Confusion, chaos, & cold brew

There are two types of people in the world - measurers and tasters, those who make plans and those who ignore them. I am the first, and Jason is the second. There are people who detest chaos and people who thrive on it. I am the first; I try not to resent the second. Some of us get a thrill out of completing lists; others relish trashing their lists for something shiny & new. I am the first. My work requires the second. That’s a big problem for me.

I asked for blog suggestions last week, and a friend (thanks, Tammy!) gave me two: (1) constantly changing work environments and (2) good coffee. One of those is a source of deep angst in my life, the other of superficial appreciation. I’ll write about both!

It took me years, decades really, to learn that the “other type” of people, the tasters, aren’t inferior. They don’t need to be fixed or rescued. In fact, if a list gets boring enough, even hyper-planners like me can enjoy an interesting distraction. Any “two types of people” statement is either a joke or a lie. Change tolerance is a spectrum, not a binary state. So is attention to detail. My band in the spectrum feels right to me. The other bands feel wrong. Worse than wrong, they can seem outright cruel when it’s my well-formed plan they lob in the trash.

I crave stability & consistency because feeling lost & confused is scary, terrifying even. In my defense, it’s a survival instinct that generally serves species well.

 But as a a middle class American in the 21st century, my survival isn’t at stake when Lucy moves the football on me for the 50th time at work.

My reputation is at stake. My sense of competence is at stake. Maybe my actual competence is too. The way I react to difficulty when I’m scared & confused is…suboptimal. I can’t find the right words. I can’t reason through problems. I make more mistakes, and I have less patience. Then I look over to see all the “other types” who weren’t going to execute our real plan anyway just blithely pivot like there was never a football in the first place. See what I mean? Suboptimal.

The upside is I’ve been this way over four decades now, and I’m starting to figure out how to work with it. I practice 3 steps as I gaze at the sky after whiffing the ball thanks to a taster:

1 - Switch my perspective

Put myself in “their” shoes for a minute. Imagine they see a rigid, inflexible grump who wants it her way or no way at all. Realize that’s partially accurate. Wonder what makes them feel lost & confused. Maybe it’s executing an intricate plan laid out months ago, i.e., my specialty. Appreciate that it takes both types, the whole spectrum, to run a successful business. Applaud them for adapting to changing circumstances.

2 - Protect my peace 

I heard this phrase from a coworker, and it resonated in my bones. I Googled its origin and instantly put Protect Your Peace: Nine Unapologetic Principles for Thriving in a Chaotic World on my reading list to pick up after I finish The Let Them Theory. Not having read the book yet, I only have my response to those three little words to share. It’s simple - go where my gifts shine. I have a choice about the demands I’ll tolerate. There’s no law saying I must fulfill every role in every circumstance to be a good person. I made up that law for myself, and the Supreme Court of Carrie needs to strike it down.

3 - Stretch myself 

This follows #2 for a reason. Only AFTER I mentally advocate for my peace and well-being do I consider potential for growth. Could the changes I face lead to better outcomes? Do I have the resources to scale the cliff of incompetence and learn something new right now? If not, where can I get them? How can I reframe my confusion & fear as opportunity & adventure? A healthy degree of discomfort in life is good.

I will never let a post go by without pointing to Jesus. I believe Christ is the ultimate resource for both peace and growth (my #2 & #3) through change. He gave us the preeminent example of switching perspectives (my #1) by becoming one of us in flesh & blood. My Lord is never-changing but ever-interesting. Confusion & chaos are nothing to fear with him! Easier said than done, but I’m trying.

4 min you can’t get back

 

My Thursday - 

• Nervously awake in fear of missing early alarm
• See time of 4:45 and relish shot at another half hour of sleep
• Lie awake for 20 minutes
• Get up annoyed
• Find dusty to-go coffee cup on top shelf
• Start large K-cup brewing (with difficulty because coffee maker doesn’t seem to appreciate being awake yet either) & put on happy face for Jason even though it’s his fault we’re up at this ungodly hour
• Ask him if he’s nervous, tell him it’s a nothing burger, remind him not to swallow any toothpaste, & ask him to take out the trash for the last time in 6 weeks
• Reach for coffee but see no elixir of life in the tall morning chalice
• Mutter “I hate this stupid machine”
• Mash buttons
• Step aside as Jason mansplains “Just do this” and presses same 3 buttons I did the first time and every time for the past 5 years (plus one extra)
• Hear coffee start to drip
• Grit teeth
• Dam the torrent of sarcasm flooding my soul
• Say “thanks”
• Grab car keys & backpack loaded with Carrie-tainment for the day
• Savor sound of my IV drip that will soon parallel Jason’s
• Wonder if he might actually have some magic touch with our moody machine because its drip sounds more like a flow 
• See the coffee truly is flowing…over the edge of my cup all over the counter and floor
• Realize the first attempt did work after all, the cup was just too tall to see it
• Accept that we would be late to the surgery center

Jason laughed. I laughed. Well, I burned my fingers snatching away the tall cup to replace it with an empty one. Then I misjudged its height yet again as I moved it toward an empty bowl and knocked its bottom against the edge spilling hot liquid on my toes. At that point there was nothing left to do but laugh. Swear and then laugh.

Three days have passed since that fateful morning, and I haven’t had 60 seconds free to come back and write. I had aspirations of tying the jovial narrative to a meaningful insight by way of illustrating pain is relative. I had three supporting examples: (1) Jason’s post-op isn’t going at all like my coworker’s did after his shoulder repair. (2) My children’s favorite fight when they were little was whether “that hurt or not” after their silliness turned to madness and caused injury. (3) I wish I could just be happy like everyone else. Pain is relative. It was going to be an award winner.

Now it’s 5:30 PM on Sunday, I still have chores to do, the dogs make themselves sick eating figs every 2 hours outside, the fig tree is afraid Jesus might stop by, and I’m regretting my choice of hobby. Plus Jason is miserable. He can manage the pain with Tylenol and immobility, but he can’t sleep and the internet only lasted him until roughly 3:15 AM Friday. So, how am I going to turn this post into something you don’t resent for stealing 4 minutes of your valuable time?

I can’t. Here’s my feeble attempt - laugh at yourself. Be kind to yourself. Serve those around you when it’s convenient and when it’s not. I babysat some friends’ preschoolers yesterday while their family got moved to a new house, and I don’t regret it. My back does. This post does. But Jason & I have our priorities straight. Have a great week! I hope your 4 minutes with me were well spent.

Oldest child v. youngest child

Water cooler talk at work this week turned toward birth order. A bunch of software developers and data analysts gave free rein to their childhood baggage. Most topics with any potential for discord are off limits at work, but somehow “who has it better - oldest sibling or youngest sibling?” slipped past HR. It’s a spicy question!

“The youngest child gets to do whatever they want! Parents just give up on enforcing rules.”

“The oldest gets a big deal for all of their birthdays & milestones! The youngest gets an ice cream cone.”

“The baby of the family never really grows up! They forever wait to be taken care of.”

“The firstborn tries to be the parent! They always think they know what’s best for everyone.”

“Helloooo? Does anyone even care that some of us are middle children?? Of course not.”

It got heated. The other firstborn and myself fanned the flames because we were up against five baby-of-the-family nemeses, and the temptation was irresistible.

“Just look around. The oldest children are the team leads around here. What does that tell you?”

Fourth of July fireworks got nothing on the nerd explosion that followed. Lights and colors rained down in smoking arcs from lofted bombs of engineer outrage. It was beautiful.

To be honest, no one actually got offended. All the teasing fell just shy of real insult. I was surprised by the passion, though. The emotional response of boring engineers at 6am on a Tuesday was telling. People feel strongly about the claim they had it easy. I kept one tiny detail to myself throughout the melee - something I didn’t want the other camp to know and I hesitate even now to admit. The hoard of babies made great points.

My kids have had more time with their grandparents than my younger brother’s child has. That’s just a fact. I threw our daughter a private concert for her high school graduation, and for our son’s I got yard decorations. To be fair, she was (and is) a musician so renting an event hall and hiring a back-up guitarist wasn’t that extreme. And he graduated in 2020 at a time when we thought someone arriving in the night to stand up plywood letters in our lawn might actually kill us.  So it’s not exactly apples to apples. I carry serious mom-guilt over that one though.

I do tend to think I know what’s best for everyone. Frankly, you could strike through “I do tend to think” in that sentence and it would still hold. I do push for my ideal state to become reality. I do get frustrated when my altruistic plans meet obstacles, especially in the form of dissenting opinion from less aware or less invested parties. That means I spend most of my life frustrated.

But I’m not a control freak, dammit. I’m not! I only drive toward what I think is best because I want to protect the people around me. It hurts me when they get hurt. I feel their anger, their fear, their sadness, and I can’t shield myself from it because I’m a big sloppy empath. People share their problems with me. I feel their pain, and I try to prevent any more. That’s the pattern of an advocate not a control freak! Right? Right??

If you’re not convinced, don’t worry. I’m not either. You also need not worry I’ll unpack four decades of family dynamics in this 5-minute read. Well-meaning micro-management is nothing new, and there are countless verses & adages that speak to it. 

---

My emotional support water bottle

(If a bottle like this isn't familiar, you don't know enough Gen Z.)

I think I must be blogging wrong because friends reach out after my posts asking “Are you okay?” or saying “I’m here for you.” I tremendously appreciate it, of course (please don’t stop!!), but I also wonder how even my best attempts to be positive come off as a cry for help. My two favorite animated characters are 

1. Eeyore -  
   
   
   
2. Sadness - 
   
   
   

if that’s any kind of indicator. (Vintage Maleficent too, but we won’t go there.)  Okay also Lego Batman - 

I digress.

The point is I’m well aware of my pessimistic (or what I call ‘realistic’), perfectionistic (better known as ‘driven’) nature. Wish I could say I’m comfortable with it, but that would be a stretch. I can say I accept it, though. Sometimes.

An interesting part of being a melancholic is its osmotic nature. I take up or let out hope depending on my environment. Apologies for the biology metaphor, but I think hope being water fits on multiple levels. True of both, we can’t live without them. In their absence, the building blocks of life dry up and die. Like water, hope moves from high concentration to low, even through walls within us and between us. As water circulates nutrients through our bodies, hope carries sustenance to our souls.

Here’s a nerdy one. The transfer of chemical energy that keeps us alive here on Earth is a cycle of water splitting (photosynthesis) and reforming (cellular respiration) at the atomic level. In nature, each kingdom takes up more than it puts out of some chemical energy, and it yields more than it consumes of another. Other kingdoms do the reverse. Good ole water is one of the transport vehicles. If I squint really hard, I can see hope working the same way between individuals at different times & places.

So when I’m parched, admittedly too often, I look for a drink. I run my inner dowsing rod over the world’s barren wasteland of false hope hunting for God’s thirst-quenching stream. My interactions with friends, family, & coworkers provide the tap. I mentally replay preceding days and weeks sipping from acquaintances’ life stories - their hard-fought wins, their well-handled losses, their deliberate courage, their conquered fear. I soak it up.

I strive to fuel the cycle, not just draw from it. I share my own stories of courage & fear, wins & losses, aiming to offer at least a drip. So “am I  okay?” I mean, I think so? Am I “crying for help?” In a way, yes. I need your hydrating narrative in my life. When you can be Tigger or Joy or Unikitty, please do! I’ll do the same for you. 

On second thought, hope better resembles a nuclear reaction than a cellular one. Unlike water, it multiplies as it spreads. That’s what I need. That’s why I blog. 

Jesus answered, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” John 4:13-14

Grow Up Already

What’s the difference between a cluster of stylish, chattering women and a shiver of sharks? One travels in fierce, loyal packs that smell blood a mile away. The other lives in the ocean. 

Truth be told, that’s a hurtful stereotype. Ten shabby-chic ladies with San Pellegrino between almond-manicured fingers & beachy waves framing bronzed cheekbones may well open their toned, James Avery ringed arms to this dowdy engineer. I’m sure the fact that I regress to a sad, teenage pariah in their presence & drip jealousy all over their eco-friendly flats makes me the life of the party. What’s the statute of limitations on childhood rejection? Thirty years must be getting close.

After just such an encounter last weekend*, I gave my social distress a day to reach equilibrium and then I tried to put my meltdown into words.

• Me - “I desperately want to fit in with the popular girls. And I really, really don’t.”

• Son being more mature than his mom - “What do you mean by ‘popular girls’?”

• Me reeking of stale insecurity - “Beautiful people having fun & being fun in a big group. That’s just not my scene and I so wish it was. Like so extremely much.”

• Son doing his best to understand - “Okay. What exactly is your scene?”

• Me answering from pure anticipation - “Watching game 7 of the NBA finals with my family of course!”

• Son stating the logical deduction - “So you’d rather be with them than with us?”

• Me suddenly stumped - “Well…no. Of course not. That’s not…I don’t want to talk about this anymore!”

• Son seeking reason where none exists - “I’m really just trying to understand!” 

And that, my friends, is how you know the better parent raised your kids. (Jason also feels the same way in reverse, so it works out.)

Let’s conduct a little post-mortem here. I didn’t get outsmarted by my barely-legal-drinking-aged progeny. Not in the way it looks, anyway. I don’t want to trade one scene for another. I want to have all the scenes! I want to be everything, everywhere, all at once rather than the creature I am with inclinations and limitations. It’s a logical desire but an absurd expectation. To illustrate, here’s how the other half of the Kruppa Troopas processed my meltdown.

• Daughter - “Dad, do you ever feel out of place in social settings?”

• Jason - “Sure.”

• Daughter - “Does it bother you?”

• Jason - “No.”

End of story. God, what I wouldn’t give to be that man. Ack! See? I did it again! Envying something I’m not rather than valuing what I am, wanting everything when I have so much. (For real though, Jason’s tough not to envy.)

It reminds me of the narrative a prophet told King David after David took the wife of his loyal soldier and had the solder quietly killed when pregnancy ensued. The prophet Nathan told David there was a scandal in the community that needed his wise judgment. A rich man had needed to butcher a lamb for some guests but wouldn’t use any of his own. Instead he took the only lamb, a beloved family pet, from a poor man to feed the guests. Nathan asked David what should be done to this “rich man” given the cruel circumstances - 

David burned with anger against the man and said to Nathan, “As surely as the Lord lives, the man who did this must die! He must pay for that lamb four times over, because he did such a thing and had no pity.” 2 Samuel 12:5-6

Nathan promptly dunked on David with a resounding “You are the man!” (v.7). Then Nathan laid into Israel’s king for a solid two paragraphs of tongue lashing worth three millennia of preservation. Plus such a list of excruciating consequences that you actually start to feel sorry for David by the end. A little.

I’m not suggesting that introversion is like royal riches and extroversion just a solitary lamb, but I do see a similar conviction in Nathan’s story and mine. Not that social sensitivity is a king’s quality and compulsive confidence a poor man’s pet, but holding one while craving the other is patently ungrateful. 

So I’ll take the advice of Kruppa Troopas and biblical prophets alike, the wisdom of the ages and of Gen Z. I’ll apply the takeaways that I can’t help but see - (1) be myself and own it, (2) applaud others doing the same, (3) replace envy with gratitude, & (4) grow up already. I can do that.

* To be clear, the wonderful women last weekend did open their arms to me, and my meltdown was completely my fault. I was the shark not them, my mental comparison the blood in the water. 

(PS The eco-friendly flats in the pic are mine, as are the Crocs. I drink San Pellegrino and wear James Avery myself, but I’ll never understand the meaning of ‘shabby-chic.’ That and bronzer will forever remain a mystery to me.)

Crepe myrtles, herpes, & Psalms

Crepe myrtles are the herpes of Texas - they spring up everywhere and they’re impossible to kill. They are lovely to look at though. So I guess there’s one minor difference.

We have two crepe myrtles at our house - one of which rains its white petals down into goopy mounds in the back yard day after annoying day and the other I usually forget exists. I just discovered it yesterday (for the fifth time) as Jason & I were driving past the house on our way out. In my defense, the tree is tucked in the corner of our front yard abutting the excessive stone entry to our little street. So it barely grows and hardly blooms. It’s a mild case of pretty warts.

But I love this particular virus because of its color! Instead of parading a bland, typical show of white or pink like everybody else, this guy flashes strong magenta. A powerful, bold color on a small, hidden tree just speaks to me. So I commented to Jason as he assessed oncoming traffic and I gazed out my window like the passenger princess I am, “I love our front crepe myrtle. I never see that color anywhere else around here…” [wistfully glance out windshield toward intersection where we turn left or right 4 times a day exactly 200 feet from own front door] “…they’re always a boring white or pink but not ours. Only our yard has one in magenta. Literally nowhere…” [eyes land on the car wash where our street dead ends 250 feet from own front door. Where there are three magenta crepe myrtles blooming directly in front of me.] “… oh.” Jason was snickering.

Okay yes. I’m rather oblivious to my physical surroundings. I admit it. I notice hair cuts a week late (if at all). I might ask coworkers if something is different when they shave their beards or get new face decor. I very well might not. Once I see something, though, I see it everywhere. I’m a poster child for the frequency illusion. 

You know what’s so frequent as to become background noise in the media onslaught of modern times? Death, destruction, cruelty, fear, hate, inadequacy, discontent, desperation, & pain. The proffered solutions of power & pleasure are equally inescapable, and they come in assorted flavors - beauty, competition, violence, sex, alcohol, stuff, & more stuff. All with 2-hour delivery or a 7-day trial. We see them “all the time.” We see them so much we barely see them at all. They are ubiquitous white crepe myrtles whose soggy petals clog drains & mowers. Just plain viral warts.  

Maybe that’s why Psalms 92 tells us to search for magenta blossoms every day, twice a day:

It is good to give thanks to the Lord,  

  to sing praises to the Most High.  

It is good to proclaim your unfailing love in the morning,  

  your faithfulness in the evening, 

Psalms‬ ‭92‬:‭1‬-‭2‬ ‭NLT‬‬

Perhaps giving praise is as much for our benefit as for God’s. His unfailing love and faithfulness are there whether we see them or not. Maybe you drive past them 4 times a day 250 feet from your front door, and you never notice. If you can find them in your front yard, you’ll see them at the car wash, too. Don’t let media saturation convince us fear is the only reality and power its only remedy. That’s a very profitable illusion, and the ones who gain from it are neither you nor me.

This truth is even more important today than it was two days ago when I typed “Crepe myrtles are…” The world is different today. Friday, I read Psalm 92 and found nothing readily applicable. I prayed for an insight to develop over the weekend, and I slowly wrote what came to mind. Today, Sunday, I read my country bombed another to ostensibly prevent nuclear war. Yesterday’s insight now seems both portentous and naive. Fear, pain, and suffering are glaringly real today, far beyond baseline monetization. God’s magenta of unfailing love and faithfulness is real too, and I must seek it, see it, sing it or I’ll miss it. Today no other comfort will suffice. 

Bittersweet Father’s Day

An international leaders’ conference coming to Fort Worth in February led to a complete stranger (seven actually) bringing me to tears as he leaves our home here in June. None of us was part of the conference. The chain of events that links those two circumstances could make a movie:

• Jan - 
• Church plant asks congregation if anyone has spare rooms to offer international conference attendees coming to town in Feb. 
• Kruppas offer guest room and adult daughter’s former room.
• Adult son signs lease on his first apartment. Carrie starts dreading the looming empty nest.
• Carrie’s dread grows daily because she’s a big chicken and a compulsive nurturer. 
• Jason barely notices.
• Feb - 
• Carrie looks forward to brief distraction from impending meaninglessness by interesting guests briefly filling the nest. 
• Church sends notice that all attendees are housed and no more rooms are needed.
• Carrie panics inside.
• Unrelated to conference, pastor announces missionary family will be visiting church while they’re back in US on furlough. 
• Carrie channels panic into inventing a need where none is known. 
• Details of ensuing marital discussion are hazy.
• Kruppas ask family they’ve never met if soon-to-be 3 spare rooms might be useful.
• Family accepts! Family of seven. For the month of March. Read that again.
• Mar -
• Kruppas drop kick adult son out of residence a day early to make room for guests. 
• Son sleeps on air mattress in empty apartment.
• Kruppas lay eyes on new roommates, married couple with 5 daughters, for first time as they arrive with luggage.
• Awkward intros abound.
• 9 strangers silently stare at each other huddled on floor at 2am the first night while tornado warnings blast across DFW. So scary. And still awkward.
• Meals are shared, Legos are built, movies are watched, games are played, messes are made, messes are cleaned, devotions are joined, joys are multiplied, burdens are carried.
• Friends are made.
• Apr - 
• Missionaries leave DFW to travel across US connecting with loved ones.
• Kruppas miss missionary family a lot. A whole lot.
• Family returns for a week while packing to go home on the other side of the world.
• Missionary dad needs to stay in US an extra month after girls head home.
• Carrie seizes chance to forestall empty nest yet again.
• May - 
• Roommate teaches Jason perfectly constructed, optimally melted nachos make ideal bedtime snack. With jalapeños. 
• Jason also learns ice cream tastes better rolled in crushed cereal. Always at bedtime.
• Carrie appreciates Jason gaining partner in crime for late night snacks, random bourbon tasting, bloody meat eating, and pricey tech admiring.
• Life is great.
• June - 
• Missionary dad finishes stateside work. 
• He buys airfare to fly home.
• He squeezes 2 years of supplies into 3 crates weighing exactly 49.5 lbs apiece.
• Carrie realizes empty nest is even worse after gaining/losing 7 more family members.
• Jason pretends to be unfazed, but Carrie knows better.
• Father’s Day arrives starting 24 hour countdown to departure.

And that’s how a conference we didn’t attend brought about 6 months of adventure we didn’t expect. That’s how we came to spend this Father’s Day with a very dear friend who’s giddily anticipating the best gift a dad can ever receive - long overdue hugs from his family.

We will miss you. A whole lot. We’ve learned from you, and we’re blessed by you. After you shower all your stockpiled affection on those sweet girls at the airport tomorrow, give them an extra round of hugs from us. We send you with this prayer. I know God will fulfill it in your home.

The Lord says, “I will rescue those who love me.

  I will protect those who trust in my name.

When they call on me, I will answer;

  I will be with them in trouble.

  I will rescue them and honor them.

I will satisfy them with a long life

  and give them my salvation.” Psalm 91:14-16 (NLT)