Lately I, like many others, have begun to feel a little stressed about how much I have to do. A turkey to roast, Christmas gifts to purchase and mail, a checkbook to balance...and New Year's Day will bring the pressure to resolve to do better in the next year.
However, I have also come to realize and am coming to grips with the fact that none of us will ever feel as if he or she is finally on top of everything. Our ducks will never be in a completely straight row. We'll miss the occasional dot of an "i" and be too tired to cross that "t." And I think it's meant to be that way.
The Bible says we are made of dust. So why do we feel that we need to have the perfect Thanksgiving centerpiece, work out at least 3 times a week, regardless of whatever may arise, and keep to our regimented schedule of housecleaning?
Structure is a good thing. But the sooner we realize that we are not superhuman, the better we'll feel. And I think we'll then have more energy to attack those tasks. Plus, I think God wants us to understand that we can't achieve perfection on our own. Some people may think of this with frustration. I embrace the thought with relief.
In light of these thoughts, I feel much better in my skin and my mind is more at ease. I'm happy with my imperfection.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Monday, November 07, 2005
The Closet Wookie
Recently I learned something I didn't know about my husband. Through three years of marriage (eight years as a couple), he had managed to keep a tight lid on his condition. Oh, there had been some signs. I should have known. Little did I know that my in-laws' cleaning out their attic could be such a significant turning point.
My husband is a Star Wars nerd.
Looking back now, I can see the symptoms. At the mention of anything Star Wars-related, my husband's eyes would brighten like a light saber. One Christmas, my mother-in-law gave him the Star Wars trilogy. Occasionally, his parents mentioned his Star Wars toys in the attic, and he would rattle off the names of a couple of the spaceships and characters. A country song by Mark Wills called Nineteen Somethin' that came out a couple of years ago included the line "Saw Star Wars at least eight times." My husband really related to that song. Of course, most of that is because that song is a tribute to the decade of the 80s, and my husband's love of everything 80s is so vast that it would require an entire other blog post. And sure, we went to the movies to see Episode I. But none of these events revealed the whole truth.
A couple of weeks ago I came home to find my husband in his parents' garage. (They live down the street.) They had cleaned out the attic. My father-in-law handed me a photo of himself and his little son, now grown into my six-foot-tall husband. My mother-in-law showed me numerous Pony League football jerseys and Little League baseball pants. There was even a wolf costume he'd worn in a school play. It was a nice, normal moment in time of nostalgia and reminiscence. Then out came a white metal popcorn can, the kind with a handle. It had his sister's name on it, so I felt absolutely no threat at its appearance. However, it held the secrets that had been locked away all those years in the attic. Hans Solo, Princess Leia, R2-D2, C-3PO, Yoda--they were all there. But I know their names. You'd have to be a total doofus not to know their names. But there must have been dozens of characters in that bucket of whose names I have no recollection. But my husband identified each one as he pulled it out, even giving biographical information about some of them. Eventually my mother-in-law handed him the boxes that housed the spaceships. He greeted each of those by name like long lost friends. Later, the artillery of the Star Wars clan was discovered, and he stated the name of each weapon as well as which weapon went with which character.
To be fair, I must note here that I did play with Barbies as a child. But I don't remember their Mattel-assigned labels. (Okay, I do recall that one was "Peaches and Cream Barbie.")
I sat for some time in the garage in the still air of that Texas autumn evening with my mouth hanging open. Troubling thoughts began to invade my Star Wars-impaired mind. Who was this man? Was it safe to procreate with him? Would our firstborn emerge from the womb with Wookie hair and powers of the Jedi?
Later we went home sans Star Wars paraphernalia. My sweet, normal husband was back. At least until the Target brochure came in the mail a week ago with Darth Vader Pez dispensers, among other Lucas creations, on its cover. I hope someday to learn more about this world he loves so dearly. But for now, I just don't quite get it.
My husband is a Star Wars nerd.
Looking back now, I can see the symptoms. At the mention of anything Star Wars-related, my husband's eyes would brighten like a light saber. One Christmas, my mother-in-law gave him the Star Wars trilogy. Occasionally, his parents mentioned his Star Wars toys in the attic, and he would rattle off the names of a couple of the spaceships and characters. A country song by Mark Wills called Nineteen Somethin' that came out a couple of years ago included the line "Saw Star Wars at least eight times." My husband really related to that song. Of course, most of that is because that song is a tribute to the decade of the 80s, and my husband's love of everything 80s is so vast that it would require an entire other blog post. And sure, we went to the movies to see Episode I. But none of these events revealed the whole truth.
A couple of weeks ago I came home to find my husband in his parents' garage. (They live down the street.) They had cleaned out the attic. My father-in-law handed me a photo of himself and his little son, now grown into my six-foot-tall husband. My mother-in-law showed me numerous Pony League football jerseys and Little League baseball pants. There was even a wolf costume he'd worn in a school play. It was a nice, normal moment in time of nostalgia and reminiscence. Then out came a white metal popcorn can, the kind with a handle. It had his sister's name on it, so I felt absolutely no threat at its appearance. However, it held the secrets that had been locked away all those years in the attic. Hans Solo, Princess Leia, R2-D2, C-3PO, Yoda--they were all there. But I know their names. You'd have to be a total doofus not to know their names. But there must have been dozens of characters in that bucket of whose names I have no recollection. But my husband identified each one as he pulled it out, even giving biographical information about some of them. Eventually my mother-in-law handed him the boxes that housed the spaceships. He greeted each of those by name like long lost friends. Later, the artillery of the Star Wars clan was discovered, and he stated the name of each weapon as well as which weapon went with which character.
To be fair, I must note here that I did play with Barbies as a child. But I don't remember their Mattel-assigned labels. (Okay, I do recall that one was "Peaches and Cream Barbie.")
I sat for some time in the garage in the still air of that Texas autumn evening with my mouth hanging open. Troubling thoughts began to invade my Star Wars-impaired mind. Who was this man? Was it safe to procreate with him? Would our firstborn emerge from the womb with Wookie hair and powers of the Jedi?
Later we went home sans Star Wars paraphernalia. My sweet, normal husband was back. At least until the Target brochure came in the mail a week ago with Darth Vader Pez dispensers, among other Lucas creations, on its cover. I hope someday to learn more about this world he loves so dearly. But for now, I just don't quite get it.
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