Bud

 

Bud

by Susan York Meyers

He was so little, so squirmy, and I was so unsure. I’d been babysitting since the age of 12, but this little guy, this baby that was mine. It felt like I’d never held an infant before. What if I screwed up everything?

In that hospital room, it was just he and I. One of us had a blowout. No problem, I’d changed diapers before. I laid my son down, took off his diaper and looked around the changing table.

Wipes… there were no wipes. I checked both the top and bottom racks. Nope. I had a half changed, squalling baby lying in front of me, and I had no idea how to proceed. I was a failure as a mother. All the emotions of the last two days caught up with me, and I burst into tears.

That’s when the nurse walked in. She paused a moment and then very carefully asked, “What’s wrong, Hon?”

“I can’t find the wipes,” I managed to get out.

She smiled and walked over. “This is what we use.” She picked up a few thin blue disposable cloths. “Let me help you.” She dampened the cloths while I tried desperately to find my lost dignity.

I proceeded to change my still wailing baby. The nurse took him, put him on her shoulder and patted his back. “It’s okay,” she told me. “Bud’s just singing the blues.” I’ve been forever grateful to that nurse. She could have made me feel tiny and incompetent. But she didn’t. She took the time to comfort both mother and child.

And you know what? My son has been “Bud” since that day in the hospital. He’s my Bud, by Bud-o-mine. Except for my dad, I’m the only one who’s ever called him Bud. Of course, I didn’t mind sharing the name with the greatest Papa in the world!

I don’t even think my son knows how he got his nickname. That a nurse who came to his mama’s rescue on his 2^nd day on this earth christened him Bud.

And that nurse? She never knew she meant so much to me that she gave my son his nickname.

We never know when one little thing we do, good or bad, is going to affect someone. A frown, a smile, a push our way through a line or a helping hand – they all make a difference.

What if your smile is the only one someone receives today?

What if your indifference is the breaking point in a long line of being pushed aside today?

It’s been called the Golden Rule. It’s quoted and requoted until it almost seems trite. But Matthew 7:12a is one of the most important verses in the Bible. “So, in everything, do to others what you would have them do to you.”

Notice, it doesn’t say wait until someone is kind to you to be kind to them. Or, be patient only if you’re given patience.

It says, “Do.”

And also notice it doesn’t say, “Then it will be done to you.”

It says, “Do.”

There is no guarantee that you will receive in kind. But think of how wonderful our world would be if we all followed that simple command.

Thankfully, for me, the nurse followed that command. She made a new, overwhelmed mother feel better.

Bud and I both appreciated it.

Life Experiences

 

Perfection (or Not)

 

Perfection (or Not)

by Susan York Meyers

Proverbs 31 scares me. The Virtuous Woman’s kitchen floor was always perfectly clean, no sticky messes for visitor’s sandals to stick to. She never ran by the bakery 15 minutes before school for “homemade cookies” because her child forgot to tell her she was homeroom mother that week. And I assure you the Virtuous Woman never said to her husband, “Whoops, I forgot to go to the market. Can you bring a lamb home to roast?”  I’d be afraid to let that paragon of virtue into my home. If there’s a checklist for perfection, there are no checks in my boxes. Seriously.

Take cooking. As a newlywed, I’d drag myself out of bed and make a full breakfast for my husband. Remember this was over 40 years ago. Wives still did things like that. After a week, he confessed he didn’t like breakfast but ate it so my feelings wouldn’t be hurt. I don’t need to be told twice. I threw in the spatula and went back to bed. I didn’t make breakfast again until my son came along.

My sewing skills didn’t earn any medals either.  Again, hark back to the olden days when schools still taught Home Ec. Knowing how to sew was a top priority for women. However, even my supportive, loving mother couldn’t figure out how to wear the apron I created.

And then there’s cleaning. If God is in the “big upstairs” wearing a white glove, ready to sweep it across the top of my shelves, I might as well give up now.

Fortunately, the lady in Proverbs isn’t a real woman. She’s a combination of virtues for which to strive. And that’s good news for people like me, who find “adequate” a sometimes-daunting task. Even though I know God doesn’t expect me to be perfect, there are still nights I snuggle under the covers waiting for sleeping bliss, but instead my mind says, “Let me remind you how you screwed up today.”

It doesn’t help that it seems like everyone but me has their act together. Is there some domestic secret?  Why does everyone else seem to breeze through being a wife and mother, while I barely manage to limp along?

I remember one Sunday morning, between class and worship service, I caught up with a friend and fellow mother of a two-year-old.  

She taught as a college professor. 

Her house always looked perfect.

All the treats at her son's birthday party were hand crafted.

Maybe, just maybe, she could give me some tips on being perfect. Or at least help me achieve average a little more often.

"Sometimes, it just gets overwhelming," I ventured to say as my son wiggled in my arms.

She laughed.  "I know exactly what you mean. This morning my husband had to grab a pair of socks out of the dirty clothes."

I managed to shut my mouth so it didn’t look like I was angling for someone to drop a worm in it.  "The dirty clothes?"

"Yes.  That's just the way it goes some mornings, doesn’t it?"

She helped me that day. Her secret wasn't perfection. It was confidence in the fact that she didn't have to be perfect.

So, what if the cake isn't home baked?  It's bought with love.

So, what if I read a bedtime story instead of cleaning.  I'll just tell everyone the dust bunnies are pets.

So, what if I'm sometimes slow at getting the laundry done?   If it doesn't smell, no one knows the difference.

No one is perfect. We tend to cut everyone else some slack while holding ourselves up to impossible standards. Standards that we can never meet. So, my challenge for myself is to start treating myself like I’m my best friend. When I look in the mirror every morning, I give my best friend a complement. When I screw up, I cut my best friend some slack.

God loves me imperfections and all.

As for the Virtuous woman, although there are days I like to imagine her cowering beside the washer, eating chocolate and hiding from her kids, I still strive to emulate her. I’ve just learned to give myself a break when I fail.

God made me. And that’s perfect enough for me!

Favorite Quote

 

From Groovy to Middle-Aged (and Back Again!)

 

From Groovy to Middle-Aged (and back again!)

 

 

 

 

At the age of nine, all it took was a pair of orange stirrup pants to make me feel groovy. Purple and pink paper flowers decorated my room. Peace signs adorned my notebooks. Some might say I was too young to be a true flower child, but I felt hip.

In junior high, all it took to feel special was a pair of white go-go boots, castoffs of my much cooler aunt. So, what if I had to rub white polish on them daily so the worn places wouldn't show. My boots were made for walking! My room smelled of incense, and posters of Shaun Cassidy and Donny Osmond hung on the wall. Okay, not quite a rock rebel, but I felt cool.

In high school, the piece of clothing that made me “with it” was a lime green peasant blouse, another hand-me-down from my aunt.  My friend and I giggled when we heard her mother moan to a friend, "You can't tell the difference between these and maternity tops."  What a shame to grow old and be so ‘out of it.’   

Then, one day years later, I stood in the auto department of Wal-Mart, waiting patiently while my husband studied each and every type of windshield wiper the store carried. Bored, I gazed around until my eyes spotted a grouping of mirrors. That’s when I had it … my middle-aged moment.

I could see myself in the mirrors. In fact, I could see myself several times over. It wasn’t my dress or even my shoes that made me stare. It was my purse; a no-nonsense affair attached to my arm by two sturdy straps. It was a middle-aged woman’s purse.

I was middle aged.

I know how it happened. Those birthdays I'd joyfully celebrated had turned on me. But still, going from the bloom of youth to the top of the downhill slide, well, that was hard. It required a whole change in attitude … namely depression.

While I didn't pull a black scarf over my head and take up residence in my rocking chair, I did, in a sense give up. After all, I wasn't young anymore, certainly wasn't with it, and I hadn't been “cool” for a long time. This depression could have gone on forever if I hadn't realized I was looking in the wrong direction along my timeline.

One day, while thumbing through a magazine, I came across an article about an artist. She was proudly in her 60's, making no apologies for her age. Her clothes weren’t the latest style. She’d even allowed her hair to go gray. And she looked wonderfully graceful, tailored and confident.

I wanted to be her.  But how?  I have the grace of a gazelle without night vision. If I wear anything remotely tailored, I’m guaranteed to spill soup on it or pop at least two buttons. Confidence? If I had that, I wouldn't be eying the black scarf and rocking chair! After rifling through my wardrobe and contemplating a bonfire, I almost slipped back into my depression. I couldn't be her.

Then I recalled the wise words of Psalms 139:14. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful; I know that full well.

I couldn’t be her, but I could be me. Ah yes, that was the lesson. Her grace and confidence came not from imitating others, but from living happy as herself.

Could I be happy as myself? Yes, but first I had to change my thinking. I needed to start acting like I believed the verse.

I am not pale, but fair (or on a good day, gossamer).

I am not chubby, but curvy.

I am not average, but fabulous and unique, the best (and only) me that exists.

God created me and he didn’t do it as a joke. He made me wonderful! And He loves me. We all need to remind ourselves of that very true fact.

Seriously, try singing Jesus Loves Me at the top of your voice (preferably in the privacy of your own home). Treat it not like a children’s song, but as an affirmation that Yes, Jesus loves YOU. Not because you’re graceful. Not because you always say the right thing, and certainly not because you wear the latest styles. He loves you because you are worth loving. Of course, you are – He made you.  

Have I suddenly developed grace?  No. I’m still bumping my way through life just like that night vision impaired gazelle.

I'll never be twenty again. Anything dewy about my skin comes from a bottle. Perky has never described my personality and now it doesn't come near to describing my body.

But now my timeline faces forward. So, what if I’m middle-aged? That simply means I’m in the middle of life's adventure, still looking forward to where it's going to take me. God has got plans.

As for that middle-aged purse? It's gone, baby, it's gone!

-Susan York Meyers

Bunnies and such!

 

Happy Easter