- It’s not enough

This was Joy last Monday morning. It’s not enough for her to get up and and simply state that she’s tired (having not gone to bed early enough the night before …. such a difficult task, ya know?). It’s not even enough to throw herself on the couch, or even the floor.  No.  To get my attention ….. for emphasis … for theatrical effect, she climbs onto the dining table – a make/shift stage – to moan about having to get out of bed. Maybe other homeschoolers experience this in the morning, but before traditional school, we never had mornings so glum.  Joy was up by 8:00 and greeted the day with a smile.

Don’t get me wrong, when my big kids became teens, late night habits and the need for extra sleep made early rising with a smile less frequent.  But, Joy is only ten.

Upon leaving the table, to further the drama,
she decided sitting in the snugly cat bed (the closest thing to climbing back into her OWN bed) would be better than having to simply sit in a chair or on the couch.

Through it all, her sense of humor remains.  One day last week when the clock was nearing eight, Glory found Joy on the computer playing a game (a “no-no” before school).  James was in bed as his classes don’t begin until mid-morning on that day and I had an altered schedule that allowed me the morning home as well.  Thus, Glory was the only one getting ready.  She loudly asked,
“Am I the ONLY one going to school today????”
In her matter-of-fact, dry tone,
Joy quipped back with Eeyore’s voice spilling from pretty little lips,
“I hope so.”
She’s so much like her brother
and so NOT like her sister.
But, they all keep me entertained.

And I think of Comedy.  Surely he’s lonely without all the fun, comedy, drama and activity in his life.  Surely.  I could not leave them. No matter my surroundings, I would not, could not leave them.

There were times when I entertained the thought when Comedy was here.  There were even times that I would say, “I should just leave.”  Maybe, in fact, I helped him to leave me by doing this.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that he disliked me so much that I thought it might be better for him raise them the way that he wanted… because he did not like any decision I made … anything I said … any idea I shared.  I wondered if it would be better with my having stepped to the side.

But, I knew that, no matter my discomfort, it would not be good for the children. Can it be helpful for a parent to walk away?  Maybe there are times … and maybe Comedy did the needful thing. That’s certainly not mine to judge. It is between he and God. But,  he did what he felt he had to do.

Most important, though, is whether right or wrong, God can bring beauty from the mess.  He can use the fiery discomfort to purify. He can bring luster from the tarnished.  He can take the earthen pot, pour or paint on the glaze and  fire it in a kiln and it will emerge with dazzling color, shiny … useful …. alluring.

And so, another week begins…..

with spelling words and times tables, homework and signed papers,
science, social studies and orchestra.
We look for the beauty.
Thespian mornings of “woe is me” are not helpful. I encourage Joy to use her drama for good. Dream big dreams in orchestra. Think big ideas in science. Write intricate, moving stories in english. Dramatic giving, theatrical loving and deep, rich befriending are good.  They are all work…sacrifice, even … but they are good.

-God’s Protection Makes Me Happy

As is the custom in the south, we had several wet days in October. It’s just the way things work around here.  The days get shorter … and wetter, simultaneously.  And after our long, hot, dry summers, it’s probably a good thing.

Unless you’re driving.

With slick tires.

Glory’s new car is such a blessing.  She’s let me drive it once or twice, and I tell you, it’s a F U N car to drive.  I’ve never been much of a “status” kind of person, so it’s a little bit awkward driving a car so flashy.  In fact, I love my brown grocery hauler. It’s certainly no “Statement Maker,”  so it’s kind of unusual to know that people give you a second look in her sporty red wheels.

She says sometimes she wonders if people look at her and think she’s spoiled because she’s driving that car.  She’d love to have a vanity plate that says “My Daddy didn’t buy me this car … I worked for it!”  I’d love to change it out when I drive.  Mine would say, “No, I’m not having a mid-life crisis, thank you! This car is my daughter’s.”

My favorite part of the car, oddly enough, is the sweet purr that the engine makes.  It gets great mileage, as it’s a six cylinder… but it has a strong little engine that makes the sweetest sound.  I love to hear it “vvvvrooooooommmmm” as you shift from gear to gear.

The car is in excellent shape, but really needed two new tires on the rear.  They weren’t completely slick, but were definitely wearing a little thin. Glory’s dad planned to put new rubber on on November 1st (and has since done that), but the week before, we had some heavy rain.

One Tuesday afternoon upon leaving school, Glory was at the intersection of a five lane road and a crossing two lane road (that leaves the college), when she turned left (with a green arrow) across traffic to catch our 520 Bobby Jones By-pass heading  home.  She gave the car some gas …. and lost control of the car. The car is heavy in the front (from the engine) and lighter in the back (empty trunk).  She didn’t have enough traction with the wearing rear tires and her car fishtailed dangerously.  She didn’t spin around completely, but could have easily spun into oncoming traffic, had God not had His protecting hand on her car.  She was able to regain control, but said that the whole episode … all three to five seconds …. was terribly frightening.

A girl in my class left school the same afternoon, out of a different school exit, driving a blue Mustang similar.  She turned left across traffic – and was hit and totaled her car.  She broke an arm and injured her knee, but nobody was seriously injured or killed.

And I praise God.  I thank Him that nobody was killed in Ashley’s wreck and that Glory was spared an accident.

Of course, these kinds of things always make you wonder, “Why one and not the other?”  It’s a tough thing, isn’t it, to trust that He is in control?

Glory is being careful with her car.  She’s caring for it and driving safely … but I try to remind her that it’s His anyway.  If something happens, we’ll praise Him through it. But, you know that we’re praying that she never has a wreck at all. But, I have to say that I was reminded of God’s protecting hand.  I’m thankful that he spared Glory and her car injury. I’m thankful that he spared Ashley’s life.

And so, this Monday morning, I’m thankful for God’s protecting hand.

What makes you happy this Monday morning?

- Purse

This is the post that I don’t know how to write.
This is the entry that I don’t even know how to begin.

<sits idle    ……   thinking >

It began when I asked for feedback, here, about my Angelina Jolie purse.

I had one discreet friend call me.  She didn’t want to call me out in public.  She shared that the purse wasn’t so bad, until she thought about her son or her husband looking at it.  So, yes, it was “too much.”

Other friends told me that they liked it.

But it was sweet Naomi, whom I wrote about here, whose words were difficult.

The purse was on my shoulder when I went to Tennessee to visit with her family,
so she saw it in person.

When I wrote about the purse, she responded that  …

well …

that she was angry when she first saw it.
How could I possibly see the purse as being acceptable
when I have written here about modesty?
In other words, she felt I was being hypocritical.

Wow.

Well …
that was just it …
I was struggling with whether it was okay or not.
I WANTED it to be okay.
I really liked the purse.
I liked it because it was a magazine, reinvented into a fun purse
with a funky chain shoulder strap
and a beautiful woman on it.
Not because it had Angelina Jolie on it
or because it was risque.

After I read Naomi’s comment,
I burned the purse.
(Have I mentioned that my Joy is dramatic?
Where,  oh where does she get that?)

It wasn’t enough to give it away
or even throw it away.
I felt I needed to destroy it
as a symbol that I wanted it gone
removed
singed from my life.

I needed my children to see that I don’t want sin in my life.
I want it removed, destroyed, burned away.
I needed them to see me accept being called out
and taking action to correct what might cause someone to stumble.

I have given the whole situation a great deal of thought….
for months now.
I’ve thought about my responsibility to the men in my life:
acquaintances, loved ones and strangers alike.
I’ve thought about my witness to others …
young girls, church friends, family members, unbelievers ….
and the message the purse may have sent….
that  immodesty is
fun…
desirable…
acceptable.

My mind always drifts back to Paul’s words to the Corinthians.
The tenth chapter tells us that we shouldn’t cause anyone to stumble,
whether Jew, Greek or part of the church (v32).
All things are lawful/legal for me,
but not necessarily helpful or edifying (v23).
We should consider the well-being of others (v24).
Most of this chapter is talking the food that we eat
but Paul adds in verse 31,
“Whatever you do, do all to the glory of God.”
In fact, Romans 14 is also addressing food issues
but tells us (v13) that we should strive not to be a
stumbling block to our brothers.
How do we know where to draw the line when
(v14)  there is no food that is truly bad (unclean)
only things that we personally think are bad.
My understanding would be that
our conscience should be our guide.
Whether we are talking about
food
clothing
attitude
words
or
accessories.
Our conscience should be our guide.

I guess what it boils down to for me is
if I have to ask the question,
“Is it okay?”
then it probably isn’t.

I’d like to think that my spiritual walk is so mature
that I immediately obey when the Lord speaks to me about something.
Obviously, that would be a prideful and terribly incorrect statement.

Do I have any resolution in my spirit over the matter? No.
But I wanted you to know that I accepted the rebuke
and acted upon it
because I certainly don’t want to be a stumbling block.

Thanks for being brave to share your thoughts, Naomi.
You are precious.

- Boxwood and Holly

I’ve never been much of a mall shopper, BUT I have thoroughly enjoyed our Augusta Mall since it’s renovation. We have a Coldwater Creek women’s clothing store!  And a Williams-Sonoma Kitchen store! A Sephora!! And even an Apple store!!!  Yes!!  Oh, that we might have an Anthropoloie sometime? <wishes>I always park at the lifestyle center end of the mall. I enjoy the new entrance with it’s welcoming atmosphere.  I don’t mind walking a longer distance to enter the mall this way.  I enjoy window shopping and finding great bargains.  I enjoy eating in the food court.  I love, love, love to shop with Glory.  I’ve even enjoyed shopping for clothes, probably because I’m finding clothes compliment my figure rather than  fight it since I’ve lost weight. In fact, Glory and I easily share clothes now!!  What a treat! My accessible wardrobe has doubled since dropping pounds!

The renovation of the mall took quite some time.  The grand opening of the new design opened last year around the first of November.  This renovation cost TENS of MILLIONS of dollars.  I can’t find a cost quoted anywhere in print, but estimates are near $65 million dollars. I’ll be honest with you:  I can’t quite grasp that sum of money. What I can grasp is that millions of dollars is a tremendous amount.

With all that money being poured into the planning and execution of a renovation, here is what struck me this past spring.

These concrete planters weigh hundreds of pounds.  They can cost more than a thousand of dollars.   I expect that the cost of the planter, the soil and boxwood together exceeds two thousand dollars.  These planters are scattered all around the new end of the mall.

Keep in mind: boxwoods are pretty hard to kill. They are hearty, ever-green plants. They do not drop their leaves.  But, these did.  All of them.
These boxwoods were not cared for and they died.
Surely, they died from dehydration.

Each time I would visit the mall,
I would wonder
“Has anyone that works here noticed these lives
shriveling, wilting, wasting away?”
Wasn’t there someone who was in charge of landscaping and caring for the plants?  Was anyone put in charge of these plants to make sure that they were
properly tended?

Each time I would walk by them, I saw that parallel ….
the physical and the spiritual ….
the parallel that I look for …
that I ask my Heavenly Father to show me….
the analogous picture of
where we live -
the .. tangible … palpable world
and who we are -
the ethereal … untouchable spiritual world.

Not so many weeks ago, I noticed new life in the urns of cement.
I noticed them while I was still at a distance.
And could see just as clearly
that care had been taken to make sure that this new vegetation
would make it …
it was tended and
would thrive.

Having watched the skeletons of old life stand tall in dry soil for months,
I was thankful to see a new watering system was put into place at each pot
for the new flora.
Do you see the hose that encircles the base of plant?
Sweet, life giving water!

And look!  The pine bark mulch on top looks dry,
but beneath the surface, the soil is moist and rich.
Yes, these holly will have a much better chance for
surviving ….
…. thriving
than the neglected boxwood of last year.

I, too, was bought with a price….
one too large for me to fathom …
too great for me to understand.

He has provided the Living Water of Christ
a spirit that will keep my spirit hydrated and healthy.
I don’t understand it
but I know that it is true
because I have read about it
and I experience it.
I have lived portions of my life
a skeleton standing in dry soil
but know that I hold the handle in my hand….

I can reach out for help.
I can reach up.
I can reach over and open my Bible.

Or I can stand
crisp and brittle.

I thanked God for yet another snapshot through the viewfinder of His camera.
He teaches me, talks to me, leads me, guides me.
He protects me, nurtures me and waters my soil.
He shows me pictures of who He is
and who I am
in this wonderful world …
intricate, elaborate and ornate
physically and spiritually.

 

 

 

-Difficult to stop helping

I have to say that it has been a very difficult adjustment to STOP helping.  When he moved, he only took a handful of clothing.  He wouldn’t have an apartment for another several weeks.  So, I packed his things, in anticipation of him coming to get them.  He left emotionally years ago.  It was no surprise when he made the physical break.  I was ready to close that chapter and have him completely free from our home….free to be “happy” (his word).

Though it was his decision to leave, I found myself doing the work to allow it to be a reality. He walked out. I packed the boxes for him and lined them up in the hall. For three weeks they waited.  When he was good and ready, he came back to get his stuff.

I’ve found myself taking meals to him. If I had extra and dinner was especially yummy …  I wanted to share it.  So, I’d run over there and take him a plate.  Even the first time, I felt uncomfortable.  It seemed unnatural.

I’ve loaned him money. He was short. I had extra. I pried to ask if he had any.  He didn’t have much. He had company coming to town.  He needed it.  I had it.  I offered it.   I was happy to do it.  It’s all His …. I mean his anyway.

When we borrowed his truck, I had the tires rotated because I KNEW they needed it badly.  We bought brake pads and replaced them for him because the brakes were shot … metal on metal making a sound that resembled that of dragging a bumper behind us!

I have continued to set things aside for him, giving him lamps, furniture and more. But, from the start, it made me uncomfortable.  I knew in my spirit that I shouldn’t be doing it.  I was continuing to give to someone who does not want my gifts.  I knew I had to stop.

So, I talked to my big kids and asked them to help keep me accountable.  I told them that I wouldn’t take him another meal or offer him money.  And if he asked for something, which he probably never will, I will answer that I first need to talk to the kids about it because I made a promise that I would.

He has made it clear through his actions that he does not want my help any longer.  He does not want to have anything to do with me.  He left.

There are so many things I’d like to do.  He has not changed his address with many businesses so his bills come here. I’d like to send them a forwarding address, but it’s not my job … not my place.    Our joint account continues to end up overdrawn, but I know that I shouldn’t be the one to “fix” it.

And when people ask about him, I don’t feel the need to cover any more.  Through the years, we would go to church but he would find a reason to stay home.  He was either working, tired, busy, sick, near sick, with a sick child, or simply late.  And I would cover for him.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not that he ever ASKED me to do it.  I just began to feel it was the right thing to do.  I found reasons to help him look better.  I covered for him…. in front of friends, church and even in our home.  My big kids could see the whole picture, but sweet Joy… she really couldn’t see it all… only glimpses of the things that were just too big to cover.

And so, it’s the oddest thing I’ve ever worked on, but I’m working on NOT offering my help, my stuff, my time, my gifts, myself. It’s very, very difficult. But I know that I know that I know ….

it’s what I’m supposed to be doing.  aarrghh.

- Granola silly

This is the chifforobe in my bedroom.

Inside one of the compartments, I have to admit that I have granola bars hidden. Sounds like I have food issues, doesn’t it?  Let me explain.

There are three kids in my house, two of which are teens. Certain foods – of the trash variety – are quick to be eaten.  Comedy had a ravishing sweet tooth (in the mornings, anyway) so he was quick to eat any yummy sweets (mostly with his morning coffee and then around lunch).  Trash food like cookies and cakes are quick to be devoured.

I get up and eat breakfast early so I get hungry at school around ten o’clock.  There are vending machines with packaged crackers and chips, but naturally they cost .50 to .75 each and have almost no nutritional value whatsoever. I prefer to buy granola bars and just throw one into my backpack.  They are better for me and cheaper in cost.

When I saw these Kashi granola bars the other day, I picked them up.  Because they have a “topping” on them, I expected that they might be extra yummy.  I started to put them in the cabinet, but quickly thought that the children might want two (if they were delicious) within a day, which would empty the box in twenty four hours.  

And, in fact, they are good granola bars.  But, actually a little sweeter than I like. 

I laughed out loud when the realization hit me:

My kids aren’t going to like these!  They taste WAY TOO “good for you!”  I laughed at myself for hiding food … that really didn’t need to be hidden.

Comedy’s step mom used to put a padlock on their freezer when he was young and all five siblings lived at home (maybe they would sneak frozen peas? I don’t know!! LOL)  I wondered about your families?  Do you find that you have to hide certain foods? How do you handle sweets with your family? How do you make sure that kids don’t eat too much of any given item, leaving others in the family without?

 

- Real Cake Makes Me Happy

Joy and I spent a Saturday evening at a Family Fall Festival at a church around the corner.

It was at a church that we used to attend.
It was SO very nice to be able to hug necks
and stand and chat with friends
whom we haven’t seen in a while.

I wondered if they were uncomfortable talking to me.
We attended church there for several years,
Comedy and I.
I don’t believe that I’ve been there since he left us
in July.
Few people spoke to me,
until I first approached them.
But once approached, they were open and responsive,
friendly and talkative.

And I thought of myself:
How often do I not know what to say?
And so … I don’t say anything at all.

I’ve really tried to help God push me out of this place
where so many of us spend our lives …
silent
for fear we’ll say something “wrong”
when just saying something
if far better than
saying nothing.

Anyway ….

One of the activities offered was a cake walk.
And walk I did!
Round and round
and round
until I won a cake.

There were many goodies to choose from,
but I thought I’d share which one I chose.

I looked over the cakes with fancy wrappers
or those placed in decorative packages,
to reach for the bundt cake
sitting on a red and gold Christmas paper plate
there on the table at a Fall Festival celebration ….
It was tightly wrapped in sarah wrap.It had a label that looked like a Christmas tag
or part of an old Christmas card
with gold trim on the edges.
This tag was attached by medical tape ….
not the kind that is easy to remove…
the kind that mama’s buy today for toddlers
because we plan ahead to keep from hearing howls
when a bandage has to be removed.
But the tape was older kind,
that is thick
and  very tacky …
hard to remove
leaving a layer of sticky goo on your skin.
It tugs at hairs
with sharp prickles
when a wound needs to be uncovered.

But, look at those words?
They are written by a hand that is aged,
don’t you think?
I don’t believe those fingers write often any more.
That hand has a slight tremble.
Can you see it?

And why this cake?
Because I knew it was probably baked
by some sweet lady
that used her mother’s recipe
that called for flour,
butter,
and vanilla,
eggs,
walnuts,
and cream cheese.

But, no cake mix.

I knew it would be scrumptious.

And delectable it is.
It melts in your mouth.
The icing is sweet and nutty
forming a gentle crust
on the peaks
and in the valleys
of this gentle, delicious cake.

It reminds me of my own sweet Mama,
my daddy’s Mom, Odessa.
I do not ever remember going to Statesboro
to visit her
without having the aroma of
sweet, warm, fresh
pound cake
envelope me as I entered her home.
I remember that the recipe called for a
pound of butter
and that it always seemed to have a  sad streak
when the  moon was full.

Maybe this cake wasn’t made by a grandma
but I’d like to imagine that it was.

Thinking about my sweet Mama,
her delicious pound cake
and the yummy cream cheese pound cake
under the glass cake globe on my hutch
make me smile.

Handmade, homemade, old-family-recipe cake
that isn’t made from a cake mix
makes me happy.

What makes you happy this crisp November Monday morn?

- Wonderful Weekend

This weekend will be spent in the yard,
on the roof,
in the utility room
and in the books.

Our hot water heater has sprung a leak after hanging on in a pitiful state for ….
nearly a year, I’d guess.  Ryan, “The Cute Boyfriend,” has a fix-it-all dad who is going to come over and help us trade out old for new.

Leaves are falling so I picked up a new blower.  Like many things around here, our blower has been faulty for quite a while.  It will crank, but the string won’t whiz back inside like it has been designed to do.  Cranking requires a screw driver, patience and the ability to slowly wind the rope back inside the blower and then pull to crank… several times, before the engine will start.  Because of this little trick, I simply leave the blowing (and grass cutting, as the mower requires another “hold your mouth just right” kind of trick) to the guys.  It makes me sad because I LOVE yard work.  Comedy always liked to work alone anyway, so we rarely worked in the yard as a family.  I’m hoping that we can all get outside at some point over the weekend.

And studying. We all have great amounts of studying to do this weekend.

All the while, I’m looking for God in action in my physical world
and keeping my eye open for things to thank Him for.

So, we’ll be busy and enjoying our time at home.  Hope you’ll be doing the same.

Many blessings to you and yours.

 

- Cheezit Fun!

Rather than spelling out phrases or my name, I should have written the word “sucker” in my bowl of tomato soup!

After leaving school yesterday afternoon, I ducked into Walmart to pick up a few grocery items.  There in the center aisle, for all unsuspecting Scrabble lovers and typography nuts to trip over, was a pallet display of Scrabble Junior Cheezits!  Oh My!!  You KNOW I just had to buy a box. Naturally, my first inclination was to begin to pick out letters and spell something!  In any other situation, this might equate to playing with ones food, but somehow, it seemed only right and reasonable with this box of edible letters!

As I dug my hand down into the box for the sixth time, looking for an “f” to spell “fun,” I realized that I had fallen into the Cheezit marketing scheme’s trap!  With half the box of crackers spread across the table, my mind raced with fun things to spell as I tossed the less than perfect crackers into my mouth and continued to dig in the food poured across my clean tablecloth. And I thought, “Oh! I’ve gotta buy another box of these!”  James walked out of his bedroom to find me knuckle deep in orange squares and was excited, as well.  We spelled, snacked and snapped shots throughout dinner.

Glory was at work.  I’m sure she enjoyed some when she arrived home. Sweet Joy was with her Daddy, so she missed our meal of tomato soup fellowship and Cheezits phrases.  She missed out on the spelling fun and playing with our food.  Guess I’ll be buying another box before long!

Let’s see… what is the tag line on the back of their box?

“Get your own box.”  LOL

- Again

Do you find there are times when God goes on
and on
and on about something?
And you know in your heart of heart
it’s not a topic He’s going to drop.
Yep. Me, too.
Yesterday, as I wrote about my favorite verse, I typed,
“And until then, it calls to me from the middle of
my tattered burgundy Bible where it is circled and highlighted
….and waiting.”
Didya see that?
“…..and waiting.”
<stab to the heart with loud thud and moans “UGH”>
Oh, my, how He keeps telling me this.

He waits.
He calls me.
He whispers my name.
He woos me.
He uses sweet sounds, gentle melodies, dear lullabys.
He dances, swings His muscular arms from side to side and
throws a vibrating tambourine over His stately head.
He shouts from the mountain tops
with resounding bass.
He knocks things out of my hands …
yes, throws them down on the ground
where they lay shattered in pieces ….
just to get my attention.
He turns out the light
leaving me in total, complete, utter darkness
and then throws on the high beam lamps
to intensely
fully
illuminate a topic
so
I can’t.miss.the.subject.

Not unlike a toddler,
too busy to hear the Father’s voice
because I’m playing with some meaningless toy,
I continue to tinker
with little trinkets and baubles,
knick knacks and what-nots
that offer no lasting value
and will be burned like hay …
charred, crisp, sooty stubble.

I am oblivious. I am blind. I am deaf. I paralyzed.
By choice.

He has been quiet of late.
I have not heard His voice of late.
I have been too busy to hear Him of late.

How does this happen?
That which I desire more than anything…
evidently, I do not truly desire at all.
Or I would pursue …
chase ….
follow …
hunt ….
trail …
advance …
or even beg,
implore,
entreat,
grovel.

I went on a photoshoot on Friday morning with some friends from class.  We met downtown before the sun came up.  We explored the waterfront, the misty sidewalks and an abandoned building. We watched the sun rise over grass, water and bridge.

We explored an old warehouse that experienced a fire some years ago.  The brick facade was crumbling.  New life of reedy, weedy green is sprouted amongst decaying timbers, rusty diamond plate, and charred remains of another era.

As I stood there on the upper level
rafters for roofing
light streaming through
I knew that God was showing me
a picture of
my spiritual life
in the physical world. In the last three months, I’ve found it hard to hear His voice. The days of living my life at home, nurturing my offspring, guiding character, directing colored pencil and composing in the kitchen are over…. at least, for now. There is hardly time to cook, much less guide, fondle and nurture. I have five hours MAX to spend with my youngest sprout. More often than not, those hours are whittled away to four, three or less. If no time for flesh of my loin, underfoot, needy and wanting …  then how is there some for Him?

But, I know in my heart
and yes, even in my head,
that when I put Him first
He will multiply and bless the rest.

Why is it so difficult?
Why is it the hardest movement that I make
towards His word
and quiet time alone with Him?
When I know that my gift
is the sweetest present that I could give to myself
if only I would
could
offer it.

Help me, Lord. Give me strength
to do that which should be so simple.