goddess of thrift

A Christmas Engagement Gift

It was a relief, really, when the Emergency Room nurse started my IV and told me that I would be admitted for severe dehydration.  I had been sick for 24 hours, in ways you don't want me to describe, so my fiance and his parents had taken me to Pawating Hospital.  It was December 23rd.  We had driven to Michigan to announce our engagement to his family, and then I had planned to return home the next day to be with my parents in Ohio.

At 5:00 p.m. Christmas Eve I was discharged from the hospital, several hours after I was due to catch the last Greyhound bus to my hometown.  When I was told not to travel for several days, my hopes of spending the holiday with my family were gone.  I loved my fiance -- and still do -- and his family seemed very nice, but this was the first Christmas I wouldn't be home.  I woke up Christmas morning in a strange house filled with unfamiliar people, and attempted to hide my disappointment.  Reading a book at the far end of the couch, I tried to be pleasant but unobtrusive as they started opening their gifts.

Suddenly there was commotion in the kitchen, and my future father-in-law went in and retrieved a six-foot-long stocking full of gifts.  When Rob's family realized I would be with them for the holiday, they did a late-day Christmas Eve shopping scramble to the few stores which still remained open.  The stocking was for me.

Many of the gifts were "gag gifts" -- pun intended.  I unwrapped boxes of Jello, a bucket and a roll of toilet tissue.  There were also kitchen utensils, a heart-shaped ornament and a small bottle of champagne.  (This was before we had announced our engagement, but I think they knew it was coming.  They're a pretty smart group.)  None of the gifts was particularly expensive, and some were downright silly.  I was still pretty weak, but it felt good to laugh.

What mattered much more than the gifts was what they represented.  I was accepted.  I was valued.  It was clear then, as it amazingly still is today, that I have been adopted into the clan.  Throughout the years, when I have at times been less than lovable, they have chosen to love me.  They still do.

And looking back after twenty-eight years, I can't think of many gifts I treasure more.

--Susan Rodebush  ©  2010

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Thrift and a Face Full of Cobwebs

My dog and I were around the meadow and into the woods behind the barn when I destroyed the work of a very industrious spider.  I know that spiders can be beneficial because they kill other unwanted insects.  I also think their webs can be beautiful when covered with dew in the morning, but I didn't see this web until I was wearing it.  I wasn't particularly thrilled about having a cobweb in my hair, because while I continue to have birthdays, I am trying to put off cultivating the "creepy old lady" look for as long as possible.

Since I regularly walk my dog through the woods, I know that occasionally meandering into a cobweb is part of the "cost" of enjoying our outdoor walks.  I am reminded yet again of a life principle which has served me well thus far:  the realization that everything has a cost.

Somehow, through the miracle of modern advertising, we have become convinced that we can live in an environment where there are only spotless homes, stylish people and pleasant fragrances if we simply purchase the right products and drive the best cars.  In tv home decor shows we see lamps without cords, sinks without dirty dishes and "sexy" washing machines.  (Really?  Do appliances breed?)  Fashion magazines display shoes with heels which attempt to defy gravity, while news magazines tell us which cars -- or beers -- are guaranteed "chick magnets".  As a result of this incessant marketing, some of us actually believe that we can live an idealized life if we simply make the right choices and purchase the right products.

But here's the catch . . . and, it's a big one.  New cars, designer fashions and sleek silver appliances cost a hefty chunk of cash.  If we purchase them on credit, they cost even more.  If we treasure them too much, they can be the source of relational strife when the finish gets scratched or a kid spills a chocolate milkshake on the backseat.  If we purchase too many of them, we can find ourselves filing for bankruptcy and divorce in close succession.  Life -- and relationships -- will be messy at times.  The moment you insert human beings through the front door, perfection leaves out the back. The only guaranteed method of keeping things in pristine condition is to seal them in a dust-free environment and not allow humans to enter.

Of course, there's a cost to not buying or owning certain things as well.  If you drive a used car, you may have less status and more repair bills.  Wear threadbare clothing to an interview, and you might not get the job.  There is a cost to saving our money, too, if we become miserly and selfish in the process.  Thrift without generosity can make us obsessive rather than purposeful.

So, if everything really does have a cost, whether it is to our finances, our relationships or our characters, where does that leave us?  While they may be different for many of us, we all have options.  If we carefully weigh our options in light of their costs before we make decisions, we can have more satisfaction with every decision -- or expenditure -- we make.  That's why the price of a health club membership is, for me, too high.  If I walked on an indoor track, I would probably never again have a face full of cobwebs.  But my funny little dog couldn't be with me as I walked, and I would miss seeing the wonders of creation in the meadow.  For me, that's far too high a cost to pay.

--Susan Rodebush  ©  2010

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Thrift and Slivers of Life

My husband and I did something rather unremarkable today, yet different for us.  We had lunch together.  Not a "meet you at a restaurant to pick up a meal" kind of lunch, but fifteen minutes together, sitting at home at our little trash-picked-but-restored oak table.  He needed to leave for work at 12:30, so I set the microwave timer for that time, and we sat down and stopped.  Now, the sitting down to eat together part . . .that's not so unusual.  We often eat together, and rarely while standing.  But the stopping part:  now, that was different.  It seems like we've spent a lot of time going lately, and not much time stopping.

The sun was shining through our garage-sale-purchased lace curtains, and we used the leaf-printed cloth napkins and had flowers from the garden in a small vase.  Lunch was humble, but tasted good:  cottage cheese, apple slices and homemade herb and cheese bread.  The thing about this meal that was different, however, was that we enjoyed it in the moment.  Even with time constraints, we felt unhurried.  We realized that, even though we didn't have a large chunk of time, the sliver we had was ours.

I truly believe that life is best lived in moments:  not events, but slivers of time.  It seems that we sometimes live from event to event, with each one needing to cost us more in time, money and fanfare, because we don't slow down long enough to enjoy the many moments we have available.  We may be physically present in the moment, but otherwise, we're rushing through a mental to-do list, strategizing how and what we'll do next.  When we finally do stop, it is often from exhaustion.  We seem to re-charge just long enough to proceed with the next list of tasks.  I know I'm regularly guilty of this.

When Jesus said:  "Don't worry about tomorrow," I can't help but think He wanted us to learn to enjoy today . . . to appreciate each day as the gift that it is, rich in beauty and time.  When I race through my moments in pursuit of some deadline or accomplishment, I often feel like I need to "reward" myself later.  I end up spending money on momentary pleasures or trinkets to compensate for the feeling that I have no life . . . just a to-do list.  Yet, the thing I truly need isn't some "reward" I can purchase, but to slow down long enough to enjoy the time, pleasures, relationships, and even trinkets, I already have.

For those of you who successfully live constantly in the moment, in appreciation of the slivers of time you have, I'm endlessly impressed.  For the rest of us, we would do well to follow your lead . . . saving money and stress as we enjoy our daily slivers of life.

--Susan Rodebush  ©  2009

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Thrift and Beauty in a Jar

The old aqua-blue canning jar full of water now sits on my oak dresser.  In it, I have carefully arranged a lovely display of zinnias, calendula, goldenrod and sweet autumn clematis from my garden.  The flowers were either grown from saved seed (zinnias and calendula), wild (goldenrod) or perennial (clematis).  Together, they make an arrangement that is truly thrifty, yet rivals any florist-purchased bouquet.

I am aware, this evening, as I look at these blooms, that flower arranging is about editing.  Blossoms are selected at their peak, trimmed to length, and placed in a balanced display.  It would be quite possible to see an arrangement like this on the pages of one of those cottage-style decorating magazines.

What I realized, however, about these flowers -- and those magazines -- is that the weeds are edited out.  Only the freshest blossoms make it into the vase -- okay, canning jar -- and only the trendy colors, staged accessories and professionally-styled rooms grace the pages of home dec magazines.  The same is true of home makeover shows and botanic gardens and women's' magazines.  All of the weeds . . . the flaws . . . have been removed or hidden, so that what remains appears perfect.

I don't have a problem with beautiful flowers, edited and featured in a jar.  But I've noticed that we are often encouraged in the media to believe that only flawless flowers, gardens, rooms . . . and people . . .are acceptable.  The goal in life seems to be to eradicate every weed by whatever means available, to hide every lamp cord, botox every wrinkle, and deny the existence of every character flaw. 

While I know that many of these forms of "editing" (or, beautification, if you will) are far from thrifty, I think a larger problem they present is to lead us to think that weeds -- or flaws  -- are not a normal part of life.  When our definition of beauty demands perfection, not only are we setting difficult, if not impossible standards for ourselves and others, but we end up living in an environment devoid of grace.  Who among us wants friends or family members to accept us only if they believe that we are perfect?

So, I'll enjoy the beauty of my canning jar of flowers, but I hope it never keeps me from seeing the beauty which exists in my garden as well . . . weeds and all.  I also hope it reminds me that there are really no perfect people . . . but many, many beautiful ones.

--Susan Rodebush  © 2009

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Thrift and Returning Home

     At the end of a long day of traveling, the seven of us glided down the "moving sidewalks" on our way to the baggage claim.  After farewells, a shuttle trip and an hour-long car ride, my husband and I were home.  Zoe, our exuberant Black Lab-mix puppy, threw us a huge welcome-home celebration, with plenty of jumping and licking.  I had to, once again, agree with Dorothy:  There is no place like home.

     While we live a thrifty life, and reside in a renovation-project home which is small by most U.S. standards, we were once again amazed at the level of luxury which met us.  A warm, comfortable bed, clean, hot-and-cold running water, appliances, furniture,  a secure neighborhood, a well-stocked pantry . . . these are just a few of the provisions we often take for granted.  It shouldn't take a trip outside the country to remind us that we are blessed.  I can close my eyes, and see the faces of those we saw just days ago, who will never know our level of comfort, security and abundance.

     Typically, when I return from traveling, I feel a sense of burden from the chores which have piled up while I was away.  It's easy to lapse into pity-mode when there is e-mail to answer, laundry to wash and grass to mow.  But today, by the grace of God, I'm seeing things differently.  I am thankful to have so many clothes that I need to do multiple loads of laundry.  I am thankful for an electric washer and dryer in which I can clean them.  I am grateful that the piles of mail to read and sort through include notices regarding medical insurance coverage, a bill for the license on a vehicle we drive, and a bank statement by which I can reconcile our accounts.  I am even thankful for grass to mow . . . thinking that many, many families live together in an area much smaller than the part of our property which needs mowing.

     It is true that we have been thrifty with our money, and that we have tried to earn diligently and spend wisely in order to acquire the benefits we enjoy.  But the opportunities we have had, and the abundance we experience are more a factor of where we were born than anything we have done.  As I come home from a trip to a country where so many are struggling for adequate food and water, I am led to  realize that the tasks I face are a measure of my blessings.  That's certainly not the only lesson, or even the foremost lesson I have to learn from my travels.  I can't help but think, though,  that it's a very good place to start.

--Susan Rodebush  ©  2009

All materials in this blog are copyrighted and may not be reproduced or distributed without permission.