What has happened to basic common courtesy in our generation? Can't really blame it on technology, but it's not the fault of an inanimate object that you can't be a person on of your word. I am surrounded by people who say they will do something but don't. Or people who won't commit because they want to keep their options open. Or think it's ok to bail at the last minute when others are counting on them.
When I first told my friends that we might be moving to Texas, I told them that part of what has been building on mine and my husband's hearts is the feeling that we're living in a place where everyone is just too busy. Busy working, busy playing. Either way, just too busy to be bothered. We did live for three short years in a cul-de-sac where most of the kids played like I imagined it used to be (or maybe exists in other cities). They just ran around outside and climbed trees and rode bikes and used chalk to draw parking places or tracks, or jumped on a trampoline. It was organic connection within a community. We had many spontaneous cul-de-sac parties where everyone just brought out whatever drink or food might be shared by the neighbors. And it was pretty easy (not perfect of course), no plans to be kept, no schedules to be checked before making a date.
As a pretty type-A person by nature, I was also raised by my parents to be reliable. I try to be a person of my word. "Let your yes be yes and your no be no."
So, flakes are my number one pet peeve. I will say that I've consciously had to suck up my frustration with flakiness over the years. I understand sickness, broken down cars, and unexpected mishaps. But in truth, most people are just selfish. What matters more is what's convenient to you than any commitment you made to me.
And maybe this where technology can be blamed for aiding and abetting. Before texting or emailing, you couldn't cancel at the last minute without at least a person-to-person phone call.
As our move becomes reality, I am understandably emotional and sensitive. The more people we tell about our move, the more who say, "we really need to get together before you go." Most, I understand are merely saying it because it's the expected thing to say. I just nod and say, "we should." I may even suggest a location or a day to which I usually receive a vague reply.
I love making plans and being with people I love, but I've become cynical in the past few years. Even my best friends and family are guilty of being last minute cancelers. I've adjusted my own hurt feelings to be the better person, but in my heart, I don't really want to be treated as less important or as a constant "I'll get back to you" but you don't. It was probably because you forgot or got caught up in something else or really just didn't have the time. But I'm a grown up. I've handled my share of rejection and heartache. The scars have shaped me into a wiser and hopefully more understanding person than I was in the past.
Today, however, the Mama Bear has come out. My sweet ten year old daughter has been hurt. Her eyes were the ones welled up with tears over the thoughtlessness of another.
And it was an adult.
When I emailed the group of girls that she played with at her school to notify them all that she would not be back next year due to our move, I received a handful of well wishes and "we'll miss your family." Two specifically, asked for one last playdate. So I threw out the option of a day & time at a familiar park. Both mothers responded with cheerful "yes, that day works."
So, a week later, the day approaches, and we rush around to plan our timing around the upcoming playdate. We packed popsicles in a cooler to share with the girls and any siblings who came. And as the hour before approached, I received an email from one girl's mother saying her daughters woke up sick and she felt terrible canceling by email but didn't have my number. Disappointment flooded as I knew my daughter would be sad about this particular girl. But we headed to the park anyway, knowing she would at least get one goodbye for closure to this chapter of her life. I sent a text to the second mother, letting her know we were 5-10 minutes late but headed to the park. As we approached the park, I heard the text notification. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. Sure enough, as I parked the car and glanced at the text, I read "Oh my gosh, I'm lame! Totally forgot about today." And then proceeded with excuses and a request for my daughter to instead play tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm staring at my daughter sitting on the swings while she's waiting with expectation. Tears of sadness (and truthfully, weighted by PMS hormones) fill my eyes as I know I'm going to have to tell her that no one is coming to say goodbye.
I walk with pained steps to greet her at the swing. I'm so sorry, honey. She isn't coming. Her mom forgot and since they live forty-five minutes away and she has a doctor appointment this afternoon, they can't just come late. Her lip and eyes give her away, and I try to hug away her disappointment. We leave the park and return home to put the popsicles back into the freezer.
With this fresh betrayal, I am ready to fling it all in boxes and hit the road. Forget the next three weeks of scheduled camping, parties, and playdates that remain. Most will probably not even bother to show up, right? Are we really just "forgettable" people? Do we all have too many friends, acquaintances, plans, that we can't balance our calendars? Those calendars that are built into our phones with alert reminders to tell us the day before, or the minute of? As little pieces of our hearts will continue to be bruised as we exit this life we've built here in North County, I'm going to cling to the hope that lives outside myself or my friends. For I know that I've done my share of disappointing and heartbreaking. And I'll choose forgiveness and love. Deep breath. Over and over. Seventy times seven.
"Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them, for then you will have no reward from your Father who in heaven." He knows that my intentions are pure. Help me "bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you." Give me strength to be the person I'm called to be.
And for those of my friends reading this, who are wondering, did I do that? Probably not. But maybe. I still love you.
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
#6 A Place Called Waco
We headed to Waco to see what the job was really all about and whether we could see ourselves living in a place that caused most people we told about it to wrinkle their noses or guffaw in disapproval.
As we flew into the two gate Waco airport, we saw green below and the winding Brazos river as it touched along farm land and giant patches of trees. It was truly a serene beginning to our explorations, nothing like the explosion of tightly packed Mister Roger's looking homes and harbor side downtown skyline as you fly into San Diego airport. We stepped of the plane ready to bolt since we knew our delayed flight was arriving past when the car rental counter would be open. We charged out of the gate area into a single room with one luggage belt and a long counter with two rental car company logos. Oh, here we are! We secured our rental - it was an itty bitty Fiat - yup, in the land of Texas trucks, we were given a matchbox. Maybe the girl behind the counter thought it was more "California" for us?
By the end of that first night, I felt mostly unsure. I didn't feel anything. It all felt a little unsettling. Definitely different. We ate dinner at a chain Mexican food place that seemed to be busy and we were handed a flashing pager. We sat down for our estimated fifteen minute wait that turned out to be just three! In the restaurant, we noticed lots of families, a number of UT and Baylor t-shirts and hats, and very few cowboy hats or boots.
On day two, we drove to church. What better way to get a sense of the community? I'd looked up online ahead of time where I thought we might find "our crowd." It was a non-demonational church - not too big or too small. We misread the start time and wandered around the neighboring area to kill some time. We saw a mix of housing, gigantic colonials to seemingly dilapidated shacks - many built in the early 1900s. All were sharing lots with giant oaks and green grass that lined the streets.
We returned to the church and sat down near the back and prepared ourselves to scrutinize the worship. We attend a musically gifted church, to say the least. Neither of us are qualified musicians, but I'd call us hard-to-please. But as it began, we were both a little surprised. There was a real familiarity to the voice and appearance of the worship leader. As my husband leaned over to whisper that he could have passed as the son of one of our favorites back home and the popular Christian artist Phil Wickham, I couldn't help but giggle. Then the pastor who spoke began with a passage in Acts where Paul describes that he was leaving his familiar people and it was a "tearing away" because it was a deep connection, but one that God had called him to leave. The tears welled in my eyes. I felt a strange pang in my stomach that I forced away. We stayed an extra ten minutes after the service to sit through the visitors' introduction they offered in a side room. We walked away feeling a peace that we could call this church home. Not that we would, of course.
Afterwards, we drove around to get familiar with the area. We walked around downtown and discovered that true to a smaller town, most shops were closed on a Sunday. It was quaint and there was evidence of old and new. A sense of revitalization in the form of hipster coffee shops and bars, alongside family diners, and historical buildings - some abandoned, some small movie theaters or antique stores. I felt a kinship growing. I could feel us falling in step with this slower pace of life - something still yearning for growth but not going too quickly. We drove by the old suspension bridge and the Fixer Upper silos under construction.
That night, I went to bed with a mix of confusion, fear, and hope. I don't think I could've explained it if I tried.
On Monday, we met a realtor. She was mix of Texas hospitality, charm, and down-to-earth mother of two boys. She drove a Mercedes SUV and worked for Magnolia (owned by Fixer Upper's Chip & Joanna Gaines). I don't think this is what I expected out of Waco. We explored about seven or eight homes in different areas and mostly with a lot of work needed - true Fixer Upper candidates.
Dinner that night was with the hospital director and his wife and a doctor and his newlywed wife. We were greeted in the restaurant and started discussing a camp that the director had just returned from dropping his son at - a post high school camp geared at helping fledgling adults decide what their Christian worldview meant to them personally. For a minute, I had an out of body experience. Wait, weren't we here to talk hospital and hips and knees with a side of building up our confidence in this city? By the time we were into our meal and past the prayer & introductions, we were knee deep in conversations about the housing market and our kids and homeschooling vs private school and coyotes snatching tiny dogs. There was medical talk at the end of our two hours, but it was a necessary connection that gave my husband a glimpse of what the work priorities & ethics of this organization and its doctors were. I'll admits that when I heard "It's a bad day when I'm home after 5 o'clock," my heart gave a leap.
We drove home in a torrential downpour that could have washed our tea cup auto off the interstate, but we were on a cloud of curious wonder at that point.
My husband spent the next day at the hospital meeting everyone there, including the CFO and CMO, a rare sighting in his SoCal digs. I toured about ten more homes and when we met up later that afternoon, he was pretty enamored with the hospital and its people.
We spent two more nights at the quaint Cotton Palace B&B. It was a place of rest and beauty and delicious breakfast with a side of Waco hospitality in the form of its sweet owner and its breakfast companion in the form of former Baylor baseball coach Dutch Schroeder. He gave us a mix of the "good and the bad" while we gleaned a deep sense of community from him and the other visitors at our table.
By the time, we headed home, after spending one more evening at a casual dinner at the newlyweds home, we were sure we had a serious decision on our hands. One that would cause us to change more than just our ocean-view address.
As we flew into the two gate Waco airport, we saw green below and the winding Brazos river as it touched along farm land and giant patches of trees. It was truly a serene beginning to our explorations, nothing like the explosion of tightly packed Mister Roger's looking homes and harbor side downtown skyline as you fly into San Diego airport. We stepped of the plane ready to bolt since we knew our delayed flight was arriving past when the car rental counter would be open. We charged out of the gate area into a single room with one luggage belt and a long counter with two rental car company logos. Oh, here we are! We secured our rental - it was an itty bitty Fiat - yup, in the land of Texas trucks, we were given a matchbox. Maybe the girl behind the counter thought it was more "California" for us?
By the end of that first night, I felt mostly unsure. I didn't feel anything. It all felt a little unsettling. Definitely different. We ate dinner at a chain Mexican food place that seemed to be busy and we were handed a flashing pager. We sat down for our estimated fifteen minute wait that turned out to be just three! In the restaurant, we noticed lots of families, a number of UT and Baylor t-shirts and hats, and very few cowboy hats or boots.
On day two, we drove to church. What better way to get a sense of the community? I'd looked up online ahead of time where I thought we might find "our crowd." It was a non-demonational church - not too big or too small. We misread the start time and wandered around the neighboring area to kill some time. We saw a mix of housing, gigantic colonials to seemingly dilapidated shacks - many built in the early 1900s. All were sharing lots with giant oaks and green grass that lined the streets.
We returned to the church and sat down near the back and prepared ourselves to scrutinize the worship. We attend a musically gifted church, to say the least. Neither of us are qualified musicians, but I'd call us hard-to-please. But as it began, we were both a little surprised. There was a real familiarity to the voice and appearance of the worship leader. As my husband leaned over to whisper that he could have passed as the son of one of our favorites back home and the popular Christian artist Phil Wickham, I couldn't help but giggle. Then the pastor who spoke began with a passage in Acts where Paul describes that he was leaving his familiar people and it was a "tearing away" because it was a deep connection, but one that God had called him to leave. The tears welled in my eyes. I felt a strange pang in my stomach that I forced away. We stayed an extra ten minutes after the service to sit through the visitors' introduction they offered in a side room. We walked away feeling a peace that we could call this church home. Not that we would, of course.
Afterwards, we drove around to get familiar with the area. We walked around downtown and discovered that true to a smaller town, most shops were closed on a Sunday. It was quaint and there was evidence of old and new. A sense of revitalization in the form of hipster coffee shops and bars, alongside family diners, and historical buildings - some abandoned, some small movie theaters or antique stores. I felt a kinship growing. I could feel us falling in step with this slower pace of life - something still yearning for growth but not going too quickly. We drove by the old suspension bridge and the Fixer Upper silos under construction.
That night, I went to bed with a mix of confusion, fear, and hope. I don't think I could've explained it if I tried.
On Monday, we met a realtor. She was mix of Texas hospitality, charm, and down-to-earth mother of two boys. She drove a Mercedes SUV and worked for Magnolia (owned by Fixer Upper's Chip & Joanna Gaines). I don't think this is what I expected out of Waco. We explored about seven or eight homes in different areas and mostly with a lot of work needed - true Fixer Upper candidates.
Dinner that night was with the hospital director and his wife and a doctor and his newlywed wife. We were greeted in the restaurant and started discussing a camp that the director had just returned from dropping his son at - a post high school camp geared at helping fledgling adults decide what their Christian worldview meant to them personally. For a minute, I had an out of body experience. Wait, weren't we here to talk hospital and hips and knees with a side of building up our confidence in this city? By the time we were into our meal and past the prayer & introductions, we were knee deep in conversations about the housing market and our kids and homeschooling vs private school and coyotes snatching tiny dogs. There was medical talk at the end of our two hours, but it was a necessary connection that gave my husband a glimpse of what the work priorities & ethics of this organization and its doctors were. I'll admits that when I heard "It's a bad day when I'm home after 5 o'clock," my heart gave a leap.
We drove home in a torrential downpour that could have washed our tea cup auto off the interstate, but we were on a cloud of curious wonder at that point.
My husband spent the next day at the hospital meeting everyone there, including the CFO and CMO, a rare sighting in his SoCal digs. I toured about ten more homes and when we met up later that afternoon, he was pretty enamored with the hospital and its people.
We spent two more nights at the quaint Cotton Palace B&B. It was a place of rest and beauty and delicious breakfast with a side of Waco hospitality in the form of its sweet owner and its breakfast companion in the form of former Baylor baseball coach Dutch Schroeder. He gave us a mix of the "good and the bad" while we gleaned a deep sense of community from him and the other visitors at our table.
By the time, we headed home, after spending one more evening at a casual dinner at the newlyweds home, we were sure we had a serious decision on our hands. One that would cause us to change more than just our ocean-view address.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
#5 Identity Crisis
In the past year, we'd been spending a lot of pillow talk on the possibility that maybe this place wasn't where we wanted to raise our children. Even though we have great friends and a great church and a school that our kids actually like, none of it seemed quite right. Our closest friends just weren't as close - we were all busy educating our children in different school settings, making new circles of friends, and playing different sports, and starting new hobbies. We have a lot of amazing people in our community, but maybe blaming it on being the introverts we are, we didn't feel a depth with most of them. It's started to feel like most people (ourselves included) here are working their tails off while trying to project through social media that it's all worth it. And in the end, will our kids be able to sustain a life here when they're adults? Maybe all these thoughts and questions in all sincerity were just God pushing deeply at our cores to cause us to position ourselves in a listening posture for what He was about to do?
We toyed around with living in other similar vacation spots - Florida, Hawaii, the Carolinas. But nothing was quite right - either the job, the education options, or the weather.
Somewhere in the middle of this search for identity, I'd been handed a book by "accident" to read - it was Jen Hatmaker's Interrupted - When Jesus Wrecks Your Comfortable Christianity. From the first pages, I knew I was headed for mind-altering "Jesus is gonna shake my world up" thinking. Her questions centered around asking God for a "holy passion" that could be directed into a calling that could never be mistaken as "predictable or boring." I started the book in January and closed it again soon after out of fear of what I felt moving in my heart.
My husband had breakfast with a close friend and mentor just before the Texas offer presented itself. He and his wife have raised three incredible triplets who are all about to be twenty-one. He was talking about their choice to raise them here in a loving home about a mile or so from the beach. He admitted that they loved their hometown and the memories they gave their children, but he also said something that he might even forgot he'd said. He said, "I'd choose adventure every time." Hmmm, adventure? For me, adventure is not jumping out of airplanes or being chased on safari. It's always been more like feeling like God is opening seemingly crazy doors for our family into something unexpected and walking through them holding hands.
That's where we're at right now. Holding hands, and going back to visit Waco one more time on an invite from the specialty department and their families. They want to meet us, take us out to dinner, and of course, talk to him a little more. They want us to see if we can imagine ourselves living there. We want to see if we can imagine ourselves living there. We want to hear God's still small voice saying, "yes, you can do this, and I will make it more than you can imagine" or "no, this is just the first step in where I'm leading you, but thanks for listening and following my lead."And so we follow the path of adventure, filled with trust, and a good mix of feelings between overwhelmed, excited, and cautious.
We toyed around with living in other similar vacation spots - Florida, Hawaii, the Carolinas. But nothing was quite right - either the job, the education options, or the weather.
Somewhere in the middle of this search for identity, I'd been handed a book by "accident" to read - it was Jen Hatmaker's Interrupted - When Jesus Wrecks Your Comfortable Christianity. From the first pages, I knew I was headed for mind-altering "Jesus is gonna shake my world up" thinking. Her questions centered around asking God for a "holy passion" that could be directed into a calling that could never be mistaken as "predictable or boring." I started the book in January and closed it again soon after out of fear of what I felt moving in my heart.
My husband had breakfast with a close friend and mentor just before the Texas offer presented itself. He and his wife have raised three incredible triplets who are all about to be twenty-one. He was talking about their choice to raise them here in a loving home about a mile or so from the beach. He admitted that they loved their hometown and the memories they gave their children, but he also said something that he might even forgot he'd said. He said, "I'd choose adventure every time." Hmmm, adventure? For me, adventure is not jumping out of airplanes or being chased on safari. It's always been more like feeling like God is opening seemingly crazy doors for our family into something unexpected and walking through them holding hands.
That's where we're at right now. Holding hands, and going back to visit Waco one more time on an invite from the specialty department and their families. They want to meet us, take us out to dinner, and of course, talk to him a little more. They want us to see if we can imagine ourselves living there. We want to see if we can imagine ourselves living there. We want to hear God's still small voice saying, "yes, you can do this, and I will make it more than you can imagine" or "no, this is just the first step in where I'm leading you, but thanks for listening and following my lead."And so we follow the path of adventure, filled with trust, and a good mix of feelings between overwhelmed, excited, and cautious.
Monday, July 27, 2015
#4 True Confessions
I will admit I have an addiction. I am addicted to home improvement shows. I grew up going into open houses with my parents which led to constant dreaming of what might be our next home. It was fun. And disappointing. But still fun. Then that cable channel HGTV opened a whole new world of showing other people looking at houses and actually buying them! So, by the time I'm actually a grown married woman, I can't wait to buy, renovate, and decorate my own fixer upper. Speaking of Fixer Upper...there's this show. Have you heard of it? It's actually called Fixer Upper, and it's where this hilarious couple Chip and Joanna Gaines help the non-Davidian, non-biker gang members but still actual Waco, Texas residents buy and fix up sad homes. But it's not the homes and it's not just that these homes range in price from $25,000 to $400,000, but it's the fact that these two in just the matter of a year, draw people into their world of silliness and obvious mutual affection for each other, their four little children, and their menagerie of animals. And instead of watching homeowners struggle with DIY renovation disasters, here was a show that showed "experts" doing it all for these people who were a part of their community - they went to their church, or taught or had gone to the nearby university (Baylor) Chip graduated from. And each of these homes was idyllic - an urban farmhouse, reinvented shabby chic styling with Texas sized flair. But seriously, it's still Waco, right?
Well, one day, out of the blue (which happens pretty easily thanks to world of email and technological inventions of networking sites like Facebook or Linked In), my husband received the typical recruiter contact for a job in his specialty in - you guessed it - Waco, Texas. He forwarded me the email because he thought it was funny, and he knows I love Chip and Jojo. (He loves Chip too and actually watches to see what funny thing he will eat, say, or do next.) I had literally just posted to my Facebook page the day before a shared link of Joanna Gaines sharing how she listened to God guiding her over the years into her calling. It caught my attention beyond the who was saying it and felt that WHAT she was saying resonated deeply as it was the same topic that I'd been studying and searching God for in my Bible study small group. One of the women on the teaching team at our church had been speaking about looking at our passions as women and seeing where God wants to use that for our Calling. Well, my passions are writing and dreaming about home decorating (insert Pinterest addiction phase here). This heart searching and sharing of my passions in my small group led to God bringing a woman into my life who wanted me to write a book of her life story. Every word of it has brought me to my knees over how God orchestrates everything, even the craziest outwardly appearing messes for His future plans. It's an amazing story that covers everything from San Bernadino to Austria and to the beaches of SoCal, even including an appearance on The Bachelor (hers, not mine). But you'll have to buy the book.
Anyway, here I am heading down the path of book writing and chasing my calling through my passion. But I'm still thinking in my head (which is hard because when I'm writing in my bedroom, there is a lot of freeway noise outside my open window - no air conditioning, remember?) but where are we CALLED to live? What is God calling us to do? We've realized that our hopes of buying a house here in North County San Diego is not really an option (winning the lottery probably won't happen since we don't buy tickets and neither of us has the hopes of some inheritance coming our way) and this stinking noisy rental with electrical outlets that only sometimes work and will probably catch the house on fire from their sparks isn't really a longterm living situation. I mean we are 40 years old now - did I say that yet? Oh yeah, we are officially mid-life crisis mode. We've got uninvited back pain, need reading glasses, and can't seem to ever fit into the size jeans we used to. Oh wait, that's just me at 40. My husband is an amazingly fit triathlete who rides his bike at least 50 miles a week and runs 10 miles just for fun. But his mid-life crisis looks more like wondering will he be able to give our children a stable home to remember instead of all these places we've hopped around to? And how will he be able to make it to their school events if his commute gets any longer and he already doesn't get to see them more than an hour or two most weeknights? Oh, and that "perfect" job he's been at for seven years - yeah, it's not so perfect. And not just because it's physically hard holding up the leg of a 300lb woman who's getting a hip replacement, but hard because all the hours and extra work he doesn't get paid for have left him realizing he's not able to pursue the leadership level he's hoped to achieve as he's learned so many things in healthcare that come naturally to him in terms of efficiency and productivity.
That brings me back to the recruiter's job email. In Waco. So, it turns out that we were headed to Texas for a family wedding, something that was booked months before and we'd added a few extra days onto our vacation, so we could see my grandmother. Well, suddenly these hospital people in Waco wanted to meet with my husband, and it just so happens that we'll be 90 minutes away from that hospital. Here's the point where the reader asks, "why would you ever give up a job in San Diego for Waco?" Well, here's the tidbit that really got our attention - the job paid exactly the same as he's making in sunny CA. So...with a cost of living that's half what Carlsbad costs, it's like getting paid double. To live in a small town in Texas of course. A LOT smaller. But it turns out that instead of a government run union-ruled (aka excuses to be lazy at work) bureaucratic mess of a hospital, this Texas hospital "exists to serve all people by providing personalized healthcare and wellness through exemplary care, education, and research as a Christian ministry of healing." Say what? Are they even allowed to say that? Where we live now, progressives rule, so most of the work propaganda is centered around making sure employees celebrate diversity and find ways to increase productivity and efficiency, but not actually institute those findings because that would mean reinventing the wheel. You could ask your union rep, but he probably won't get back to you anytime soon. So, why not explore this mythical utopia of a missions-minded healthcare system and talk to some folks, right?
I'll cut to the chase here. Three hours of meetings later, my husband came outside all starry-eyed and filled with a bit of disbelief at what he heard and witnessed. A Bible in every meeting room, doctors who spoke about how much they valued their families, churches, and time to enjoy outdoors and vacations. Oh, and everything he'd been doing above and beyond his actual job description at his current job (and not getting a dime extra for) are things they are specifically in need of...and all fall under his dream of potential healthcare executive. So, influenced by the effects of a Chip-and-JoJo-tinted-Waco, we both start imagining what God might be doing here. Dreams, passions, timing, opportunity, AND affordability all colliding...were they all intersecting into the shape of a star - a Texas star?
#3 California dreamin' takes a turn
After moving into our beach-close twin-home, I went to enroll my soon-to-be kindergartner at the neighborhood school the following weekday. Even though our dream had always been to send our kids to private school (heck, I wanted to be a teacher so I could teach where my kids could attend), we were sending him to public school because a California six figure salary couldn't afford private school, a four bedroom rental, a car loan, and the difference of our Arizona mortgage left us after our tenants paid us rent. I filled out the stack of paperwork, handed it to the office lady, and almost fainted when she said, "ok, he will be student number 33 in his class." Say, what? Thirty-three kindergartners and one teacher? Um, ok, thanks. I left the school and cried the mile and a half home. This wasn't what I'd imagined. All I could envision now was my super shy son curled up in a corner, successfully hiding from the teacher because he was so overwhelmed by starting two weeks late AND never having attended pre-school. I wasn't worried about this academic abilities. No, this was all purely personality-based fears.
Just as I had done to discover our new college that had led us to Vacationland in the first place, I got on the internet to scour what my other school options were. And lo and behold there was a tiny Christian school less than 3 miles from our new home. Somehow, God provided for us as we proceeded to pay (supplemented by my tuition discount only income) for private school, and move one more time over the following 5 years. We finally short sold our upside down Arizona home in 2011, and left the private school in 2013. The end of 2013 had brought the end of all the consumer debt we'd accrued from our years in Arizona "where everything will be cheaper," so it seemed like maybe we should think about buying a home in Southern California! Our landlord who was going through a divorce, informed us that he was selling the house we lived in that was in a neighborhood we'd grown to love. So maybe it was time to buy, right? But because we short sold our last house, we had no equity and therefore no down payment. Also attributed to our "smart" AZ move was the attempt at a zero down, not-til-later adjustable arm loan, that was discovered by a third of America to be a cheap ploy at hoodwinking the middle class. So there was no way we were doing that again!
So, the next step up was to consider 3.5% down. Ok, so what's 3.5% on the cheapest decent house you can find in coastal North County, you might ask? Well, that number lies somewhere right around 500,000 for a fixer that's not big enough, nice enough, or worth it enough to sell your mother for the down payment chunk we did not have lying around (and no one else in our family did either). We did manage to scrape together the money for closing costs and most of the down payment over the next year (during which we had to move again into a not-as-nice rental for the same amount we were previously paying just to stay in the area that we were in) In the blink of an eye and a turn of the economy, home prices had climbed, and now that same 500k crappy fixer in Carlsbad was now only to be found in North-you-will-probably-get-robbed-or-shot Oceanside or way-too-far-inland-for-a-reasonable-commute Vista.
Wah-wah. Now what?
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
#1 The power of a dream
When you dream about your future, do you believe that those dreams will come true? Or are they frivolous conjurings of wishful thinking that spackle the holes left behind by failed attempts or others' woundings? Or maybe your greatest fears along with the call to adventure packaged to look like bungee jumping with duct tape.
I dream a lot. In my sleep and in my wakefulness. Sometimes I share my dreams with others. Usually just my husband. My nighttime dreams are usually strange mixed up visions of what I talked about the previous day and what crazy thoughts my mind has twisted into an altered reality.
On a morning in early April, I had one of these altered reality predictions. It followed a week of crazy God-incidences. As a want-to-be writer, I often awake with topics or book ideas that have popped into my head, but are usually forgotten once I'm vertical.
This morning, I awoke with a strange premonition. I had begun a blog. Not so strange in this generation of blog-mania. It was the topic more than the mode that surprised me. I saw the title of this fanciful blog even in my fully awake existence.
"Why I Moved to Waco, Texas"
Say what? That's crazy. I live in Carlsbad - San Diego, California. WHY would I ever move to a place that conjures up images of almost everything opposite of what Southern Californians exist for - sand is for beaches not to empty out of boots, cattle are for Chic-Fil-A signs not your backyard, guns, well, you know what comparison looks like. Unless you're military, police, or in Compton, Southern Californians stare mouth agape at Texas-toting "packing-in-my-purse-Mamas." But that's a topic for another day.
So three short months later, I've begun said dreamt up blog.
A lot has happened to make my "dream come true." It's all unexpected and a bit inconceivable, but it has become a reality nonetheless.
Follow my family's path as we leave Vacationland to pursue Waco.
I dream a lot. In my sleep and in my wakefulness. Sometimes I share my dreams with others. Usually just my husband. My nighttime dreams are usually strange mixed up visions of what I talked about the previous day and what crazy thoughts my mind has twisted into an altered reality.
On a morning in early April, I had one of these altered reality predictions. It followed a week of crazy God-incidences. As a want-to-be writer, I often awake with topics or book ideas that have popped into my head, but are usually forgotten once I'm vertical.
This morning, I awoke with a strange premonition. I had begun a blog. Not so strange in this generation of blog-mania. It was the topic more than the mode that surprised me. I saw the title of this fanciful blog even in my fully awake existence.
"Why I Moved to Waco, Texas"
Say what? That's crazy. I live in Carlsbad - San Diego, California. WHY would I ever move to a place that conjures up images of almost everything opposite of what Southern Californians exist for - sand is for beaches not to empty out of boots, cattle are for Chic-Fil-A signs not your backyard, guns, well, you know what comparison looks like. Unless you're military, police, or in Compton, Southern Californians stare mouth agape at Texas-toting "packing-in-my-purse-Mamas." But that's a topic for another day.
So three short months later, I've begun said dreamt up blog.
A lot has happened to make my "dream come true." It's all unexpected and a bit inconceivable, but it has become a reality nonetheless.
Follow my family's path as we leave Vacationland to pursue Waco.
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