Blood

I’m saving three lives today. 

I’m a big promoter of donating blood. It’s sort of a family thing. When my sister was 14, she needed corrective jaw surgery. Since she knew about the surgery in advance, her doctor had her donate 3 pints of blood to be used (if needed) during the surgery. To make Karen less nervous, my mom also donated blood with her. I was 11 and I sat on the floor trying not to pass out as I watched the clear plastic bags swell with my family's blood. They were resting on a scale, and with each stream that ran down the tube, my stomach turned. That was a lot of blood.

During the surgery, Karen ended up needing 2 pints of blood to replace what she was losing. It saved her life.

My mom began donating regularly after that, my sister became an official donor when she turned 17. As a wimpy teenager with pale arms and no visible veins, I opted out of the tradition.

Until my freshman year of college. At the time, my mom was a Red Cross volunteer. She taught CPR classes, volunteered on the Community Emergency Response Team and the Disaster Action Team. She even did Sky Warn and was a certified storm spotter. And I needed an idea for my persuasive speech for SPCH 1001. My mom suggested blood donation.

I knew enough about it. I’d tagged along with my mom a few times when she’d donate in the fellowship hall of St. Joseph’s church or in the giant concrete Armory building. And I could never forget the scene in the doctor’s office of my sister’s blood bag.

But I’m a doer. I decided to suck it up and make my own trek to the Armory. It took about 20 minutes and 3 techs to get the needle in my translucent arm. And after half a pint, the blood stopped. The vein had collapsed and they couldn’t get any more blood out of it. My elbow was already bruising and no tech wanted to finish the pint. They fed me cookies and juice until it satisfied their conscience that the little pale girl wasn’t going to collapse.

Determined to conquer the blood donation process, I’ve been going ever since. It’s still usually a struggle to find a competent vein, but I manage. I squeeze the life out of the stress ball and try to raise my blood pressure above its struggling 90/50.

So I’ve chugged nearly a gallon of water today—because I thought it would make my donation time faster. Now I’m thinking water doesn’t have anything to do with that (despite the fact that water is pretty much shooting out my eyes since I’ve had so much). Does drinking water increase donation speed? Seriously, did I go to science class in high school? I mean, people remember me being there, right?  

Anyway, I’m about an hour from donation time and getting excited. I’ve been doing this for 6 years now, but it still makes me happy. I don’t have a lot of opportunities to save lives. 

But I’m working on saving 3 today.

Some Things

There are many days that I very much enjoy living. Not simply being alive, but being. It’s so hard to pause the busy times and focus on the being, but it’s so refreshing. So on this crisp, fall day, here’s some things that I’m living.

Some things I’m currently loving:

That it’s mid-November, and there’s no snow forecasted for the next week.

Candles. Whenever people ask what I want for presents, I always ask for candles. It’s not lame! I love them and burn them constantly. Don’t tell Anne.

Sweater dresses. I could have a hundred of them and it still wouldn’t be enough. Seriously, whenever I see a girl wearing them, I think “She is so adorable!” I even think some guys could pull off a sweater dress. They are that cute.

Toddlers. Babies still freak me out, but toddlers are so fun. And that little blonde girl at church with the super-thick glasses, she is awesome. I really need to stop telling people I’m going to steal her, in case I actually do.

Magazines. I wish I had the money to subscribe to all of them. I could seriously read any magazine cover to cover. In fact, I just read all of Fundraising Success. And no offense to the writers over there, but your magazine is super boring. And I don’t care about fundraising.

Some things I’m irrationally afraid of:

Centipedes. I don’t think they can actually kill me (but who knows, last I heard the jury was still out on science), but they paralyze me. They are so freaking fast—I mean, I guess I would be too if I had a hundred legs—and gross. Enough, I can’t even talk about them.

Those big trailer trucks that transport vehicles. I’m always afraid the cars will roll off on top of my car. It happens ALL THE TIME in movies.

Being lost anywhere that Bear Grylls has traveled. I am not at all resourceful, strong, or know what kinds of bugs/trees I can eat (remember, jury-science, still out). Plus, I never carry flint or a pocket knife, and I don’t know how to use either. I would die in 12 seconds.

Some things I’ve been thinking about lately:

I wish I owned everything I pin on Pinterest. My world would be so awesome.

Movies and TV have made me believe I could survive getting shot. As long as you’re a good character, you can pretty much survive any bullet wound. I don’t know if that’s really true (doctors/nurses/people who have been shot, feel free to comment). But I think I’m a pretty good character. I’d totally survive.

I’m donating blood tomorrow. I’ve been thinking about it since I scheduled it 5 months ago. I really want to beat 6 minutes, my personal best.

Since I’ve been married, I’ve never signed my maiden name or accidently given the wrong name. Except when I have to get in those lines by last name (A-L, M-Z). I always go to the M-Z line. And then I realize my last name starts with B. I did that yesterday. And I’ve been married over a year.

I have been talking/giggling/seeing-spiders-and-trying-to-get-Brett-to-wake-up-and-kill-them in my sleep more and more. Is there a cure for sleep-living? I think it’s the giggling that freaks me out the most. I don’t really giggle in real life, but apparently sleep-Lindsay is a creepy little girl.

What are you loving/irrationally afraid of/thinking about lately?

Weekend Highs and Lows

Lows:

A whole lot of cleaning happened on Saturday morning. Which of course is probably a really good thing, for both my health and peace of mind. But there are so many other things I love to do on Saturday mornings—like sleep in, go to brunch, go for walks. Scrubbing a toilet is pretty low on that list.

Highs:

So many things (the highs always outshine the lows)

Friday night spent with the other Lindsay, chilling with Levi and watching Extreme Couponing (while she was cutting coupons—totally an inspiration) and Say Yes to the Dress. We chatted about coupons and weddings and families and cooking. The boys were off playing basketball and it was nice to have some grown-up girl time.

Saturday I slept in. Despite the massive amount of cleaning I accomplished, I slept in until 11:30. And it was fantastic.

Volleyball party. Those girls are both wonderful and crazy. Great night of laughter, charades, mind games, and girly silliness.

We rearranged our furniture (after months of my pleading) and it rewarded us with a new T.V. stand. No more ugly, giant fake fireplace mantel. Much cozier arrangement and a special corner chair that is the most fantastic spot of watching movies or taking naps.

Share your weekend highs and lows!

Dandelion in the Sunset

Right now, I am absolutely loving this photo.

It makes my heart happy. I love dandelions. I'm going to transfer this onto a canvas fairly soon with my new-found talent of picture transfer (Pinterest has been so good to me). Photo courtesy of extremely talented friend, Jordan Obinger. Check him out. He's awesome.

Balance and Change

I am currently on a mission of change. I haven’t been myself lately. Though I can hardly remember a time when I haven’t been far too busy and constantly overcommitted, I think it’s catching up to me. Or as an adult, I can finally see how I tend to lose myself in what I’m doing.

Lately, I have too many foggy moments of what am I really doing? I’m acting out all the scenes of my life, but I’m not really living. I caught myself during volleyball warm-ups before a game mindlessly filling out my girls’ lineup. 15c, 1, 2, 11, 20, 12…and then I looked up. Warm-ups were almost over, the clock read 4:30. Where had my day gone? What had I accomplished? And every day, the same thing. Am I doing anything that matters?  

And of course the other things—feeling out of shape after demonstrating a spike approach more than twice in a row; Brett commenting how much Beef reminded him of me when I was in high school and thinking I was never that small…was I? and realizing I was that small until about a year ago; and of course, the sleeping Bible incident, which is its own story: I never really realized how many weird things I did in my sleep until I had roommates. Occasionally when I was younger, my parents would come in my room if I was talking loudly or making noise, but it wasn’t often—especially after I moved downstairs. But in college, my roommates constantly accused me talking, crying, laughing, screaming, sitting up, etc. while sleeping. And lately, it’s gotten worse. Or so Brett insists. A few weeks ago, I allegedly (as claimed by Brett, the only confirming evidence is a backwards Bible, a moved Daily Bread book, and my feeling like a had a dream about my Bible) sat up in bed, moved the Daily Bread from on top of my Bible onto Brett’s pillow—waking him up—and then removed my Bible from its plastic case. I then opened the Bible, scanned a few passages, shut it, and returned it to its case (which is actually kind of hard when I’m awake, so apparently I’m more skilled while unconscious). Then lay back down and returned to sleeping. It freaked Brett out.

More so, it caused me to reflect. While I’m not taking too much from this incident—I’ve also woken up with full-sentence text messages typed on my phone—it did make me wonder. I haven’t been faithfully reading my Bible like I should—do I need to be so much that my mind is doing it in its sleep? Even if the act was nothing more than some weird misfiring brain synapses, it reminded me that that Bible needs to come out of its case a whole lot more—while I’m conscious.

And so the path to self-betterment. Reading my Bible more, getting in shape, eating healthier, enjoying the small things, and reading and writing more.

Eating healthy and being skinny have been a full-out war these last few years. Of course, the vain girl inside of me wishes I looked like I did when I was 17 and a 3-sport athlete. The adult in me wants to enjoy life—not stress out about every dessert. Eat an entire large pizza with Brett every Friday night. Cherish the time I have with my friends and family instead of worrying about not getting my run in our eating too many calories.

I’ve been reading some fabulous blogs lately which have inspired me greatly. Which leads me to my next task: reading and writing. I’m at my happiest when I’m creative. And while I love coaching, I will be happy to have some time to myself to read and write. I’ve been flat lately—uninspired. And it’s time to find that creative place again.

And so I’m working on balance (which clearly I haven’t mastered, as this blog post grows painfully long). I’m going to write something every day. Even if it’s messy and ugly and broken. I’m going to read my Bible. I’m going to exercise and eat healthier—but I’m not sacrificing my family time or the occasional dessert.

These are my resolutions. I don’t want to wait until New Year’s. So feel free to ask me about these things. Harass me and challenge me to meet these goals.

Let’s go running together. And then we can share a pizza.

Hair

There's something about a woman's ability to do her hair that makes her especially feminine. Despite the fact that I've had long hair for about ninety percent of my life, I am by no means skilled at making it look nice. The important men in my life have always insisted I kept my hair long. When I was younger, my dad absolutely refused to let me cut my hair, and thus I grew it out to where I could actually sit on it. The first time I received any sort of major hair cut I was nearly twelve, and then my hair still remained below my shoulders. Once I reached high school, my boyfriend (now husband) repeatedly informed me how much more beautiful girls with long hair than those with short hair. And he used no uncertain words.

Last Thursday, I stood in front of our tiny bathroom mirror attempting to curl my hair for my date with my husband. It was the first time I'd unwound that cord since we've been married, and I tried to remember the last time I curled my hair before that...maybe Emily's wedding in June?

I'm certainly not my sister who became fascinated with styling hair while we were still playing with Barbie dolls. I was the guinea pig--not the stylist. I think I was fourteen the first time Karen cut my hair...and sliced open my neck. Fifteen, maybe, when she gave me a mullet. She was freshman in college when she decided I'd look better with dark, nearly black hair--though now she looks at the pictures and claims I look like a vampire. Thanks, Sis.

I'm definitely not my best friend from high school Ellyse, who now owns and operates her own hair salon, has styled brides for their big day, and has always kept her own hair looking chic and awesome. I still haven't mastered the french braid.

For most women, the ponytail is for working out or doing laundry. For me, the ponytail is about the only hairstyle I can accomplish with regular success. I wear a ponytial more often than not. In fact, my idea of a "fancy" hairstyle is a half-ponytail.

As I repeatedly wrapped small sections around that sizzling barrel, I pondered these very thoughts. Despite being inept at styling my own hair, I continue to keep it long. Even in my own mind, femininity and beauty are somehow intertwined with long locks.

It's only within the last few decades that women have dared to keep their hair short. At least culturally--a woman's long hair has been her beauty. I've never been an overly feminine woman, and maybe holding on tightly to long hair is my way of claiming that, despite being in my mid-twenties and childless, despite my lack of grace and elegance, despite my baby face, despite my overall lack of femininity, I am a woman and I can be beautiful.

My Politics

“Jesus sure didn’t have much to say about the right to bear arms, but he had a heck of a lot to say about loving our enemies.”

Shane Claiborne wrote this in a blog post in February 2010. I don’t agree with all of Shane’s doctrine, but for some reason this line has replayed in my mind a million times since reading it for the first time.

I don’t talk or write much about my political affiliation—mostly because I have yet to find one I totally agree with. I do believe citizens are responsible to play their part, but honestly I’m very sick of the whole political spectrum. And I’m sad at how many Christians are busy toeing party lines.

I hate how many Christians are skewing Christian doctrine with Republican viewpoints. I’m tired of Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity being listened to, read, studied more than the teachings of Jesus Christ.

I’m tired of so many Christians continually pushing that America be a Christian nation. There is nothing in the Bible that tells us to take over our government and force our leaders to preach our doctrine. Christians want that because it would make our lives easier. Of course we want the freedom to worship as we choose, to preach the gospel, and avoid persecution. But I have a hard time finding anywhere in my Bible that says Christians should experience the ease of living in a nation that preaches their doctrine. I realize we use the guise of “If America were really a Christian nation, a whole lot more citizens would become Christians.” We’re shirking our own responsibility of preaching onto the government. 

If all these righteous Christians would just preach to their neighbors and friends, then we would see a whole lot more citizens becoming Christians. But we don’t want that responsibility. We might get laughed at. Maybe even persecuted a little. It’s a whole lot easier to be a Republican than a Christian.

The New Testament was written under some of the worst leaders EVER.  Caligula—demanded deity status; Claudius—expelled the Jews from Rome; Nero—pretty much a bad guy all around; Vespasia—led in the siege of Jerusalem; Titus—destroyed the temple.

And yet Paul never wrote about how to turn Rome into a Christian nation. He talks a lot more about how to endure persecution and how to live a righteous and holy life within a bad government.

A little less Fox News and a little more Bible would do us all some good.