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A CHANCE

/ jessicaivaska / 2 Comments

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There are people you meet who change the direction of your life. Today I found out one of those people passed away. And while there is sadness, it’s almost entirely eclipsed by gratitude.

I met Rob at an interview for a non-existent job. I had recently decided to try to make a go of it as a freelance writer (which I never would have done without the support of my husband, Erik). I spent hours on craigslist and job sites looking for writing gigs to build my resume. But Erik is more strategic than I am. He didn’t get distracted by one-off paychecks but has the gift of looking a bit further ahead. He’s the one who saw the posting.

A company was looking for a writer, a graphic designer and a proofreader – all in-house positions. Because I matched up with some of the criteria, Erik encouraged me to put together a proposal for them. I did, and sent it to the Creative Director, Rob. He graciously met with me and told me that he believed I had talent. (Those words were the first gift he gave me.) Then, he told me because I wasn’t interested in full-time work they didn’t need me at the moment, but would keep my information on file.

I left thinking I wouldn’t hear from him again. But a few weeks later, I did.

He said if I agreed to come in and train in-house for two weeks, they would try me freelance. I accepted, and the chance he gave me changed my career path.

Rob didn’t make me a writer, but in that moment he affirmed that I already was one. By taking a chance on me he told me that maybe my crazy dream wasn’t so crazy after all.

I worked with him for a just a few years before moving on to another organization doing similar work. I learned so much from him. His willingness to take a chance on me helped make me the person I am today.

He didn’t have to take a meeting with me.

He didn’t have to look at my clips.

He didn’t have to hire me.

But he did.

Because he was willing to take a chance on me, my life changed.

I don’t know who the “Robs” in your life are. But I know you have them. I hope as you picture them you smile and are inspired to keep an eye out for the people in your life who need what you can give them: a chance.

THE THIRD SPOON

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

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We have three wood spoons.

One we got as a wedding gift. It’s a good brand. It’s strong. It has a few scaly patches that may splinter your tongue, but it’s still in good shape. It’s the biggest of the bunch.

Another I’ve had for years. It’s rough and flaky. Not because it ended up in the dishwasher a few too many times, but because I probably bought it at the dollar store when I had just graduated from college.

And then there’s the third spoon. Its bowl is closer to a circle than an oval. Its handle not much bigger than a pencil. But when my fingers fall on this one, I smile.

The third spoon is smooth from decades of stirring. There’s no telling how many circles it has made around the pots and pans in my family. In spite of its age, there are no splinters, rough patches, or flakes. It looks like it could outlive us all.

It might.

I got this spoon as a hand-me-down. It was my grandmother’s. I don’t know how long she had it, but when I pick it up, I see her arthritic knuckles and neatly trimmed fingernails, her cream-softened hands and the love she had for making food for her family.

In the mornings, when I pick up the spoon to stir my steel cut oatmeal, I imagine her stirring her own version of the breakfast classic, which she called “mush.” I wonder how many times she made it? I wonder how many pounds of cracked oats she went through over the years? How many times did my grandfather sat down to a steaming bowl? My mother? Her siblings?

Those questions and the memories that flood back when I use the third spoon are what make it special.

It isn’t just a spoon. It’s an artifact.

The third spoon is teaching me how important it is to listen. It’s teaching me that new and flashy isn’t always best. It’s teaching me the importance of long lasting-quality, family, history and shared meals.

If anyone else picks up that spoon, they won’t hear the stories and lessons I do. They won’t picture my grandma’s grey, short, permed hair. They won’t taste her “Posner’s” chicken or spaghetti sauce with grated carrots.

But I will.

The third spoon connects me to her, even though she left this earth years ago.

For that I’m grateful. It makes me want to listen more carefully. It makes me want to sit down with my family. It makes me want to buy quality products that might last for generations.

But most of all, it makes me want to smile. And so, I do.

EIGHT

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

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Eight years ago I did something I didn’t know I could do.

I ran. A half marathon.

I had looked up to distance runners for a long time, admiring them for their strength and perseverance. But I didn’t ever think I’d be in that category.

Then, with two of my best friends by my side, I signed up. I had only ever done two road races:

  1. I had walked (yes, walked) a half marathon. (I’ve never been so sore!)
  2. I’d run a 5k

The half marathon had been in November. Four months earlier. And now I was setting out to run that same distance. I was nervous.

We got there early, not wanting to miss anything. The extra time added to our nerves, but it also gave us time to bow our heads and pray, reminding us of the bigger picture of racing and life in general.

And so, the gun went off, and so did I. As the wet miles of Mercer Island passed by, I realized I could do it. I was going to make it.

At the finish line I was flooded by mix of emotions. Pride, gratitude, excitement, accomplishment.

Then something else set in. The bug.

I knew I wanted to do it again.

Eight months later, with one of those same friends by my side, I ran the full Seattle Marathon.

I never would have guessed that I’d keep running all these years. I never would have guessed that that one race was the start of something big in my life. And that’s the thing, you never quite know when you’re at a turning point.

By God’s grace it just happens — sometimes when you least expect it.

I’m not fast, nor will I ever be, because in running — like in life — it’s not how fast you get to the end that matters. It’s what you learn along the way.

Running has given me a lot over the years: time with God, time with friends, time in creation. It’s helped me push myself, it’s broken me, it’s shown me how incredible the human body is. And so as hard as it is, I keep at it.

Today I had planned to go out for a four-mile run, but a friend wanted to go further, so we did.

Over eight miles. Today, in celebration, that feels like just the right distance.

CURTAINS

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

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Pulling the curtains open was hard this morning. Not because they are awkwardly behind our aging sectional, but because I didn’t really want to open them.

There are days when I leave them closed, and the light never pours and puddles on the scratched coffee table.

But today, I made myself.

I made myself because I knew that I needed to let the light in. I’ve been feeling down lately. And when life feels heavy, it’s easier to stay in a cocoon. To take longer lying in bed, to leave the curtains closed, to wear stretchy pants and put your hair in a messy bun.

Part of the reason I’ve been feeing out of sorts is I’m a gal who craves connection. Not the surface, small-talk kind, but the deep kind. That kind that makes you feel like you matter because the conversation matters.

The other side of that coin is that I’m private. I want that connection, I long for it, but I’m not the best judge of when it’s appropriate to go there, and who it’s safe to go there with. So, in this house on a busy street with a bus stop on the corner, I often keep my curtains closed. It’s a way to protect myself. To stay private, safe, contained.

Except – why is there always an “except?” – then I stay stuck in darkness (or worse, artificial light).

So today, I did it. I opened the curtains. I let the light in. Yes, there will be people passing by my gate peering in all day. I don’t like it. But to let the light, in I realize I have to let those people in, too. We were created to be in community. Even if that community is just a nod to the neighbor or a kind smile, it matters. It’s the light. The light that we all need, whether we realize it or not.

I don’t know that tomorrow will be any different. I don’t know that I’ll feel more connected or more at peace. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that today I opened the curtains. Did you?

I WAS WRONG

/ jessicaivaska / 3 Comments

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Our little rascally dog Jude is going to be 13 years old next month. Jude is pretty happy sleeping on the couch for hours on end, but of course, like any other creature, he needs potty breaks.

One day, he and I were checking out a new route in our neighborhood when I heard what I thought was intense moaning. Looking around our tightly packed neighborhood, I noticed an elderly man lying in his carport.

“Oh no!” I thought. “He’s dying, or sick, or injured. What do I do?”

I of course frantically looked around hoping someone else had heard the noise and silently wished that this man hadn’t been left alone. Knowing I couldn’t just leave him there, I took a deep breath and called out to him.

“Hello? Are you ok? Do you need help?”

Instantly, and I mean with the speed of a bullet train, this guy shot up and just stared at me. It was obvious I had startled him and that he didn’t speak English. It was also obvious by the way he jumped up that he was in no way incapacitated.

“Oh my gosh,” I thought to myself, as my face grew warm with embarrassment. “He’s not in pain. He was chanting and meditating.”

Because it was something out of the ordinary for me, I assumed that something was wrong. But in my assumption, I was wrong.

There are people all around us living different lives — especially here in Hawaii, where cultures meld together in a way that you can’t understand unless you’ve lived here — and I think we can probably all learn from each other.

None of is Jesus. None of us sees and knows all. None of us is right all the time.

It’s amazing when you listen to that still, quiet voice of the Spirit how much you can learn about yourself — and how flawed you are.

So I’ve learned a few things from this little encounter:

1. If someone is chanting, it doesn’t mean that they are dying.
2. It’s ok to be different. Maybe, instead of letting our differences push us apart, they could bring us together. Jesus wasn’t a prostitute, but he hung out with them. He wasn’t a sinner, but he talked to people about their sin.
3. I need to do a better job of meeting people where they are at and getting to know them and what they think.
4. Don’t always assume what you think is happening, is in fact happening.

And one parting thought I can’t sign off without sharing:

If someone sounds like they are in trouble, by all means find out if they are. But then, don’t just shyly run away in embarrassment. Start a conversation if you can and see what you can learn.