CLOSE OF AN AFTERNOON RAIN

30 Sunday Aug 2015

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Ending things has never been my cup of tea. All of my life, I hated for parties, sleep-overs, and movies to end. I cried at the end of each stage of my children’s lives, although I knew full well those were perfectly healthy normal milestones. I cried on the last day of my just retired from position at the hospital. I should have been skipping and giggling all the way out. But, no, with tear brimmed eyes I turned in my  badge to the operator after clocking out, fumbled my belongings out to the car, and felt lonely. Going home to a house full of love and excitement at my being able to turn the page and retire, I was weary from a very long exhausting day, and yes, sad; for an ending, I guess. And here we are at the end of another season. Summer on August 30, is pretty much ending. When most people are hailing the end of seasons, I am clinging to all the ‘but I wanted to do this, or that and time is flying’ clichés.

One thing I have been encouraged to do in retirement is to spend more time writing. Partly because those dears know me and like my writing, and partly because it (my writing) has much improvement to take on, and practice makes perfect, right? I have been overwhelmed with the idea of so much to do, the closing of summer, so many people to see and get to do things with, and taking on part-time positions. Yes, busy people just stay busy, and it’s always going to be that way. So, I have been avoiding the urge to write. Until today. We needed a rain as there had been a small dry spell, and obviously I needed a rain to lubricate my writing hinges. It began to rain as I was in the midst of grading care plans for the students in the obstetrical clinical I have agreed to teach.  Soon I found myself moving out onto the front porch swing for a break. Most of the lightning and thunder was over as was the downpour, but the sounds of the tapering off triggered that writer’s need to put it into words.

Phrases to describe the sounds began tripping through my mind and the following poem was the result.

Trickling water sounds through the metal downspout,

Thunder rumbling farther away,

Hissing car tires make that splashy sound,

Drippity drops of nearly stopped rain.

Bold little croak of a nearby toad

and some flying creatures test the air;

The sky is getting lighter, puddles shine wider

Dampness crawls onto the porch to share.

Gently a breeze stirs the water laden trees

And the windchime makes a timid ting-ding.

A constant faint drizzle and a crow calls o’er the way,

A new dong with the ting-a-ding rings.

Blooms bob their heads as tiny drips fall

as if to be nodding adieu.

The freshness remains – an unnamed fragrance –

And the late summer rain has moved through.

 May you have a love wrapped ending to your summer, friends, as we look forward to that breathtaking joy we call Autumn. God is so good. Trisha

COFFEE ON THE WESTSIDE

25 Monday May 2015

Posted by in Nature, Reflections

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A deer crosses our field of young soybeans just about 20 yards from where I sit drinking an evening cup of Maxwell House, watching what is left of the sunset and a hummingbird taking one last drink. He’s in no hurry nor am I in a hurry to see the day end. I realize the cicadas have gone to sleep or whatever cicadas do when they quiet down. I feel a nice peaceful wrap sliding around my shoulders, with a bit of a chill in the evening air. It is late May, and the weather is damp and cool, more so than we expect at this time of year. The evening birds sound louder than they do when the day life is busily competing for attention. A frog of some sort croaking just beneath the porch rail  where I sit startled me, and I giggled as he and another farther out took turns calling back and forth.

This is Memorial Day, and I have been mindful today of the sacrifices made by the many men and women, and their families, to promote peace and freedom in our country. Without them in our ever-changing history, it is doubtful that I would have the luxury of taking in this evening in such a way. Thank you so very, very much. My heart is prayerful for all who have and are now serving our country.

Since the weather reminds me of the cool rainy season we normally have in April, my mind turns to an April day several years ago when I was riding with my husband on one of his ventures for farm equipment. He likes the company and help with maps and such, and I like the time to write, or read, or work crossword puzzles; so many are the times we’ve struck out on excursions looking for some truck or piece of farm machinery he has found in a publication or online. Anyway, one day in particular stands out in memory because of the striking glow of redbud trees in the wooded countryside. I recall writing a silly little poem about the portrait of Spring. Nature is the most poem-triggering inspiration for me.

It is dark now, my coffee cup is empty and the birds have also gone to nest I suppose for I cannot hear anything but frogs and other night sounds whose names I don’t know. I am going inside to relinquish another day, and to look for that old poem.

Found it, fiddled around with it a bit, and here it is:

PORTRAIT OF SPRING

Redbuds, popping out in vibrant lilac splashes,

on a quiet wooded, expectant canvas,

Soon to be joined by fancy whites and fresh new green

worked into the portrait of another Spring.

Redbuds, with humble unfrilled ease

pull the eye to the blur of late winter trees.

A glow at the edge of a dark rainy day –

They’re waiting for Dogwoods to come out and play.

Dogwood, a name for lacy young ladies in pink and white

who’ll come into their own over cool April nights.

Dogwoods, spreading their arms, hands joined in games

are allowed a short time for song and play

under thickening green mesh arbors of home

until they have leaves and shade of their own.

Redbuds and Dogwoods in unison sing,

“we’re the prettiest part in the picture of Spring”.

My mind with its business and day-to-day run,

stops in awe at what the Artist has done.

And as the years slip by with their speedy endeavor

I look forward to their portraits more eagerly than ever.     P.Ward

Suddenly I’m a girl of 9 or 10 years old again, joining hands in circle with the other girl scouts in my troop. I hear us singing, “Day is done, gone the sun, from the hills, from the (trees?) from the sky. All is well, safe at rest, God is nigh”.  I haven’t heard that song in way too long…Good night friends.

TODD

20 Wednesday May 2015

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One name, spoken in our small community over the past year and a half needed no last name, no explanation. Speaking the name ‘Todd’, was understood that the reference was to “our” Todd Walker. A family man in every respect; son, husband and daddy, yes, to his precious family. And so much  more. In the church, his family attitude exemplified everything God intended the church to be. Which is why I say ‘our Todd’. Everyone who knew him thinks of him as a brother. A teacher, minister, song leader, encourager, Todd’s love for people naturally drew them, and drew us closer as a family; and more importantly (to Todd I know), he drew us closer to Jesus.

One question, forever in the mind of mankind, though we know full well there is no satisfying answer, is ‘why’. Why was it OK for Todd to go so soon? No, Todd would not have us question. But as a heart-broken sister, my Lord understands that I have questions. And it’s ok. Perhaps that gives us the chance to say aloud the things we admire, the things we think are important, honoring our loved ones, when they’ve passed from this life.

One assurance: that Todd is free of all chains that held him from the things he might have done. Free to be in perfect peace. Free of heartache, pain, and suffering. Free to fully praise his Father and Saviour unendingly.

One ugly disease, this ALS. It stole his strength, but did not win his spirit. He used it to strengthen his and the spirit of those who knew him. It ravaged his body and our hearts. But it did not touch his faith which seemed to grow stronger each time he spoke in our presence, serving to encourage the faith of others. It grieves us with its affect, but reminds us of the beauty of the time when disease will not exist.

One Lord, who now holds Todd in perfection. I am not convinced if the saints sleep in perfect peace for now, resting for the time of great celebration in the final resurrection; or if they are immediately transported into an awareness of Paradise. Either way, I imagine Todd will be leading the chorus in his magnificent way at the perfect timing according to our Father in Heaven and his Son who sits at the right hand and welcomes the faithful, and one of those is Todd Walker.

One day, we will all be joined together and questions will be answered, beyond our grandest dreams. This morning as I write, the birds are singing, like Todd; and the sky is cloudy, like our eyes. But on that morning, our eyes will be fully opened, seeing clearly all that is now a mystery. And I look forward to that. In the words of another brother in Christ, Lord come quickly. We miss you Todd.

Wild Violets: Our House Blend

29 Sunday Jun 2014

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I walk by a photograph in our hallway and feel a warmth I have tried to describe for some time now; a picture of peace, and pain; of togetherness, and separation; of a bittersweet day so pungent to my memory that seeing it even brings back the fragrances of the day. I recall the pleasant aromas of good cooking, but I have no idea what we ate. I recall Mama’s Pleasures cologne that I associate with the sweater she was wearing on that particular day. I can see the small dishes of wild violets transplanted from the lawn of my mother’s cousin, to her welcoming tables, so sweetly set for our pleasure. So prominent in my mind are those violets that I can imagine I smell a faint earthy sweetness, like a fresh rain in summer. The photograph is of four cousins, each in her late 70’s or 80’s, sitting at one of those tables after a good lunch, posing to capture, and hold onto, what I knew would be their last time together. As close as their families were in their younger days, each had developed very different lives and two of them kept in touch with the others on, oh, I guess about yearly visits, and occasional phone calls. We, their children, knew our second cousins, or as some would say, first cousins-once removed, and that there were the third cousins, or second depending on how you called the first category, none of which matters at all. But it did matter that we did not grow up together and so we knew each others families primarily through the eyes of our mothers. I rather like the surprise of unique wonderful “kinfolk” found later in life; like discovering a hidden present years after it was supposed to have been placed under a Christmas tree.

The names of our four elderly cousins were typical southern double names. I love to remember how Mama said them and it was always with a great fondness that she did so. First, Hilda Mae, whose lovely home we visited that day was the daughter of my favorite great-aunt, Aunt Treva. Next, Fannie Sue, the only daughter of a great-uncle, (Uncle Dow who was about ten feet tall in my childhood memory) was the eldest of the cousins, and is still living and active today. Next, Johnny Bell, the Texas cousin, short and stout with a large personality so matter-of-fact, that it made me smile just to be around her as I  never knew what she was going to say next. I grew to love her from Mama’s tales of Johnny Bell’s life story. And the youngest, at 77 years old that year, was Betty Lou, my Mama. As it happened, each of them had one daughter accompanying them on the day of the photograph. So, Barbara, Betty Ann, Paula and Patricia witnessed a sweet reunion, a house blend if you will, of four wild violets, nearing the end of long and strong lives.

Wild violets are one of the most fascinating pop-up plants of the Spring. They look so tender, almost fragile, but are so tough you can mow them, pull them, plant over them, or just enjoy them, and they survive and thrive! And summer weather doesn’t chase them away either! I thought how fitting that Hilda Mae used them to decorate on the day of her lunch. Typical of the way her generation used their resources, it was too early in the spring to have cultivated blooms to bring in, so she had dug up wild violets and planted in small dishes. She placed one on each card table, so thoughtfully set up in the ground level room as she knew Mama would not be able to climb the couple of steps into the kitchen. These women were not just any common variety, nor are the violets just any old garden weed. Beauty, stamina, endurance blended just right to give a lasting impression and enrich the lives they touched, might be said of the violets, but especially of each lady there that day. I felt more blessed to be in their presence that day than I can ever express. Knowing how hard parts of their lives had been, and seeing the way they each turned situations to bless others’ lives is so humbling.

I recall thinking how nice that the violets were purple, my mother’s favorite color to wear. At their ages, the cousins had seen better days as far as physical appearances go, and so they wore things they loved to look at; thus they wore the countenances of love, friendship, humility, and life accomplishments that gave them a glow unmatched by any Revlon or L’Oreal. Of course, just as wild violets can certainly be out shown by fabulous hydrangea, roses, and such, these women would be the first to admit they did not strive for worldly beauty, and the cares of life did take their toll. Bent shoulders, time lined faces, sun toughened skin, drawn eyes and mouths that smiled all the more sweetly, all told a story of hard work and pain. The shaking hands and weakened limbs seemed to clasp and hold onto each other with a constitution young muscles could never match. Still these marks of time were hardly noticed as the radiance of their joy at seeing and being with one another outshone it all.

These girls had all given birth, and given up family to death; collectively they’d taught school, worked in offices, harvested orchards, milked cows, raised crops and kids; they fed preachers and multitudes of family and friends with the best cooking I’ve ever tasted;they led 4-H, Girl Scouts, Sunday School classes; suffered heartbreaking divorce, and some widowed at much too young an age; they gardened to feed their families and for beauty of home and community; they mowed, weeded, wiped a billion tears and runny noses; spanked and scolded, sang to and soothed, prayed and praised, and met each new day with the resolution that was as Paul said “whatever state I am in, therewith to be content”. (Phil.4:11) They had grandparents in common, my maternal grandmother’s parents. I feel I can get a glimpse of what my great grandparents were like when I look into the basic structure of those Wild Violets. I see strong roots, long-suffering blooms, people who found joy in everyday life and counted their blessings, and who loved family in spite of differences and imperfections. I see tender hearts in tough working bodies, and persistent faith in the Creator.

I left Hilda Mae’s house that day with tears in my eyes for I knew Mama would never physically be with her beloved cousins again. About three months later as she lay in her last day on this earth, two of these sweet violets came to visit her in the hospital, and their names were the last names my mother ever spoke. As they walked into the room, she looked up, and with a sudden spurt of excitement she exclaimed, “Why! Fannie Sue and Hilda May!”. She smiled weakly, but with great satisfaction. Our cousins sat for a while and visited with me and we spoke fondly of our last visit early that Spring. At the ages of 89 and 87 those precious ladies were still out doing good for others, carrying out the work of their Father. How beautiful the feet of those who go! As grateful as I was then for their visit, that gratitude has grown even more over time, that God brought one of His sweetest bouquets in to Mama on her last day. And then Mama’s visit was over.

A short time before that day in the hospital, I wrote the following poem for those four cousins. After finally recovering the poem on an older flash drive, I am surprised how similar it is to this new post I was inspired to write five years later. My inspiration was from this spring’s plentiful wild violets.

 A LITTLE GET-TOGETHER

Hilda Mae, Fannie Sue, Johnnie Bell and Betty Lou, All came together as kinfolk often do.

The privilege of presence is mine this day, As I am driving Betty Lou their way.

Cousins in the winter season of life, The same grandparents taught values through time,

Here on a gray mid-April day, With sunny hearts in the home of Hilda Mae.

Being forgetful, with no camera in hand, I’m taking snapshots with words where I stand.

The first picture I see at the door eagerly waiting, Are smiles and waves, our arrival anticipating.

Next I see deep purple of wild violet blooms, Taken in from her lawn, to cheer the room.

These remind me of Fannie Sue’s wide tender smile, Cheering and warming us all the while.

Here’s a picture of pure Southern hospitality: Hilda’s warm chicken casserole and cold iced tea.

Green beans, lima beans, potatoes and a roll, A dreamy fruit salad made with good old Jello.

Food for the body and food for the soul, With pictures, laughter, and memories of long ago.

We girls are here as the daughters, in part; But also as cousins and love in our hearts,

Due to the images and stories in mind, That our mothers have lovingly passed down over time.

We, dining in the kitchen and our moms in the sunroom, Serves to remind that one generation becomes another quite soon.

I want so much to hold onto this time, To seal these images secure in my mind.

I see ladies whose lives to love and work yield, In school rooms, offices, homes and fields.

Their work worn hands, now soft to touch, Have cuddled and spanked, taken in and given much!

The lines in their faces are beautiful strokes, Placed by the artist who best knows these folks.

Every line a story in their volumes of life, Tales of their roles as mothers, daughters, and wives.

I see a likeness of my Grandma – just a trace- In the round blue eyes of Johnnie Bell’s face.

Hilda shares pictures of trees that were torn, Damage left by a recent ice storm. And I can’t help thinking of these oak-strong women now looking too, a bit battle worn.

My own mother’s trembling hands and failing voice, Tell me the time is nearing – and we have no choice –

When the gathering of these people on a day like this one, In person will likely not again be done.

But the spirits of these ladies will live on forever, and for us today will be forgotten never.

I know the Master has a get-together planned, Where these good women and their mothers join hands; they’ll feast on love, will know as they are known, And rejoice in their journey that takes them home.

Continue reading →

Heavy to Bear: The Story of an Old Church Pew

18 Friday Apr 2014

Posted by in Faith, Life, Reflections, Uncategorized

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In our garage sits a new occupant, temporarily there; another project awaiting good intentions and a bit of loving care. Given to us by my daddy a year and a half ago, all we had to do was drive down, load it up and haul it home. It’s an old bench, a pew from the church of daddy’s youth, one left after the building was gone, the members too few. Would we like to have it, was his question one day, and we figured, sure, we could use it somewhere, some way. Going to get the pew was a thought from time to time but it wasn’t something we’d put to plan and so it slipped my mind. This morning was a rare time with us both available and so, when the thought of that pew on our porch popped to mind, I said “Lets just go”. Now Dad had warned us that we’d be needing help, but of strong body and stubborn mind, we headed off to do it ourselves.

We all know that in the days of little convenience and less demand, things were made stronger, heavier, investing more time, and often by hand. Did I mention HEAVIER? as in solid wood; 12 feet long, 2 feet wide, and waist-high the old girl stood. Partly dragging and partly lifting, taking two steps and then a stop, we maneuvered her onto the trailer, eased her down on her back, and strapped across the top. My mind filled with questions I’d like to ask that pew, and my husband even expressed that he had a question or two. Did I ever sit on that very same seat, visiting with Aunt Kathryne which was always a treat. Did my grandmother sit there, or my cousin Jan with her friends; how many times did she hear an ‘amen’. How many sweethearts’ vows were heard, and who came to obedience from that very seat at hearing the Word?  How many burdens were dropped right there as heavy hearts listened to a righteous man’s prayer? The weight of the pew itself lent to me, the thought that burdens are expected, when gifts are free. We are told we must each bear our own cross, as the Savior did first, and paid a great cost for the gift He gave of eternal life, passing to each of us the will to live and love with true sacrifice.

“And he bearing His cross went forth into a place called the place of a skull, which is called in the Hebrew, Golgotha; where they crucified Him, …” (John 19:17-18)

And so, after a thought-filled ride back home, we unloaded the heavy burden, set her upright with a groan; there I saw four little reminders of the lives she had seen – objects fallen from the songbook racks on the back of the seat. Two small soft white ponytail bands, a penny and a red pencil trimmed down to two inches I held in my hand. How fitting I thought, that for all that time, the pew had held tokens of childhood like a sign. As the Christ had spoken centuries ago “Allow the little children to come unto me and forbid them not for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 19:14)  The penny as well, so fitting, because religion is not about how much we have, but how much we are giving. That little red pencil was still sharp, but the eraser had hardened over time, and spoke to me of talents and then age came to mind. Although time does take its toll, there are many talents yet to use, love to give, miles to go. Unable to erase, if you’ll pardon the pun, the marks of time and the deeds that were done, that pencil stayed sharp,ready for command, to do whatever directed by some master’s hand.

And at the end of the day, it came to me how neat that we’d thought about going to get that church pew a few days before Easter. At a time when much of the world will be focused on the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, and the gift of eternal life He gave us, we brought home another free gift. I’ve heard it said that with freedom comes responsibility. Likewise, with freedom from the burden of carrying our own sins, comes the responsibility of obedience to the One who made it so. These words of Christ after the resurrection are recorded in Matthew: “Go therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit; teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.” (Matthew 28: 19-20) The pew from my dad carried with it the burden of moving it, and later that of cleaning and painting perhaps, but also was a gift of love, memories, and a great place to sit and ponder all the treasures from our heavenly Father. So, heavy is subject to interpretation it seems, as it is all relative; some burdens we bear for the joys that they bring.

“Ought not Christ to have suffered these things, and to enter into His glory?” Luke 24:26   “And the angel answered and said unto the women, Fear not for I know that you seek Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; for He is risen, as He said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay.” Matthew 28:5-6

In my faith, we celebrate the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ every first day of the week. I enjoy however, seeing so much more of the world taking time this week to remember the burden He bore for us, and acknowledging His great love. Happy Easter. Hey, do they make coffee flavored easter eggs? Yum.

My Coffeetable

01 Saturday Mar 2014

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It is Saturday, and without kids still at home, I have the privilege of time. Time to sit quietly with my coffee and whatever comes to mind – or just sit, mindlessly. It’s cold outside, warm in here, and suddenly the warmth of my old solid maple coffee table takes command of my thoughts. I realize how she sets the tone in our living room, grounding it, as the hub of it. She seems to have spokes that point back to the past; to the present as it holds today’s periodicals, mail, projects, and just stuff; and pointing as well toward the future with her solid structure saying, ” I’m here for you as long as you need me”. And I BEGIN TO REMEMBER….So, with the way I’m wired, I start to see symbolism, and spiritual applications in the everyday things, and feel that certain writer’s compelling need to share.

First, I’ll try to show you our coffee table. It is a golden brown solid maple, put together with pegs; it has two drop leaves and is round until the leaves are dropped when it becomes a rectangle with curved ends. There are six legs, also solid and rounded with a simple round foot on each. Two of the legs slide outward forming the base for the leaves when they are up. A shallow drawer on each end has the early American brass plate with a handle that softly cla-clanks against the plate when the drawer is opened. One drawer has held various art supplies since my adult children were very small, and the table was then in my mother’s living room. Children love this table; probably because it is down on their level, a little stage for whatever they want to play. They are drawn to it, and I know this because it has been in our family since long before I had children. When I hear the cla-clank of the handle, I know the magical drawer of creative possibilities has been opened; and that watchful eyes need to be present, to watch for markers destined for the sofa or walls, and to praise the fine artwork of young hands. AND I REMEMBER, “Allow the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 19:14. I wish I could reach every pair of little hands that have played around this table and impress upon them how very important they are and how the Lord God loves them.

Another feature of my coffee table is that it has no apron nor surround about the edge. I am able to stretch my legs out and use it for an ottoman. Oh yes! we do put our feet on the coffee table! We can easily reach over from the couch, and slide a coffee cup or a dish onto and off of the table edge without even raising up. I had one of those little mahogany colored lightweights with the table top dropped inside a skirted edge for a short while and it was not user friendly. It went back to the yard sale world. So as I sit here now with my feet upon the table that I love so much, I REMEMBER, “Come to me all you who labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest” said Jesus in Matthew 11:28. How many tiring days have ended with my feet propped upon that table, and my petitions and praise offered to the Lord!

The most important feature I want you to see, is what time has put on it. Many marks of time are in the form of scratches, cracks, dings and color variations. Oh what a flood of memories these hold! The memories go back as far as 1970 when my mother was introduced to furniture stripping. She and her good friend found this coffee table at an auction, thought it had good bones, and she brought it home. The old green paint was stripped off and they found a beautiful maple table beneath. That reminds me how Mama was always good at drawing the good out of people also. She didn’t judge a book by its cover, or a table by its paint, but looked deeply for the good. As each grandchild was born he or she grew to enjoy playing at Granny’s coffee table. My daughter kept “office supplies” in one drawer and played for hours and hours there. She posted office names on every door in her Granny’s house, and the coffee table was her headquarters. My son put several dings in the wood with a little toy pistol and sent many herds of animals running across the broad brown surface. He took sled and sleigh ornaments off the tree and pulled them all over the coffee table. My sister’s children next, and then our brother’s children, all making their own form of fun at Granny’s table, until she charitably handed it down to me when we had none. AND I REMEMBER, “give, and it will be given to you; good measure, pressed down, shaken together, running over, will be put into your lap.” Luke 6:38. And she passed from here with a full heart, a full house, so much given, so much received! I see now where this was going – it’s not about a table, or the coffee, nor the nicks and dings. It’s about the traces we leave behind.

Now Mother’s great-grands play at Aunt Trisha’s coffee table. One very dear little boy, a friend’s son who calls me Aunt held onto that table every time they came, until he could walk. Like my son, and nephews, he operated tractors, and matchbox cars over the fields of my coffee table. The great nieces and children of friends have made master pieces on this table with the crayons and markers, construction paper and coloring books I keep in the one drawer. Candles and walkie-talkies for finding our way before cell phones, are kept in the other one. The table has endured among other things, a 10 month storage where it suffered mildew I had to remove; being faded on one end by a sunny window; being kicked by three different ones of us wearing orthopedic boots; sports the scratches of a high speed chase by my daughter’s dog across the table; and has worn snow scene displays and candles dripping through many holiday seasons. Babies have drooled on it, banged toys on it, and learned to walk holding to it. We eat, drink, and laugh around it. Homework, hobbies, and games have found it a great place to land. My favorite occupants for now, includes a stack of magazines, a basket from Guyana, the Bible, and my coffee cup. Each time I clean it, I relish the marks of loved ones and what they’ve left behind. “In everything give thanks.”

I set down my coffee cup, now unconcerned with the possibility of leaving a smudge, and run my hand along the smooth surface, remembering, lovingly, those who’ve gathered round and used this coffee table. Some who are no longer coming and going here in our house, but whose marks are here – beautiful memories – nicked, dinged, kicked, scratched and marked in time. I’m pretty sure that circle on this end of the table was put there by me; it fits my coffee mug perfectly.

A Bitter Cup

16 Thursday Jan 2014

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January 16, 2014

Happy Birthday to my sister.

Change. Change can have such a bitter taste. Like that cheap coffee in the hospital waiting rooms, or a gas station’s left-from-yesterday-coffee, there’s a bitter aftertaste. More for some than for others. For me, change has never been very welcome; partially because it requires energy – more energy than I want to use. When things stay the same, there is no moving mentally, emotionally, nor physically to accommodate it. At the age of 60, I readily recognize that change is a necessary part of life; and in fact it can accommodate, facilitate, recreate, and do all those other modern moves that keep up with life for us. Without change in my own daily life, I won’t be ready for the changes outside my inner circle. But sometimes, just sometimes, it is not good. Admit it modern world, not all the changes have been for our good. I don’t wish to be a negative person. On the contrary, I am very positive when I say that I like something, and I like it to stay as it is. I look at several situations in a way that one may accuse me of being negative, when all the time, I am being positive about the opposite of what will be, if changed. See? So what has my apple cart teetering? Note that I did not say ‘turned over’, just teetering. Who has moved my cheese this time (to quote a well-known book title written by Spencer Johnson and Kenneth Blanchard) and why was my lip quivering?

My little sister said as we returned from her birthday lunch, “I need to tell you something”; and she said it very gravely. It caused a wave through my stomach and several scenarios to blow through my mind – was her marriage ok? was a child or grandchild in trouble? was one of my kids about to throw me for a loop? was , was, was… Well, I guess she knew how to manage my expectations so that the real issue wouldn’t be so shocking. The news is that they are going to sell their house, about a mile from us, and move to the city life. Convenience, in general, is the reasoning. But I like having them near me. I like, no I adore, her very large shady, peaceful backyard and all its gorgeous landscaping. That’s been my sister’s house for too many years for me to imagine her anywhere else. Where will I borrow a cup of sugar, or where will I drop by for a dip in the pool; where will I run in to give the kids a hug and a batch of cookies? Oh wait a minute, town is where I work. It’s where our dad lives; where we go to church; and it’s only seven or eight miles from here. Oh, ok, some change is good. But I had to sweeten that bitter cup of coffee, and pour in some cream. I actually handled it pretty well. I took her hand and said, “Change is part of life – we both have learned that! Of course it hurts me to think of you moving, but thank Goodness, you aren’t telling me you’re packing it all off to Florida or some such far off place!!” We laughed, and I look forward to helping her select things for a new house someday. And I’m reminded that God has worked on me a great deal about this change thing. Several years ago, my brother-in-law tried to talk her into this move, but she wasn’t going for it, and I bawled and squawled when she told me he wanted to move. Since then, I’ve been through more difficult transitions, changes, dreams on the edge of dissolving, and with each one God has refined me, chiseled out little receptacles, whereby I can accept and live more in harmony with change. We all have those unique traits that need tweaking in order to survive – mine was change acceptance. True, God still has much work to do on me, but I am better able to help Him with this one. Now I am able to see the positive side. I am thankful for all the years I have had my sister and her family right in my back door, to borrow and lend, to cry, to rejoice, to be a part of her family. How many can say that? And it is exciting to think of their building a new home, of the convenience that it will bring for her trying times, and that she will still be so near. As I write, I realize that I am using the relocation issue as a bucket to hold all the tremendous changes that have occurred in her family’s life, and the lack of it other than aging, in my own. These are not things easily written, nor spoken, and so it was good to have an avenue by which I could harp a bit on the subject of change. All we need to take away from this is in Ephesians 2:10: ” For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.” HIS workmanship, not my own. If not for change, how could He make me better?! His knowledge of me is what will sustain me throughout life’s changes. So, since change is always here, ugly or not, to be dealt with, I call on the Lord to equip me that I may in turn be a comfort to another who may not be dealing well with their particular changing times. “Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me, and know my anxieties”, Psalm 139:23. How wonderful that God has given me so much time and circumstance to become a “changed person”, in order that I may accept the bigger changes of aging, and such. “Oh Lord you have searched me and known me. You know my sitting down and my rising up; You understand my thought afar off. You comprehend my path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. …Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain it.” Psalm 139: 1-3 and  vs 6. Wow. It even blew the great king David’s mind. Some things never change.

The Cream in my Coffee: a Tale of Two Sisters

11 Saturday Jan 2014

Posted by in Children, Faith, Life

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The dead of winter has never been an inspirational time for me. The things that usually inspire me to write are sunshine, autumn and spring, beginnings and endings, children and aging – all that, but January, hmmmm, not a lot. Only two things have been the cream in my cup of January. One, fresh starts are nice, so the first week of January feels good to start cleaning out and cleaning up. Secondly, my little sister’s birthday is in January and I always enjoyed helping Mama try to make it special for her at a time when we were usually snowed in. Thinking of her childhood, I was reminded of a sweet story she told me recently. So to warm up today’s cold winter weather, I want to share a little piece of my sister’s life that was truly the cream in my coffee, so to speak.

As we all learned from Mr. Linkletter and Mr. Cosby, kids do say the funniest things, and I absolutely relish the things that come out of their little minds. My sister has two little granddaughters, and the following conversation occurred between the two of them. Their ages at the time were 7, and “almost 4!” years old. They are in the back seat of the car, and have no idea their Mimi and Pawpa are listening, and the discussion of genealogy has somehow come about.

K (the 7 year old, wise beyond her years): “I’m older than you because I was in Mommy’s belly before you and you came later after I was out.”

I (the 3 year old):”Why wasn’t I in Mommy’s belly the same time you were?”

K: Isabella, I was there first, and after they cut me out, then you were put there, and they cut you out, so I came first.”

I: (with trembling lips and shaky voice) “But it was dark in my Mommy’s belly and I needed a flashlight; why weren’t you there with me?” (tears)

K:” Isabella, when I was put there, you were up in Heaven with God, and you were still in God’s imagination, so He put you there after I got cut out.”

I don’t know about you, but when I first heard this, I had tears in my eyes and goosebumps! The old adage ‘out of the mouth of babes…’, right? “Before I formed thee in the belly I knew thee…” Jeremiah 1:5  “For thou hast possessed my reins; thou has covered me in my mother’s womb.” Psalms 139:13

I knew immediately that I truly wanted an avenue by which I could share this delightful conversation between my great nieces. I hope you enjoyed it. Now my coffee is cold, but my heart is warmed with the cream of a child’s heart; and the knowledge that when we feel alone and in need of a flashlight, we are held in the imagination of a great and loving God, Who had a plan for us from before the beginning.

My first coffee break, with a teacup

08 Wednesday Jan 2014

Posted by in Children, inspiration, Reflections

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Although I’d wanted to write since childhood, my best inspirations came after having children of my own. So often in the past 36 years, I have heard my inner voice narrating, “I am a writer”, and so I have stored up several little incidents that I simply want to share. And that’s the neat thing about writing, for me, anyway; that I can express a thought or emotion, or report a happening, and enjoy it for just that – and if someone else enjoys reading it, then that’s icing on my coffeecake.

It began back in about 1980 in our little 12×65 mobile home, as I made my way from the morning pick-up and straighten-up and into the kitchen where our little brown-eyed 3-year-old was leaning over the kitchen table, one foot in a chair, the other leg folded behind and a finger just coming out of the butter dish. “Look Mama”, he said excitedly, “I found a new real good sompin‘ to eat, butter on crackers!” The look on his face said, “please don’t scold before you hear why I’m nearly on the table, and there are crumbs everywhere”, and there was just a hint of guilt in that sweet smile. He seemed to think he had single-handedly invented the world’s best snack. I, however, was seeing a whole different picture. There amid the crumbs and smears of butter on a placemat, was a buttered knife, a used piece of bubble gum, a cocklebur and a teacup of water holding the two Rose of Sharon blooms he had brought in to me earlier. My heart melted at the sight of this gorgeous chunk of a child, and with gratitude for such a moment. I don’t recall anything else about that day except that I grabbed a scrap of paper, which I still have in a basket, and wrote down the memory.

I wish, of course, that I’d stopped to write down many more memories, but I was taught that idle hands are the devil’s workshop, and I sure didn’t want to let the devil set up shop in our home! So, busy I was, and too few coffee breaks I took in those days. As I look back at that kitchen table, I know how blessed I was. Two beautiful children, a husband who worked hard to be sure I could stay home and raise them, and a simple country life allowed me to soar a bit with the eagles, on wings above the storms, gathering strength to run, or walk, as life’s course would dictate, without falling beneath the load. Isaiah 40:31 became my favorite verse long ago, and I cherish it more and more as I reflect back, and look forward.  With too few dollars to keep film in the camera, I grabbed pen and paper and began storing little notes like a squirrel hiding nuts. Now, being older has two sides: with a little more time to grab a cup of coffee and reminisce, perhaps, but will I be able to recall where I’ve stashed all those tidbits of time? I hope that I can discipline myself to write regularly, but don’t bet all your beans on that one!