To my delight, we gained another 3 readers. I appreciate you. I would would write even if my Aunt Mimi were the only reader (hi Mimi), but having people who are not related to you validate your efforts is outstanding. And even better, from what I can see of their tiny, pixelated photos, they appear to be men! Or really strong, really muscular women! – Either way, welcome and know that not every post will include a conversation in my gynecologist’s office.
If you read nothing else in this post, I want you to know that on Saturday I, Jasmine Wood, nailed a backflip on a trampoline. I’m 30, I have two gray hairs, and at my own doing – by sheer will and a cry of “I can do all things through Christ who is my strength and my rock!” – I bent my body in the air, briefly saw a beautiful blue sky inverted, landed on my knees, and then bounced to my feet. Was the scripture perfect? No. But I lived. And no one had to call Cigna Insurance. And that’s heavenly.
But alas, I feel it’s my duty as an author to be honest with you: I’m having a bad day. The memory of the backflip is starting to fade. I don’t feel invincible and I don’t think I can inspire you, as I feel uninspired. I will make a point to break every so often and pray until I regain my confidence in knowing that the vision I have for my life didn’t come from me. It was given to me. And that probably means I’m going to have to wait until His timing brings it to completion. If you too have been screaming “WHEN?!” on the inside this week, there is a quote waiting for you at the bottom of this post. If you are like me you are often juggling gratitude, patience, and ambition – when all 3 balls are in the air, there’s peace. But a change in rhythm can be upsetting. No one likes bending over and exposing their behind to pick up the pieces.
What I need to do, outside of deep, enriching time in His presence, is to ‘shake it off’. I’ve been known to complain that my husband is nonchalant, but I so desire his ability to roll with the punches, and to always see the positive. The other night he came home after watching the Miami Heat in a playoff game at a sports bar, and I told him he smelled like fried food. Like mozzarella sticks and chicken and fries. And he looked at me as if to say ‘And what, pray tell, is wrong with smelling like mozzarella sticks?’
Me? I’m not so cool. You’ll find proof in the conversation that took place in the office of my beloved gynecologist. I’ve been saying I’m going to stop using extreme metaphors to explain myself, and I really mean it after what happened yesterday.
Him: How is everything?
Me: Great! Really great. You know, if it were a, uh, restaurant, then it’s the finest restaurant in town. Not in town, per se, because no one besides my husband would know that. There’s only one patron. Same guy eats there every night.
And it was at “same guy eats there every night” that I literally smacked my own forehead, and finally shut up. The assistant who stands in there while your exam takes place laughed, and my doctor pretended to scribble inside of my chart for a moment longer before asking about contraceptives. I imagine that my chart is filled with fake scribbles. God forbid someone actually needs my medical history one day.
You’ll notice I said “he” and “him”, not she and her. I’m frequently given referrals when other women find out that I regularly see a male doctor, which is ridiculous. Cliff Huxtable delivered babies once a week. So, you’re welcome, America. It’s refreshing to remind people that men can be anything they want to be. So often do we have to remind them that women can.
That’s all. Oh, and this quote, referring to your efforts to succeed versus God’s chosen path for you.
If you put yourself there, you have to keep yourself there. But if you let God lift you up, you’re up and no one can bring you down.
– Joyce Meyer