Only 8 days left ’till I’m officially a 30 year old. So, here are my 20 lessons learned during my 20′s. I can’t wait to see what I might be taught in the next decade! For some reason, I think patience with small children might be very high on the list…

1. I learned that the phrase “Follow your heart” is (excuse me) bullsh*t.
2. I learned to follow my God. He hasn’t let me down.
3. I learned that my God sometimes moves slowly.
4. I learned to speak up even when I thought it might cost me a job, or a future reference.
5. I learned that I love writing, and I’m good at it!
6. I learned the good employees aren’t usually the ones who got incredible grades or went to the best school. Incredible employees stay late, read a lot, ask appropriate questions, take risks, figure it out, push back, think creatively, make mistakes and fix their mistakes.
7. I learned not to chase the money if it’s going to cost me my soul.
8. I learned that fresh veggies are worth the time and money.
9. I learned I won’t love work everyday. That’s why it’s called work.
10. I learned that some women never feel ready to have a baby, but that doesn’t mean a darn thing.
11. I learned that I will never regret taking creative measures to make vacation happen. Memories are worth more than new shoes. But at the same time…
12. I learned that vacations are a luxury, not a right, not something I’m owed, not something that trumps living within our means.
13. I learned that marriage is richer and more wonderful than I ever thought it might be.
14. I learned that running is actually quite fun, and not the chore I hated for so many of my younger years.
15. I learned that getting life insurance is a very, very smart decision. Thank you Jesus.
16. I learned that my relationship with friends from college grow even sweeter as we age.
17. I learned creative ways to help people in need, and I learned to never look past a woman on the streets.
18. I learned to use sunscreen every single day.
19. I learned that I prefer white wine over red, but Old Vine Zin is also quite good.
20. I learned that I like old homes and I like remodeling.

image: 20s ladies 

Today I am proud to share a guest post, written by my dad. This essay was not written intentionally for my blog. It came to me in the form of an email my dad sent to our family earlier today. As background, my Grandma Jeanne  (his mother) was diagnosed several years ago with dementia. The disease has quickly robbed her of much of her memory, and just a few months ago she was moved to a full time care facility. My mom, dad, and his siblings have spent much of the last 12 months grappling with her decline and all of the logistics and emotions that come with the disease. This short essay made me cry for many reasons. I cry for my grandma, and the confusing life she is now leading. I cry for the journey my family is walking through as we slowly lose her. I cry for the insight and vulnerability my dad isn’t afraid to show. And, I cry for the loss of material things…because sometimes they really do matter.

Most of us are taught as we venture through life not to love or covet material “things” because “things” don’t matter.  We are told things come and things go and we shouldn’t put importance on things.  We sometimes tire of things but we often then replace those things with what we think are more important things.  It is the people in our lives that matter the most, not things, right? We are supposed to say yes, that of course material things don’t matter.  The people in our lives should always be more important than things.  Today I am struggling emotionally with the parting of a “thing” because this thing evolved over many years to become more than just a thing to me.

John, Patty, Lynn, and I sold my mothers 1966 Oldsmobile today.  To most people my mom’s car was clearly just a thing, an old, beat up, uncomfortable thing.  For years I thought the same about this thing.  Mom’s car was too big, it was a gas hog, the air condioning no longer worked, the radio didn’t work, and the interior was shot.  John and I tried to convince mom for years to sell the car and get something smaller, more comfortable, and economical to drive.  John and I would banter back and forth with her, often getting her “irritated” as we would laugh about the “hog” that she refused to part with.  Mom loved that car.  She owned it for 44 years.  She stopped driving it years ago and she never would say why.  I think it was because mom was uncomfortable and unsure of herself driving it, and she was too darn stubborn to admit it.  Stubborn is a trait that did not fall far from mom’s genetic tree, but I digress.

As mom started having trouble doing her finances, I began helping her write her checks.  Every 6 months her car insurance would come due.  Every time I would say, “Mom, your car insurance is due.  Is it time to maybe sell the hog?”  She would hem and ha and try and convince me that she really was considering selling it, then she would say, “Let’s go ahead and pay it this time and I’ll think about it”.   I would smile and say ok knowing that this issue would replay itself again in 6 months with the same result.

John, Patty, Lynn, and I, all learned to drive in that car.  The first car I drove in by myself was the hog.  Many cars today look the same, and they are bought, sold, or traded in routinely.  Rarely anymore does a car identify someone.  That was definitely not the case with my mom and her car.  Friends and neighbors knew when they saw that sea foam green tank coming down the road, that Jeanne Sebek was behind the wheel.  It took me awhile to realize this, but Mom’s Oldsmobile had after many years become more than a thing to me.

Our mom came from modest means.  She was born on Christmas Day, 1929.  The same year that the Great Depression began.  It’s just a coincidence that mom showed up at the same time.  There is no direct correlation of her birth to that event that I am aware of.  Because of growing up in this era, mom was and still is very frugal.  Mom accepted what she had and she NEVER, and I mean NEVER, complained about what she didn’t have.  I have, and I always will admire her for that.  That is why she was not just content, but proud about owning that car for all these years.  That Oldsmobile had become synonymous with mom.  My irrational mind said that no one else should own this car.  This car is mom.  As I walked away from the Olds for the last time, I knew I was walking away from a part of my mom.  Another chapter closed today in my mom’s life story and that makes me sad.  Sometimes things do matter.

Post note: In June I was able to squeeze my big pregnant belly behind the hog for the first time. This picture captures the fun joy ride I took with Allison and Jonathan- my first and last time behind Grandma Jeanne’s sea foam green machine. I was trying to look cool behind the wheel but let’s just all agree I look incredibly silly.

One would think, based on my lack of blogging, that life has been busy. Don’t tell anyone–(shhhhhh)–it’s actually been wonderfully slow.

The days are long, in the very best sense. The mornings still start early but the windows are now open, the fan blowing, birds chirping, sun creeping in through the curtains. I walk these days instead of run- literally and figuratively. From 8:30am to 5:30pm, there is plenty to do but not at the stress level I’d grown used to over the last three years. The evenings? They aren’t as scheduled. Since early June, I have said ‘NO’ with greater frequency, preferring instead to come home to Jonathan, cook an easy meal, and put my feet up. The weekends have mostly been spent here, at home. The laundry is not piling up. The fridge almost always has food. I’ve read a few books. We take evening walks. Last week, on an unusually rainy Wednesday night, we snuck dessert into Tower Theatre and saw Midnight in Paris.

A lot of people might have watched our last six weeks and called them boring. I have found them to be exactly what my body and mind needed after a cold winter of packing and unpacking and running around like a chicken with my head cut off.

In a few weeks, we will bring home a baby girl. We waver between complete excitement and sheer terror. We mourn the freedom we are losing. We celebrate the new life, the new joys, we are gaining.

Jonathan and I have prayed for this baby for a long time– long before we knew when she’d join us. As the date grows nearer, I grow more and more thankful that God prepares us for each season. He knows when each season will begin and end. He provides just what we need in each time.

No matter what season you’re in right now, I pray that you don’t feel alone in it. I pray you know that each season lasts for a short time. Each season has its hard moments that seem like they will never go away. Each season has its freedoms and joys that you hope never end.

Embrace your season. Be patient for the next season. His timing is good.

It is easier for me to act like Martha than Mary.

It’s easier to spend all week Googling Bundt cake recipes for Easter, and writing ridiculously long to-do lists that include things like: “Wash car. Buy Mother’s Day gifts. Mop floors. Clean fireplace. Shower (as if I’d forget). Look for chalkboard cleaner. Find out when Southwest Airline miles expire. Stretch my back. Grocery store. Remind Jonathan to find part for the washer. Find white maternity capris. Prep for bible study.”

It’s easier to think about (and then stress about) all the activities I’m not involved in at church. It’s easier to say yes to many of them because it’s what I think I should do, not necessarily what I want to do.

It’s easier to drive to work each day strategizing how I’ll get as much accomplished as I possibly can, rather than asking God for how He wants me to spend the precious hours He’s gifted me to use.

It’s easier to worry than to pray. It’s easier to complain than give it up God.

It’s my tendency to act like Martha, except when I do I just feel tired at the end of the day instead of peaceful.

Amy gave me a wonderful devotional a few weeks ago. It’s called Jesus Calling by Sarah Young. Here is today’s entry, written from God’s perspective:

“I am always with you, so you have no reason to be afraid. Your fear often manifests itself in excessive planing. Your mind is so accustomed to this pattern of thinking that you are only now becoming aware of how pervasive it is and how much it hinders your intimacy with Me. Repent of this tendency and resist it, whenever you realize you are wandering down this well worn path. Return to My Presence, which always awaits you in the present moment. I accept you back with no condemnation.” (Psalm 46:10, Romans 8:1)

Mary lived in the present moment. I’m trying to be more like her this week. I’m wondering if anyone can relate to this struggle? Do you have a tendency to over plan? Is it easier for you to be like Martha–busy taking care of all the details rather than sitting at Jesus’ feet?

If you answered no to all the above questions, then you’re a saint who’s obviously perfect. That being the case, can you at least tell me how to resist eating the leftover bunny Bundt cake from today’s meal?  I’m not sure if I can work on both my excessive planning issue and my sugar issue at the same time…

Happy Easter.

Recently life has been a bit more complicated than usual.

There’s the closet that I spent a few days organizing that just got disassembled. Complicated.

There’s figuring out how to buy just the right amount of food at Trader Joe’s to get us through the week, while still fitting it all in a mini fridge. Complicated.

There’s packing for a weekend away, coming home for 12 hours, doing laundry, eating a pizza, repacking for a 24 hour jaunt to San Diego while also packing up your entire house, again, so the floors can get refinished. Complicated (and currently in process).

There’s rushing from Roseville to West Sac in traffic. There are doctor’s appointments and blood tests. There’s figuring out a ride to the airport, from the airport, and to the airport again. There’s the fact that every single car rental place in San Diego is booked for tomorrow night because I waited until the last minute. Complicated.

There are the guilty feelings that surface for asking friends for favors, again. Can we borrow the truck? Can we sleep at your house? Can we eat at your house? Can you drive me here and there and everywhere? Can you put my clothes in your closet for a few weeks? Can you help us move? Can you make me a bagel because I’m starving as usual? (Yes, I really did ask Tammy to make me a bagel one morning last week. I’ve taken “mooch” to a whole new level.)

There’s a project due and only one day at the office to finish the work. Complicated.

And then there’s this book I’m starting to read with bible study that’s all about simplicity…and I’m realizing my life is too scheduled, too overcommitted, too wild. And yet I can’t say no to anything. Now I’m trying to get out of several commitments and its…well…complicated.

In the middle of the complicated there are moments of simplicity. Burgers with Allison and Matt in SF. Hiking the hills above Stanford with Brent and Erica. The very best Greek food ever in Los Gatos. Pink and white Birthday trees in bloom, just like they always are. Holding baby Louie. Homemade seafood gumbo and two days of sunshine skiing. (No falls = happy baby and mama!) Chocolate cake and a sip of wine  straight from Paris. Valentine making, airplane snuggling, a massage and a facial too. (Do you think my sweetheart was tired of hearing his sweetheart complain about pregnancy acne and being hungry? Yup.)

Really, in the grand scheme of things, my life is not complicated. But I do need more room. More room (literally) for the boxes, and more room (figuratively) for God’s still small voice. I need a few moments of peace when the days don’t seem to stop. I need a few days of sunshine when the weeks have been so gloomy and cold. Mostly I need just a little bit of perspective. Don’t we all?

photo credit: katie@!

Pssttt! Secret time: I am a guest blogger today on Michele’s blog. Go check out the Moxy Project and leave her a comment.

P.S. The above shoes are an ode to Michele, who is wearing the cutest pair in her blog’s heading. I found this picture when doing a Google image search for “Moxy.” Credit goes to Moxie Fab World.

It took myself on a well-earned date to the movies one Thursday night this summer when Jonathan had a 9:30pm softball game. It was a rare opportunity to plan my own night, at my own pace.

It was going so well. And then, it was going NOT so well.

I confess: I broke the rules. You know I don’t break the rules often. Yet I just couldn’t resist bring my mango Juice Squeeze into the theatre.

We all realize there are “No outside food and beverages” allowed in movie theatres, which is why we all bring huge purses with us to hide all sorts of goodies. I’m guilty of sneaking in full burritos, bags of popcorn, and frozen yogurt. A simple Juice Squeeze? I didn’t even think twice about the little glass bottle.

Until I pulled it out of my purse, and dropped it into the cup holder of my armrest.

The cupholder with the hole in the bottom.

And it shattered into a thousand, tiny little pieces.

Oops.

At this point, a person has several options:

1. Run for the door and don’t look back OR
2. Fess up to management about your naughty behavior.

I, being the rule follower, decided on option two.

It was just my luck the theatre’s snack bar staff consisted of 15 year old who was sweeter than sweet. He was also really incompetent.

After I confessed, apologized, and swore up and down it would never happen again, he panicked. There I was in the middle of the theatre lobby as he went into disaster mode. He paced, and wrung his hands. “I need tape. I need to notify a manager. Someone needs to watch the snack bar…I just don’t know what to do first,” he said with the expression of a man watching his wife go into labor for the first time.

I wanted to curl into a ball and die—for him and for me.

I continued to want to curl into a ball and die for the entire preview portion of the movie. Naturally, I’d picked the aisle seat, approximately half way down the theatre aisle. Guess where every late patron wanted to sit? My exact seat with the broken glass. And, guess how long it took concessions boy to put up caution tape? Oh—he waited until the movie had started to  *loudly* pull out tape around the seats.

The worst part of the entire experience, besides giving the poor kid a heart attack, was not having a person there to giggle with or assure me everything would be okay. I wanted an evening alone, but when I got it, I felt so…well…alone.

Have you ever had a moment when you completely embarrassed yourself and had no one to laugh it off with? Do tell!

p.s. the movie I saw, Babies, was really cute.

Ever taken the Enneagram test?

Suddenly, I feel so understood!

Me: The Loyalist The committed, security-oriented type. Sixes are reliable, hard-working, responsible, and trustworthy. Excellent “troubleshooters,” they foresee problems and foster cooperation, but can also become defensive, evasive, and anxious—running on stress while complaining about it. They can be cautious and indecisive, but also reactive, defiant and rebellious. They typically have problems with self-doubt and suspicion. At their Best: internally stable and self-reliant, courageously championing themselves and others.

Curious…what’s your type?

image credit: tiny acts of gratitude

During my second year of college, after a long weekend break in Irvine, I made a slip of the tongue that crushed my mother’s heart.

“I guess it’s time for me to head home,” I said, as I stepped into my little red Pontiac Sunbird.

“Home?!?” she replied. “But, you ARE home!”

She was right. I was home. It’s just that I had also made a second home. Cliché as it may sound, the moment with my mom is when I first truly understood the phrase “Home is where the heart is.”

First and foremost, home is where there are people who love you unconditionally. Sometimes those people are family. When you can’t be with family, that love can come from wonderful friends.

Last weekend, my younger brother got married. This big change in our family had me reflecting more than usual, and I couldn’t help but notice all the little things I love about my first home in Irvine.

Home is where the heart is, but it’s also where…

….I know every turn on the freeway; where the air is thicker and holds a little hint of ocean; where the door is always unlocked; where the fridge stays stocked but the cookies stay hidden; where my bedroom closet is still stuffed with childhood books, prom dresses and junk; where I can hear the lifeguards yelling, ‘Adult swim!’ on summer Saturdays; where mom bustles around and dad works on the computer; where the windows are always open; where I don’t have to think about what to cook for dinner; where the paper waits for me on the breakfast table; where the bathroom is stocked full of my sister’s cosmetics and jewelry; where memories are made clear; where our best and worst comes out, where I’m reminded of carefree days of youth and unconditional love.

Where is your home? Are there any particular moments when you feel most at home?

{picture: my dad at home on the couch yesterday, recovering from Scott’s wedding.}

The restaurant was one of the best in Mendocino, and Jonathan had made reservations weeks before our anniversary.  But when we arrived for our 8:00pm seating, things weren’t exactly as I’d pictured they would be. To start, an impatient crowd was gathered around the door. The tiny old house, now transformed to a restaurant, wasn’t large enough to accommodate everyone. We all squished into the lobby, tight and quiet, doing our best to be patient. It was in these waiting moments that Jonathan, trying to get me to laugh, pointed out a lady wearing a wolf sweater. The fashionista herself was talking quickly and loudly.

Forty-five minutes we were seated with a short and hurried apology.  With five courses to go, and plenty to talk about, we weren’t upset. One couple, however, was so  disappointed with the slow service they left before their bottle of wine could arrive.

The food was rich and flavorful, just as Yelp said it would be, but each course was delivered with a frazzled smile. We quickly realized our waiter was also the owner and his wife, the chef.  When she personally delivered an appetizer to our table, we asked how she was doing.

“Uhhhh….well….hmmmm,” she seemed to search for words, and then drew in a long breath. “It’s been, an, um, long week,” she said.

I was surprised by her honest response. Most people, especially those trained well in customer service, would plaster on a big smile and lie. I sensed she wanted to lie and couldn’t. Her authenticity was both refreshing and frustrating. We wanted an exceptional dining experience, but this place wasn’t as polished and professional as we expected.

We kept eating and talking, drinking, and laughing. Soon the restaurant began to clear out until only the wolf lady’s party remained. We debated whether to order dessert, and agreed it was only appropriate. We could handle waiting for chocolate cake. The food had been amazing, and surely dessert would also be.

“I’d like to talk to the chef,” the wolf lady said loudly. “Please, bring out the chef!”

It was 11:00pm. Our plates had just been cleared and the music turned off. We couldn’t help but watch the interaction out of the corner of our eyes. The chef appeared. I braced myself for the worse.

What happened next surprised me-no-shocked me.  I don’t know if I’ll ever forget the scene.

“Oh! There she is!” cried the woman. “Compliments to the chef! Sit down, sit down. You’ve earned it.”

The exhausted looking chef did sit down, as if in the company of old friends. We could only see her back, but it was obvious she felt defeated and embarrassed. If she spoke, we couldn’t hear her. But, we didn’t need to speak. The lady in the sweater was one of those types who could carry on a conversation by herself.

“Now, we know you’ve had a long week.  Your husband told us.  My, my… moving the entire restaurant in just three days, and expanding too! That is so much work. It just looks lovely though. Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it look lovely?” She asked the others at the table to agree with her, but she moved on before they could speak. “And the food- OH- the food! It was exceptional, just exceptional. We will happily be back, and we’ll tell our friends to come here too. Now, don’t feel bad. Please, don’t feel bad. It’s hard to run a small business on your own. But, you’ve done a wonderful job. You should be proud of your restaurant. We had such a good time.”

I found myself staring, unable to turn away from this moment of grace tumbling off one woman’s lips, and lifting another woman’s tired soul.  I found myself wanting to emulate this lady—this very loud and very underdressed lady—who continue to praise the fine work of a defeated French chef. Not once did she mention the slow service. Not once did she mention the long wait. She focused on the positive, even when it wasn’t 100 percent deserved.

Jonathan and I walked to the door to be handed our doggy bag—a huge slice of chocolate cake that we’d later determine to be one of the better pieces of chocolate cake ever consumed.

“Thank you, so much sir, for a wonderful meal,” I said. “We will be back. And we’ll tell our friends too.”

He looked at us with grateful eyes, and quickly recounted the long week they’d had. And then, he walked us to the door so we could drive home along the coast, full of food and thankful for grace.