Hope & Inspiration

Yeti of a Day

/ lauden322 / Leave a comment

Yesterday I had a yeti of a day. You know, those days that snowball into an avalanche of disappointments, mishaps and frustrations. And to be honest I’ve been having a yeti of a year.

2020 has hit me hard, and I’m sure a lot of you can relate. I haven’t written in what feels like ages (months I know). I’ve dealt with health stuff, a long and tough deployment, an upheaval of life (quitting a career I loved and moving to a new city), an extra tough real estate market, the loneliness and isolation that is COVID and the daily challenges of a toddler.

Now back to my day yesterday. It started with a rejected offer on a home. We have been searching for months. And we were hopeful on this one. We offered listing price the day it hit the market, but were later told a higher offer had come in. We’ve put in multiple offers on multiple homes, only to be queued up with other buyers and sellers wanting highest and best offers, almost always over listing price. Another roadblock…

Meanwhile, my husband is on a work trip to the eastern bloc. He started his new position in Indy months ago and I’ve been back in the ‘Burgh with a toddler 24/7/5, with two days off on the weekend. I didn’t get my days of this week, no reprieve for my sanity. My fuse is short.

Then the little stuff started snowballing in…

An erroneous Amazon order was delivered. I had ordered ground coffee and they sent me whole bean. I hadn’t been to the grocery store in over a week, my daughter and I have been down with a summer cold for several days. I was completely out of coffee and counting on this order for more mommy go-go juice.

My solution, order groceries for pickup. My fridge had been scant for days. The only pickup times available were in the evening. The 6-7 pm block was the only option with a toddler bedtime fast approaching. As my pickup window neared, I received a message that my order was delayed but would be ready later in the night. I was now facing no morning coffee or a missed toddler bedtime. Neither is a good option for an exhausted momma.

I’m trying to decide what to do about my grocery pickup while washing milk cups. Meanwhile, baby girl goes in and out of the house to her water table on the deck. It’s the only thing that has kept her attention for more than two minutes all day. I leave the door open for her, as the kitchen fills up with flies. I pull the swatter from its resting place. Swat…first fly down, but with it goes down a succulent plant from the window sill that I caught the corner of the swatter on. The pot empties, soil is all over the counter, all over the drying rack with clean milk cups and down into the sink. Shit I yelled. Shit, shit, shit. And Freya chimes in shit, shit, shit. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Okay, I wanted to cry. Later that night I dreamed of a Bigfoot chasing me. I had had a yeti of a day.

Now, let me preface this by saying I often dream of yetis when things get tough. They’re one of my biggest fears. When I was a child, my sister Sarah’s favorite movie was Harry and the Hendersons. She saw the comedy in it, but it just caused me to have bad dreams. Nightmares of yetis chasing me through woods of falling timber. It’s been one of those recurring dreams that pop up when things get tough.

This morning when I woke up, I knew I needed to let yesterday go. The yeti had to go.

I turned to my Bible app on my phone. Days and nights like these need encouragement, a clean heart and a calm mind. I spent a few waking minutes with Him. I prayed for the yeti to get off my back, knowing God is so much bigger.

Today has been a challenge too. Things haven’t seemed to let up lately and I guess that’s something I have to deal with. Yeti days come and go, but I just have to remember I’m never alone with a Bigfoot.

Trust in him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge. —Psalm 62:8

A Bite of Humble Pie

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I anxiously scanned charges on my bank app in disbelief. Damn, I thought, my husband’s bank card must have been swiped through a skimmer. Three large charges—much larger than the commissary snack purchases appearing every few days—glared back at me. I futilely tried to make sense of the foreign words detailing them.

I took a quick screenshot, circled the amounts in a vivid red and quickly sent my husband a picture message. “Are these charges legitimate”? “No, I don’t think so”… he messaged back a short while later.

I found myself immediately fretting about the money and the headache I faced disputing fraudulent charges from halfway around the globe.

I will forever be a “financial worrier”. As a young child, my mother supported our family of four on a meager secretary’s salary, while my dad attended medical school in California. We often relied on the kindness of family, friends and church members who lovingly gave boxes of hand-me-down clothes, food and housewares.

It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I finally felt like we had reached a middle class lifestyle. My husband and I live comfortably, but the nervousness I felt regarding money growing up “poor” has remained.

On a phone call later that afternoon I inquired again about the charges. My husband recanted, “yes, those charges are right, I made a couple of ATM transactions,” he said. I instantly wondered why he needed that much money, as he is on an overseas military deployment. Frustration slowly began to creep in. “He should know we are on a budget,” I vexed to myself. I recently took a hiatus from my art director career and admittedly fear relying on just his income, even though the numbers easily balance in our favor each month. I became angry.

Then he began sharing about the migrant workers he encountered pumping gas, cleaning bathrooms, and making a meager wage. He described the elderly men from places like the Philippines, India and Bangladesh working humble jobs in the more affluent middle-eastern nations. He went on to say, “I pulled out extra money so that I am able to tip well…I want to help them.” At that moment my heart began to beat a little faster, my ire dissipated. I was left only with love for my husband, his golden heart, and a big bite of humble pie for getting angry.

You see, my husband—who necessitates no accolades for HIS sacrifice and the hardships of a deployment—only ever wants to give more. He is the guy who buys your coffee if you’re lucky enough to pull up behind him in the Starbucks drive-through. He is the guy who walked down the street to buy me breakfast when I didn’t care for the menu at the vegetarian restaurant he chose. I thought he had gone to the restroom—I watched as his food grew cold before he returned. He handed me a bag with some strips of bacon, but I definitely ate humble pie that day too. And later, at that same cafe, he flagged our waitress over and discreetly motioned to the people whose breakfast he’d like to buy…a single mother, a young family, an elderly couple…

After spending a few years as a military girlfriend and now wife, I believe there are two types of people who join the armed forces—those with the heart of a warrior and those with the heart of a servant. My husband has the latter, and it is one of the things I love most … he undeniably has the better heart in our marriage and I guess that’s a bite of humble pie I can bear to swallow.

“And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.”
—Hebrews 13:16

Love,
L.N.

the write dish

/ lauden322 / 2 Comments

Growing up, my mother had a set of china she only brought out for special occasions. As a child I anxiously awaited the days deemed special enough for the good dishes—holidays, birthdays and family visits. I remember tracing the patterns with delicate fingers, noting their fragility, a delight to my tactile senses.

A number of years later, I found myself on the sales floor of a Macy’s picking out a china pattern for my wedding registry. Of all the things I wished for, it was the dishes I wanted most. I got a few pieces as gifts, and my mother lovingly purchased the remaining place settings I needed to complete my set.

My beautiful dishes were carefully placed on display in a dining room hutch. Often, I found myself stopping to admire them, but only served a few meals on them. Sadly, the dishes were packed away in a box for more years than I care to admit.

Life happens—amid the chaos of a number of moves and cramped quarters of a couple apartments, my life didn’t seem “good” enough to unpack the china. I wasn’t “good” enough for the china. You see, through the lens of childhood nostalgia, I believed china was only for those “special” days and special people. As I’ve gotten older and lived a little more, I’ve come to realize every day is special. Sure, some days are much better than others, but life itself is worth the china. I’m worth the china, each and EVERY day.

A couple years ago, I decided to unpack my dishes and use them—truly use them. Do they still seem fragile? Yes, but it wouldn’t be life-altering if I broke one. Do they still seem special? Yes, special enough to make my heart flutter a little when I pull them out of the cabinet and only eat leftovers on them. Are they just dishes? Yes—but to me they are so MUCH more.

Love,
L.N.

I’ve entertained starting a blog for awhile now and finally decided why not. I played with some ideas for a name, but nothing seemed quite right. I got my inspiration for the Write Dish from a set of old china in my cabinet I use almost every day…