The Gift of "No"

by Jewel Leann Williams

I’ve been up for a major promotion at work.  I’m talking several dollars an hour more, way more responsibility, with the ability (and expectation) to direct the efforts of several people. When I applied, I saw it mostly as an opportunity to make changes and bring the people around me into alignment with the vision of my department (and with my own work ethic).  There were downsides, for sure. I’d already had a career where I was responsible for a shift of people, and I knew it was significantly more stressful than just being accountable for my own work. The schedule was going to be worse for my family, but the pay would also lessen the strain on us. I knew that I was very well-qualified (10 years supervising a 9-1-1/dispatch center pretty much covers all the bases for supervision qualifications), but there were several people up for the job, all well-qualified.

Short story is, I didn’t get the promotion.  But, in subsequent conversations, I received an opportunity to do more of the things I enjoyed about supervising. When I worked in the police department, I helped with training, both new employee and continuing education. It was one of my passions there, and something I mentioned at length in my interview at my new company. I was given an opportunity to use those ideas and talents even as I was denied the big giant promotion. The more I think about it, the happier I am. It’s not the huge raise, but it’s also not the major jump on the stress-scale.

How many times do we receive this same blessing in life? We want, and feel we deserve, this big thing—whatever the big thing is. It’s different for everyone.  It could be a job, a marriage, an opportunity of some sort, a friendship, whatever the “thing” is. And then, we’re blessed with the “no” answer, only to find that there is something else. 

There’s that picture of the Savior holding a giant teddy bear behind his back, in front of a little girl who has a smaller bear. She doesn’t want to give her bear up, because she doesn’t know that the bear Jesus is holding is so much bigger.  I’d like to challenge that a little.  Sometimes, the bear is smaller. 

I'd love to credit this, but there are so, so many copies of it out there that I couldn't find an original attributed to anyone. If anyone knows where I can find the owner to attribute, let me know!!

Sometimes it’s not even a bear. Sometimes it’s a box of other, smaller things, things that have no relation to the bear.

Sometimes, it can be more like an IOU. We have to miss our little bear that we love, and have faith that the sacrifice of this thing we loved and treasured, or wanted and worked for, is going to be worth it.

The question becomes, do you believe in Jesus Christ. Do you believe what he says?

When he tells you that He loves you, and wants only the best for you, do you believe Him?

Do you believe that God is all-knowing? Do you believe that HE loves you?

If you do, then even while you mourn the loss of the “thing” you wanted, and you deserved, but that wasn’t for you, then you can look forward with faith that it will be made up for.

Sometimes, when you’re told “no,” you are instead offered something better right away.

Sometimes you get something different—I get to use my talents in a way that I’d not really thought I ever would be able to use them again.

Sometimes you are left with a hole, a wanting—there are mothers aching to hold children, men and women without wives or husbands, people without homes—there are as many yearnings as there are people in this world.

This time, I got something “less” that ultimately feels like “better”—but I have things I yearn for and will probably never receive, just like anyone. I have holes where I feel losses so deep sometimes it’s all I can do to not curl up on the floor and sob for days.

But, at the end of the day, I know that all things will—WILL—be made right. Not the “right” that I think is right with my myopic mortal vision, but truly right.

I know this, because I know that God loves me. I know that Jesus loves me. And I know that they’ve promised me that I will have everything they have. That all things will be for my good, if I will trust Them and follow Him.

And sometimes, the reminder of that, THAT is the gift that “No” brings to me.

On Mothering: Ma Vie En Rose (-Colored Glasses)

by Merry Gordon

I used to travel. That was before the kids (these days, just passing the Asian food section at the grocery store seems exotic). But back then, I had overheard enough wistful adult conversations about wasted youth to know I’d better take on the big, romantic world long before the grim reality of mortgage payments and stretch marks set in. By 16, I was hoarding copies of Travel + Leisure under my bed; by 18, my bags were packed.

My first destination?

PARIS.

Everyone comes to Paris with expectations, but mine were absurdly naïve. My France was a hodgepodge of fashion spreads in Elle, a Renoir pocket calendar and the Madeline books—oh, and that mildly dirty nursery rhyme involving naked dancing ladies and a hole in the wall. In the Paris I imagined, everyone wore berets and Dior and Chanel No. 5 and ate croissants in corner bistros. Paris was sexy, très chic. I stepped off the tour bus and took in my first view of the city.

It wasn’t the Eiffel Tower.

It wasn’t lovers kissing in a boat on the Seine.

 It was a naked man urinating into a cardboard box on a litter-strewn curbside.

Très chic, indeed.

Nearly everything about Paris echoed my first let-down. The Eiffel Tower was overpriced and crowded, the bread was stale, and I got insulted by a trio of sweaty French boys on the Champs-Élysées (at least I think I did—while I’m not exactly sure what they said, some gestures are probably universal). The Mona Lisa was small, and even a twilight cruise down the Seine was interrupted by a mizzling rain and Eurotrash techno thumping from the open door of a club.

I left disappointed, but eventually I got over Paris.

I got over myself a little too. I grew up, got married. My priorities changed. By 25, I was hoarding copies of Baby Talk under my bed; by 27, I was exhausted on a delivery table waiting to hear my newborn daughter’s first cry.

The nurse beamed down at me. “Congratulations! You’re a mommy!”

But once she handed me the discharge papers, it was like Paris all over again.

Expecting to jump right out of my hospital gown and back into my size five Calvin Kleins, I was shocked to find myself still shuffling around the house in my husband’s sweats four weeks postpartum. Having been assured by glossy La Leche League pamphlets that breastfeeding was both serene and natural, I was unprepared for round-the-clock feeds (involving six pillows and another pair of hands just to get the position right) and more howling on my part than on my daughter’s. And that whole Gerber baby thing? After a vacuum delivery, my precious newborn looked more alien than adorable. How was I supposed to fall in love with this lump of flesh that only had the capacity to scream, poop and projectile vomit?

But I did.

It started small. One particularly desperate night, I sang Pink Floyd because I’d run out of lullabies. About halfway through “Shine On You Crazy Diamond,” I felt that little head finally snuggle into my shoulder and my universe shifted. All those books and blogs, and nothing could have prepared me for the reality of parenting:  one moment you’re a chorus away from tipping the kiddo’s pacifier in Benadryl, and the next moment a milky sigh and the clutch of a tiny finger elevate you to a zen-like understanding of the cosmos. Powerful stuff, that.

I finally got it. It wasn’t like American Baby promised—I’d been up since 2 A.M., I couldn’t remember the last shower I took, and most of the pillow talk between my husband and I that week had involved our daughter’s stool consistency—but the moment was real and potent and entirely untranslatable in the airbrushed perfection of parenting magazines.

Because of my experiences as a mom, I think of Paris differently now. I was so obsessed with the Travel + Leisure version of the city that I got hung up on a couple of stale croissants; I should have been paying attention to the gypsy guitar player scattering those crusty remnants to the pigeons and singing “Hotel California” in broken English. And maybe I got harassed by a Gallic Casanova or two, but one of them did bear a passing resemblance to Johnny Depp. I burnt my finger during sightseeing? It was on a prayer candle I lit in some tiny, off-the-beaten-path medieval chapel I had ducked into to escape the drizzle. How could I not have noticed the beauty in that?

Parenting is just like Paris, all a thousand tiny unexpected moments that are imperfectly perfect—sometimes only in retrospect.

Every time I try to explain this to one of my non-parent friends, I feel a bit bad—not in a condescending way, but in a way that recognizes the inadequacy of trying to describe the indescribable. Wait a sec. So it’s not like the magazines? There’s screaming, and spit up, and sleep deprivation-induced hallucinations, and you’re telling me this is a good thing? That you’d go back and do it all over again?

Oui. 

Why I Stopped Watching Parenthood

by Mare Ball at  ADVENTURES IN THE BALLPARK

(Even if you've never seen Parenthood, you'll have an opinion about this post.)

When I first starting watching Parenthood a few years ago, Max had just been diagnosed with Asbergers, a form of autism.  This was an interesting and informative story line.  Our daughter teaches teens with Asbergers, and the show brought attention to this complex issue.
                                 

http://www.huffingtonpost.com

        
Other story lines included losing a business (Adam's), teen angst, the effect of divorce on Sarah's kids, a stay-at-home Dad (Joel), weary working moms, an out of wedlock grandson (Jamal), the emotional disconnection that sometimes occurs in a marriage of 30+ years (Zeke and Camille), and adoption.  I thought from the beginning, these characters were a bit shallow, but the story lines were significant.  They were true to life challenges.

Then...the show became more about sexual escapades.  Crosby slept with his nephew's tutor, ruining his chance for love and reconciliation with his son's mama.  Sarah began an affair with her son's teacher.  Zeke admitted to being unfaithful to Camile.  Adam became tempted by a young coworker.  Haddie, a teen, slept with her boyfriend for the first time.  Sarah broke up with the teacher and began a relationship with her coworker, which, of course, led to a sleepover.  Drew, just out of high school, got his girlfriend pregnant (she had an abortion.)  Amber fell for a young soldier, and the relationship quickly became sexual.  Enough, already, I thought.

The story line that kept me watching was Kristina's breast cancer.  It was real and touching and important.

Then, Joel returned to work, and his wife Julia became enmeshed in a male friend's marital break-up.  She eventually kissed the friend, causing Joel to leave her.  Later, Julia sought out the friend again; the viewer was left to wonder how far things went.  From the beginning, Joel and Julia's marriage was the only stable one on the show.  The writers must have decided a solid marriage was no longer worth writing about.

That's when I decided, with some disappointment, I needed to quit watching.  My final viewing was the season finale, where Haddie brought home from college her lesbian girlfriend.  I almost laughed.  The writers apparently wanted sexual freedom to be represented across all avenues. 

I thought of the scripture verse that tells us to focus on things that are "good and pure and holy."  I just began to feel sleazy after soaking up an hour of Parenthood.  I don't want to feel that way anymore. 

I'm making no judgments about those love Parenthood, or the Kardashians, for that matter.  God gave us free will to make choices about what we allow into our minds and hearts.  I'm making a choice for myself. 

So, goodbye Braverman family.  We shared some good times, but I need to move on.

p.s. Do you watch Parenthood?  What are your thoughts?

It Stings

by Cheri Chesley

Wednesday night, I went to bed feeling pretty much on top of the world. I'd made so much progress on The Wild Queen, and the publisher had The Tyrant King. All I had to do was write, edit and submit The Lost Princess and my first book series would be complete.

Then I got up Thursday morning and checked my email.

My editor wrote me. While she likes the story, she feels there are too many things wrong with it at this point to move ahead with publishing. She'd gladly look at it again if I address these issues and resubmit. This isn't a rejection, really. It's a "we saw some issues you may want to fix" notice.

It still stings. But it didn't really come as a surprise.

I let myself get caught up in my schedule for this year, and didn't take the time to hear back from my beta readers before sending it off to the publisher. I like the story a lot--the problem is I knew it wasn't perfect. I just figured it would be "good enough."

Yeah, I know. Kind of ironic since one of my Goodreads reviews bashes my publisher as the "only publisher in Utah who will publish anything." Not. :)

This is not the end of the road. It's a setback, clearly, and will mean some restructuring--not only of the story, but also of my schedule. Some things will have to be changed. Some things will have to be put off. Some things will have to be given up.

First things first: I'm finishing my edits on The Wild Queen this week and getting it to my newest beta reader. While she's looking it over, I'm going to work on fixing The Tyrant King.

Don't count me out, yet. :)