I’ll Tell You a Secret

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You named me what?

It’s not a big secret; just a little baby one. Huddle up. My name isn’t really Kari. I mean, it is Kari, but it’s really Carrie. I changed the spelling when I was 13 for no reason at all. It’s not my fault though. My dad started things off right by spelling it Carry on my birth certificate. Carry is a verb not a name, in case we aren’t clear on that. It’s fine though. One daughter out of six children and you make her a verb—no biggie. High five for the effort there dad.

My dad (who believes himself never to be wrong) claims he spelled it Carry on purpose so he could tell ask me to carry things for him. Good one, dad. I heard that joke about every two minutes growing up— “Carrie will you carry this” hardee, har, har. Of course my dad will deny all of this. I can hear him now– “I never said that!” Sure dad. I just hallucinated all the way through my childhood, that’s it.

Actually, when I heard “Carrie will you carry this” is the only time I ever heard myself called Carrie because my dad always just called me “girl.” I guess when you’re the only female running around it works but I still have a complex about it. My mom and my brothers just called me “sis” and still do. The boys (my brothers) were just “the boys”…although none of them were ever verbs. To level the playing field I would like to announce all their real names: Robert, William, Michael, Bradford, and Christopher. Shall we do middle names too? Yes, I think so: Robert Lee (the 2nd, mind you), William Eugene, Michael Harold, Bradford Neal, and Christopher Thomas. Bam. It’s on the internet. That’s what “the boys” get for not reading this—no say whatsoever when their full names are revealed on the ol internet. Wahahahaha <———————– Laugh of power and conniving. It’s okay, none of their real names are even that bad so we can all move on.

You mess with me, I mess with you

Changing the spelling of my name was fun until it was confusing. When I went to college, I had to list my legal name on everything but then when I turned in exams and such I would spell it the super awesome way with a K. Some of my teachers seriously started to question whether I even knew how to spell my name.

After college came work and marriage and the confusion continued. Everything legal has to have it spelled with a C. This always goes down the same way: I’m at the bank, new job, wherever filling out paperwork. I sign my name first with a K and then realize it doesn’t match my license and such and won’t fly. So I, blushing, try to explain that, oh actually, I spelled my name wrong on that…I’ll just ex that out and try again. This is of course not the best way to open a bank account or start a new job. The people at the bank always look at me like I’m a criminal trying to steal someone’s identity.

After I got married and changed my last time, I tried to legally change the spelling of my first name to end the confusion once and for all. They wouldn’t let me do it. Can you believe that? Geez. It’s my name isn’t it. Well, at least that’s what I told my parents in junior high when refusing to spell it the “right way” as they call it.

Oh, and to rub it in that I spell my name the “wrong way” my parents started spelling everything the wrong way. My dad spells daddy “dadi.” Are you kidding me? My parents have always called me Ladybug. I have no idea why. You would think if you had a nickname your whole life you would remember some story or reason as to why. Nope. No idea. Anyway, now my parents spell it Ladibug. Funny aren’t they? It wasn’t that bad until I started blogging and my mother decided to go ahead and call me Ladibug in all of her comments. Oh good, she’s using my childhood nickname…spelled wrong 8/

It’s okay. I get my vengeance by telling stories about them on the internet. Who knows what I’ll decide to talk about next. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it though…it’s just your whole life spelled out on the World Wide Web :]

Call me Ladybug one more time…

Weekend Adventures

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Today we went to the air show at Westover AFB. Here are a few pictures of our day:

Rocking uncle Darren’s glasses :]

My cutie pie nephews

We build parts for this helicopter at work. It’s cool seeing the final product all those hours go into.

People were crowded under the plane wings to escape the sun. I laughed at them for a while and then decided they were on to something :]

Caleb likes making faces and seeing his reflection in uncle Darren’s glasses…and well, just terrorizing uncle Darren in general :]

I really love this guy…and all the faces he makes for me and my camera 8]

Ethan just gave up on life. I don’t blame him, it really was so ridiculously hot.

Ethan with Maya (mom, his mom I mean, not my mom…never mind)

You know how the sun hates me? This is what it did to me today:

I give up.

Have a nice weekend, kids :]

Writing with Sincerity

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The world of writing is saturated. Words and opinions fall like so many drops of rain until the streets are flooded and the words have nowhere else to go.

Everyone wants to be heard and understood. Everyone wants to have value. So we write to be heard, to be valued and understood. But there is so much to take in, so many voices clambering one over the other. How am I going to be heard over the masses? What sets me apart from them? What makes my words worth hearing over the words of someone else?

I speak and no one listens. The silence makes me panic. So I plot and connive. I think of ways to be heard. I read the Freshly Pressed posts and develop an algorithm called “How to Get Freshly Pressed in 90 Seconds or Less.” I read all the articles about boosting traffic and growing readership.

And I cheat myself out of the truth.

I write shallow words to get a reaction and a boost in statistics. Sometimes the games work. Sometimes I feel good about myself because I get people to look at me and the numbers tell me I had a good day. But then, a month later, six months later, I read the words I wrote and their shallow trickery echoes off the walls. And I know I cheated. I cheated you and I cheated myself into believing cheap easy words were good enough so long as I got a reaction, so long as the numbers told me I had a good day.

When I’m honest with myself, I know the words I’ve written with the most sincerity are often the words with the least reaction from readers. It sucks to speak from the heart and not be heard. But when I read back over the words written from my heart, the words that printed my soul onto paper, those are the words that really matter. Those are the words that show me who I was, am, and am becoming. Those are the words that, even if ignored by others, will last and matter when the stats are forgotten and the euphoria of being noticed has faded away.

Why do I write? To be heard? Yes. But I realize now, finally, that I write not only to be heard by you, dear reader, but to be heard by myself. I write to hear myself speak out the breathings of my heart. I write to understand what doesn’t make sense until I can read it back in words articulate. I write to remember. To remember what I was thinking and feeling in a different time and place. I write to see who I was and better understand who I am becoming. I write because I can’t stop the words, however ignored or misunderstood they may be—I must put the words down in ink to know and remember. I write not just for you, but for me too. If we are to know and remember then cheap words won’t do.

Donald Miller said:

“The writing life really is like farming. If you keep planting and harvesting the soil without letting it rest, the crops suffer. In an age where everybody is competing for attention, a sense of panic can set in and we end up producing material that feels rushed and forced and written from a place of desperation rather than creative inspiration. But quality will win in the long run. And to create quality, you have to let the soil recover.”

I won’t cheat you or myself with cheap words written out of “desperation rather than creative inspiration.”

This is no game.

These are the breathings of my heart.

“I love you, and because I love you, I would sooner have you hate me for telling you the truth than adore me for telling you lies.” Pietro Aretino

Nature and Emotion

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I didn’t realize until recently how deeply nature impacts my mood and emotions. I had gone for a walk in the woods and was taking everything in around me—the smell of pine, the warmth of the sun on my skin, the crunch of the leaves beneath my feet. I felt so alert and peaceful, so relaxed.

That’s when it occurred to me that the times I’m away from nature, cooped up in an office or at home, those are the times when I start getting stressed out and frustrated about every little thing. When I’m inside all the time, that’s when I start feeling down and start wondering if and when things are going to get better instead of seeing the beauty all around me.

When I’m outside, moving and enjoying the world around me, that’s when I see my life with a sense of hope and purpose.

During that walk in the woods, Darren and I decided to wade in the stream. We took of our sandals and walked in the ice cold water looking for wishing stones and marveling at the teeny, tiny fish. We climbed across the branches of a tree fallen across the water and planned out camping trips and days at the ocean. We dreamt up a house in the woods with a big yard and lots of room to move and breathe. Everything we talked about, everything we dreamt of had to do with nature and being outside moving.

I told Darren what I had realized during our day in the woods. I told him I thought being outside enjoying nature and being physically active had a huge impact on my mood and emotions. He said he thought the same was true for him too. The more time he spends inside sitting still, the worse he feels. The more we get outside, the better we feel about life and ourselves.

There is something so artificial about the way we live indoors. The way the fake air feels when its air conditioned or heated is nothing like the warmth of sunlight or the crispness of a cool breeze. The television and music we saturate ourselves with is cheap entertainment compared to the sound of leaves rustling, streams bubbling, and birds chirping.

We went camping a couple weeks ago in Vermont. At night we sat around a campfire roasting marshmallows and laughing with friends. I sat there by the cozy flames looking up and marveling at the night sky—a black canvas poked through with light from other worlds. The smell of the smoke, the sound of laughter echoing off the green mountains—mmmm, there is nothing like it. There is nowhere else I would rather be.

So the next time I get restless or feel down, I’m taking off to the woods. This won’t always solve the problem, of course. Moods and emotions are deeper and more complicated than a birds song can sometimes solve. But maybe stretching my legs and breathing fresh air will solve the problem without anything else needing to be done. And even if it doesn’t, I think I’m more likely to figure out what does need to be done when I’m outside moving and enjoying nature than I ever will cooped up inside breathing the fake air.

Home

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Sometimes I want to go home.

I want to chase the sunset on its way to the west.

I want to take in the vast, sweeping Plains rolling flat for miles into the horizon.

I want to lie in the tall, stiff prairie grass and tromp through the corn fields prickly and magical as they are.

I want to feel the heat and humidity on my skin. I want to feel the dirt between my toes.

I want to hear the thunder rumble, feel the wind blow threatening and uncertain.

I talked to my little brother on the phone the other day. I asked him if he wanted to come for dinner. He asked what I was making. We talked like he would bring the bread for my butter. He is 1,000 miles away—or a million—it makes no difference, the distance is all the same.

Sometimes I want to go home.

I want to stop by my parent’s house on the way home from work just to say hi and I love you.

I want to meet my best friend in a coffee shop and talk over each other loud and fast like we always do.

I want to chase my nephews and kiss my nieces.

I want to fight with my brothers and shop with my sister-in-laws.

I want to gather around the table for Sunday dinner.

I left after college as fast as I could get away. I always knew what I wanted to do and where I wanted to be: Anywhere but there.

I ran fast and hard—and I got away.

I didn’t know then, when I was 22, how hard it would be to go back, how far I was from home.

I didn’t know when I was 22 how quickly life would change, how fast the babies would grow.

I didn’t know when I was 22 that I would ever want to hug my brothers, my stupid annoying brothers.

I didn’t know when I was 22 that the flat boring Plains were quietly magical, that home is a magic all its own.

I didn’t know until I was too far away, that distance could hurt so much. I didn’t know the place you call home is a part of your soul, woven into your very being.

I didn’t know when I was 22 that I would ever want to go home.

Our Short, Delicate Lives

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I’ve been going back and forth debating about whether or not to share this and decided I should since it’s something that’s really been on my mind.

On the 4th of July, my husband and I watched a woman die right in front of us.

We were on our way to see fireworks like everyone else that night. We had just left my brother-in-law’s house when we saw a guy and girl jump off a motorcycle and go running down the sidewalk beside us. They just dropped the bike on the ground and took off and I wondered what was so important that they couldn’t even park the bike. I looked away from them running for a second and saw a woman lying in the road right in front of us. I grabbed Darren’s arm and told him to “Stop! Stop! Stop! There’s a woman in the road!” He stopped the car right in front of her.

I looked back at the man and woman from the motorcycle as they ran past our car screaming. There were parts of another motorcycle laying all over the road and a car that looked like it had been hit. I started to dial 911 but before I could even put the number through an ambulance pulled in beside us.

The woman lay in front of us, eyes closed, motionless. We were hoping she was just knocked out. We thought since the ambulance got there immediately, maybe she would be okay. She wasn’t. She died right there in the middle of the road.

The woman on the motorcycle collided head on with the vehicle in front of us. The impact was so great it broke her bike into pieces and killed her almost instantly.

I found out later the man who jumped off the other bike was the woman’s husband.

I watched a man watch his wife die in the middle of the road; I can’t get that out of my head.

Watching someone die stops you in your tracks. Death makes you look at life in gripping detail.

This accident happened three days before mine and Darren’s anniversary and this woman’s death was heavy on our minds and in our words often as we spent that weekend away together.

We look back now and realize how different all could have been.

We look back and realize if we had left the house even seconds sooner, we could have been the car that hit her. It’s hard to comprehend the timing; my brother-in-law left seconds before us. We had to turn the car around and left right after him. Somehow, in the time we turned around, the car involved in the accident got between my bro-in-law and us.

How does it happen that a fatal accident occurs between our two vehicles only seconds down the road from each other and none of us were hurt or involved?

I think about all these things anew today as I hear about the shooting in Colorado. What grips me most is the story of a fellow WordPress blogger, Jessica Redfield (blog), who was killed last night in the theatre shooting. Just a month before, Jessica had dodged a mall shooting that took place minutes after she stepped outside (read full story here) . In her blog post about the mall shooting Jessica said:

“I was shown how fragile life was on Saturday. I saw the terror on bystanders’ faces. I saw the victims of a senseless crime. I saw lives change. I was reminded that we don’t know when or where our time on Earth will end. When or where we will breathe our last breath. For one man, it was in the middle of a busy food court on a Saturday evening.

I say all the time that every moment we have to live our life is a blessing. So often I have found myself taking it for granted. Every hug from a family member. Every laugh we share with friends. Even the times of solitude are all blessings. Every second of every day is a gift. After Saturday evening, I know I truly understand how blessed I am for each second I am given.”

And now, just a month later, in yet another random shooting, Jessica is dead. She was one of us—a writer, a blogger, a WordPresser, a girl living life and telling stories—just like us.

And now she’s gone like so many others who lost their lives last night.

It all makes me stop and think about how delicate our short lives are. I don’t share all this to scare people. I share it because, like Jessica, after I watched a woman die, I realized how easily it could have been me. I realized that I don’t know when I’ll live my last day or take my last breath.

After watching that woman die, I’ve seen myself differently in the day-to-day. When I get upset at Darren over something stupid, I’m struck by the reality that my petty, frustrated words could be the last ones I ever speak to him.

During the day before we came up on that accident, Darren and I argued about who would go from work to pick up lunch. We complained about the heat and the traffic. Those words could have been the last ever spoken to each other.

I’m so thankful they weren’t.

I’m so thankful I got to snuggle up with him that night and tell him I was sorry for my words earlier in the day.

I’m so thankful we got to spend that weekend together celebrating our anniversary.

I’m so thankful for every moment and every breath we get together.

Because, as much as I don’t want to think about it, we never know what words will be our last words. We never know—and that very uncertainty has sunk into my soul.

When I catch myself being petty, I must stop and realize that I don’t know and there’s not a moment to waste on anything but love.

My heart goes out to everyone involved in the Colorado shooting.

God give them grace.

–Kari

Everything I Ever Wanted

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I realized recently that God has given me everything I ever asked for and I never even thanked him.

What I did was complain about everything he’s ever given me.

What I did was come up with a new list of things I wanted.

I wanted to love and be loved; so God gave me an incredible husband—who I complain at when everything doesn’t go my way.

I wanted to get out of our downtown apartment and live in a real house; so God gave me a beautiful home—that I can’t wait to get out of.

I wanted a better job with normal hours and better pay; so God gave me an ideal job with amazing hours—that I complain about because I work too much.

I saw it all laid out before me this morning—the pattern that keeps repeating itself. I want something different, something better. God gives me what I ask for. I fail to thank him or enjoy his good gifts because I’ve already moved onto the next thing I want—the thing I know will finally make me happy.

I am humbled by this realization: God has given me everything I ever asked for and I never even thanked him.

Guest Post on All Groan Up

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Today one of my blog posts (Knocking on the Wrong Door) is being featured on All Groan Up. Check it out here (or don’t—it’s a free country).

BUT IF YOU DON’T I’LL NEVER EVER EVER TALK TO YOU EVER AGAIN <8[

Wait, what? No, that’s not true. I’ll still talk to you. Sorry about that, kids.

I’ll stop talking now.

Carry on.

I Will Write You a Picture

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I’ll write you a picture with my palette of words

I’ll mix and I’ll mingle the nouns and the verbs.

I’ll paint you a story with my writer’s pen

A blank canvas of imagination has no beginning or end.

I’ll show you the world in colorful letters

I’ll write you a picture with commas and feathers.

A dash of whimsy, a touch of black ink,

A stroke of gray graphite mixed up with a wink.

All the colors of dreams painted with verbs

My pen is the paintbrush, my paint is the words.

Of pink paper poppy and flight of black bird

I’ll paint you a story you’ve never quite heard.

…

Thanks to the ever amazing husband for drawing the picture. He really does put up with a lot around here you know :]

Using Prayer as an Excuse for Inaction

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It’s easy when we hear about needs and problems in each other’s lives to promise we’ll pray for one another. Prayer is of course a very powerful and important resource in our lives. But sometimes prayer can be misused as an easy way out of taking action in the lives of those who are hurting. We misuse prayer when:

1) We fail to see how we can help each other by taking action: We mean well when we promise to pray but it’s easy to overlook the practical ways we can help on a physical level too. In addition to our prayers we could:

  • Take a meal to a new mother, someone who is sick or injured, someone who is grieving, or to a family struggling financially.
  • Listen to someone who just needs to talk through feelings and be heard.
  • Volunteer time to help around the house or yard or to run errands.
  • Babysit for a busy mom or someone who is sick or grieving.
  • Write a letter to encourage and let someone know they’re being thought of and aren’t alone.
  • Say yes as much as possible when asked for help or a listening ear.

“I learned that faith isn’t about knowing all of the right stuff or obeying a list of rules. It’s something more, something more costly because it involves being present and making a sacrifice. Perhaps that’s why Jesus is sometimes called Immanuel—‘God with us.’ I think that’s what God had in mind, for Jesus to be present, to just be with us. It’s also what He has in mind for us when it comes to other people.” Bob Goff (p. 8 Love Does)

2) We use prayer to turn a blind eye: Sometimes we don’t want to get involved in other people’s lives or in problems that seem too big for us. We hear about kids being run through the foster care system needing loving homes and families but we’re afraid or overwhelmed by the idea of bringing a child into our own home—so we say we’ll pray instead and never really stop and consider if there’s more we should be doing. We notice the mom who always snaps at her children in public and never stop to consider if she needs rest, help, or encouragement. We don’t want to get our hands dirty. We’re too busy and too tired to get involved in the messy lives of others so we say we’ll pray (and perhaps we even do) all the while turning a blind eye to the physical needs all around us.

“Jesus told the people he was with that it’s not enough to just look like you love God. He said we’d know the extent of our love for God by how well we loved people.” Bob Goff (p. 15 Love Does)

3) We use prayer to guard ourselves from heartache: Getting involved in people’s lives can get messy. When you open your heart up to love and action, you open yourself up to the possibility of getting hurt. It’s so much easier to say, “I’ll be praying for you” than it is to get in the trenches and ask, “What can I do to help?” But the love of God is a love deep enough to take action—to take risks and offer love in spite of the potential for heartache. God did not guard his heart from us; we should not guard ourselves from others. God’s heart was broken for us—will we let our heart be broken for him?

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.” C.S. Lewis in The Four Loves

4) We use prayer to cover wrongs rather than dealing with them: Sometimes when we say we’ll pray, all we really need to say is, “I’m sorry.” I know of a situation where someone has been wronged and hurt by someone else. The wrongdoer tells the wronged that they’re praying for them but those prayers (however sincere) are falling on deaf ears. Until the wrong has been made right, prayers will only add insult to injury. The person hurt does not want to be prayed for; he wants only to be apologized to. And until an apology is made, prayer comes off as arrogant and insincere. If you have wronged someone, make it right with them—not just in your prayers to God but in your actions toward the one you have hurt.

“We don’t like to put hands and feet on love. When love is a theory, it’s safe, it’s free of risk. But love in the brain changes nothing.” Donald Miller

God’s love is played out in verbs as should be the love we have for each other. So, the next time you tell someone you’ll pray for them—do so—and then ask what else you can do to demonstrate your love in action.