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.
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