All You Need Is Love...Really.

I got it. I finally outright got it! The meaning of life…our reason for being.
Love.
D’ya get that? LOVE. Here’s how it shakes down:

1. God is love.

2. God loves us.

3. God wants us to love him.

4. God wants us to love each other.

(Not too offensive yet, huh? That whole “God” thing… no one’s hitting the red X on the off chance I go religious-fruit-loop on ya?)

Well, as I see it (and this is my blog, so I can post it any-ole-way-I-see-it) we are put on this earth to LEARN TO LOVE EACH OTHER THE WAY THAT GOD LOVES US.

Come again?

Yeah, see point #2 above. I believe this is what it means to be “made in his image.” Doesn’t mean we have the same nose, or that our skin matches God’s (really? Skin???) It simply means we have a HEART capable of LOVING as God loves.

Wow…

Allow me to illustrate…

Who is the worst person in the world I can think of? I’m thinking…and in my rude and judgmental way, I have someone in mind. You do too, I’m sure. Now…who made that person?

Satan, of course! 
Bzzzzzzzz!! Satan doesn't create; he destroys.  Try again.

Uh, God??

Right. Don’t be afraid…Shout out the answers when you know them!

Who made you? (Little easier to answer, huh?)

Now, for my spiritually-challenged friends, you were very well created by a swirling mass of electrons and energy and formed from a million-years’ evolution of organisms as a result of your mom and dad having a “thing” for each other…I’m just sayin’…still could’ve been orchestrated by God. But I digress…

Back to the bad-ass no one likes. We have established that God made this person, just as he made you. Furthermore, if you are Christian (and you do not HAVE to be for me to appreciate you) but if you are, then you believe God died for you, right?

And he died for Mr./Ms. Bad-Ass too, right?

Oh, hold on, Lori. That’s pushing it a little far. I haven’t, like, killed anybody…of COURSE God loves me. But Mr. Bad Ass, well, he’s…bad!

Ahem! Yeah…kinda my point. God loves Mr./Ms. Bad Ass too…enough to die for them. And us.

And we hate each other…why?

See, even when we suck at our mission, God still loves us. He still wants us to love him. And he wants us to love each other. Period. He didn’t have a checklist at the cross, “Oh, I’m dying for this girl, but not this one. Have you seen how she dresses?!” No checklist. And I’m glad, ‘cause Lord knows my name wouldn’t have been on it. Yet he knows my name. He knows Mr. Bad Ass’s name. And he loves us both the same.

So I need to love Mr. Bad Ass. ‘Cause God thinks he’s worth loving. Who am I to not oblige? After all, I already know God gave me the ability to do this...the rest is up to me. 

If we succeed at nothing else in this life but learning to love every soul on earth with the same gusto that we want to be loved, then – and only then – will we have truly lived.

(Now pass the plate.)

sh-sh-sh-SHINGLES!

So there I was, convinced I had a sinus infection, my upper teeth on the left side hurting. And then that crazy rash on my face, the one that made co-workers speculate whether I had come into contact with poison ivy, or was reacting to a medication. The original mis-diagnosis on a Monday, three days into the rash, was aggravating enough, since I didn't feel the doctor heard a word I said, aside from “tooth,” at which he promptly sent me to my dentist. But when I spoke with MY doctor's receptionist on Wednesday morning and explained my symptoms, she said, “Oh, girl, it sounds like you got shingles!”

Oh, noooo. Nooooo, nooo, noo. Perhaps I didn't explain myself. See, I just have this little blistery part up in my hairline, and well my nose is all rashy, but no, shingles are caused by stress, right? And I mean, I'm not stressed…not me.

“Gurrrrrl, you got the shingles, I bet!! You come on in around 1:45 and we'll work you in today.”

And so began my three-week battle with shingles, the residual effect of those 5 blooming chicken pox blisters I had at age 8. You mean to tell me this has been laying dormant in my facial nerve for 30 years and chose NOW to resurface?!! I truly do not feel “stressed.” Certainly not like, I need medication, stressed. If ever there was a time in my life when I feel illness should take advantage of me, this is not it. What about those two weeks in 1996 when I got married, moved, changed jobs and lost my grandmother all at the same time? THAT was stress!! Or what about celebrating my son's first birthday knowing I'm pregnant with a second child, and not sure I'll be able to handle it? THAT was stress. I have friends who hit life twelve times harder than I do, so how is it that I am suddenly the poster child for overworked-freak-stress-anxiety-disorder? (Not that that's a bad thing…)

So this has caused me to pause (and completely pass out given the right meds) and take stock of what my life comprises, in an effort to understand how, when I thought I was at the top of my game, I was actually weak enough to be overtaken by a devilishly painful virus.

1.  The dog has an ear hematoma. (I hear Arnold Swarzenegger's voice every time I say that word - hemaTOHma. I don't know why.) Basically, this means Mason shook his cute little head so hard that he busted a blood vessel in his cute little ear. It is repairable only with surgery… a very expensive surgery with no guarantees that it won't happen again. And here, only a day after getting the stitches removed, I fear it has happened…again.

2.  We are having some necessary repair done to the ENTIRE exterior of our home, a project which has taken longer than I expected, but we are pleased with the work as it progresses, even though I am not completely sure what the final tab will be. My dermatologist pins the shingles on this one, hands down.

3.  I do worry about Victoria as she experiences 2nd grade. She is sooooo extroverted, and I am sooooo not. It's hard for me to relate to someone who talks when the teacher says not to. I was the quiet, nerdy girl in the front row of every class I ever took. So the thought of my daughter “not listening,” “not practicing self control,” and “not using time and materials effectively” admittedly sends me into orbit. And yet I want to allow her to be who she is…

So this act of taking stock of my situation leaves me with little answers. I love my job, am happy at home, have the best husband on earth, and am greeted every day by two joyful children and two waggly-tailed dogs. Am I really freaking out over what color to paint the entry hall and how long my tires will last? Are junk mail and rush-hour traffic starting to affect my biorhythms? I would not have thought so…

But I also didn't think I'd get shingles.

Victoria: Like it or lump it!

You always know where you stand with Victoria. She is honest to a fault, and readily admits her shortcomings. And she is not one to butter you up just to get something she wants. Relationships with Victoria have to be honest or she is not interested in them. She has begun to have a rough time with her teacher lately. We have heard Vic complain that her teacher does not smile, and always seems unhappy. Trying to give the teacher the benefit of the doubt, my mother suggested that Victoria make the teacher smile each day by greeting her with, “Good morning, Mrs. __! I hope you have a great day today!”

Victoria eyed my mother for a short time, and then dryly said, “I just don’t think I can do that.”

Victoria: Temporary Tattoo

At dinner the other night, I glimpsed ink-penned words on Victoria’s forearm. As I imagined her writing her spelling words on her arm, or something equally deviant, I sharply asked what in the world she had written. Her explanation made perfect sense given the situation of the past couple of weeks…Victoria had been reporting to me that she received conduct marks for other people talking in class. Not for one second believing she was innocent, I would tell her each time that other people talking when they are not supposed to does not giver her the right to talk. “But Mommy, I’m telling them not to talk to me, and then I get in trouble!!” To which I would reply, “DO NOT TALK if you are not supposed to!!” So as she lifted her arm to show me this temporary tattoo, I saw for myself her attempt to heed the rules: she had written, “TALK TO THE ARM!”