An Unhurried Life

Our fall schedule has started and that means things are quite a bit busier for us!

Summer wasn’t exactly the restful, quiet time I always hope it will be. But fall brings on a different kind of routine and busy. School, piano lessons, Bible studies, AWANA. And then we have special things like playdates, parties, and field trips.

I guess what I’m saying is there is no ‘restful season’ that will magically happen. Each change of the calendar and tick of the clock brings a new, different type of hurry and bustle and rush.

I’ve always thought it amazing that some people seem immune to the hustle mentality. They get done what needs to be done without running, frantic lives.

One of the most slow paced people I’ve known was my Grandma Short. She got a lot done in a day but she didn’t do anything quickly. Everything that was worth doing was worth doing well. Making pie crust, ironing, watering flowers. Grandma didn’t run or rush.

I remember shopping with Grandma and Grandpa when they visited us. Grandma looked at every shirt on the rack, touched the fabric, slowly moved the hangers to get to the desired size. She didn’t feel rushed, even when the rest of us moved ahead. But she also never seemed concerned about falling behind. She knew what she needed to get done in a day and that was what she got done.

Grandma didn’t neglect others in her to-do list. She wasn’t so focused on the tasks that she didn’t cultivate relationships. My Grandpa owned two businesses in a small town and he and my Grandma were born and raised in that area. They knew most of the people in town and people knew they could drop by for a chat. There were many times when people would knock and yell “Hello!” and Grandma would answer and welcome them in for a visit. It didn’t matter that she was in the middle of laundry or dishes or baking.

When we would visit, we would often go on the back patio after dinner. It was sometimes the first time all day my Grandma had sat down except for eating meals. But she didn’t complain or draw attention to how much she’d gotten done or hadn’t accomplished. She would sit and visit and laugh and comment on the nice evening and wave at every person who walked by.

I didn’t really notice her contentment with life and her patience with tasks as a child but as I’ve gotten older and felt the weight of responsibility and everything that needs to be done, I look back at my memories of her and long for her unhurried approach to life.

It’s not just about a slower pace. It’s also about being content with what we can do in a day and maybe scaling back on expectations. With modern conveniences and technology, I believe some of our frustration is we think we can do more in a day than we actually can. And when we fail to do it all, instead of focusing on a few tasks the next day, we believe we just have to wake up earlier, hustle more, stay up later.

This is certainly something I need to try harder at and do not have the perfect answers for. But it is something I recognize in my life as needing to change. I need to set my priorities more realistically so I’m not rushing from task to thing to place. I need to recognize my limits and accept them.

Living an unhurried life doesn’t mean not getting things done or living in slow motion. It’s a mindset of living within our limits and being content. With not trying to do it all everyday. And trusting God with our efforts.

Photo by Theme Photos on Unsplash

Life Lessons in a Journal

I’m a fan of journaling.

I love buying them, receiving them as gifts, using them.

I write in them about my life, my memories, my fears and desires, my frustrations and my thankfulness. I brainstorm and outline and connect thoughts and put together fragments.

Journals are all over my office, stacked on shelves and bookcases and in bins in a closet and under beds. I might be a little obsessed.

I started journaling when I was 10 years old with a diary that had a lock and a small set of keys. I didn’t have a lot going on in my life but I wrote about my cat dying, school work, vacations, summer fun, and lots of “Today was great. The End.” type entries.

When we moved, journaling was how I documented my sadness and frustrations and new friendships and starting school and hating biology.

My mom encouraged me to keep a journal whenever I traveled so I could write about the culture and adventures and what I saw and experienced. And I’m so glad she did. Through various missions trips and school trips and family travels, I would take a different journal and try to write in it at the end of each day. I was recently reading over some of those and of all the things I remember about those trips, there is so much I forgot. But thanks to my journaling practice, I can relive those forgotten moments again.

Through getting married and starting jobs and moving and becoming a mom I’ve kept journals — not as regularly written in but still precious — and it’s a habit I continue to foster.

The thing about journals is what you record in that moment in what you are feeling, thinking, experiencing. And over years of documenting these things, you can look back at the person you were and marvel at who you are now. Sometimes we change for the better, other times we see ourselves still struggling with the same sins and issues. But we see a picture of who we once were, maybe in a way that we’ve forgotten.

When I look back on certain periods of my journal writing, I notice I only had complaints to write about. I didn’t do this well, someone else got the award, a trip was canceled. I find it hard to believe that for weeks on end nothing good or happy happened to me as a teen-ager. But that’s all my 16 year old self wrote about. But I’ve noticed that — while sometimes sad and discouraging and hard things still happen to me — my more recent entries are focused on gratitude and thankfulness. Maybe it’s my older self realizing that optimism is more enjoyable and things that used to ruin my day aren’t that big of a deal.

I encourage people to journal, even if you don’t enjoy writing, because it’s a interesting lens to see yourself through. No one else has read my journals. I’m not keeping them on the off chance I need material for my autobiography. I’m keeping them to see God’s grace in my life. How experiences and trials have shaped and grown me. How relationships have stretched and challenged and molded me. The things I’ve learned in life and my Bible reading, the prayers lifted and answered.

It’s a habit I plan to continue. I still have empty journals to fill. And I still have lessons to learn and remember.

Photo by Jess Bailey on Unsplash

Getting Sentimental

A few weeks ago was my birthday.

I’m already sensitive and sentimental — I cry {very} easily during movies — but as I get older, things are hitting me harder, I appreciate things more, I reminisce. For some reason, in the midst of turning a year older, I thought about two people who I wish I knew better but still impact me with how I witnessed them living: my grandma {my dad’s mom} and my granddaddy {my mom’s dad}.

My Grandma Short wasn’t given to many words. My grandpa was the big talker in the family. Grandma was content to listen, laugh, and cook. If my grandpa forgot someone’s name or part of a story, she would call from the kitchen or poke her head into the living room to offer the information. She was always in the kitchen, usually baking. Pies, puddings, cookies, chocolate dipped-everything. I remember when we would visit she would be by the sink when I woke up in the morning and by the sink when I said goodnight. She didn’t do anything quickly; slow, patient, deliberate would be good ways to describe her process. I never heard her raise her voice unless she was trying to get Grandpa’s attention. But it wasn’t that she didn’t have opinions. When she didn’t approve of something — whether it was something her grandkids did or something on TV — she would shake her head or slowly shake her finger. It was enough of a punishment to know she was disappointed.

I’ve often longed for her calm approach to life. If she was worried about things, I could never tell. She also wasn’t a complainer. As she got older, her feet really bothered her. She didn’t have any — literally any — fat on the bottom of her feet so when she stood and cooked all day, even with her thick-soled shoes on, she would almost limp into a chair after dinner. It became a tradition that I would rub her feet almost nightly when we would visit. She would never complain but when I pressed a certain way, she would wince a little. She often fell asleep during these foot rubs and would apologize after.

Everything she did pointed to these two truths: she loved God and she loved her family.

My granddaddy was just as quiet. When we would visit their Tennessee farm, I remember him spending the mornings in the fields and the afternoons in his office. He taught Sunday School at their church for decades and would spend hours reading and studying every week. He always struck me as contemplative. He didn’t feel the need to fill silence, often sitting and gazing out the window even if someone else was in the room. I remember as a very talkative little girl wondering why anyone would be content to just watch the birds fly by and not comment on it.

As inclined as he was to silence, he did laugh. I remember his eyes crinkling with laughter while we watched The Three Stooges. My Me-Ma {grandma} had a running collection of sad movies where the animal dies at the end and we would regularly watch them. Granddaddy would wander into the room, see what was on the TV and say, “Y’all watching that Old Yeller again? Y’all knows how it ends, don’t ya?” and walk out chuckling. Even as he became more forgetful and slower toward the end of his life, I still remember him whistling, softly laughing when something struck him funny, and content.

Both of these people had seen hardship {Grandma’s brother died when she was a teenager and Granddaddy’s parents died when he was young} but they didn’t let difficulty define them or keep them from smiling. They both faced life with the perspective that God was in control.

I wish I would have had more opportunities to sit and ask questions and learn from them. The memories I do have are precious and going into this next year God has given, I’m making a conscience effort to not let the things around me dictate my mood or attitude. I want to find joy in simple things, serve my family well, and point others to Christ by my daily attitude.

Do you ever think what your legacy will be for those who know you? How would you like to be remembered?

Photo by James Besser on Unsplash.