Wednesday, July 18, 2012

And I'll cry if I want to!

But I won't want to because it's the best day of the year!!  Woohoo!  It's my birthday on Friday--my party!  It's all about me!  I get to be selfish, spoiled, and demanding full of requests.  Yes, it's a big day at the Kirksey house and in all fairness, everyone knows what to expect.  Momma begins reminding all members of the household well in advance that the best day of the year is approaching.

I've heard it mentioned before that the whole idea of celebrating a day about one's self is wrong--even sinful.  
But I disagree, and I am making up for lost time.

When I had my kids, I learned the importance of a fantastic birthday.  On their special day, I wanted them to have love volleyed at them in rapid fire succession all day long with little surprises and big ones, too.  Of all days, on their birthday, there should be no question that they matter--even if I didn't spend a dime.

Because, you see, growing up, our entire family, Grandpa, mom, dad, sister and I all had birthdays in July--my dad, sister and I were all within five days.   Now, if that wasn't enough to make a birthday a little less special,  we shared celebrations to save on something.  
Still not sure what that saved...Time?  Effort?  
Paper plates?  

Also, my mother stunk at gift giving.  I mean it.  Ask my sister.  We usually got the same strange item, like an earring holder crafted by some ancient lady at a church craft fair from yarn and white plastic. Of course, I might get a red earring holder and she, blue, since  we were, after all, totally unique people.  And since my mother knew me so well, I usually got a dessert that she made special that she also forgot--or never knew--that I hated. 

Truly, I don't remember one birthday I had or even one gift except the year I turned double digits (a big deal in any 10 year old girl's life) I got a..........
drumroll please.............

Umbrella.  
Yup.  Still feeling pretty bummed about that one.  

For the record, it's not that I get really greedy on my birthday, although I'm sure it must sound like it by this point.  To this day, I don't want money spent.  I just want a day to be considered.  That is the most meaningful thing in the world to me on any given day.  Like, "Oh, you have a lot to do today! Let me unload the dishwasher!" Or, "Wow! You must be exhausted.  Let me rub your shoulders." 

And my family is simply FANTASTIC about these things EVERY day.  I just spent a lot of years waiting to be seen, and I happen to really like a day where I can ask away and it's allowed. 
I don't ask for much on Mother's Day.  I don't particularly like that day.  It's a Hallmark holiday that's pretty contrived, in my humble opinion, and I don't usually ask for anything.  Save it up for the real deal, baby.

On my birthday, I sleep in.  Sleeping is my favorite.  
No, I take it back--eating is my favorite.  On my birthday, I don't cook.  I eat out somewhere great--my choice.  On my special day, no one fights or squabbles, and when they have to keep their mouths shut, I smile.  I don't work (unless it's a piano day--you know, that whole pesky JOB thing). But other than that, I don't lift a finger.  It's a.m.a.z.i.n.g.  I love every minute.
(If I was single, I would do all this for myself, so if you are just, please, give yourself permission.)

It doesn't matter that I'm getting older.  I feel great, and that's most of it, isn't it? Attitude. 
To me, the key is to keep learning, setting goals, and having folks ask if your child is your sibling.  These are the things that really count.  And, yeah, that just happened to Kyrsten and me.  Love that.

And this year, despite my agedness, I have set out to learn some neat things--like an amazing piano song that I've been working on entirely too long.  And I'm teaching myself to can things like peaches and tomatoes and pickles--neat, huh?
I've accomplished some huge personal achievements (Friday being day 59 of 60 grueling days of suffering exercising to whip this body back into shape--okay so I'm going to add 30 more, but I'm working harder than ever on this horrible new skill and seeing some results for the first time ever--go me!).  

And, I'm looking ahead to a fantastic new year in which my daughter gets married, I am hoping to take a trip that I've waited for since age four, and we are contemplating a move! 

Wow!  It's gonna be a great year!  Which is great news because I fully intend to stay this age (that ends with a nine) for the entire rest of my life.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Storm the Gates


When I was a little girl--three to be specific--I began singing publicly. My dad was a phenomenal classical guitarist and I was doggone cute and could hold a tune, and this seemed to make folks happy. So, I started singing (while he was playing) at nursing homes, various churches, and by the age of five weddings, and not long after that, funerals. Evie Tornquist was my role model and many of her songs were in my repertoire including one that said, "I'm only four feet eleven but I'm goin' to heaven and it makes me feel ten feet tall."
Only, I sang three feet eleven 'cause I was (and may still be) so darn short. Cute, right?
Well, it was until I hit my awkward stage...
And this one is thrown in just because there are so few pictures of my dad and me and this one just hit me square in the heart.


So, I guess you could say that pretty much all of my life, I have been singing.

And hating it.
No matter how many times I sang in public, I despised it. I hated the upset stomach that preceded it, I hated the way it made my entire being shake to the core. I dreaded worrying about what people thought of me.

I despised in myself the love for the attention and the need for praise.

I was told by my mother that I was given a gift, and if I didn't use it God would take it away from me. That fear of the awful moment when my voice would be snatched away from me (think Ariel and Ursula) worked well on a people-pleasing, afraid-of-everything personality.

So I sang.

At some point when I was in my twenties, things got rough for my Dad and he forgot how to use his gift well. We didn't perform together anymore. I missed the camaraderie and the bond that came with it, but we just let it fade away.
I still sang alone at weddings, funerals, and once in a while at church, but when I did, I was still battling epically on the inside every single time.

And then I quit.

I just decided that it was not worth it. And I had never found the purpose in it anyway. The suffering that surrounded it just outweighed any benefit. I vowed to myself to quit forever. I never wanted to sing in public again.
Big, huge sigh of relief.

Enter into my life a time where my heart felt like raw meat. I was in the midst of separating from my parents, beginning youth ministry with Christian and telling God He could do whatever He wanted with my life. It was a time of charging forward and storming the gates, if you will.
You see, until then, I was a soft-spoken girl afraid of my own shadow, operating entirely in a life of shoulds. I did what I should because I should and because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't. Anything I did that looked brave was usually bravery resting on someone else's laurels. Not Alison's.

I remember taking a self-defense class with Justin at some point in my twenties and punching someone for the first time in my life. Once I started I couldn't stop. It felt so good to feel powerful. I punched so much I left bruises on my teacher and came home exhilarated.

This is how I felt when I surrendered all and whatever to my heavenly Daddy. I literally felt infused with a power that was not my own. Whatever stood ahead faced my "BRING IT ON" attitude. I had ceased being afraid.

And then someone asked me to sing. Not just any someone. A professional musician needed a singer for a youth event we were hosting. Despite my intimidation of him and much to my own dismay, I heard my own voice agreeing.

It was an entirely new page that had turned in my spirit. If there is such a thing as praising defiantly, I was doing it. The only singing I vowed to do from this point forward was worship. That's all that had merit to me. And so I began to worship in a new way. I worshiped from the hurt, afraid, and broken part of my spirit. And like a balm, the worship began to cover those deep places and I began to heal.

Through the entire time that things were at their absolute worst in my life, I was passionately worshiping until my body would hurt from the exertion. Like a good coach, the aforementioned musician (who became a brother to me) was still pushing me to worship and he will still laugh at me for the times I literally fought him by stomping my feet as he pushed me out front to new levels of bravery in my ability to take the mess the enemy had tried to ruin me with and turn it into words of public praise. There were days when, during practice, I would go from sobbing in a corner over the latest developments to wiping my face and taking the stage.

It was the most powerful time of my life. A huge part of my testimony about the absolute power of words and even more about the power of a God who saved my life.

I learned that I was made to worship. I was not made to sing, and that's why any type of singing with the wrong motive felt like torture to me. I was created to tell my God how amazing He is. Whether that's on a stage or in my kitchen or in the words I speak to my family or a stranger in the grocery store, I am here on this earth to reflect the love of my God. It is my purpose. It is my intention.

It's about looking evil in the face and declaring a new thing. To see the impossibly high gates ahead and storm them with whatever weapon I have been given.

May I encourage you to open your mouth and use your voice?

Click.