Almost Anything Can be Made Better with a Hotdish

Photo by Sarah Dibbern

Photo by Sarah Dibbern

During Lent, I’ve been re-reading The Celebration of Discipline by Richard J. Foster. The book is divided into three parts. Part one focuses on the inward disciplines of meditation, prayer, fasting and study. Part two illuminates outward disciplines of simplicity, solitude, submission and service. And part three defines the corporate disciplines of confession, worship, guidance and celebration.

  Last week, I posted some thoughts about mediation and prayer. Today, I’ll share my ponderings about service.

Before you rake your fingers through your hair in exasperated frustration because you’re already overcommitted to several organizations, foundations, PTA projects and chaperoning your kid’s school field trip, and you don’t want me guilting you into any additional tasks, Foster aticulates these feelings and states that many of us would surely prefer that being a good Christian were more about radical and ascetic self denial than service of the foot washing variety. “Please God, just let me have less to do,” we plead.

The author even points out our propensity toward self-righteous acts of service when we do agree to volunteer. Service concerned with “big gains on ecclesiastical scoreboards and external rewards versus true service motivated by whispered promptings and divine urgings, service ministered simply and faithfully because there is a need.”

Why is true service considered a spiritual discipline? Something we should practice during Lent and throughout the year? Because, as Foster notes, service is one of the only ways to develop humility, a virtue that is never gained by seeking it. Service also puts us at odds with our (at least my) tendency toward sloth, idleness and self-centeredness.

When we hold the stem of a straw to the lips of a dying nursing home resident to offer a sip of water or dip into our mad money to  help an impoverished family pay their rent or get down on our knees to help tie a dozen pairs of shoes at the kiddo’s preschool program, we begin to realize how blessed we are–all of us only an inch or a breath away from being so utterly dependent–and how everybody matters to God. These moments open our eyes. We see how God can work through us to make His world a better place, His Kingdom Come…

Photo by Sarah Dibbern

Photo by Sarah Dibbern

I’ve worn those frantic volunteer shoes; signed up to make coffee at church, to host dinners and bible studies, to teach Sunday school and pack meals for needy children in faraway lands. I’ve checked these items from my good-girl to-do lists and patted myself on the back for a job well done. Of course these are all good and useful acts of service. Don’t misunderstand. But for me, they don’t compare to the struggle of trying to minister to an angry and depressed teenager whose parents are getting divorced or wheeling a stroke victim from his breakfast table to the lavatory, his clothes covered in toast crumbs and dribbles of milk.

IMG_1966These are the humbling acts of service that garner no glory, that prove we’re not so special because we cannot offer physical or psychological healing or set anyone’s world right. We can only struggle to “bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”

It is also true when we flip it and realize there is, at least according to Foster, service in being served. He says, “It is an act of submission and service to allow others to serve us. It recognizes their “kingdom authority” over us. “We graciously receive the service rendered, never feeling we must repay it. Those who, out of pride, refuse to be served are failing to submit to the divinely appointed leadership of the kingdom of God,” Foster says.

I recall once feeling pained when a friend told me she wished her neighbor wouldn’t shovel her driveway because she didn’t want to be indebted to him. Imagine if we demanded the poor or the infirm to repay our acts of service. This sounds outrageous because it is. It would be cruel and diminish an act of charity to an abusive act of tyranny. And yet, are we so much better than those less well off that we should pride-fully refuse an act of service?

No. Simply say thank you. Return the gesture if you can. But let’s please dispense with keeping track. Service isn’t about balancing the scales. It’s about heaping the scales with kindness so as to cause them to sag low to the ground and eventually break open, drenching the world in Christ’s compassion.

What are some ways we can begin practicing the spiritual discipline of service?

  • Listen to those whispered promptings and divine urgings. It’s not enough to gratefully think, “Thank God that’s not me.” Do something. Bear one another’s burdens.
  • Send someone a handwritten note, a nice email or a prayer card. Maybe choose a random name from the prayer page at your church. It only takes a few minutes and can be so cherished.
  • Be hospitable. Invite people into your life. Don’t fuss. Keep it simple. Order pizza or take-out if you don’t like to cook. Be impromptu. Be open-minded.
  • Shovel a neighbor’s driveway. Offer to babysit. Drive someone to the pharmacy.
  • Offer to pick up items from the store. If you’re like me, you’re at the store a half dozen times a week. It can’t hurt to throw and extra quart of milk into the basket for a homebound friend.
  • Coach youth sports or teach Sunday school. Trust me. These days, most kids don’t need experts so much as reliable adults who make a point of showing up!
  • Drop off a meal or prepared foods to those having a rough go. When I was on bed rest while pregnant with one of our sons, a sweet woman from our church, whom I’d never met before, brought me a box of Danish. I later met the woman’s grown daughter and shared the story. And although the mother had brought me Danish and not a hotdish, the daughter said this amazing thing; “My mom thinks anything can be made a bit better with a hotdish.”

Can I get an Amen?!

Standard

Meditation Isn’t Just for Hippies

Lent. The Christian season of introspection and repentance. And for more than a few worshippers at our church in Minnesota, a favored time of year with an added mid-week service preceded by soup suppers. Savory soup flavors warm winter weary souls. We dine together, our church family. We break bread and build relationships as we anticipate spring and the explosive joy of Easter.AshWednesday

As a means of centering my mind during Lent, I’m re-reading Celebration of Discipline, The Path to Spiritual Growth by Richard J. Foster. I plan to share in a series of blog posts some personal thoughts about what I re-discover in this book, as I take a mental journey along the Via Dolorosa during Lent.

In the beginning of his book, Foster describes our world’s desperate need, not for more intelligent or gifted people, but for deep people. Already. On page one. I stand accused and guilty of striving to become something the world doesn’t need. That is what the repeated practice of spiritual disciplines like meditation, prayer, fasting, study, simplicity, solitude, submission, service, confession, worship, guidance and celebration are for, “liberation from the stifling slavery of self-interest and fear.”

The book goes on to illuminate what spiritual disciplines are not. The practice of the disciplines should not be a practice in will power as this can too easily become “will worship.” Foster says, “Will worship may produce an outward show of success for a time, but in the cracks and crevices of our lives our deep inner condition will eventually be revealed.” Our deep inner condition is a need for Jesus. Practicing spiritual disciplines help to reveal this need and draw us closer to the One who fulfills that need.

This is why it saddens me that Angelia Jolie chose to footnote the final chapters of Louis Zamperini’s life story in her movie adaptation of the bestselling book, Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand. In the movie we get to see the incredible triumph of Zamperini’s will power in the face of tremendous adversity. But when he is ultimately exposed in personal weakness, in need of a strength he cannot drum up on his own, he turns to Jesus, the source of life. And only by the hand of the Almighty, not by his own will power, does this hero truly overcome the darkness of his inner condition. Sadly, moviegoers are short-changed of a depiction of this life-saving end of the story; something only readers of the book are truly privy to.

So I must occasionally pinch myself when speaking of the disciplines so as not to slide into any impression that I’m attempting to strengthen my will power. Foster evokes the apostle Paul when he says, “A farmer is helpless to grow grain; all he can do is provide the right conditions for the growing of grain…” So it is with practicing spiritual disciplines. It helps to provide the right external conditions for an internal transformation.

The early chapters of Foster’s book are on meditation and prayer. In recent years, I’ve taken to developing some ritual mediation and prayer during air travel. I flew on an airplane for the first time when I was 7 years old and have flown regularly for vacations ever since. In my 20s, I flew frequently while employed full-time for a financial services firm. Air travel never bothered me. But then, there was a trip via a small commuter aircraft over a California mountain range in a rainstorm. I clutched the inner rim of the plane’s small window for lack of an armrest to grip onto as the plane lurched upward and downward and swung side to side like a pendulum at the end of a creaky chain. Once we landed, I scurried down the little steps, grabbed my carryon from a nearby rack and raced inside, soaking wet. I called my husband but could hardly speak. Instead, I cried.

I still force myself to fly even though it frightens me. I buckle my seatbelt as tight as it will go and meditate during take off and during any bouts of turbulence. I work to relax my neck and shoulders. I concentrate on breathing. I focus on the “x” in the illuminated exit sign. I pray. I often order a drink.

The spiritual discipline of meditation and prayer is not that. It is not rooted in fear. It is not an exercise in self-control or a means of tricking your body and mind into a state of calm. Christian meditation is about learning to hear and obey the word of God. And in a culture saturated in busyness and noise, learning to be still, to be quiet, to focus on creating what Foster calls an “emotional and spiritual space that allows Christ to construct an inner sanctuary in the heart” is of increasing importance.

By this reasoning, maybe teaching children to sit quietly in church is more gift than penalty as the practice can pave the way toward learning how to be a more contemplative person. But what example do we set when we cannot even drive our cars or sit in a restaurant without checking email, texting friends or making to-do lists? A friend chuckled when sharing a story about having to sit for 20 minutes in a doctor’s office. She had this overwhelming urge to check email on her phone. “I’m a second grade teacher,” she says with a smile. “I think I can delay checking email and sit quietly for 20 minutes.”

My plane ride ritual can act as a guide if I flip it toward a proper purpose. I find the attention to a relaxed body and breath is productive to the spiritual discipline of meditation. A quiet space and a regularly carved out allotment of time are also useful. Reflecting on a bit of scripture can be helpful. Sometimes, focusing on just one word for several minutes can bring about a change in me. Words like forgiveness and joy are like rare gems held carefully in my upturned hands of receptivity.

I recite a Psalm or the Lord’s Prayer, pausing to consider the meaning and implication of each line. I focus on the names of people in my life in need of prayer. Sometimes, I follow up with a handwritten note of prayer for each person. I mail it to them, so they might be blessed in knowing someone has been praying for them.

Visual artwork, poetry and all of creation can serve to help us experience the wonder of God’s presence and peace. Foster quotes Ignatius of Loyola’s encouragement to apply all of your senses to the task. “Smell the sea. Hear the lap of water along the shore. See the crowd. Feel the sun on your head and the hunger in your stomach. Taste the salt in the air. Touch the hem of His garment…”

It is Lent. A season of introspection and repentance. I often say it is my daily goal to live a useful life. During Lent, I will meditate on what that means to me–not becoming more intelligent, knowledgeable or well-known–but more like Christ. What will you meditate on today? I encourage you to immerse yourself into the practice of spiritual disciplines and prepare your heart and mind with me as we strive to become part of what the world needs, deep people.

Standard

Saying I Know All the Words to “Rapper’s Delight” Would Be a Lie…

Children lie. Mostly to cover up wrongdoing and avoid consequence. But they can also tell tall tales, elaborate stories of adventure, imaginary friends or monsters in the closet. This is all pretty normal and according to experts, tends to subside when kids get to grade school and their peers become more discerning. It seems we figure out rather quickly that getting caught telling a fib is rarely worth the thrill of our lie being believed. Plus, hopefully, most parents are instilling values in their children such as character and the importance of being honest.

Even so, elaborating details, exaggerating our experiences or flat-out bullshitting can be a constant temptation for many, be it on a resume, in conversation or in online dating profiles. I recall making small talk with some guy in college who’d lost a lot of weight. I complimented his efforts and he attributed his success to working out at a particular gym. I knew where the gym was. I’d driven by it a few times. But, for some reason, I was compelled to say, “I work out there too.”

Most folks would likely let a comment like that slide. This guy did not. He furrowed his brow, drew back his chin and straight up said, “you’re lying.” You can imagine the sputtering back peddling that ensued on my part. I don’t think that guy ever spoke to me again.

Why did I do that? Was it some attempt to show solidarity or empathy? Was it a fear of appearing uncool because I didn’t work out? Who the heck knows? Suffice it to say, he did me a favor, cemented in my mind, that lying is often unnecessary and almost always inexcusable. Since that day, I’ve been extremely cautious about letting any whiff of a little white lie escape my lips and I’m dubious of anyone whose breath smells too sweetly of exaggeration.

We all have a responsibility to tell the truth. But those in positions of power shoulder a greater responsibility because their lies, even if told few and far between result in the segmenting of society and fueling an unhealthy cynicism.

It seems the 1960s era counter-culture mantra of “don’t trust anyone over 30,” has become immersed into the American psyche. Those who were once considered pillars of society are squinted at with a distrustful stink eye of a grizzled cowboy with one hand on his holster. Distrust of doctors has led to a divisive anti-vax, herbal remedy sub-culture. Distrust of clergy leaves lost souls floundering for a moral compass. Distrust of educators divides parents and is a disservice to mostly underprivileged students. Distrust of government feeds the beast of crackpot conspiracy theories and ongoing gridlock. At the top of this heap of skepticism sits a smug anchorman at his news desk telling us to be afraid of everything and everyone.

We have been inundated with hyperbolic newscasts and sound bites often served up with little context or perspective. We are trained to fear, to question everything and everybody, well except those whose ideologies align with our own. We often give those folks a pass, even if what they’re serving smells a lot like a hot pile of steaming… “cabbage.”

Swallowing lies is unhealthy. But being unable to discern the truth is worse as it starves us of community and unity and pits people against each other out of fear.

And now, in a nauseating irony, one who’s worked so diligently to seed our suspicions is himself suspicious. And to what end Brian Williams? To make yourself seem “cool” like when I lied about going to the gym? Being caught in my lie was humiliating enough without it being broadcast on TV. Millions of people weren’t counting on me to deliver truth during the nightly news. Would the weight of that responsibility combined with a few years of maturity have influenced my behavior, prevented me from blurting out something so unavailing and plainly untrue? I’d like to think so. I’d also still like to think it’s possible to teach my children that some people in positions of authority can be trusted. Maybe that guy from college should teach a mandatory ethics class, slam any potential embellishments back down to earth with a terse, “you’re lying.” But the future probably depends heavily on mamas telling their aspiring doctors, lawyers, teachers, pastors and news anchors that character is crucial for the future of our once civilized society.

Standard

All Washed Up

Photo by Sarah Dibbern

Photo by Sarah Dibbern

Growing up, my family would typically go to my Aunt’s house for holiday dinners. I remember looking forward to spending time with my cousins, three girls around my age. We always had a grand ole’ time laughing and playing together. I didn’t even mind helping out with the dishes after dinner although I remember being shocked the first time my Aunt insisted I help her daughters with this task.

I was a guest, or so I thought ever so indignantly. If doing the dishes was their chore, I wondered why I should have to help.

My Aunt didn’t see it that way. She saw it a bit more like, “Get up off your butt and get in there and help.”

Fair enough. Respect your elders and all that jazz. It was still girl time and we were in it together. Plus, I’ve come to appreciate the lessons my Aunt tried to teach me about good manners.

But it’s not clear from my current research on the topic that offering to clean up after dinner is always considered good manners. According to Emily Post’s Book of Etiquette, (a resource I turn to more often than you can imagine because I can never remember which side of the plate the blasted forks go on) “Guests should not insist on helping to clear the table or wash the dishes. If the dinner is formal, or you are somewhat of a stranger, you should not even make the offer. At a more casual dinner, you may ask, “Can’t we help clean up?” But if your hostess says, “No,” don’t pursue it. And only when you are dining with closest friends or relatives, whose kitchen habits you know well, should you try, unobtrusively, to load the dishwasher.”

This guideline works for me. Although please note that Post says nothing about offering to help in the kitchen being a requirement. And here’s another caveat regarding the close friends/relatives category… Why does it seem that only female friends and relatives are expected to help in the kitchen? Emily Post doesn’t explicitly say this but it’s been my observation that some perfectly well-functioning husbands and sons can rinse a dish in their own home but at a friend or relative’s house, they lose all inclination to help clean up after a meal. They just stumble off in a food coma to some area of the house to watch TV or discuss the weather while the women clean up the dishes–in 2015!!

But then, I wonder, do I ask enough of my own sons? They are expected to help set and clear the table at home, empty the dishwasher and occasionally wash glassware they’ve used in our rec room kitchenette. But I don’t ask my sons to clear the table or wash dishes after a meal served at anyone else’s home. Nor have I ever expected other people, let alone their children, to clean up after dinner at my house. And truth be told, I kind of resent being expected to do so by others. To my mind, offering to help is polite but not offering to help isn’t necessarily impolite. And being aggrieved when someone doesn’t offer to help might be the epitome of a discourteous hostess.

But I digress. More to my point, should I be more like my Aunt when it comes to expecting perfectly capable young people, regardless of gender, to make an effort to clean up after a meal at someone else’s house? Should other parents be asking their kiddos to help clean up after a meal at our house?

I remember a friend who was once flabbergasted when her college-age son returned home on break and would pile up his dirty dishes on the counter like one would on a conveyor belt in a student cafeteria. She was frustrated that he didn’t rinse his dishes or attempt to put them in the dishwasher. Bewildered, I asked if his behavior had changed since going off to college. Was college life somehow ruining all the good habits she’d instilled in him? But she said, “no.” He was never expected to do dishes while living at home. But she assumed he’d matured enough to figure it out. Wait. What?

I’m not waiting. I want my sons to have a basic understanding before leaving home about what’s expected in regard to kitchen detail. But what exactly is expected of anyone? And also, I want to be the kind of mom who occasionally takes care of her sons in a way they’ll appreciate and maybe even long for someday. So must I always insist they clean up their own mess? Where’s the line? Is there a line? And which way do the friggin’ forks go in the dishwasher??

Standard

My Life As a Reality Show Contestant

IMG_2701

Ropes Course “Survivor”

The hubs and I used to be big fans of the television show, Survivor. We’d often joke while watching, that if we were ever contestants on the show, we’d most certainly be voted off the island in the first episode. Not for lack of knowledge or skill to survive the elements on the hubs’ part. He’s physically fit and is a good leader. But his strong personality and inability to be deceitful or mask his distain for stupidity would make him the kind of cast member that other contestants, and probably viewers, love to hate on that show. He’d be gone for sure.

Same goes for me, minus the part about any appreciable knowledge, skill or physical fitness. I’d whine my way back to a hotel room before any real discomfort or hunger befell me. (Our combined forces would surely self-destruct on The Amazing Race.)

But The Apprentice seems to require a different skill set. I peeked at this program recently while channel surfing. Indeed, it’s one of those train-wreck programs that pit narcissistic personalities in power struggle situations. That draws viewers in. But it’s not the reason why I think I’d be more successful on this show than those involving feats of strength and a bikini body. In fact, after watching only one episode, I may be inspired to use the show’s premise as a bit of motivation in daily life.

Here’s why:

  • Strong leadership is rewarded instead of seen as a threat.
  • Tyrants and egomaniacs don’t necessarily rule the day. (Except for the show’s host, Donald Trump of course.)
  • Tasks are assigned instead of things being left up to individuals to determine what needs to be done.
  • There are time constraints. Procrastinators will fail.
  • It’s fairly obvious to other contestants and viewers when someone fails to complete a task or executes poorly.
  • It’s difficult to build secret alliances.
  • Teamwork and team building are useful concepts.
  • It’s not easy to fly under the radar or be a half-hearted participant.
  • Assuming responsibility for your mistakes is honored even if it means getting fired.

So the next time I find myself longing to lounge under a blanket and sulk about my long to-do list, I might imagine I’m a contestant on The Apprentice. Instead of fretting about a particular task, whether it’s meeting editorial deadlines, fundraising for the kid’s activities, organizing an event, grocery shopping for a dinner party, managing the finances or scheduling doctor’s appointments, I’ll aim to be a results oriented leader with a positive attitude. Cause that would make for better TV. Now if only I could arrange for hair and makeup before I get started…

Standard

How a Young Feminist Got Played

Our youngest, a seventh grader, had to interview the hubs and me as part of a school project. His questions included the normal stuff, “Where do you work?” “Where did you grow up?” etc.

But he also inquired about our favorite childhood toys. Oh the nostalgia of pondering what entertained you as a kid. And having your child assigned to ask about such things gives parents an excuse to prattle on about the good ‘ole days while the offspring are “forced” to act interested.

I thought for a moment, mentally scrolling through my memory banks in search of favorite toys. There was the Baby Alive that ate real baby food and soiled real diapers, that is until my cousin jammed a crayon down its throat. Baby Alive gagged on this early introduction of solid food and died soon thereafter. Plus, my box of 64 colors was permanently short a blue violet.

R.I.P. Baby Alive

R.I.P. Baby Alive

Then there was my Barbie Star Traveller Motor Home that I used to take Barbie pretend camping. But having actually lived in trailer park made a toy motor home seem less aspirational than say, a Barbie Dream House.

Barbie Star Traveller

Barbie Star Traveller

Later in life, the hubs and I would camp quite a bit, about which another cousin once remarked, “You spend your whole life working to not be poor. But isn’t camping like pretending you’re poor and calling it a vacation?” Never thought of it that way, but I suppose she makes an interesting point.

So I guess, when pressed, I’d have to say my favorite childhood toy was my Bionic Woman action figure. Remember Lindsay Wagner as Jaime Sommers on the 1970s television show, The Bionic Woman? That show was my first introduction to the notion that women could be badass; that women could not only fight their own battles, but also could be counted on and called upon to help others who are in dire straights.

A toy more badass than Barbie.

A toy more badass than Barbie.

As someone who was raised by a single mother whose heroic adventures included juggling childcare while going to college, becoming a registered nurse, obtaining a driver’s license near the age of 30 and buying a house all on her own, it’s no wonder I was more drawn to the idea of a bionic woman than a fashion model who pretended to be poor.

My Bionic Woman action figure also came with some sort of high-tech computer station play set. It had these rubber cables that plugged into my toy’s bionic arm and leg. It had charts and graphs that I would imagine displayed readings of her increasing levels of strength. I proudly told my son that this beloved childhood toy of mine was pretty much a pioneering female Project Lead the Way education project.

But then, he did a Google search to see for himself if such a toy existed. The search revealed that the bionic play set I was so fond of and believed to be a groundbreaking toy for aspiring young feminists everywhere was actually called the Bionic Beauty Salon. What the…?!

You've got to be kidding me.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Standard

Sometimes Paradise is a Hot Shower and a Snickers Bar

IMG_2679The hubs and I are in our 20th year of marriage. The actual anniversary date is still a few months off. But on some days, leading up to the big day, I find myself pondering in amazement…20 years… that’s a long time.

Our 20th year together is in many ways much easier than our first. Even though that first year was filled with adventure, romance, travels and fewer responsibilities, we were still figuring out the difference between what we expected from marriage and what was really in store.

It was during that first year of marriage, that the hubs accompanied me on a “working” trip to Hawaii and I discovered how expectations could sabotage an adventure.

The island of Kauai is everything I imagined it could be. Lush, mossy green mountains set a backdrop to a tropical island paradise dotted with palm trees and resort hotels. It was a brief trip and we didn’t know if we’d ever get another chance to return; so we crammed activities into every free moment. We played golf. We snorkeled. We took a helicopter tour of the island complete with a booming Yanni soundtrack playing in our earphones.

A view from our helicopter tour of Kauai.

A view from our helicopter tour of Kauai.

Each experience made me delirious with joy. Except… the hike.

The hubs overheard other hotel guests discussing a hiking trail that led to a waterfall. Waterfalls are his jam. We’d already been on countless hikes on other trips, through the Canadian wilderness in search of la chutes d’eau. The French word made him laugh and the triumph of finding a tucked away falls made him behave as if he’d summited a great mountaintop. And word was, that people were swimming under these secluded Hawaiian falls. We simply had to check it out.

It was said to be a three-mile hike. In our estimation, the trek would take around an hour and we would be frolicking under a waterfall like newlyweds in a romantic comedy.

That afternoon, we drove to the trailhead at the end of a road located near a deserted beach, parked the rental car and set out on our adventure. I expected to get some exercise, take pictures of some beautiful scenery and be back at the hotel in time for dinner. I brought along a backpack containing a jacket, a beach towel and a water bottle.

IMG_2682After about an hour of ambling along a dirt path through an island jungle, we began to get thirsty. It was warm. The water went quickly. We hadn’t thought to bring extra water, snacks or a flashlight for such a short jaunt. We shrugged off the minor discomfort of thirst and kept walking. Lots of hikers passed us. They were heading in the opposite direction, each telling the hubs we were almost there and that reaching the falls was totally worth the trip. These comments stoked his determination and fueled his ability to tune out my rumblings about getting tired and hungry.

We’d surely covered the estimated three miles and yet, no waterfall. The farther we traveled inland, the muddier and slipperier the path became. My stomach growled. The hubs checked his watch. He knew we needed to allow enough time to hike out before it got dark. We picked up the pace.

Finally! We reached a sign. It was the 3-mile marker. The destination we thought we’d been aiming for. But, no. This was not the spot where young dreamers would discover a jungle paradise. This was just a sign informing us that we’d reached the path that would lead us to the waterfall in approximately two more miles. What?!

We’d been misled. Deceived. We thought the trip would be easier. We weren’t prepared for this abrupt change of plans. Not fair.

I wanted to go back. But in the distance we could hear a faint sound; a spilling flow of water. The hubs begged me to press on. But we’d need to go faster if we were going to make it back out in daylight. He led. I followed. I whined. I slipped on muddy rocks. I couldn’t go faster because my mental capacity had been pre-set for what I’d believed would be an easy excursion. The hubs kept checking his watch as we marched deeper into the trees and brush. A steady stream of wet hikers passed us, heading out. “You’re almost there,” they’d say. I lost count of how many people told us we were almost there.

We reached a ravine. We’d have to hike down, cross over some boulders and logs in a stream and hike up the other side to continue. It was beginning to dawn on the hubs that continuing was unwise. In the clearing it was easier to hear what we thought were people splashing under the waterfall. We walked a bit farther, thinking we must be almost there. We were not. We could now see the falls in the distance and realized we’d never make there in time.

This is as close as we ever got to the waterfall that day.

This is as close as we ever got to the waterfall that day.

Feeling famished and dehydrated we high-tailed it back toward the trailhead in the gloaming. We couldn’t hear water or people anymore. No other hikers came by. It was getting darker by the minute. We lost the trail for a bit. I was practically in tears, asking the hubs if he knew any divorce lawyers on the mainland.

We exited the tree line at sunset, trudged across the sand to the parking lot and plopped into the rental car in our muddy shoes. We drove back to the hotel in silence. I’d never been so grateful for a hot shower and a Snickers bar.

I later decided divorce would have be an overreaction, especially since the hubs ultimately chose my comfort and safety over his personal desire to get to that damned waterfall. Since then, we’ve been on longer, more difficult hikes with less drama. That’s partly because we are more careful about being prepared for contingencies.

But more importantly, I’ve learned that my mind can play tricks on me when I have a certain set of expectations and life has other plans. The trouble in Hawaii wasn’t entirely about lacking supplies since we were only three miles from civilization. It was that I expected the trip to be easier and that I wouldn’t be uncomfortable. My mind was unprepared to endure hardship. But endure we did.

Married life has not always been what I originally expected it to be. And sometimes we’ve been caught completely unprepared for a given situation or have been unsure about how to proceed. But by putting one foot in front of the other, periodically stopping to evaluate our errors in judgement, and being committed to going in the same direction–even if that means one of us needs to change direction–we’ve managed to travel through almost 20 years of life together.

Standard