6710 Grand

I recently went to a screening of the movie Uncharitable .  It’s more of a documentary really about non-profits and how the outside world see’s “overhead” in the overall execution of any non-profit’s mission.  Ok ok, I know it’s not the kind of movie most people are like “OOOOOHHH!  Let’s go see THAT on a Friday night!”, but not only am I a non-profit professional, I’m a fundraiser—my entire job is “overhead” …and they gave me a free book and there’s not a lot I WON’T do for a free book. I left the movie feeling both inspired (yay!) and depressed (boo!).  Donors don’t like overhead.   They don’t want to pay for overhead.   But what is overhead?   It’s the portion of an organization that’s necessary to run the “business” but that doesn’t directly contribute to the programs that are designed to execute the mission.   If I’m a food bank, the building I work out of is overhead (actually, that’s capital—another big “no no” for most funders).  ...

 So, which is it? Am I a Superhero or do I prioritize Self Care? Ugh. There's no good answer.  I've been reading a book on leadership.  The author talks about successful leaders who push and push and persevere and have late nights, and lots of coffee (I'm on board with this) and just get. it. done. But all of that, I contrast with the message of take care of yourself.  Give yourself a break. Cut yourself some slack.  Don't prioritize work over family. So, which one do I do?  How do I find the balance? Spoiler alert:  I don't have the answer. One of my greatest personal challenges is a struggle with perfectionism.  I often default to "anything less than perfection is failure".  It's something I place on myself--not others.  I make it a goal to run for 40 minutes every weekday.  Yesterday I only got in 20.  I just ran out of time.  But... I should have gotten started earlier.   I shouldn't have had that second cup ...

 The sun has set, but it's not quite evening.  I'm still in my workday and I still have work to do.  Today, my task is to write a heart wrenching letter, seeking support from the thousands of humans who support the work of Indraloka.  To inspire them to help continue this work of hope, healing, compassion, and joy.  Nick is away.  The children are home but (presumably) occupied with their own tasks.   I sit down to write. Blank Blank Blank My desk is too messy.  I need a clear, distraction free work zone.  I tidy the desk and sit back down. The white page stares back at me, a blinking curser it's only movement. It's too quiet.  I put on the playlist I created that keeps me in a "fall" mood.  Carefully selected tracks of Bruce Hornsby, George Winston, Amber Run, Yanni, Hozier, and Shaboozy (ok, it's not fall--just a really FUN song!) fill my audible space.  I take a deep breath and dive into inspiration. But it doesn't come...

It’s Holy Week.  I remember being confused by so many pieces of Easter when I was young.  Why was it called Good Friday if Jesus died?  Wasn’t that BAD Friday?  Why did we eat so much fish?  Ick.  Why did it always seem to be a gloomy, rainy, week?  Did God do that on purpose?  How could Jesus ride into the city of Jerusalem with such fanfare on Sunday and be beaten so brutally just 6 days later?  As I’ve grown in my faith and age, I understand so much more.  When Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ played in theaters, I went to see it.  My sobs could hardly be heard over the sobs of others.  This wasn’t a movie where you munched on popcorn and sipped a soft drink.  This was a chore—a duty as a Christian to come face to face with the brutality endured by our Savior.  To come to terms with what He experienced so that I could, what?  Show up late to work with no excuse?  Watch movies with foul language?  ...

 It’s the question I hate, and yet, it is asked of me at least 4 times a day.  What’s for dinner? Why does it bother me so much?   I think it’s because I hear it more than anything else.   Hi mom, what’s for dinner?   Where’s mom?   What’s for dinner?   Is mom down there? What’s for dinner? I’m reduced to a single purpose—feed the hungries.   And I know I’m so much more.   Sometimes, I fantasize about being simply, not available.   No food in the house.   Nothing is for dinner.   Someone else needs to answer that question. I realize my hatred of this question is irrational and impractical.   I am the only one who can answer the question.   Afterall, I plan the weekly meals, do all of the grocery shopping and cooking.   Dinner is my jam! Yet, I still can not stand being asked.   So, how can I avoid the question? A dry erase board.   I bought one specifically for this purpose.   It has th...

  Every Monday I drive to work.   I stop on the way to a grocery store that donates near expired produce 3 times a week to the sanctuary.   I load up sometimes 400 pounds of produce into my car—apples, bananas, greens, tomatoes, melons, squash, peppers—anything and everything.   When I get to work, I drive it out to Duncan’s barn.   Duncan was a 1200 pound pig who passed away almost 2 years ago.   He was about 12 at the time—quite elderly for a pig.   The barn carries his name as a tribute.   Everyone loved him, including my son, who met him when he was almost 2.   He would crawl into Duncan’s bed with him while he napped, press his face to Duncan’s snout and just jabber on about whatever he wanted Duncan to know.   In his wisdom, Duncan would snort, open his eyes, snort a bit more, sniff and snort some more, just taking it all in.   I miss him. The boxes of produce are sorted into what can and cannot be eaten and placed in a tin-...