Emily Conrad's Blog, page 10
June 22, 2017
Life Lessons from a Left-for-Dead Hydrangea
by Emily Conrad
On June fourth, I walked through the grocery store and saw a wilted hydrangea plant on an odd, wooden, makeshift rack as tall as myself, waiting for a home.
It had been marked down from $9.99 to $2.99 but was so dehydrated, I wasn't sure it would survive. (The title image is it in its original glory.) Looking for a second opinion, I sought help from a nearby shopper by asking, "Do you think it'll come back with water, or is it too far gone?"
She gave some kind of non-committal shrug and walked on.
I chewed my lip, pictured how pretty cut hydrangeas are and how small the bush is that I planted last year, and then decided I could gamble three dollars on the chance that it would survive. It was, after all, still green despite being horribly wilted.
I moved aside my groceries and fit the container in my cart then proceeded along the aisle only to meet up again with the shopper who hadn't given her opinion when I asked for it.
She saw the plant in my cart. I learned as she tried to talk with me then that there was some kind of language barrier, but both of our intentions were obvious: I had the plant in my cart, after all, and she kept shaking her head and moving her hands, flattened and horizontal to the ground, back and forth in a signal for, "No, don't do it."
Confidence badly shaken, I looked back, wondering how discretely I could return the hydrangea to it's original fate of death by dehydration. That's right: I was embarrassed to proceed with the purchase and embarrassed to put it back.
But when I looked back, I found the staff had already, in the two minutes I'd had the plant, come through and removed the entire rack it'd been displayed on.
How had they moved something so big so quickly? And without my noticing?
Read more »
On June fourth, I walked through the grocery store and saw a wilted hydrangea plant on an odd, wooden, makeshift rack as tall as myself, waiting for a home.
It had been marked down from $9.99 to $2.99 but was so dehydrated, I wasn't sure it would survive. (The title image is it in its original glory.) Looking for a second opinion, I sought help from a nearby shopper by asking, "Do you think it'll come back with water, or is it too far gone?"
She gave some kind of non-committal shrug and walked on.
I chewed my lip, pictured how pretty cut hydrangeas are and how small the bush is that I planted last year, and then decided I could gamble three dollars on the chance that it would survive. It was, after all, still green despite being horribly wilted.
I moved aside my groceries and fit the container in my cart then proceeded along the aisle only to meet up again with the shopper who hadn't given her opinion when I asked for it.
She saw the plant in my cart. I learned as she tried to talk with me then that there was some kind of language barrier, but both of our intentions were obvious: I had the plant in my cart, after all, and she kept shaking her head and moving her hands, flattened and horizontal to the ground, back and forth in a signal for, "No, don't do it."
Confidence badly shaken, I looked back, wondering how discretely I could return the hydrangea to it's original fate of death by dehydration. That's right: I was embarrassed to proceed with the purchase and embarrassed to put it back.
But when I looked back, I found the staff had already, in the two minutes I'd had the plant, come through and removed the entire rack it'd been displayed on.
How had they moved something so big so quickly? And without my noticing?
Read more »
June 20, 2017
When I Am Pressed
by Emily Conrad
One of my favorite scents, floral or otherwise, is that of lavender. The plant itself isn't showy, but it is graceful with its gentle bends and muted colors. An admirer through and through, when we moved into this house, I took the risk of planting one, even though we're in a borderline area where it may or may not survive the cold of winter.
(A picture taken shortly after I planted it was in my post When Dreams Appear Little or Dying.)
When I was taking inventory of my plants this spring, the lavender appeared to be nothing but dead sticks. I left it alone, and a few weeks later, those dead sticks came to life with new growth. Now, I have a little, flourishing lavender plant, celebrating its second year with a crop of tiny flowers.
I thought that a plant so prized for its scent could be brought in and would let off its perfume as it hung to dry. I took a couple of sprigs, tied them with twine, and hung them from the knob of my medicine cabinet.
And then, nothing.
No pretty scent as I entered the room. No wafting lavender smell when I leaned close.
Nothing.
I rolled a couple of the leaves between my fingers, and there it was, a strong invitation to relax and savor, a scent as pampering as a pedicure, as luxurious as the velvet sleep mask I keep next to my bed.
That velvet eye mask actually has dried lavender inside it. If I scrunch it a bit before putting it on, I can fall asleep to the scent.
And so, I'm learning: whether fresh or dried, lavender doesn't release its fragrance until it's pressed.
Lavender and I have that in common.
How else can I explain why writing comes more easily when I'm pressed by hard situations?
When I look for God in those pressing situations, I find He is not only there; He's been preparing me to be there.
Read more »
One of my favorite scents, floral or otherwise, is that of lavender. The plant itself isn't showy, but it is graceful with its gentle bends and muted colors. An admirer through and through, when we moved into this house, I took the risk of planting one, even though we're in a borderline area where it may or may not survive the cold of winter.
(A picture taken shortly after I planted it was in my post When Dreams Appear Little or Dying.)
When I was taking inventory of my plants this spring, the lavender appeared to be nothing but dead sticks. I left it alone, and a few weeks later, those dead sticks came to life with new growth. Now, I have a little, flourishing lavender plant, celebrating its second year with a crop of tiny flowers.
I thought that a plant so prized for its scent could be brought in and would let off its perfume as it hung to dry. I took a couple of sprigs, tied them with twine, and hung them from the knob of my medicine cabinet.
And then, nothing.
No pretty scent as I entered the room. No wafting lavender smell when I leaned close.
Nothing.
I rolled a couple of the leaves between my fingers, and there it was, a strong invitation to relax and savor, a scent as pampering as a pedicure, as luxurious as the velvet sleep mask I keep next to my bed.
That velvet eye mask actually has dried lavender inside it. If I scrunch it a bit before putting it on, I can fall asleep to the scent.
And so, I'm learning: whether fresh or dried, lavender doesn't release its fragrance until it's pressed.
Lavender and I have that in common.
How else can I explain why writing comes more easily when I'm pressed by hard situations?
When I look for God in those pressing situations, I find He is not only there; He's been preparing me to be there.
Read more »
June 15, 2017
What to Make of All This
by Emily Conrad
I'm sitting alone and tired in the New Orleans airport when I read the confirmation that a close relative has cancer. The word aggressive lurks in the description, a shark looking to devour.
A stranger sits next to me to check his phone as I wonder what to make of this. Of cancer. Of being alone and tired. Of my grandfather, who died of prostate cancer, my grandmother of lung cancer, my other grandfather of skin cancer.
My ride is late, it's after nine, and the place is emptying out, but I'm stuck and not completely sure I'm safe.
Airports, all the coming and going, just seem like dangerous places, a place from which I could disappear against my will.
Earth, all the coming and going, seems like a dangerous place, a place from which I will one day disappear.
I'm hanging out here, surrounded by drivers dressed in black suits, armed with signs. They've come to collect and safely deliver new arrivals to their destinations.
I text my husband about the cancer news. He replies, we'll pray.
Meanwhile the woman at the desk near me plays solitaire, and my friend texts that she hit something in the road on her way to get me. She stranded at the side of the freeway with traffic whizzing by.
A few minutes later she texts that she thinks she blew a tire. The best of all possibilities I’d thought of. Actually, better than the other possibilities.
But as I sit here and wait, I think, What if this is the last thing I write?
Not because I feel endangered, specifically, but because I was also almost in an accident on the way to the airport. Because airplane take offs and landings scare me a little. Because people get cancer. Because life is, in the end (and the beginning and the middle), vapor.
If this is it, I want to show faith. I want you to know that this game of solitaire isn't as solitary as it seems.
For those of us in relationship with Jesus, we do not arrive at our destination without our Father running out to meet us.
The scandal of His excitement to gather us, His wayward children covered in mire, doesn’t cause Him a moment’s hesitation. He wraps us in the white righteousness of Christ. He slaughters the fattened calf. He calls for a party.
What can we make of this but joy? What can we call all these comings and goings of His people but homecomings of better and better worth?
I may be alone and stranded and uncertain in this airport, but this is only one reality.
The greater truth is that nothing--not cancer or aggressiveness or loneliness or flat tires or long waits or fatigue or headaches--nothing can separate me or you from the love of God.
He chose me, and I chose Him.
My King is both already here and on His way. I do not wait in vain in this hub, nor do I wait alone. He will come and bring with Him victory of the truest kind.
So what do I make of all this? I take all the situations and relationships and glue them together into an opportunity for hope.
And hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us. Romans 5:5, NET
Nothing--not cancer or loneliness or flat tires or long waits--can separate us from the love of God- @emilyrconrad
I'm sitting alone and tired in the New Orleans airport when I read the confirmation that a close relative has cancer. The word aggressive lurks in the description, a shark looking to devour.
A stranger sits next to me to check his phone as I wonder what to make of this. Of cancer. Of being alone and tired. Of my grandfather, who died of prostate cancer, my grandmother of lung cancer, my other grandfather of skin cancer.
My ride is late, it's after nine, and the place is emptying out, but I'm stuck and not completely sure I'm safe.
Airports, all the coming and going, just seem like dangerous places, a place from which I could disappear against my will.
Earth, all the coming and going, seems like a dangerous place, a place from which I will one day disappear.
I'm hanging out here, surrounded by drivers dressed in black suits, armed with signs. They've come to collect and safely deliver new arrivals to their destinations.
I text my husband about the cancer news. He replies, we'll pray.
Meanwhile the woman at the desk near me plays solitaire, and my friend texts that she hit something in the road on her way to get me. She stranded at the side of the freeway with traffic whizzing by.
A few minutes later she texts that she thinks she blew a tire. The best of all possibilities I’d thought of. Actually, better than the other possibilities.
But as I sit here and wait, I think, What if this is the last thing I write?
Not because I feel endangered, specifically, but because I was also almost in an accident on the way to the airport. Because airplane take offs and landings scare me a little. Because people get cancer. Because life is, in the end (and the beginning and the middle), vapor.
If this is it, I want to show faith. I want you to know that this game of solitaire isn't as solitary as it seems.
For those of us in relationship with Jesus, we do not arrive at our destination without our Father running out to meet us.
The scandal of His excitement to gather us, His wayward children covered in mire, doesn’t cause Him a moment’s hesitation. He wraps us in the white righteousness of Christ. He slaughters the fattened calf. He calls for a party.
What can we make of this but joy? What can we call all these comings and goings of His people but homecomings of better and better worth?
I may be alone and stranded and uncertain in this airport, but this is only one reality.
The greater truth is that nothing--not cancer or aggressiveness or loneliness or flat tires or long waits or fatigue or headaches--nothing can separate me or you from the love of God.
He chose me, and I chose Him.
My King is both already here and on His way. I do not wait in vain in this hub, nor do I wait alone. He will come and bring with Him victory of the truest kind.
So what do I make of all this? I take all the situations and relationships and glue them together into an opportunity for hope.
And hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us. Romans 5:5, NET
Nothing--not cancer or loneliness or flat tires or long waits--can separate us from the love of God- @emilyrconrad
June 13, 2017
The Purple Glass Perspective
by Emily Conrad
I sat in the front passenger seat. Out the windshield, the sky glowed with a subdued sunset, pale blue, a little yellow, a little gold at the horizon. Very few clouds, if any, floated in the sky to add additional color.
But when I sat back and looked past the driver to the window on her side of the car, the pale blue was replaced by purple, the gold with a tropical pink.
I leaned forward again to verify I was seeing the same section of sky. Through the windshield, plain sky. Sitting back, looking through the driver window, purple and pink.
Finally the driver asked what I was doing.
Read more »
I sat in the front passenger seat. Out the windshield, the sky glowed with a subdued sunset, pale blue, a little yellow, a little gold at the horizon. Very few clouds, if any, floated in the sky to add additional color.
But when I sat back and looked past the driver to the window on her side of the car, the pale blue was replaced by purple, the gold with a tropical pink.
I leaned forward again to verify I was seeing the same section of sky. Through the windshield, plain sky. Sitting back, looking through the driver window, purple and pink.
Finally the driver asked what I was doing.
Read more »
June 8, 2017
The Best Gift God Has Given Us
by Emily Conrad
This morning, I sense a deep unfaithfulness in my heart.
I long to get to work. I want to do the jobs God has given me to do because I love them. But spend time with the God who provided these opportunities in the first place?
Honestly, I’m tempted not to, but I’m pausing here to do just that. To put in the time, to wait a while, to forget not all His benefits.
Read more »
This morning, I sense a deep unfaithfulness in my heart.
I long to get to work. I want to do the jobs God has given me to do because I love them. But spend time with the God who provided these opportunities in the first place?
Honestly, I’m tempted not to, but I’m pausing here to do just that. To put in the time, to wait a while, to forget not all His benefits.
Read more »
June 6, 2017
When We Give God Puppy Dog Eyes
by Emily Conrad
I stop on the sidewalk, and my dog obediently stops next to me.
We look like the perfect pair. He's so in sync with me, waiting so patiently.
Or not.
What might not be apparent from across the street or down the block is the way his nose is quivering to sniff out the neighborhood dogs or the way he leans to see around me if I step into his line of sight.
His eye is on the next big thing. He's not pulling to get there, but that's all he wants.
Read more »
I stop on the sidewalk, and my dog obediently stops next to me.
We look like the perfect pair. He's so in sync with me, waiting so patiently.
Or not.
What might not be apparent from across the street or down the block is the way his nose is quivering to sniff out the neighborhood dogs or the way he leans to see around me if I step into his line of sight.
His eye is on the next big thing. He's not pulling to get there, but that's all he wants.
Read more »
June 1, 2017
I Can See the Sky from Here
by Emily Conrad
It’s nine o’clock in the morning, and my house has surprised me twice already with unexpected glimpses of sky.
Somewhere between five and six a.m., I walked into our bathroom. The rice-paper-like covering over the bottom half of the window shone orange.
The window faces east, toward my neighbor’s full two-story house. And I’ve walked around the block plenty of times to know that between us and sunrise are other houses and trees and fences.
And yet, that window was orange, and when I leaned closer to the just-barely-translucent window applique, I saw the unmistakable ball of light that could only be the sun.
Until then, I didn’t know I could see the sky from there.
Hours later, I was reading my Bible on our enclosed front porch. I looked up into the large maple tree that spreads its arms in front of our house. Through one of the thickest parts of the tree, a brilliant blue patch of sky drew my attention. And once I noticed that one, I saw a few others, too.
I hadn't realized I could see the sky from there.
A few weeks ago, I was driving my dog Sadie to the vet. I’d attempted to steel myself for the visit, knowing it would be difficult. My dog had been vomiting, not eating, drinking little, and acting lethargic. We’d been told she would need x-rays because this kind of trouble usually meant something was blocking the digestive system.
Either she’d eaten a part of a toy, which would have to be surgically removed, or perhaps it was cancer, which would’ve been a scary enough prospect even if it weren’t five years to the day from when our black lab died. Of cancer. That they diagnosed by doing x-rays because she’d skipped a couple of meals.
As I drove the familiar streets, I prayed. The trip was just me, Sadie, and God, and if I was going to make it through without being a sniveling mess who stressed out my dog and alarmed the vet staff, God was going to have to be the one to make it happen.
A little over halfway to the vet, as tears were pressing at my eyes and I was navigating a tree-lined street, something moved overhead.
Read more »
It’s nine o’clock in the morning, and my house has surprised me twice already with unexpected glimpses of sky.
Somewhere between five and six a.m., I walked into our bathroom. The rice-paper-like covering over the bottom half of the window shone orange.
The window faces east, toward my neighbor’s full two-story house. And I’ve walked around the block plenty of times to know that between us and sunrise are other houses and trees and fences.
And yet, that window was orange, and when I leaned closer to the just-barely-translucent window applique, I saw the unmistakable ball of light that could only be the sun.
Until then, I didn’t know I could see the sky from there.
Hours later, I was reading my Bible on our enclosed front porch. I looked up into the large maple tree that spreads its arms in front of our house. Through one of the thickest parts of the tree, a brilliant blue patch of sky drew my attention. And once I noticed that one, I saw a few others, too.
I hadn't realized I could see the sky from there.
A few weeks ago, I was driving my dog Sadie to the vet. I’d attempted to steel myself for the visit, knowing it would be difficult. My dog had been vomiting, not eating, drinking little, and acting lethargic. We’d been told she would need x-rays because this kind of trouble usually meant something was blocking the digestive system.
Either she’d eaten a part of a toy, which would have to be surgically removed, or perhaps it was cancer, which would’ve been a scary enough prospect even if it weren’t five years to the day from when our black lab died. Of cancer. That they diagnosed by doing x-rays because she’d skipped a couple of meals.
As I drove the familiar streets, I prayed. The trip was just me, Sadie, and God, and if I was going to make it through without being a sniveling mess who stressed out my dog and alarmed the vet staff, God was going to have to be the one to make it happen.
A little over halfway to the vet, as tears were pressing at my eyes and I was navigating a tree-lined street, something moved overhead.
Read more »
May 30, 2017
Keeping House with Jesus
by Emily Conrad
We moved our full-sized bed down into the guest room today, making room for a new, king-sized bed. Moving a bed reveals everything that's accumulated underneath. We've been in this house a year, and a decent amount of dog hair and dust can accumulate in that time.
I swept the area and took a rag to it while I had the opportunity, though with two dogs who sleep right next to the bed, the hair is only going to pile back up in unreachable places once we get the new bed in.
Sweeping with the knowledge that my work wouldn't last reminded me of Jesus talking about casting out demons.
He said that when a demon is cast out of a person, it goes looking for a new place to live. Not finding a comfortable home elsewhere, though, it returns to the person it left.
"When it returns, it finds the house swept clean and put in order. Then it goes and brings seven other spirits more evil than itself, and they go in and live there, so the last state of that person is worse than the first.” (Luke 11:25-26, NET)
If Jesus cast out a demon, I would expect it to stay out, so as I swept my house clean today, I began to wonder why a demon would return.
I read the passage, and right after Jesus says these things, someone cries out a blessing on the woman who raised Jesus.
But he replied, “Blessed rather are those who hear the word of God and obey it!” (Luke 11:28, NET)
Our lives and spiritual health aren't dependent on simply getting rid of the bad; we must add the good.
The NET Bible study tool explained that the implication of the house being swept clean and in order is that the person never invited in a different spirit to take up residence in the void left by the demon. So when the demon came back, it found there was room to move in--with friends this time.
The spiritual life isn't just about cleaning up our messes and calling ourselves clean. It's about inviting the Holy Spirit in to take up residence. He's stronger than Satan, so He has the power to overthrow him and the power to keep him and his demons out. For good.
But even after we invite Christ into our souls, chances are there are still corners of the room where we haven't given Him control. Places where, if you will, something akin to dog hair can collect.
Worry, for example, isn't a once-and-done problem for me. It loves to creep back, accumulating until tumbleweeds of its troublesome friends--anxiety, selfishness, despair--are rolling around the entire room, making everything unpleasant.
The solution to this ongoing problem isn't just sweeping the gunk out of the corner. It's not just vowing to stop worrying or speaking in anger or thinking negatively or whatever other thing we struggle with.
Once we determine to clean up, we'd better invite Christ into that corner to take up the space left behind by the old habit. If we don't, that sin will come back to haunt us.
I've found help in having Bible passages memorized so I can access them at any time, like when I'm trying to sleep but find myself worrying instead. With God's help, I hope to start meeting it immediately with Scripture and prayer so that it doesn't even have a chance to settle in my mind.
Accountability partners, prayer, service projects, giving, journaling, and worship are all additional ways to keep our hearts and mind clean when we use them to invite God into more and more corners of our heart space.
When Jesus is in our lives in increasing measure, less space remains for that which would harm us.
When Jesus is in our lives in increasing measure, less space remains for that which would harm us via @emilyrconrad
We moved our full-sized bed down into the guest room today, making room for a new, king-sized bed. Moving a bed reveals everything that's accumulated underneath. We've been in this house a year, and a decent amount of dog hair and dust can accumulate in that time.
I swept the area and took a rag to it while I had the opportunity, though with two dogs who sleep right next to the bed, the hair is only going to pile back up in unreachable places once we get the new bed in.
Sweeping with the knowledge that my work wouldn't last reminded me of Jesus talking about casting out demons.
He said that when a demon is cast out of a person, it goes looking for a new place to live. Not finding a comfortable home elsewhere, though, it returns to the person it left.
"When it returns, it finds the house swept clean and put in order. Then it goes and brings seven other spirits more evil than itself, and they go in and live there, so the last state of that person is worse than the first.” (Luke 11:25-26, NET)
If Jesus cast out a demon, I would expect it to stay out, so as I swept my house clean today, I began to wonder why a demon would return.
I read the passage, and right after Jesus says these things, someone cries out a blessing on the woman who raised Jesus.
But he replied, “Blessed rather are those who hear the word of God and obey it!” (Luke 11:28, NET)
Our lives and spiritual health aren't dependent on simply getting rid of the bad; we must add the good.
The NET Bible study tool explained that the implication of the house being swept clean and in order is that the person never invited in a different spirit to take up residence in the void left by the demon. So when the demon came back, it found there was room to move in--with friends this time.
The spiritual life isn't just about cleaning up our messes and calling ourselves clean. It's about inviting the Holy Spirit in to take up residence. He's stronger than Satan, so He has the power to overthrow him and the power to keep him and his demons out. For good.
But even after we invite Christ into our souls, chances are there are still corners of the room where we haven't given Him control. Places where, if you will, something akin to dog hair can collect.
Worry, for example, isn't a once-and-done problem for me. It loves to creep back, accumulating until tumbleweeds of its troublesome friends--anxiety, selfishness, despair--are rolling around the entire room, making everything unpleasant.
The solution to this ongoing problem isn't just sweeping the gunk out of the corner. It's not just vowing to stop worrying or speaking in anger or thinking negatively or whatever other thing we struggle with.
Once we determine to clean up, we'd better invite Christ into that corner to take up the space left behind by the old habit. If we don't, that sin will come back to haunt us.
I've found help in having Bible passages memorized so I can access them at any time, like when I'm trying to sleep but find myself worrying instead. With God's help, I hope to start meeting it immediately with Scripture and prayer so that it doesn't even have a chance to settle in my mind.
Accountability partners, prayer, service projects, giving, journaling, and worship are all additional ways to keep our hearts and mind clean when we use them to invite God into more and more corners of our heart space.
When Jesus is in our lives in increasing measure, less space remains for that which would harm us.
When Jesus is in our lives in increasing measure, less space remains for that which would harm us via @emilyrconrad
May 25, 2017
Unused Mercy
by Emily Conrad
Mercy has been on the table for about a week now.
I drew the word from my jar of single-word prompts and then did nothing with it.
Others have, though.
Read more »
Mercy has been on the table for about a week now.
I drew the word from my jar of single-word prompts and then did nothing with it.
Others have, though.
Read more »
May 23, 2017
How to Repaint a Dim Emotional Space
by Emily Conrad
The daughter of a pair of habitual home remodellers, house flippers, and landlords, I learned as a girl to paint ceilings white in order to make a room feel more open. So, when my husband and I remodeled our own tiny house, I painted all those ceilings (and a number of the walls) white. We needed all the space we could get.
Then we moved to a house where the largest room on the first floor was painted a tan color similar to the color my coffee is after I've doctored it with plenty of cream and milk. The color isn't really that dark, but it'd been applied to all four walls and the ceiling.
Formerly, the room had been used as a living room, and having visited this house during that time, I can attest to the fact that the paint helped the space feel cozy and warm. But for me and my plan to use the space as a dining room, the color felt dim.
One of my first acts as lady of the house was to paint the ceiling white and two of the walls an off-white color called Dust Flats that has an ever-so-slight pink to it which makes it more charming that it sounds.
And just like that, the room feels so much lighter and more open. It's been the place of lingering meals and game nights, and I've made one spot at the table my usual workplace.
Nothing significant has changed about the room. Just some colors on the wall. The facts of the room--its dimensions, it's exits and entries, its windows--have remained the same. And yet the feel is different.
There are some rooms in my mind that need this kind of makeover. These rooms are made of situations in my life that are not what I'd like them to be. I made choices, and they didn't turn out the way I wanted. My mistakes painted rooms dark and depressing, but what could I do about them?
I didn't have any ideas until I was telling one of my brothers about it, and he said, "Why do you keep calling that a mistake?"
The question startled me into considering that there could be a different way of thinking about the choices I'd made.
Read more »
The daughter of a pair of habitual home remodellers, house flippers, and landlords, I learned as a girl to paint ceilings white in order to make a room feel more open. So, when my husband and I remodeled our own tiny house, I painted all those ceilings (and a number of the walls) white. We needed all the space we could get.
Then we moved to a house where the largest room on the first floor was painted a tan color similar to the color my coffee is after I've doctored it with plenty of cream and milk. The color isn't really that dark, but it'd been applied to all four walls and the ceiling.
Formerly, the room had been used as a living room, and having visited this house during that time, I can attest to the fact that the paint helped the space feel cozy and warm. But for me and my plan to use the space as a dining room, the color felt dim.
One of my first acts as lady of the house was to paint the ceiling white and two of the walls an off-white color called Dust Flats that has an ever-so-slight pink to it which makes it more charming that it sounds.
And just like that, the room feels so much lighter and more open. It's been the place of lingering meals and game nights, and I've made one spot at the table my usual workplace.
Nothing significant has changed about the room. Just some colors on the wall. The facts of the room--its dimensions, it's exits and entries, its windows--have remained the same. And yet the feel is different.
There are some rooms in my mind that need this kind of makeover. These rooms are made of situations in my life that are not what I'd like them to be. I made choices, and they didn't turn out the way I wanted. My mistakes painted rooms dark and depressing, but what could I do about them?
I didn't have any ideas until I was telling one of my brothers about it, and he said, "Why do you keep calling that a mistake?"
The question startled me into considering that there could be a different way of thinking about the choices I'd made.
Read more »
