful and wet and big. His body was hot and alien on my stomach. I couldn’t see his face at first, but I didn’t care. He came. He was here, and that’s all that mattered. He made a July 25 birthday by two minutes; he was born at 11:58 p.m., 8 pounds 6 ounces and 21 inches long. And when I did see his face for the first time – smoke blue eyes and tiny pink mouth and shock of dark hair – I cried. Because he was mine, and he was beautiful.

Now the days pass, some moments quietly and other moments chaos, as what once was a family of three gets used to being a family of four. A million questions linger and yes, sleep is a sweet sweet thing. But this job of parenthood is in full swing. It’s intense and tough and messy. But it is worth every minute.

Welcome, sweet baby.

The Gratitude Journal

Recently, I took out my journal and jotted down three things. It had been a hard day. I was beyond exhausted, the pressures of both motherhood and writing pushing in on me from all directions. I felt less than accomplished at both roles, as mother and writer. I could have sat with my journal and poured out my heart and soul, allowing salty tears to drip onto the page as I went.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I took five minutes to write down three things I was thankful for:

-Oreo ice cream at Baskin Robbins

-a big hug from my son in the morning

-an especially moving comment on something I had written that had touched someone else

It was a gratitude journal, of sorts.

“Thankfulness is a thread that can bind together all the patchwork squares of our lives.”

These are words from a little snippet on gratitude I keep on my nightstand, a handout the leader of our church’s youth board felt compared to share with the board members, of which I am one.

“Difficult times, happy days, seasons of sickness, hours of bliss – all can be sewn together into something lively with the thread of thankfulness … We make the choices that turn us into bitter or grateful people … It is a discipline to choose to stitch our days together with the thread of gratitude.”

When I wrote down three things I was thankful for, more came to me. I could have kept going. The sun. The green grass. The smell of a freshly mowed lawn. These things can be simple. A hug from someone you adore. The taste of something on your tongue.

God doesn’t shower us with tremendous surprises and gifts every day. But oh, how He constantly works in the little things – the small beauties and precious moments that surround us each day.

And how easily we take those little things for granted, or sometimes fail to notice them at all.

It’s easy to get caught up in our failures, the thousand things a day we don’t accomplish. But if we take the time to look, almost always we can find something – even three somethings – to be thankful for, each and every day.

*What are you thankful for today? If you made a list of three things, what would they be?

 

The Power of Authenticity in Story Telling

Recently Michael Hyatt – writer, speaker and Chairman of Thomas Nelson Publishers –  wrote about the 3 Characteristics  of Marketing: authenticity, generosity, and storytelling.

I latched on immediately, because of two words: authenticity and storytelling. (Generosity isn’t bad, either.)

These words go hand-in-hand. Why?

California Pacific Coast, Copyright 2012, Kate Meadows

Because storytelling reflects authenticity. Together, they point toward a larger purpose: building relationships.

This is Hyatt’s point with the new way of marketing, as well. Rather than the rude and impersonal marketing that interrupts – Hyatt mentions a car commercial that is several decibels louder than a particular television program he is tuned into – the new marketing hinges on building relationships, on looking outward and considering others.

When was the last time you heard a good story? Where were you and what were you doing? Who was talking, and why was that person talking?

About six months ago I wrote a draft of an essay about being pregnant for a second time. The essay was raw and dang painful in some places because – I admit – pregnancy is not easy for me. I started to write in order to make sense of the myriad emotions cycling through me, and to somehow communicate those emotions to an audience larger than myself. I wanted to explore the complex themes of motherhood and identity, and perhaps figure out where in that wild mix I fit.

Writing is my way of telling stories. It is a way of reaching people on a deeper level and a way to be real with them. I don’t ever want to be some canned person who responds, “I’m good,” every time someone asks how I am doing.  I want to connect on a deeper level.  I want to be real.

We tell stories because they matter. We tell stories to preserve memories, etch a heritage, leave a legacy. Telling stories is a form of communication that goes deeper than the “How was your day” or “What’s the weather like” conversations. Real life stories dig beneath the surface to paint a picture of greater meaning, real emotion.

Good stories have staying power.

Sharing our Life Stories: A Deeper Purpose at Work

Every day, it seems, I text members of my family with little stories about what my two-year-old son is up to.

Why?

Well, because they’re cute stories, for one. But in each little vignette that I share, a deeper purpose is at work.

Copyright 2010, Bryan Meadows, Branched Oak State Park, NE

Sharing these life stories – some of them mere touching moments – communicates to my family how my son (someone very near and dear to them) is growing, and how we as a family are interacting.

I treasure these stories, to knit our own chain of memories together as a family that is learning and growing together. But I also cherish them as ways to stay connected to people who, although close to me in spirit, are geographically distant from us as these wonders big and small unfold.

This morning, I tripped on a shoe and tumbled completely over – down to the ground, onto my face. My son, who witnessed the fall from atop the bed, immediately said, “Oh, are you okay? Do you need some help?”

I shared the incident with my husband, my parents and my in-laws.

What was the value in sharing? To gain sympathy for the fact that I had fallen?

Of course not. I shared the story to show these people what our little boy is learning, to give them a glimpse into his compassionate and caring heart. Where did he learn to ask those questions? Where did he learn how to show his concern? He is becoming his own little person, and I want my world to know that.

Stories have meaning. If we can learn to interact with people beneath the “How was your day” or “What’s the weather like” level, we can learn a whole lot more about ourselves and others.

Sharing stories is not just about making conversation. It’s about being real, both with others and with ourselves.

 

The Shocking Truth About Customer Service

As I wrap up work on a full length small business history, Bucky’s: Stories and Recollections from 50 Years in Business, which chronicles the life of a small engine repair and retail shop in western Wyoming, one truth keeps coming back to me:

It’s about how this small business was founded and staked its success on customer service.

Customer service.

Blah, blah. Do you, like me, roll your eyes when you see that term? It has become so cliched, so overused, in today’s corporate society.

But when I hear “customer service” in relation to Bucky’s, I understand it differently, because I have so often seen it in action.

The 11 p.m. snowmobile delivery to a private residence on Christmas Eve.

Opening the back shop during off hours so a team of snowmobilers can have access to parts and a workspace to fix a broken-down machine.

Mid-morning coffee breaks that are open to people in the community.

This is the kind of customer service that is always focused on giving more than getting.

And you know what? In the case of Bucky’s, it has reaped rewards a thousand-fold.

People keep coming back to this little store on Lincoln Street in Pinedale, WY, because they know there is always something good in store for them. They know the people there think outside of themselves, think beyond making a buck or two.

They know the people who work at Bucky’s are truly in tune with what a customer needs.

Small business owner (or entrepreneur) or not, your life can be like that. It’s about turning the focus outward, rather than keeping it inward. It’s about putting yourself in other people’s shoes, anticipating their needs, asking (even if not directly), “How can I serve you today?”

If you read the history, Bucky’s: Stories and Recollections from 50 Years in Business, you might get tired of hearing about customer service, the countless ways employees at that shop have stepped up to treat someone like more than just a customer.

But it’s all in there because these are the memories and stories straight from the customers’ own experiences.

Turns out when someone serves you and truly meets your needs, you want to shout it from a mountaintop. Turns out that in this crazed world wrought with a “what’s-in-it-for-me” attitude, there are still people who care about you.

*In what way have you been touched recently by an act of service?

Warning: Technology is Bad. (Or is it?)

Recently, a friend of mine posted the following on Facebook: “I don’t know if it is a good or bad thing that my Nook is reading to [my son].”

I responded that it depends on what said Nook is reading to son. Dr. Seuss? Not horrible. Cosmopolitan magazine? Maybe we have an issue.

Image courtesy of http://www.barnesandnoble.com

But here’s the thing. The fact that an electronic reader is reading to a little boy is not all bad. That little boy is still being exposed to words, images, literature (and, we hope, good nuggets of all that). At least he is being read to.

Later on, my friend posted another comment on the same Facebook thread: “It just occurred to me that I don’t want that to be the future…where we don’t even read to our kids anymore because the computer does it for them.”

So I started wondering, how many people still take time to read to their kids? When was the last time you read something out loud?

And then I thought: Is a computer reading out loud really a bad thing?

I was shocked (and here, I expose my terrible naiveté) to learn recently that many people don’t read emails in their entirety anymore.

I tend to think in thorough, fleshed-out paragraphs whenever I have something big in the works. If I am planning a writer’s group meeting, or a family dinner, or a series of interviews with folks from my hometown, I put together elaborate, well thought out emails that I send to dozens of people, emails that beg for response and communication.

I am usually lucky to hear back from two or three people in my long line of email recipients.

Am I just a bad writer? I wonder. Am I a boring person?

Image courtesy of http://www.photobucket.com

No and no. People just don’t have time – or don’t make time – to return the communication efforts.

If the communication front is like this with email, what is it like when it comes to words and stories with our families at home?

My friend was astute in her observation about her son’s Nook discovery. He was hungry – for adventure, for entertainment, you name it – and he discovered a world of words. It just wasn’t through the voice of his mom or dad.

I will never say that anything beats a loved one’s voice when it comes to little ones and reading. But if it’s between a Nook or nothing, I would take the Nook any day.

Warning: Technology is bad, if we let it dig its fingers too intricately into our lives. But if we take time to notice, it can create and harness some beautiful moments, too.

*When you hear the word “technology,” what comes to your mind? Does this term evoke a positive connotation, or a negative one?

 

How to be a Good Lover

This isn’t a sappy post about a romantic Valentine’s dinner out. It’s not about romantic love. Not even about sex. (Sorry.)

This is about a love unlike anything I’ve ever seen, a type of love that is rooted in servant hood, a type of love that asks, “How can I serve you?”

Let me introduce you to my new friend, Chelsea.

I showed up to Chelsea’s apartment building on Tuesday night, frazzled and lost. A mutual friend of ours had invited me to this dinner, a special get-together for Chelsea’s single friends that included a nice dinner, gooey dessert, and some much needed girl time.

I am married, so clearly I wouldn’t exactly fit in, except that Chelsea is married, too. Her husband, an accountant, had to work that night. I was in a part of town I had never been in. The freeways getting to her place were jammed, a mix of work commuters and happy couples anxious for an evening out. As I had turned onto her street, the gas light in my truck went on; I would have to get gas later at a dingy little gas station on the street corner in this unfamiliar neighborhood. Why hadn’t I gotten gas earlier?

Chelsea found me on the sidewalk outside her place, a frustrated mess. She introduced herself with a hug, and assured me that everyone who ever came to visit them encountered this issue of where in the mass of the apartment complex their little abode was hiding.

She guided me up candle-lit stairs with messages written in chalk: “You are loved,” “You are beautiful,” and more colorful letters. I walked into a cozy dwelling where candles burned and soft music played. Two women – my friend, Jessica, and a beautiful girl I would soon come to know as Priscilla – sat sipping wine and soaking their feet in tubs of warm water.

A plate of fancy cheese and crackers awaited me beneath the flickering light. I took it, and sat down next to Jessica. Chelsea had scurried back into the kitchen to check on dinner – salmon, rosemary sweet potatoes, garlic bread, asparagus – and soon re-emerged into the living room, where she took a seat on the floor.

She started washing Priscilla’s feet.

I watched this take place and thought of Jesus. How he washed his disciples’ feet despite the fact that He was a king, despite the fact that his disciples were sinners and would betray him, despite the fact that He would soon be in the highest and most holy place.

Jesus showed love by humbling himself. Chelsea was doing it, too.

We overstuffed our bellies with excellent food and sat around the small dinner table, talking about racism and cabins in the woods and Justin Bieber. (Jessica works with middle school kids.) Chelsea cleared our plates and ushered us back to the living room, where more wine and heartfelt conversation would ensue.

She would wash the dishes later.

I got quiet as the conversation continued to unfold around me, because I was knocked over by this display of love, and how these women responded to it. I started thinking about the relationships in my own life – how scattered they are, because we have moved around so much – and how I wanted to love people more like Chelsea does. More like Jesus does.

I was sent away with a bouquet of flowers, a dark chocolate bar, a card that said I was loved and precious, and, thanks to Jessica, a balloon twisted into the shape of a yellow flower. (Balloons is another story – a very cool one about my friend’s new talent.) And I was sent away with the most humbling warmth in my heart.

For a while now, I have been praying for God to help me see others as He sees us. I thought this might be like the patience prayer: You pray for patience, and instead of getting patience, you find yourself in all of these situations where your patience – your character – is being tested. Surely by praying for compassion, I was asking for situations in which my own show of compassion would be challenged and scrutinized.

But on Valentine’s Day, Jesus answered my prayer differently. He placed someone in my life who demonstrated love as He loves. I not only got to see it in action; I got to be a recipient of it.

I was loved that night in a way that continues to trigger tears when I think about it. I returned home to my husband and son, who were both asleep, and heard the dishwasher humming noisily in the kitchen. All of the dishes were washed. The living room was picked up.

Happy Valentine’s Day to me.

I felt so full of love. And now, I want to pay it forward.

*What “little things” or acts of service make you feel completely and wholly loved?