On Good Food and Turning 45

I'm passionate about good food. However, my penchant for partaking of said good food does not go over well for my almost 45 year old body. During the last 15 years or so, I've been reluctantly learning to adjust to my body's refusal to metabolize food like it did when I was a teenager, or even when I was a 20-somethinger.

There are all these annoying factors like the natural aging process, the baby-having and nursing process, the homeschooling-carpooling-parenting-doctoring-disciplining-grocery-shopping process. Oh, and let’s not forget the stress-eating process. I am a stress. eater. Though I’ve learned over the years that for me, not all types of stress trigger my “eat everything” response. When the stress is financial or the how-in-the-world-can-I-be-all-things-to-all-people-at-all-times busyness kind of stress, I eat. But when the stress is the kind of stress that shatters my life and existence as I know it, my appetite quickly becomes non-existent. Over the last eight years I've had two such life-altering events and I lost a ton of weight. During these times I’d find small comfort in the thought, well, my whole life may going to hell in a hand basket, but I look good. (I’ll take that glass-half-full award now.) Then slowly, inevitably, as life mercifully began to normalize for me again, so did my appetite and I soon found myself back in the same battle, bargaining with my body’s metabolism: please, oh pleeeaaaassseee let me eat what I want and don’t let it land on my tummy.

In 2011, after I’d lost the most recent bargaining-battle (which had resulted in a 20 pound gain), I decided I had to do something. I realize 20 lbs isn’t a lot. In fact, at my age, with my bunch of kiddos, it could be considered an endearing sort of mommy cushion. But weight-gain is relative, and 20 pounds was too much for me. I found myself changing clothes in the closet and praying my husband wouldn't walk in while I was showering. Every day was a battle to hold on to my self-esteem as I chose what to wear. And it seemed, no matter what I chose, the muffin-top would not relent. And before I knew it, 20 lbs became 30.

My daily cycle looked like this: Each night I would go to bed with the resolve that tomorrow was going to be different,  tomorrow I would make better eating choices. Then tomorrow came and by noon I'd failed, again. Every. Day.

Finally, I got serious. In February 2011, my husband and I went on a diet. The first 30-40 days had the most restrictions. Then we began phasing in other foods until we were on the “life-maintenance phase” of the diet, which began for us in May. This whole “life-maintenance” phase of any and every diet I’ve ever been on, is always where I enter the danger, and ultimately, total-defeat zone. I had the ability to make the leap and deprive myself long enough to get the weight off. The problem was that, almost as soon as I’d get the weight off, my you're not the boss of me!  DNA would kick in and I’d be in rebellion against myself. Somehow, keeping it off, seemed to translate to life-long deprivation. And I could. not. go. there.

Well, either I finally got sick of that cycle or this diet has taught me how to live in this world full of delectable delicacies and still be able enjoy them without gaining the weight back. I’m not sure which, but I don’t really care because it’s working! I am keeping the weight off.

It’s over 1 ½ years later and a lot has changed since my eat-with-reckless-abandon days: I try to eat the bulk of my carbs early in the day. I don't eat the quantities I used to, which means I'm also not pushing myself away from the table feeling like Jabba the Hut and swearing to never (ever) eat again. Where I used to hide goodies, I share them. (Okay, sometimes I still hide them, but I share more than I hide.) If I want that Cranberry Bliss bar at Starbucks, I buy it, take a bite or two and hand the rest off to my kids who are more than happy to oblige. And I've found one or two bites really is enough. Lastly, I commit the cardinal sin of weighing myself daily. Yes, I know. Girls especially are taught not to do this, and for good reason, but it has been key for me in keeping the unwanted pounds off.

  Nanaimo Bars One of my favorite desserts, which I still enjoy.

There are other life-style changes, too, but, in case you’re wondering, exercise is not one of them. Mostly because exercise and I have never managed to make nice with each other. Perhaps someday we will, but I promise you, that day is not today.

In a little over a month I will turn 45. I am soberly aware this is a gift denied many, and so, I will celebrate 45, eat cake and be merry. I will also appreciate the fact that I no longer feel the need to dress in the closet or prayerfully rush my showers. I get the sweet satisfaction of knowing I’ve accomplished something that a mere two years ago I thought might never be. I am living life fully, enjoying all that is before me – including being able to indulge my sweet tooth while still maintaining a healthy, happy weight. Forty-five, bring it!

The Gift of Loss-Colored Lenses

Eight years ago, the lenses I view life through became colored by colossal loss. That could sound bad, and, while some of it has definitely been extremely painful (understatement), good gifts have also come from it. Thankfulness and appreciation -- on a scale and magnitude I didn't have before loss invaded the lives of my kids and me -- is one of those good gifts. It's a gift of soul-deep gratitude that is so deep, it sometimes feels like a throne-room encounter. 

Though much has changed over the course of these last eight years, much also remains the same (loss is weird like that), and the gift of my loss-colored lenses is one of those things that remains. So it makes sense that yesterday, I beheld the 16 of us through these lenses as we gathered around the table for our Thanksgiving meal. 

Every single one of the 16 of us, has lost someone precious. Not in an, "Oh, they're really gonna be missed." sort of way, but in a, "This person was vital to my very existence." life-altering sort of way. Amy's husband (now my husband), four children, mother, grandmother and brother; two of Elsie's three precious children; Ray's wife (in case you don't know, that's me), four children and father-in-law were all sitting there... giving thanks. And suddenly I was struck with the fact that 11 of the 16 sitting at the table had lost their mother or father at tender young ages. Eleven. Let that sink in for a minute.

In their lifetimes, these young ones have already experienced more loss than most adults I know -- some at the tender young ages of three and four years old. Think about that for very long and you can't help but drop to your knees and sob. Yet, through the grace and mercy of a good God, they know true joy in the midst of colossal heartache. 

If you're even remotely inclined to think this "just happened" you couldn't be more wrong. People are embittered for life over much smaller things, and if anyone has a "right" to be embittered, it is these precious ones who've lost a parent. No, these kids have made conscious choices to allow God to come in, heal and restore. They have chosen in the pain to trust God to cause all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose. (Romans 8:28) And His rewards are bearing fruit in their hearts and lives.

While I love a great preacher, let me tell you, these children's very lives preach one of the greatest sermons I've ever witnessed. They are living well, finding joy in the midst of pain, and reaching out to others with a level of compassion that exceeds their years -- all because they have experienced God's grace and love in the midst of tremendous suffering and loss. These 11 bring the gospel home to my heart in a way few, if any, others can. They know that He loves to give good gifts to His children and make beauty from ashes. Because they have allowed the Lord to shape them through their loss, these 11 are deep souls who love well.

They make it look easy, though anyone who's ever lost like they have knows, it's anything but easy. Lucky me. I get to see these 11 through the gift of my loss-colored lenses. Branden, Alexa, Hanson, Evan, Chandler, Jacob, Gatlin, Gage, Vicki, Toni and Danny are my heroes. 

Growing Up in The Hood

I spent my high school years in Paramount, California. Paramount is nestled among Lynwood, Compton, Downey & Long Beach. Like many lower income cities, it was known as The Hood to those of us who spent our childhoods there. It's also where I made some of my best friends. 

Growing up in Paramount, my school's lunch time entertainment could consist of anything from a football rally to watching the vatos drive their cars, tricked-out with metallic paint jobs and hydraulic systems, bounce up and down Downey Avenue as they blasted tunes from their trunks full of over-sized speakers. 

It was standard fare to see police helicopters overhead, shouting instructions from their loud-speakers either to residents or suspects. If it was at night, you got the added bonus of giant lights flashing across your neighborhood as the police located/followed their perps. Graffiti generously peppered our city. It was home to gangs like Dog Patch, Daughters of Samoa (DOS) and Sons of Samoa (SOS), all sporting their respective signs and "rags." Ours was a unique community full of almost every ethnicity. It was a community blind to skin color, on the one hand, while racial tensions existed on the other.

It was where family lives typically suffered from more-than-average dysfunction while the not-as-common, less dysfunctional families attracted the rest of us like ants to sugar. Those families, and their homes, were our safe-havens, our hang-outs. And, beautifully, the moms and dads in those homes embraced their kids' friends and made us feel like we were their own. 

It was where children saw too much, too often and knew from experience that life was harsh. It was where most of us grew up very fast. 

It was also where, in 1984, the Olympic Torch was carried down Alondra Blvd., where oranges and lemons dripped from their trees, and endlessly-blooming bougainvillea adorned the cinder block walls. In Paramount, low-paid teachers taught their hearts out, local store owners gave tasty freebies to the neighborhood kids and, mere minutes away, sandy beaches beckoned. Its immigrants worked hard and earned little just to send most of it back "home" to help support their families. And it was where kids, though sometimes harshly, learned the valuable lesson so lacking in today's society: life doesn't revolve around them. 

Shawn in the Request Line Boyz days

Back in my day, part of growing up in Paramount was hanging out at Jack-In-The-Box and Steve's Burgers. It was going to backyard parties with our favorite DJ. It was music. It was dancing. It was harmony and rhythm. It was where some of my deepest friendships were formed. Friendships that over the years, have transcended the title friend and become family. Growing up in Paramount was safety and security for my friends and me, not because our neighborhoods were safe, but because we had each other. 

Not much is expected from children of The Hood. Yet, there is so much good that has come from the very people whom others might consider the most unlikely people to succeed. Paramount and Paramount High School have birthed West Point grads, major league baseball and football players, community leaders, stellar teachers, highly decorated veterans, nurses and doctors, police officers... all people who give back to their community. 

One of our own

And perhaps most important of all, in an under-privileged, underdog community, Paramount has produced whole families who value marriage, children and education. We, the underdogs, have overcome our circumstances. 

My Paramount days were a lot of years ago. Some of us remain and some have moved away. When asked by out-of-staters, "So, where'd you go to high school?" those of us who've moved away answer, "Paramount High School," with a little chuckle because we know the question-askers, upon hearing our answer, have stars in their eyes as they associate our Paramount, our PHS, with the glitz and glamor of the famous Paramount Studios and think we were children of privilege. In a way they're right. We had something dear and precious in having each other, something that to this day makes us family, and you can't put a price tag on that.

Feb 2012

Cherished friends

Flashback: Feb. 2008

This blog has been in the works since late 2007, five years ago. Yeah, I'm a little slow. Back then my life was in major upheaval. For some reason, I write most when life is painful, so I did a lot of writing then. And now that I've finally found the nerve to actually post my writings, I've decided to pepper my here-and-now posts with some flashback posts once in a while. So, here's my first flash-back post. Written in February of 2008.

This life, what happens while living it, how my character and integrity are tested, my refinement through each and every fire, my willingness to submit to the process (which at times is excruciating and unrelenting), my ability – no my decision – to trust God in all things is what is really at stake here. It, above all else, is what matters here on this earth. "... Choose this day whom you will serve..." (Josh. 24:15) In my head, I know this. I’ve read it. I’ve done Bible studies on it, read books about it (okay, parts of books about it). And yet...

Self-preservation comes out in big fashion during grief and I don’t just mean the grief of losing Ray. Grief has visited me on another monumental scale - second only to the loss of Ray - and I find myself grappling with it on a daily basis. It refuses to let go, and it hurts.

We all know not to filter our quality of life through our circumstances. Filter it rather, through our identity in Christ. Yeah, right, tell that to the woman who just lost her husband in a horrific traffic accident. Tell that to the man who fought with everything in him to save his wife from the deadly cancer that took her life anyway. Tell that to the mommies and daddies who are left to tell their children their mommy/daddy will not be coming home. Tell that to the children who will never see their parent again. And make sure to tell it to the spouse who’s been cheated on by the one who vowed to love, honor, cherish and, oh yeah, be faithful until death parted them. 

What makes me think, I can possibly rise above my circumstances and glorify Him? Who do I think I am anyway? And therein lies the question, the answer and the dilemma.

It’s really so elementary, so simple. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Phil. 4:13) and “...if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” (2 Cor. 5:17) Though, I can, you can, we can, live to glorify Him in all things, simple does not equate to easy. We can. But as elementary and simple as it is to grasp the concept, to know the Truth... living it out day-by-day, where the rubber meets the road, where emotions and pain collide with faith and hope, there at that fork in the road is where we must find the strength to hold on to Him… no matter what. No matter how much pain I’m in, no matter what earthly and flesh-driven ‘relief’ may appeal to me at any given moment. No matter what. Period. No excuses. "... Choose this day whom you will serve..." Indeed.

Struggling to grasp this concept, and really not so much even the concept (theoretically speaking, I can certainly agree this is Truth), but living it in my daily walk. Living it with my children. Living that life of godly character and integrity when life is threatening to overtake me – there is the true test. And so, how am I living?

I’m not proud to say that more often than I care to recall, I succumb to the pressures. In those moments, I want to pull away from everyone, including those who need me most – my kids. And when it’s really bad, I just want to run! No kidding. The feeling is so real, I can barely stand to be anyplace at all. I just gotta get out of here – wherever here is, whatever situation here finds me in. I want to flee. And there is a part of me that really believes that if I could just run, I would actually be able to find peace somewhere, anywhere, but here.

And yet, here is exactly where I am. Here is where I am expected to live a life that will glorify Him. Yes, even when here is the very last place I want to be, the very last place I ever imagined I would be. Here, if I choose Jesus, is where my integrity and character are grown and tested, purified. Here is where I choose how I will respond, who I will glorify. Will I trust Him with my pain and emptiness or will I create a bigger mess by trying to quench it with the things of this earth? I don't know if there's ever been a point in my life where I feel weaker and more vulnerable than I do now.

Over these last 3 1/2 years, to varying degrees here is exactly where I’ve been. And now, when it seems the tidal waves that have threatened to destroy me are finally subsiding, now is when I feel the faintest, weakest, most vulnerable. Now is where I find myself feeling utterly exposed. Now, here, I feel as though the fight has been knocked out of me. It’s gone. I am desperate. But that is an entirely private matter, and it is odd. On the one hand, these last 3 ½ years, I have learned that I am stronger than I ever thought I was. No doubt. On the other hand, and running parallel with that knowledge, is the very real knowledge of my depleted state. The very real knowledge that my heart is absolutely starved, unprotected. Now is when I find myself longing, searching, struggling. Now, perhaps more than any other point in my life, I need the Lord to intervene miraculously.

Divine Set-ups

We own a timeshare week in Lake Tahoe. For over 10 years when California was home, it was our yearly vacation spot, our weekend get-away. We loved it there. The last time I was there was May 2004, with Ray, celebrating our 16th wedding anniversary. A month later he died in a car accident.

We have not been back since. For close to eight years, I have avoided this spot. Like. The. Plague. For all the progress I've made in my grief journey, this place was somewhere I simply could not return. I think something in me wanted to keep it frozen in time. And I was pretty sure my heart might never be ready to resurrect it and release it to new memories, new life.

Then, in January, my daughter, Alexa, turned 18, and I wanted to take her away on a mom/daughter trip to celebrate. A couple of free airline tickets and our timeshare resort made this easily affordable. I had it all planned out: I would exchange our week in Tahoe for somewhere on the West Coast. We both love the beach. It would be perfect! With a three month window of time to work with, plus the fact that it wasn't "prime" beach season, this would be easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. I called to make the arrangements only to find that, in that whole three-month window there was nothing available along the entire California coast. As a matter of fact, in the entire state of California, the agent on the line informed me, there was only one place available. Yep, it was our timeshare. Really? Right then and there I knew the Lord was squeezing me. Of course.

My heart heard Him. It's time. I thought, maybe this is exactly what I need, what she and I need. I was pretty sure Alexa would be thrilled and for her I could do this. For her I would do anything. I took the week (and only later realized, we would be in Tahoe the week of Easter Sunday).

Late Wednesday, our plane landed in Sacramento, CA, our familiar home of 17 years. We drove in darkness and arrived at the resort late. We were in a time warp. Everywhere she and I turned, our minds' eyes saw vacations from years gone by. Our hearts' ears hearing the echos of a voice long-silenced. It was beautiful. It was good. It was happy, sad. It was hard.

We settled in and, as we reminisced about old memories, we began making new ones. Both, gifts.

We'd planned to ski that Friday, but when Friday came neither of us had the desire to make it happen. Instead we did what girls do. We shopped. We bought a dress for her upcoming high school graduation. In Tahoe. How appropriate and right.

Saturday was a cruise in Emerald Bay, then a drive around the lake. Toward the end, we decided we could not be here and not ski. The next day was Sunday, our last day in Tahoe, and suddenly we knew we had to ski.

Sunday morning we donned our ski gear and got on the slopes of Heavenly Mountain, our familiar ski home. As Alexa and I shooshed down the slopes she'd skied as a child, with her daddy close by her side cheering her on, we revelled in the crisp mountain air flowing through our hair. The view was utterly breath-taking. And eight years later, this view, as familiar as the blood coursing through my veins, was being seen through different eyes. Here we were, in this memory-filled place, so precious to our hearts that it borders on sacred, and something that had been lost the day Ray died, was being resurrected and reclaimed; something dear to us. Something I still can't put a label on or name, but that I know in my heart was precious gain.  And in the midst of it all, God was breathing renewal into parts of me that I didn't even know needed renewal.

Eight years later, on the 8th day of April (in the Bible, eight is the number of new beginnings), it's Spring, Resurrection Sunday, we're on Heavenly Mountain, and magically, on this lovely, snow-covered mountain, at 10,000 feet, Alexa sees a newly emerged butterfly stretching its wings. Suddenly, my Father was revealing more of His divine set-up to me. Tears flowed, fogging up my goggles. I needed these simple, yet profound confirmations from Him. God-breathed kisses of new beginnings, of release, of resurrection, of new life. It was time. It was long-since time. And God knew it was here, on Heavenly Mountain, where so much goodness from my old life resided, that I could receive it fully. I was overwhelmed. God, You are so good! Thank you, for divine set-ups.

Most Girls Like to Talk

It's not like I'm letting the cat out of the bag here. And for those who know me, it will come as no surprise that I am one of those girls. They've been subjected to my out-loud-thinking too often to think otherwise.

I talk to myself. I talk to my husband, my kids, my friends, my computer, my car, other drivers -- who can't possibly hear me, even if I wanted them to (I usually don't). And when I'm not talking out loud, as in lips-moving-sound-coming-out-of-my-mouth talking, I'm think-talking. Women do this. And no, it never stops; even if our lips aren't moving.

My daughter and I, my friends and I, can and do find endless things to converse about. What's not to say?! There are people to love, problems to solve, ventings to vent, clothing, coffee, cookies, grace and mercy to discuss and gush about how grateful we are for Jesus in our lives (this also happens with cookies and coffee, just not with the weight of eternity). We like to process, revisit and then process again.

I've even found (purely by accident, of course), that thinking out loud often embarrasses my kids. Who knew?! When it happens, I have to giggle to myself because they suddenly become the parent: "Maaaammmmmhhhh! Sssshhhh! People can hear you! Do you realize how loud you're talking?" And I, the child, secretly think: Duhhh, of course I do, that's why I'm doing it.

Talking about everything under the sun isn't generally an issue for boys. Boys aren't so much talkers as they are doers. I have seven sons and one husband (stating the obvious). Boys see and do. It's very stream-lined. That whole processing thing is generally just a waste of time, getting in the way of the doing of a thing. Although, I have to say that out of seven boys, I do have two talkers. The difference here is that my talker-boys are not summarizer-boys. When you ask most boys how their day was, you're lucky to get a belch with that, "fine." My two talker-boys will tell you stories about their day until the crickets are chirping. Still, because I know what I know about boys not being talkers, I listen (or at least try to listen) with interest. I figure that this way, when they're grown and married with children, we'll at least know a little about two of our boys' lives.

My late husband, Ray, used to say that I say things other people only think. Sometimes it was a compliment (at least I think it was). Other times he was making a point. Personally, I have times I'm glad I gathered the chutspa to say whatever-it-was-I-thought-needed-saying. These are the time when people tell me they were "so glad you said that! Someone needed to!" But, as often as not, sometimes I find myself wondering why in the world I felt that particular whatever "needed" to be said, because in hindsight maybe it didn't.

Sometimes, I say things I shouldn't say. Sometimes, they needed to be said. Sometimes, not so much. Every now and then my brain gets to be the boss of me.