I don’t know about you, but I’d never intentionally drop a blender jar full of smoothie ingredients on the kitchen floor or purposefully let a glass baking dish slip out of my hands and shatter all over the place.
At my house, we call these messy scenarios accidents. There’s no other way to describe them.
My girls have been back to school for almost two weeks now, and I’ve spent much of that time getting caught up, organized and settled—mentally as well as physically.
The work is ongoing—when you’ve been shoving stuff in cabinets and running off to the next thing for months, it takes a while to find a new rhythm. Not to mention a new purpose, although right now, I’m comfortable with taking life one day at a time and praying for God to direct my steps (as He’s done so faithfully more times than I can count).
When my dad died in late May, any halfhearted plans I may have had to post a 2019 edition of “What I Learned This Spring” fell by the wayside. And now suddenly it’s already the end of August—the end of another season. This time, though, I’ve actually been looking forward to sharing a few lessons from the summer.
I’ve been jotting down thoughts as they come to me and currently have about a dozen new blog posts just waiting to be fleshed out more fully in the coming weeks. But today is not the day for processing—not much, anyway.
Today we talk about shoes. And mashed potatoes. And Uno. Without further ado, here’s what I learned this summer.
• How to play Spicy Uno.
When the relatives came to town for my mom’s funeral in April, one set of cousins taught the rest how to play Spicy Uno—a version of the popular card game that bends and adds rules to make the competition much more exciting, especially when there are eight teenagers playing on the round table in the breakfast nook.
When we were on vacation in Alaska last month, the girls taught me and Randy how to play Spicy Uno too. And I have to say—it’s far more interesting than the original game, even when you are the unfortunate beneficiary of six Draw Two cards played one on top of the other.
• Buying running shoes from a running-shoe store is a good investment.
Although I’m pretty frugal, I’ve learned over the years that my body thanks me when I invest money in good shoes. Still, I’ve resisted the urge to follow the advice I’ve seen online that says you should always buy running shoes at stores that specialize in running shoes. Why spend all that money when you can get the same brand at Kohl’s for half as much?
Turns out, you really do get what you pay for. I don’t run marathons; I run on a 20-year-old treadmill in my basement laundry room. But the New Balance shoes I finally decided to purchase from the specialty shop are not like the ones from the big-box store. They have been worth every additional dollar; I just wish I had bought them sooner.
• Speaking of footwear, if you like blingy shoes, you should buy blingy shoes.
I’m not super flashy, but I’m a sucker for a nice patch of rhinestones. That said, while I like a little bling on eyeglasses, rings and even slip-on sneakers, I’ve never been spontaneous (or maybe brave) enough to actually buy shoes caked with rhinestones.
Until recently, that is. I was at a consignment shop a couple of weeks ago when I saw a pair of glittery silver Sketchers that looked like they had never been worn. Instead of passing them up like I usually do, I happily plunked down $19 and took them home.
You only live once, I told myself. You might as well do it with some sparkle on your feet.
• Some methods of making mashed potatoes are better than others.
I’m always looking for ways to keep from making a mess on my stovetop, so a few weeks ago, I decided to try preparing mashed potatoes in the microwave. I found directions online that seemed pretty reasonable and gave it a go. I don’t know what I did wrong, but the heavy, gluey result was so bad I don’t have the heart to try again. I’ll stick to the stovetop, despite the mess that always ensues when the pot boils over.
On a happier note (at least for my self-esteem as a cook), the next time I made mashed potatoes, I ran out of milk and decided make up the difference using buttermilk. And all I can say about this little experiment is, “Why did I not think of this sooner?”
• You can grow avocados at home (theoretically, at least).
My daughter Molly is never one to shy away from trying projects she finds on Pinterest. That’s why right now, our dining-room table is home to two avocado seeds in cups that she hopes will germinate and turn into plants.
Will it work, or will it not? I guess we’ll find out—in a few weeks if the seeds sprout, and then maybe in three years when such plants are supposed to start producing fruit.
• • •
How about you? Feel free to share what you learned this summer or—if you prefer—your thoughts about Spicy Uno, rhinestones, expensive running shoes, microwaved mashed potatoes or growing avocados at home when buying them at the grocery store is much faster.
♥ Lois
You only live once. You might as well do it with some sparkle on your feet. Share on XP.S. I’m linking up this week with Emily Freeman, Purposeful Faith, #TellHisStory, Let’s Have Coffee, Faith ‘n Friends and Grace & Truth.
Until a few months ago, I had never applied to be on a book launch team before.
For one thing, I don’t especially like writing book reviews (though I do love reading them). And then there’s always the uncomfortable (though probably remote) possibility that I might not want to endorse a book wholeheartedly after reading it, no matter how much I’ve enjoyed the author’s work in the past. (As one who prefers not to hurt other people’s feelings, I’d just rather avoid that situation entirely.)
But when the opportunity came to be on the launch team for Tricia Lott Williford’s fourth book, Just. You. Wait.: Patience, Contentment, and Hope for the Everyday, I had no such reservations. I’ve loved Tricia’s writing since I read her first book, And Life Comes Back. While I normally get books from the library, I buy hers without hesitation. She’s funny, genuine and—perhaps most importantly—able to impart solid biblical truth in way that is gentle yet unwavering.
I’m a bit embarrassed to admit that I’m terribly behind schedule when it comes to fulfilling my launch team obligations for Just. You. Wait. I received the review copy right around the time my dad died in late May (five weeks after my mom died on Good Friday). I got the published version of the book (which I had preordered in February and completely forgotten about) after it released on July 9.
I read both copies—rushing through the review copy during the numb-yet-extremely busy days leading up to my dad’s funeral in mid-June, and slowly working my way through the final version after we returned from our family vacation to Alaska in July.
Now here it is, the third full week of August, and I’m finally getting around to finishing this book review. It’s been on my to-do list for weeks, obviously, but I just haven’t had the energy to tackle it.
I have a feeling Tricia would understand, though. She knows a thing or two about the aftereffects of loss, about what happens when life catapults you in directions you weren’t expecting and often have no idea how to handle.
More than anything else, Tricia’s other books taught me to empathize. Her transparent recounting of her own experiences showed me what it’s like to lose a spouse suddenly and navigate life as a single, widowed mom of two young boys. Her earlier works were inspiring, engaging and often encouraging, for sure, but mostly from a distance.
On the other hand, Just. You. Wait. met me precisely right where I am right now. It’s not a book about grief or loss, per se, but the author’s story—together with vulnerable glimpses into her new husband’s past struggles—permeate the pages.
Along the way, she bravely tackles topics such as the “Great Waiters of the Bible,” what God is up to while we’re waiting, what to do in the meantime, and how to respond when it seems as if the wait is never going to end (or when it ends differently than we had hoped it would).
Her message is as applicable to people who are waiting for a new chapter in their lives to unfold or a difficult season of life to be over as it is for those who are longing for the pain of loss to subside or for God to answer fervent prayers for a loved one. I usually dog ear pages rather than mark them up, but I nearly bled my green highlighter dry on the chapter titled “Where is the Sunshine? Waiting to Heal.”
Sometimes, I get done reading a new book and I’m left wanting more—more depth, more empathy, more structure, more editing, more solid theology. With Just. You. Wait., I was sad when it was over because I wanted to read more.
I thoroughly enjoyed the conversation, even when it made me cry, and I didn’t want it to end.
For me, that’s the mark of a wonderful book. And Just. You. Wait. truly is a wonderful book.
♥ Lois
I nearly bled my green highlighter dry on the chapter titled “Where is the Sunshine? Waiting to Heal.” #JustYouWaitBook by @TriciaWilliford Share on X Just. You. Wait. by @TriciaWilliford met me precisely right where I am right now. Share on XNote: I received an advance copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.
Last year, we started planning a family vacation to Homer, Alaska, to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. Randy spent the latter half of his childhood there, and, while we visited soon after we were married, we’ve not been back since.
We were excited about returning to one of the most beautiful places on earth, this time with our girls. Even so, I was more than a little anxious after he bought our plane tickets in February. What if my parents’ health plummeted right before we left? Or worse, what if one of them died while we were gone?
Life has been a whirl of planning, processing, organizing, grieving and traveling lately. While all that has been important, necessary and sometimes even fun, it hasn’t left much emotional energy for writing. Rather than go another week without a blog post, however, I decided to pull the last remaining piece from my reserve supply and share it with you today.
Happily, it’s not about parents dying or hard seasons or anything of the sort. It’s about eating. And what can be learned when we remove entire food groups from our diet for a set amount of time. Bon appetit!
• • •
As trendy eating plans go, the Whole30 is pretty straightforward. Eliminate grains, legumes, dairy products, sugar, alcohol and preservatives from your diet for 30 days and voilà—you’ll feel better, sleep better, lower your blood pressure and cholesterol, solve dozens of other complex health problems and maybe even lose some weight.
Actually eating like this is not necessarily the panacea that some proponents make it out to be. But it does have its benefits—including recalibrating your digestive system and putting the kibosh on bad habits that have crept in over time—which is why Randy and I have taken this month-long food journey three times now.
We finished up our most recent round of the Whole30 in early March. This time, as with the other two, I was a bit anxious about ending it. I would compare it to how someone might feel upon leaving the safety and security of the hospital after an extended illness (or, as Randy prefers to look at it, when a person leaves prison after a long period of incarceration).
On one hand, you can’t wait to pour dairy creamer in your coffee and spread jam on your toast. But after a month of severely drawn food boundaries, you’re faced with so many choices again, and you wonder how long it will be before the good effects of the last 30 days will start to wear off.
The first time we did the Whole30, I began the month with all kinds of expectations of how much I would get done around the house over the next four weeks. While fighting off cravings for cheese and cookies, I figured I would distract myself by writing and cleaning out drawers and organizing all the things. Instead, I spent an inordinate amount of time chopping vegetables and searching for Whole30-approved recipes that didn’t require another trip to Whole Foods.
Not my finest Whole30 cuisine.
Each time since then, I prepared better beforehand, purchased more ready made products (without a trace of guilt) and spent less time chopping. We even made it through this last round without having to fall back on Chipolte for dinner because I burned the chicken strips I was trying to fry in coconut oil. (It’s nice to have Chipolte as an option just in case, but a Burrito Bowl without rice and sour cream just isn’t the same.)
After each previous round of the Whole30, I’ve intended to write a blog post about what I learned from it. What usually happens, though, is that once I push past my anxiety about eating normally, my attention moves on to more pressing matters and those lessons stay stuck in my notes file.
Not this last time. When I was going through all my blog notes files in late March, trying to figure out what was worth keeping and writing about, I kept coming back to this. I always find it interesting to read about other peoples’ experiences with such endeavors, even those I would never attempt myself. So here it is, at long last: What I learned from the Whole30.
• I didn’t like sweet potatoes before we started the Whole30, and I still don’t like them now. I roast them for Randy, and I’ve tried to enjoy them that way too—I really have. But my distain is life long, and it’s here to stay. (I feel the same about kale, by the way.)
• My writing tapers off to practically nothing when I’m on the Whole30. I originally anticipated that once I got used to this new way of eating, the creativity would kick in and my brain cells would start firing on overdrive. Never happened.
• Foods pretending to be other foods don’t fool me. For example, I like cauliflower and I like rice, but cauliflower masquerading as rice? I’d rather just go without until I can have my favorite Japanese sushi rice again.
• I could never do the Whole30 alone. With Randy on my team, quitting isn’t an option. We encourage each other to stick to the plan, even when all we want is a big handful of Doritos.
• Doing the Whole30 makes us linger around the supper table. Even without dessert (which we both love), Randy and I often sat there talking long after we were done with our meals. Maybe it’s because we simply don’t have the energy to get up, but it also might have something to do with the bonds that are strengthened when you do something like this together.
• I will never be a food photographer. I always think I’m going to share about our Whole30 journey on Instagram every day. But aside from a few posts here and there, I just can’t get into it. Most of my food pictures look sort of anemic, and plus, I prefer pics of flowers, old country churches and my children.
• You have to consider holidays when planning a Whole30. Last year, Mother’s Day fell in the middle of our 30 days. Our family’s observation of this special day usually includes eating at our favorite Mexican restaurant and drinking Sonic slushies while walking around the lake at the park. We skipped both last year, and Mother’s Day just wasn’t the same.
• When the Whole30 gets tough, avocados give me the will to keep going. So do pecans. And cilantro. And store-bought, Whole30-approved salad dressing.
• Food is comforting. I guess this is something I always knew, but it really hit home in February when I was craving chocolate cake and crusty bread. I was able to squash those cravings, but if we had been doing the Whole30 in January or December when my dad’s health declined so severely, I don’t know if I could have kept it up.
• Once a year is enough. Some people eat like this all the time due to food allergies or other dietary issues, and I’m all for that if it helps. But while I definitely eat differently than I used to in some ways, I can’t permanently eliminate entire food groups or categories from my diet.
That’s just me, though. What about you? If you’ve ever done the Whole30 or a similar eating plan, please share your experience in the comments.
♥ Lois
Foods pretending to be other foods don’t fool me. Share on X Food is comforting. Share on XP.S. I’m linking up this week with Purposeful Faith, #TellHisStory, Let’s Have Coffee, Faith on Fire, Faith ‘n Friends and Grace & Truth.
May 28 was my dad’s 86th birthday. He had been on hospice for a few days, but he was awake and even mouthed along as we gathered in his room and sang Happy Birthday to him. Less than 18 hours later, he joined my mom in heaven, five weeks after she died on Good Friday.
At his funeral last week, I shared some thoughts about my dad and his influence in my life. Today, I’d love to share these same thoughts with you.
• • •
My dad was hospitalized in January. He was in bad shape—his potassium was really low, he was severely dehydrated, he was basically skin and bones. I was there one day when the primary care doctor came by his room.
She saw him lying there, and I’m guessing she formed an impression about him based on what she saw. When she asked how he was doing, he said, “That depends on your nomenclature.”
I saw it in her face—she quickly realized that there was much more to the patient before her than she may have thought. I think that may have been the case a lot with my dad.
He drove old cars but had plenty of resources at the end of his life to care for both my mom and himself. He wrote both children’s stories and letters to the editor on controversial subjects. He enjoyed listening to hymns and the popular songs of his youth.
He earned a master’s degree from an Ivy League university but could teach Sunday school to kindergarteners and explain algebra word problems to his children in a way that we could understand. I still remember him teaching me how to understand physics by comparing electricity to water running through irrigation ditches.
And then there was the time my driver’s ed teacher was at his wit’s end trying to teach me to drive—so much so that he called my dad for help. I was so upset, but my dad was unruffled. He took me out to the country and made me get out of the family van to see that it was actually much farther from the shoulder than I thought. That was all I needed to start driving properly.
It was a matter of perspective that he helped me see. And this happened over and over in my life.
I remember sitting on the window seat in the family room at my childhood home right before I left for college. It was the first time I had ever been away from home, and I was scared to death. We talked about change, and he said he liked change, which was a foreign concept to me. Many years later, he clarified that he liked change when it was on his terms.
In our first few years of marriage, Randy and I were trying to decide how much to tithe—on the net or the gross. I asked my dad, hoping for some definitive answer, and all he said was, “It depends on how much you want God to bless you.”
When I’d ask him about the end times—about this or that theory of eschatology—he’d tell me what he thought, add that the Bible wasn’t definitive about it, and then conclude by saying, “The one thing I do know is that Jesus is coming back, and we need to be ready.”
And he really lived his life like that.
During a season when my world started turning dark for days at a time each month, I had another enlightening conversation with my dad. When you are going through something that you know is not going to last forever, he said, you have to put yourself on autopilot. Just do what you need to do and remember it will get better eventually.
When my girls were younger, I would come to him for advice about everything from improving messy handwriting to how were they were going to survive in this world that they were growing up in. “She’s gonna be all right,” he’d say. “She’s gonna be all right.”
My dad didn’t talk about himself much, but he was a wonderful listener. That’s probably one of the things that I loved the most about him. I felt like he really knew me, and perhaps that’s because he really listened.
It’s no secret that my dad was stubborn and would hold fast to opinions that sometimes drove us crazy. When we got frustrated at his lack of hearing ability, for example, he would say, “I can hear, I just can’t make out what they’re saying.”
And then there was the season when he was falling a lot—at a wedding, a church picnic, smack into the church front door. It was OK, though, because, as he would often say, “I know how to fall.”
All this aside, another one of the things I appreciated most about my dad was his sense of humor. He loved to laugh and didn’t take himself very seriously. Maybe that’s why he never held a grudge. He never took things personally. He never made things personal, either, even when he disagreed with you.
There are many ways I hope to emulate my dad, but these practices are all close to the top of the list.
During the last two years, I would drop by the nursing home almost every day—to visit my mom when my dad was also there visiting her, and then these last six months when my dad lived there too. I learned so much from watching him interact with all the people there. He learned their names and always wanted to know where they were from.
He never judged people on appearances, and he treated everyone with the same gracious kindness. As my mom’s Alzheimer’s became more advanced, his affection for her was steadfast. No matter who was around, he greeted her with a kiss on the lips every time he came. He spent hours sitting with her on the loveseat in her room, just being together.
When my mom was in critical condition in the burn unit at a Kansas City hospital two summers ago, the social worker would come in to talk about living wills or the doctor would share some discouraging prognosis. I heard my dad say several times, “I don’t know how you feel about these things, but we’re Christians, and we don’t believe that death is the end.”
He did it in such a gentle, unassuming way. By the time it was my turn to be in his seat, hearing sad news about either one of my parents or making end-of-life decisions for them, it just seemed natural to share what we believed about God’s sovereignty and timing, about how I was certain they would be going to heaven, about the assurance I had that I would see them again.
I wouldn’t have been able to speak like that had I not listened as my dad did it so many times before me.
There are so many other things I wish I could tell you about my dad and how much he means to me and my family. But I’ll just share one more thing.
My dad played football in high school and always enjoyed watching the Kansas City Chiefs. I remember when Joe Montana and Marcus Allen joined the Chiefs in 1993. My dad was convinced that, while the quarterback got all the hype, it was really the running back who made the biggest difference.
When Marcus Allen got the ball, spotted a hole in the defensive line and broke through for a big gain, my dad would throw back his head in laughter, point at the TV and exclaim excitedly, “Look at him go, look at him go!”
I don’t know how heaven works, how the great cloud of witnesses is set up. But I like to imagine my dad coming upon some kind of porthole to earth, maybe with my mom or his father, just in time to see one of us—a grandchild, a friend, one of his children—doing something noteworthy—taking a courageous stand, winning an actual race, making a good decision, achieving an important goal.
I imagine him grabbing my mom’s arm, throwing his head back in laughter, pointing at the scene before him and exclaiming, “Look at her go, look at her go!”
We won’t hear it again on this side of eternity, but I can’t wait to hear that laugh when I see him again in heaven.
♥ Lois
I heard my dad say several times, ‘I don’t know how you feel about these things, but we’re Christians, and we don’t believe that death is the end.’ Share on XP.S. I’m linking up this week with Purposeful Faith, #TellHisStory, Let’s Have Coffee, Faith on Fire, Faith ‘n Friends and Grace & Truth.