Rachel Allord

Eighteen and LIfe (and counting)

I have been married eighteen years. Today. I don’t know everything, I’m certainly no marriage expert, but here’s what I know:

Marriage will be great. It will be good. It will be ho-hum. It will be terrible. Repeat, in no particular order, and throw in various other adjectives.

It will bring out the best in you sometimes, but more often, it will bring out the worst in you and your fellow “I-do-er” but that’s when love becomes love. When it’s hard. When it’s an act of will. When you and your loved one are not so lovable and you chose love anyway. I do. I will.

Everything is better in the morning. Except for your breath, but that’s an easy fix.

The gooey feelings come and go, ebb and flow. Don’t freak out. You can love someone with actions and allow someone to love you with actions and often the gooey feelings follow, thicker and richer than before.

Pray, pray, pray, pray, pray, pray, pray, pray. About Every.Thing.

Pushing through the yuck can lead to the better. Having the fight can ultimately bring the peace.

Our particular “tough times”? I didn’t expect them. And the abundance of blessings we’ve received? Those have caught me by surprise too. Expect the unexpected.

It takes two. It takes time. It takes work. It takes God. It takes more I forgive you/forgive me’s than I love you’s. It takes good food, good sex, (yup, I said it) good talks, and good humor. It takes a whole lot of serving and a whole lot of listening and a whole lot of putting-you-firsting.

It takes a lot. But riding a roller coaster is always more fun when there’s someone beside you to hold your hand… especially when that someone is your best friend.

The Shortest To-do List Ever

I’m finding it hard to write during the summer. There are projects to complete and ice cream cones to eat and things to paint and I’m supposed to be in the “marketing phase” of my recently released novel (which, I’m finding, isn’t like writing and not my favorite cup of tea) and the kids are home and now that my oldest is nearing fourteen, I’m mentally counting down the remaining summers with him. And I just don’t want to miss summer.

So. On his first day of vacation, my very sweet husband took the kids out for the day so I could get in some writing. When my daughter realized I was being left behind she asked, “What are you going to do Mom?” to which I said, “Write. Not wash dishes, not do laundry, not grocery shop, not send emails, not plan upcoming classes. I’m going to write.” (Little did she realize I was making a vow to myself more than answering her question).

So before she left, my very sweet, list-loving daughter said, “Here’s your to-do list” and handed me this note card:

Brilliant, isn’t she? Even at eight she knows the shortcomings of the human (particularly female?) mind. More times than I care to count, I have turned into the If You Give a Mouse a Cookie mouse… soon I’ll want some milk… and then to sweep the floor… and then to clean the bathroom…

True confession? And one I’m trusting some of you can relate to this: I almost always feel behind on just about everything. From bills to kid time to husband time to staying connected with friends to cleaning to writing to spending time with God to everything… I have to constantly pray for my soul to be still. To enjoy the moments because this is life. And I don’t want to miss it because I’m scrambling around like that harebrained mouse. So what if the laundry will never actually be done. I want to be fully engaged in whatever it is I’m engaging in at the moment (unless it’s doing dishes, although Ann Voskcamp would urge me otherwise). To say it more succinctly, I want to be present.

So when I set aside time to write, I want to switch my intermittently ADD brain to write and nothing else. Because writing isn’t brainstorming. Writing isn’t outlining or observing or researching or talking about writing or thinking about writing. Writing is writing. That’s it. It’s freeing the mess in our heads by using a series of letters and punctuation. Only what is transferred to the page—or the computer screen—only that is writing. Yes, all the aforementioned are critical to the process of writing and I could tout the benefits of each, but they don’t constitute writing.

So I’m hanging on to my brilliantly short to do list. And when I’ve designated time to write and I feel myself morphing into that little manic mouse, I’m going to stick to my one item list: Write.

The Freedom in No

As some of you may know, starting on January 1st of this year, I decided to go on a year long shopping fast and I have reached the halfway mark. In the past six months, I have not bought a t-shirt, a tank, a pair of jeans, a pair of mittens, a purse, or a scarf, and I refrained myself from rifling through the clearance racks or stockpiling at the Land’s End sale or drooling over the dresses on ModCloth. Perhaps I should begin this post with some hugely spiritual life-changing epiphany. Sorry. I just can’t. I have to get something off my chest: I want to shop. In a big, bad way. I want to take my 30% Kohls coupon and buy everything. But I am learning things and I have cheated. Yes, I have.
First, my cheats.

Aren’t they cute? Don’t judge me. I really needed these babies for upcoming weddings. (Sure, I’m defining “needed” in an unquestionably American way since no one would have kicked me out had a worn my tired old flats but, ew.) Buying and wearing these shoes brought me a ridiculous amount of joy.

Here’s my favorite cheat:

Isn’t it gorgeous? And it’s so multicolored it goes with everything. So what was the reason for this cheat? Because the $12 I spent to buy this dazzling beaded bracelet handcrafted by women and girls who’ve been rescued from sex trafficking goes to support them though an organization called Freedom Firm. Go check out their jewelry. Just forget about this blog and go! And while you’re at it, get your tickets for Project Dance Them Free. You’ll see great dance, have a chance to purchase some of this beautiful jewelry, and support Freedom Firm. A shameless plug I feel absolutely no guilt in making.
A few things I’ve learned during these months of minor deprivation:
Tailors still exit. Who knew? And you can take a dress that you’ve shoved to the back of your closet because it doesn’t fit right to the tailor and he’ll fix it right up.
I tend to think I deserve new clothes, for any number of random reasons. Last month was particularly tough; “I have a book signing so I should get a dress.”
Saying no to one thing now can help you say no to another thing later. This is a biggie and I’m still chewing on it. When we discipline ourselves to say no to something, even to a good thing like clothes or food or screens, we train ourselves to say no to other things, maybe not so good things like… perhaps… spending too much, eating too much, talking too much, sleeping too much, redecorating too much, drinking too much, judging too much, playing video games too much, comparing too much, whining too much…. and our lists vary and can go on and on. Temptation comes in all forms and sizes and maybe learning that we can see something we want and still tell ourselves no with something small may actually help us say no to something much bigger, much more detrimental, later.
Establishing parameters brings a strange freedom. I can walk into a store to get clothes for the kids knowing that I don’t have to use time, energy, thought, or money on the possibility of finding something for me. Because I’ve already decided no. One less thing to think about. Ah, freedom.
What haven’t I learned yet? To organize my closet. It’s still a mess. But I have six months left to maybe learn that an organized closet is a happy closest. Maybe.

Dad’s Turn

Dads don’t always get their due praise. Singing the praises of Mom seems to come easier but fathers… Dads… hear me loud and clear: you are irreplaceable. You are immeasurably influential. So for all the dads out there, including my dad and my husband… thank you! Allow me to sing a few praises to my dad:

Dad ignited my love for stories. Early on, he both read and made up stories, (his best entitled “The Laughing Dragons”) complete with voices and sound effects. On a car trip once he began telling us a story that went something like this: “Once there was a brother and a sister, and their father was a lawyer, and they had this strange neighbor who never came out of his house… …” And lo and behold, this story ended up being my favorite novel. (In case you need a hint: “Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it…”) He told us lots and lots of Bible stories and I also recall lying in my parent’s bed with my sister while Dad read us “Tom Sawyer.” I think I was six and don’t remember much, but I do remember the vibrant colors of the picture of Tom and Becky on the cover of the hardback and I do remember liking it all—my dad’s animated voice, cuddling in their bed, the look and feel and smell of the big book.
He could be really really silly. Still can be. And that’s just plain fun. To have as a dad, and now as “Grandpa”.
He told me I was pretty and called me names like Sweetheart and said, “I love you.”
Dad—former actuary—tried his darndest to tutor me through Algebra II and finally, when I promised him that no way, no how, would I ever use it in real life, (and bless her heart, my teacher agreed) he let me drop it. Hallelujah.
He took us places. The zoo. Bike rides. Mountain hikes. Camping. Neighborhood parks, state parks, national parks in part because….
He loved, loved, family vacations. Months in advance, he’d spread open the big Rand Mcnally map across the dining room table and pinpoint our route. I’ll admit, I wasn’t always an eager participate but a package of RainBlo bubble gum helped, as did singing “America the Beautiful” at the top of my lungs out the car window. My sister and brother and I saw a lot of America from the backseat of an unsightly yellow station wagon we affectionately dubbed Old Yeller. I have a vivid memory of zooming through downtown Chicago at wee hours in the morning, the skyscrapers lit up, the roads empty, my dad driving and me awake, and in that moment it felt like our Chicago, Dad’s and mine.
I remember watching him give food to people holding cardboard signs along the side of the road. He was and is generous with both his time and money—and there’s an orphanage/church in Haiti who knows this firsthand.
He taught me what was right and wrong. He pointed out good and evil. Yes, the world bears a lot of gray, but there are times when parents simply need to spit out the truth and call a spade a spade.
He loves my mom. Don’t underestimate the importance of those four simple words.
He knows he is a sinner, in need of and saved by grace, and he’s not ashamed to admit it. He’s not afraid to say he’s sorry, or pray in public, or tell people about Jesus.

No family attains perfection, not the one I grew up in nor the one I have now. But there can be a whole lot of good without perfect. I am blessed that both my dad and husband have stepped up to the call to father with love and integrity—who are not only good good men, but also good, good dads. Thank you Dad.

Greeting Cards Don’t Say It All

Mother’s Day comes with a difficult mission: finding a greeting card for your mom that falls somewhere between pure sap (You are the perfect mother in every way on every day, and everything you touch turns to gold….) and a groan-inducing, dog-on-the-front brand of humor. Often I forgo Hallmark, pull out the scrapbook supplies, and forge my own.

Not only does May hold Mother’s Day, it also contains my mom’s birthday. So in honor of May, in honor of moms everywhere, here’s my tribute to my mom:

Ten Really Cool Things About My Mom

1. She let her children be children: Saturdays meant sleeping late and watching cartoons. We did activities like piano lessons and/or sports but we were never overscheduled. Plus, she let us act like goofballs in the car.

2. She cooked yummy, well-balanced meals. Meat, something starchy, and usually something green. We ate a lot of broccoli. It tasted good too. I didn’t see it at the time, but these homemade meals were a gift.

3. She didn’t freak out if the house got messy. And we were good at messy. Playing Barbies meant transforming the entire living room floor into Barbie’s house. Hand towels became carpet to distinguish room from room, and knickknacks were fair game as Barbie’s art deco. Mom let my little brother empty and stack the canned goods from the lazy susan and make these crazy things he dubbed “pigballs” (wadded up toilet paper, dipped in water or occasionally apple juice, and frozen solid, and no, I don’t know where he got the idea or what it all means). When we were a little older, my sister and I spent many Saturdays wrestling my little brother into a dress (sorry Nathan) and shooting commercials or murder mysteries, which really messed up the house, but Mom didn’t seem to mind.

4. She went back to school and gradated with a degree in social work the same year I graduated high school. The older I get the more impressive this gets. Three kids, a husband in full time ministry, and somehow she made it work.

5. She didn’t yell. Okay, I’m sure she did occasionally, but I honestly remember only a few times. And by then, we probably had it coming.

6. She didnt/doesn’t burden her children with unreasonable expectations. I never thought/think “This ___ is never going to be good enough for mom.” This, I’m finding, is a rare blessing.

7. She didn’t do the guilt thing. I don’t recall her saying things like “After all I’ve done for you….” or some other guilt inducing, woe is me mantra.

8. She was committed to my dad. Again, something you take for granted as a kid, but then you grow up and learn what hard work a marriage takes and how your parents’ commitment to each other (or lack thereof) colors your entire life.

9. She let me go on an overseas missions trip for eight weeks, to Budapest Hungary, just after I turned sixteen. Ok, this one boggles my mind. Yes, we’re living in different times now, airport security and international traveling now what it is, but still. I have a thirteen year old and I wonder, in three years, would I be brave enough to let him do that? Which leads into the next one…

10. She entrusted her children to God. This is a hard one for us protective mama bears. But I see now, in her unconditional loving, I won’t-control-you way, mom lived it.

Mom, I have a lot to learn from you. There are no perfect mothers and no perfect daughters and no perfect sons, but I’m thankful to have you as my mom.

Editors Rock (but I don’t think I’d ever want to be one)

Despite my English degree, I am not the queen of commas nor do I always break my paragraphs in the correct place. By the time I sent my manuscript to my now publisher, a year ago, the thing had been cut, revised, and rewritten countless times. A speaker at a writer’s conference once said editors expect 97% of the work to be done on a manuscript before they take it on. So while I felt my baby had been edited ad nauseam, it still needed some editorial TLC and a fresh pair of expertise eyes.

I’m a newbie, so I don’t have all the answers. And I don’t know how things compare from one publishing house to the next, but here’s a taste of the editorial process for my novel Mother of My Son, that releases in just two short months.

Round one consists of tackling the big stuff. This is when my editors told me to change or develop or stretch scenes. For instance, my first chapter is a doozy (girl gives birth alone in bathtub) and although I’ve wrestled with this chapter for years, there was one little part I just couldn’t figure out how to fix—an implausibility factor. So I left it. Until my editor said, “you need to fix this” which forced me to think and think and think until…. glory! The solution smacked me in the head. And it turned out to be such an easy fix. The point is, without my editor, I would have been tempted to leave the scene as is. Some changes to the manuscript were nonnegotiable, (first chapter implausibility, extending the last chapter) and others were open for discussion. I agreed with the majority of their suggestions and tweaked my manuscript accordingly. It thrills me that all of the changes made only enhanced the story. As for the points of minor disagreement, When I explained why I wanted to leave the scene unchanged they let me have my way. This thrilled me to no end too because the story retained its flavor and my voice. Editors help you enhance the piece without cramping your style.

Round two focused on grammatical errors, wrong word usage, paragraph breaks, semicolon versus dash, etc. etc, etc. and blah blah blah. Don’t get me wrong: this is so, so, so important. But it was at this point in the process that I realized I do not want to edit, I want to write—and I really needed editors. This is why editors rock. They help you fix all this pesky, technical mistakes.

Round three. The galleys. The final copy that you and the editors and a few of their chosen readers go through one last time to hunt down and kill each and every typo and error. At least you hope so. The truth is, computers cannot edit. It takes a pair—or pairs actually—of alert human eyes, and even the best eyes aren’t perfect. The next time I spot a typo in a book, I will be much more gracious having gone through the process.

Because we’re all human. Writers, editors, and readers alike. And we all need each other to make the thing work.

Prove You’re Not a Robot

Apparently I’m a robot. At least according to the captcha that forces me to translate a string of numbers or letters to prove my humanness. (I only know that term because my brilliant husband just told me what this annoying test is called.) I usually fail on the first try. Sometimes the second. I think it’s because I’m sporadically, numerically dyslexic, meaning I sometimes switch certain numbers, particularly 3, 6, and 9 but only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This come-and-go disability makes balancing the checkbook and doing the taxes loads of fun.

Anyway, when I fail the prove-you’re-not-a-robot-test I get a little bit defensive. I mean for Pete’s sake, is it really so black and white? I can’t decipher a series of squiggly letters and numbers therefore, obviously, I’m a robot? And who is my computer to tell me I’m a robot? Does my sassy computer take into consideration all of my unrobotish qualities, like the fact that I cried at the little foal turned Budweiser horse commercial played during the super bowl? No. That doesn’t matter. Only the row of squiggly numbers.

Jumping to conclusions—for all of us, not just my computer—is just so darn easy. Too easy. Here’s an example of the flying leap our brains might take:

What we see: Ooh! They have such a nice fancy house, or car, or fill in the blank.

The jump: Must be nice to have so much money; life sure must be easy for them.

When the reality could be: They’re drowning in debt. Or they happen to be the most generous, humble people in the world and give away fifty percent of their earnings. Or some middle ground between the two.

Sometimes our minds take a huge leap based on what we think we see: when we see what we think is a perfect marriage, or when we see what we think is a lousy marriage. Or when we glimpse a “perfect” child. Or a screaming child. Or a fat person. Or a skinny person. Or a person with no kids. Or a person with a hundred kids. Or a mom who works crazy hours. Or a mom who stays home.

There’s just no winning. And the truth is, we just don’t know. We could be right in our conclusions, it’s possible, but we could also be so, so wrong.

Like my computer. Who, by the way, is a robot and doesn’t know nothin’.

Drop the Chicken Bone

My dog ate a chicken bone yesterday on our walk. I don’t know how she found it buried under the stratum of ice, but, presumably, her nose led her to it. She dug it up, ate half of the frozen thing, and growled at me when I tried to take it away. She got half, I got half. I suppose that’s fair.

While she was chomping down her half, I stood on the sidewalk shouting things like, “Drop it! You don’t want that! That might taste good now but that’s going to hurt coming up (or out)! You stupid, stupid dog! Drop it!”

(Please don’t call The Society on me for my verbal abuse because if I didn’t care about her, I wouldn’t have yelled. Yelling = Care. Sometimes, anyway.)

I once told my daughter that our minds, thoughts, ways, in comparison to God’s, are a bit like Lulu’s mind in comparison to ours. I believe I fetched this out of the reservoir of analogies given to me by my dad. In other words, dogs just don’t get it. They are incapable of getting it. Oh dogs can be smart, in their own charming way, but they’ll never understand things like… let’s say… electricity. Or why eating a chicken bone could possibly be a bad thing.

There are things—many things—I don’t fully get either. Things that God nudges me to drop. Like pride or bitterness or my own plan. Or sometimes the notion that I can change someone or fix a situation. It might not make sense to us, but dropping it, as much as we get some satisfaction from gnawing on it, might be for our own good.

There’s a time to fight it and a time to drop it, and even though that’s not exactly what Solomon wrote in Ecclesiastes, it’s the same general principle.

In her doggie language, Lulu was telling me yesterday, “NO! This is mine, all mine, and I WON’T give it up!” Lord help us when we take the same attitude. Sometimes laying down our chicken bone in full submission leads to a nice juicy steak. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes our surrender is an act of obedience and trust. And maybe the steak comes later. Much, much later. Nevertheless, drop the chicken bone.

Ravens, Writing Desks, and this thing called Vanity

“Why is a raven like a writing-desk? Have you guessed the riddle yet?” the Hatter said, turning to Alice again. 

“No, I give up,” Alice replied: “What’s the answer?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the Hatter.

Neither do I yet this riddle from Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland remains firmly planted in my mind… and leads to today’s rather random ramble: my writing desk, which, truth be told, isn’t a desk at all but a vanity. Yes, a vanity. Do they make these anymore? I don’t know. It used to belong to my grandma, complete with a mirror (now detached and down in the basement) and a cute little settee (also in the basement waiting to be reupholstered and reintroduced to society) with a wide center drawer and two drawers on each side and—my favorite part—claw feet, which both charm me and freak me out. (Because whoever thought of putting eagle talons on the legs of furniture? A mad hatter, that’s who.)

One of my fondest memories of visiting my “Milwaukee Grandparents” was sitting at this vanity and excavating the mine of Grandma’s jewelry collection. She did not have pierced ears but made up for it by having oodles of earrings, and not just sweet little dainty ones but big bulky, blingy, plasticy fun earrings. And since they were clip-ons my sister and I could try them all, which we did, along with a jillion beaded necklaces. We’d deck ourselves out and then admire ourselves in the vanity mirror—which seems to be an appropriate title for any mirror.

Anyway, now Grandma’s vanity holds copy paper and random bills and scribbled sticky notes that say things like Amber rents apartment, chapter 8, rework. And now the top of the vanity has a spot where the paint’s been scratched off from my mouse. And as I sit and contemplate and write at this vanity-turned-writing-desk, I am reminded of the vanity struggle, for everyone I suppose, but specifically the brand writers, probably all artists, face: the struggle to write from a place of honesty yet humility—to offer words that are vulnerable and true without being narcissistic and self-absorbed and maybe—can we even hope?—words that serve someone else. It’s a wrestling match, one that I’m finding I can only “win” by losing, giving up, giving to God, again and again and again saying your will, not mine. Your plan, not mine. Your glory, not mine. This is what I am learn-ing. I was learning it last year and I was learning it yesterday and I reckon I’ll be learning it tomorrow.

Oh! It came to me! In the middle of this ramble! The answer to the riddle. Why is a raven like a writing desk—at least my writing desk? The feet, the clawed feet for Pete’s sake! Oh Lewis Carroll, how did you know?

First, Ponder

Today’s a snow day. A perfect day to ponder and lately, I’ve been pondering what it means to ponder….

But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. (Luke 2:19)

Mary did not endure packed Wal-Mart aisles. She wasn’t in charge of baking the Christmas ham, didn’t stress over gingerbread cookies or family coming over or finding last minute stocking stuffers. She wasn’t hunting down the scotch tape or waiting in line at the post office, or figuring out what to wear or what dish to bring to what party.

Mary was pregnant. And she was a virgin. Which made her prime suspect for public and private ridicule, slander, and jokes. We believe her now—at least I do—about the virgin birth thing, but not many believed her then. Not many understood what she was going through, what she’d been called to, what carrying this baby meant for them. For her. For the world. No doubt she was misunderstood. Assumed crazy? At the very least she must have gone through some kind of identity crisis to be the center of such scandal, one that could result in her being stoned to death. She didn’t have to buy any presents but she did ride on a donkey for miles and miles, bumping along with an aching low back. She did do Lamaze breathing (even though she didn’t know it would one day be called Lamaze breathing) on a contaminated barn floor. She did deliver her child without the comfort of her mother or the wisdom of a midwife or the empathy of another woman. And she did have unexpected raggedy visitors show up, strangers, with animals in tow, to worship her baby. She did have to rise in the middle of the night when her husband nudged her and said they needed to leave. Now. She did have this insidious King bound and determined to murder her baby. She did know the world would never be the same.

She had much to ponder, much to turn over, quietly, reflectively. “Me, Lord? You chose me to be a part of this plan?” And what a surprising plan it was.

We don’t take the time to ponder, and we have much to ponder. Right now it feels like the whole nation is weeping, and I know there’s much to debate, but I think we need to ponder first. Ponder things like… who are we, really, and what are we doing here? You know, nothing deep.

I’ve been pondering who we are not.

We are not walking accidents, the result of random chance and millions of years of soup. If we were, tragedies like what happened in Connecticut wouldn’t pierce our hearts. If life were merely the result of chance, we wouldn’t all know, to the depths of our being, that killing the innocent is evil and wrong. If survival of the fittest ruled we wouldn’t, rightly so, call teachers who give their life for their students heroes. But we all agree that defending the innocent is good and right. Why?

Because someone put that in us.

Who are we? We are image bearers. The pinnacle of God’s creation. Beings with souls that outlive our bodies. Sojourners in the preface of our never-ending journey. But we—all of us—have really messed things up. Big time. So we stumbling along in a broken world and our remedy will not come from legislature. Don’t put words in my mouth—I’m not saying legislature can’t help, I am saying it can’t fix us. It can’t fix what’s broken to the core because before guns there were knifes and before knives, stones, and before stones, fists. We are broken to our core and our remedy does not come from ourselves, nor can it come from other people because they, too, are broken to their core. I know my own struggles and I know I needed someone to reach down and pull me out, and a rulebook can’t do that. I needed a God who is so full himself that not only does he claim he has truth, he claims that he is truth. A God so humble and selfless he came to be with us—stepped into our mess—in the meekest way possible.

I wonder if this is, in part, what Mary pondered. At any rate, this is what I’m pondering, treasuring up today, as the snow is coming down.

“Come now, let us reason together,” says the LORD. “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool…”

– Isaiah 1:18