Real Talk…not letting life crowd your space

 
     There are boxes, papers - just STUFF, everywhere. We happily eat our food on the couch, and when we feel fancy, pull up a folding chair for a make - shift coffee table. {We have an sweet little table given to us by wonderful friends, but it we use that for special occasions, until we get the rest of the house up to par.}

Dishes are perpetually in the sink and then there's our closets. Good Granny's Ghost. They tear me up inside, chock full- stuffed full of who knows what that we can't or won't or haven't gotten rid of. 

I wonder how I'll ever get the gusto and gumption it takes to convert this house into a home. Where does one start? I feel like I'm madly paddling from one task to the next, and getting nowhere. Well, at least I'm madly paddling in my mind, but then again, here I am sitting in my pajamas at 11.30 in the morning.

abe's gift to us from Haiti. you sweet thing, you. 

Yet, I remember that Mama did it. She moved 3000 miles away from home, and lived in a basement. She had her first child and made her house a home. But HOW?  

I believe my life for the next few months will be me sorting through this question and recalling everything I can from living with Mama…How has she done it? And then learning how to do it myself, little by little. 

JB reminded me of something yesterday that I needed to hear.  I was fighting his suggestion of going to swim.

"I already have SO MUCH TO DO…look at our house!" And then I listed off 10 things I needed to do that day. But he said calmly,

"Darlin', I know you need to do all that, but there will always be Something Else to do; you gotta make time for what's important.  The rest of your time will be crowded in with everything else." 

And he is right. Life crowds in the spaces where we don't block it off and say "No Sir! Not here! This is time for X,Y,Z." Those blocks of time should be things that help you achieve what you really want to be, and that help you be you, and me be me. I mean, paint your nails, put on a little lipstick. Take time to fix your hair…Make time to do the things that will help you grow into the person you want to be…Whether that's a good cook, seamstress, healthy person, reader of books or writer - ya gotta do it every day. 

So cook every day, or write or read or exercise, sew or exercise every day. 

Mama says, "Don't put off til' tomorrow the person you want to be in 10 years. You start today.

My home and life? They're not together. But by doing a little every day, I'll see it come together eventually. Daddy says, "give yourself time. You may not see progress in a day or a week or a month; but in 6 months or a year you'll be able to look back and see where you've grown."
So today, I'm going to swim. Then take a shower and get into some nice clothes that make me feel feminine and lovely. I'm going to fix my hair, look through my Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook {thank you sis. Frances!}, take some time to do some real Heart to Hearting with God and am going to paint my nails gold with the polish I stole from Dawn this Christmas. Little bit by little bit. Here a little and there a little, and we'll see progress eventually. 

Also, I'm challenging myself  to find things to be thankful for, {Thank you, Rebekah Guess}.

Today, I'm thankful for Mama's buttermilk biscuits and her strawberry jam that made it home on the plane without cracking.

And I'm thankful for this girl, who's challenged me this week, as well as hugely encouraged me. Thank you Beka…You're such a beautiful person - inside and out.  And I love taking your pictures, even though you hate me taking them :-) 

Happy Friday, y'all. And happy Growing,

-g

Mama's Words... my own thoughts, and the state of the blog.

I've found it amusing when people ask, "So how was your trip home?…", or "How are you enjoying being home? What is it like?" ... Dear people. I love them to the hilt, but I never can decide how to answer. My verbal thoughts point blank would be along the lines of, "Home…feel…how do I feel…well…uh, you mean this burning of my throat? the heaviness inside and feeling of choking? The sudden bursts of crying - and then wondering why I'm doing that at all, because I'm so ridiculously happy being married to my amazing man…? That's how I feel."
But of course, you don't say that. I reply in terms that can be understood "Great! Good to see everyone. Sure - kind of strange after such a big change."
Every bride who's moved from a wonderful home has felt a little this way, I think.
 It's been two months - two wonderful months that I've been married. Two months of discovering how much laughter, pleasure, sweetness, mixtures of joy and sorrow, adventure, comforting companionship and beauty there is in marriage. Two months of change. Two months of unpacking, meeting new people, seeing new places, figuring out how to thrive 1200 miles and 20 hours away from what I've always known as home.  I feel raw. Raw from change. It's unrealistic to say I don't miss home; but I also see, plain as day that I've been given the beautiful beginnings of a home, a family, a new life.

She was sitting across from me at the booth. I'd had a lump in my throat all week. Now was my last day home, and Mama had set aside some time for "Real Talk". She was saying,
"...Sort of like what I've said, 'Don't wait for normal,' well,  Don't wait for tomorrow to settle your home and make it what you want. Another big thing to remember is that we are not promised tomorrow. You have to Endeavor today.




These two months I've gone back and read every scrap of advice I could find from Mama and others, but especially Mama.
"It's time to get your hammer'n nails out and get busy.  Get busy on what you can do."
So here's to a new phase of life, and doing what I can, today.

This morning I heard the sink running, plates and pots clanging. JB was washing my three day pile up of dirty dishes. I've been blessed. No matter what, I've already been blessed.
A man like that comes straight from the windows of heaven.

Mama and Abe

i know our cats just gotta wonder sometimes.

our band, of one night in which Abrum played his favorite Ranchero music, and we three girls danced around for half an hour, then followed Abe outside with yips and howls.  

yes, law. Mama's peach cobbler. 

JB, my Man. 

my gift and husband and best friend.

{While this blog will remain mostly for entries concerning Stories of the Grey Submarine, I will, as I have been wont to do in the past, enter my own thoughts and updates, when the notion takes me.}

happy birthday to a heroine

"Oh honey, there's not a day goes by but that I miss him," she said in answer to my question.
Grandmama has a comforting way of turning from one thing to another in her kitchen.  Every drawer and shelf and pan knows the long felt touch of her strong, small hands. I stood leaning on the doorway as she moved about the little space. She was making pie crusts and roasts and would turn from counter to stove poking and checking the meat, then she'd turn again to stir and roll the dough.
"We were best buddies.  We did everything together.  Sometimes it's funny to me because we were so different, but I knew God had his hand in that match.  You know, when you think about him coming all the way from Spain at only 8 years old, and how we even met - why - it's a miracle we even DID meet!  He was a night owl, you know, so we'd be in bed and it'd be late late at night and he'd have the lamp on reading. He slept on that side near the window because it had a lamp.  Usually he'd want to talk and talk before I ever went to sleep. That was our time, you know, because the kids would be in bed and that's really the only quiet time we had!" She chuckled.  Grandmama has the merriest chuckle and she does it so often that she seems to sprinkle her own life and others with that merry-ness.
"He loved to read the Bible and he'd read it into the night - sometimes until three o'clock in the morning!  And he got excited - you know - so he'd wake me up and say 'Patty, you have got to hear this!'
Sometimes it feels like years ago when he died, but most of the time it feels like yesterday.  But I don't let myself dwell on it except for one day in the year and that day I'll let myself think about it and look at photos and read our letters. I like watching the video of his funeral.  He always said "I don't want there to be moping around and crying at my funeral. I want it to be a celebration.  Feed everybody barbecue and sing songs and have some fellowship. That's what I want."

Grandmama is eighty-four today.  She's lived seventeen years without Granddaddy, and from the moment she lost him, she continued to spend her time loving God and serving others. So much of Grandmama was Granddaddy, but she's been a wonderful example of joy through sorrow and beauty through pain.

We were lying on her bed one night not too long ago. {Granddaddy eventually converted her to a night owl and now she sleeps on his side by the lamp.} She was reading - she is always reading something - and said,
"I never thought I'd live to be seventy! So I kinda just laugh every birthday when I get a year older. 'Ah, well!' I say, 'If I'm still breathin' there must be a reason!'.  I'm happy to be living. I just pray that as long as I am alive God will grant me a zest for life.  Some people lose that, you know, as they get older.
He's still blessing me. I have everything I need."

That's what I want to be like... She's the happiest, contended-est person I know, and if you know her, you know that.

~~~ Happy Birthday, Grandmama ~~~

"You know, I remember seeing old people when I was young and thinking, 'My, that person must feel very old. But you never do! You just keep seeing the reflection in the mirror growing more wrinkled and white haired and you think 'Well, my body isn't wanting to do such and such anymore', but you never feel old. I almost gasped one day when I looked in the mirror. I thought 'Who's that old person?' And then of course I saw it was me!"  She laughed that funny, happy laugh and it made me think what a funny Bender of Things Time is.  Grandmama feels 17, and still could be, 

that Bright Soul, not in maturity, but in spirit. 

She's really, quite delightfully,

 Spunky.

a very tall mama

The freezer seemed very tall, and so did Mama, which is how I know I must have been quite young.  She was rummaging through the icy insides of that freezer, trying to find cool whip for a special treat she was making. I consider my childhood, for the most part, to be a sunny one. It was adventurous and bright and full of freedom - until school, that is, and even that was something Mama tried to make enjoyable.  Learning to read under her was an experience she guided so that words came alive and wriggly under my fingers. When spring came we got itchy and excited and Mama knew we had cabin fever, so she'd let us out of school for a few minutes to clear our minds in the air and sunshine.  But May First was the day we waited for with bouncing excitement, for on May First and not a day sooner, we could go barefoot at last. This we'd do as soon as we woke up, running outside in dewy grass and poking our toes in moss that grew under the Maple tree.

That is what most readily comes to mind when thinking of my childhood. Sunshine and adventure.
But this day, as I stood looking up at my very tall Mama and the even taller freezer she was rearranging in her search, there was a little cloud that hovered over my bright sky and quaked and threatened with a feeling I'd seldom known before. There were three teenage boys and lots of little mouths to feed and clothe and pay life's way for. Believe it or not, there were some days of concern with nine kids to raise. Perhaps I sensed this, or heard something, but whatever the case, I'd gotten the idea into my head that there would not be enough money or food for all of us. And this was terrible. { I'd learned not too much earlier that money was some strange thing that everyone who wanted to live must have.  Therefore It was the most terrible thing I could imagine, for if there were no money, there must be no food and I was sure we'd all die.}  This was the only rational reasoning I could put to my dark little cloud, at least. What filled my cloud most with fear, however, was the sense that Mama herself was worried about it and that she might not be able to fix it.  What a foreign idea, "…..Mama, not fix it?"  She'd fixed everything in life, from scraped knees, to belly aches, to fevers and colds to nightmares and bad attitudes - I was absolutely confident that there was't a thing she couldn't fix.  You could bruise up life any which way you pleased and I'd be fine with that, because I'd be sitting right in her lap as I watched her patch it up again.  But I wondered, with a slow dread, "…Could it be that Mama is worried?…." And that is when I felt the pit in my stomach - a tight little knot, right in the middle somewhere - because I knew at that moment, she was worried and she couldn't fix it. To this day, when I recall that image to my mind and the moment it dawned on me that all might not be well - that Mama herself might be upset and worried with life, and that she could not help or fix it, or make it better - I can still feel that knot in my stomach.

She must have heard the groans coming from the thumb-sucking figure lying on my bed, for she came in and sat beside me.  She said I was having growing pains in my leg, so she held my hand and sang me the songs she'd sung to me for years: "Angels Watching Over Me", "God's Gift To Us", and "He's Got the Whole World In His Hands".  I guess I'd thought growing pains were just that: things you grow out of once you get old. But I'm realizing more and more, they're pains you grow into. They do help you grow. That day, standing there watching Mama by the freezer, a growing pain took hold and stretched me a little bit. And while it was stretching my childish mind, Mama gave me some advice I guess I'll never forget. I stood there and spilled the beans,
"Mama, I'm afraid…is there enough food?  What if we run out of food?  What if we don't have enough money?" She looked down at me for a moment then said,
"Darlin' don't worry about that. We don't always know how God will provide, but He's promised He will take care of all His children. That means, even if things look bad, you still trust in your Heavenly Father and ask Him to give you what you need.  But while you're waiting on Him to answer, you remember to have a calm and quiet spirit because He says that is of highest price to Him."

That day I saw a ripple in what has long been a Calm and Quiet Spirit.  Mama doesn't lead by word. She leads by example and reinforces that example with her words. Since that time I've seen her deal with circumstances she could have easily yelled at or said cutting, biting words in response to.  But she follows examples of Great Women like Mary who "pondered all these things in her heart".  Whether dealing with circumstances inside or outside of the home, she has strived to have that calm and quiet spirit.  She does this by directly handing over her concerns, hurts, fears, dreams and heart to God, instead of reacting to those words or threats, people or situations of life.  "Anything that is enough to take up your time worrying or hoping, dreading or desiring it, is enough of a reason to pray about it," she's told me.  "Don't react to people; give it over to God and He'll handle it for you."

Though we're about the same height, Mama is taller now than she ever was that day by the freezer.  Taller in wisdom and kindness and maturity and in knowing how to love people and in understanding life itself.  I can't be thankful enough to my Very Tall Mama…

p.s. she's 5'3"

view from the bottom of the hill

I remember standing at the base of our driveway, looking up at our house, and thinking how ugly it was.  It lay flat and broad, like a large nose that had been smashed against one's face. One of its many faults was that it had no stairs and that day I was especially bruised in my heart, that all the times of playing house I had to pretend there was an upstairs instead of having real ones. Later, I told my brother, Chris, how sad it was that we had to live in that house.  What a mean thing it was that we didn't live in some nice old mansion.

It must be one of Satan's more disgustingly pleasant jobs to watch the simplicity of childhood fall away. As He pulls back the curtain of Oblivion before the eyes of that child, I imagine he receives a warped glee from it.  Before that time life was beautiful in a way that was sweetest…We loved our things, not because they were nice or pretty, but rather because they were ours. A toy need not be shiny, nor clothes be new, nor a house be pretty,  to be loved deeply and best. Sure, we'd see lovely things - a friend's house or family or horse or toys or yard, and could admire it. We might even fight over it for the time, but it was not ours and therefore it would never hold the same beauty as the old things at home that we'd known and loved so well.  At the end of the day, it's the comfort of the ragged old blanket or teddy bear we reach for, not our friend's foreign niceties.

Oh how greedily Satan must anticipate that moment of unveiling. You may not remember the moment exactly, but you can remember the after effects of it, I am sure. As he he pulls the cord, opening the curtains to a so - called Reality, he watches our face the whole time - that wretched Beast. He absorbs the horror in our eyes of seeing our sweet and beautiful World of Oblivion, crumble…Oh the smile - the twisted, evil smile that comes over his face. It is done.  He has implanted a concept - a feeling - a doubt that we are all too familiar with and for the rest of our lives there will be a struggle between This Bad Seed, and what we knew before. Do you remember it?  Do you remember the first time you felt the effects of what he'd done?  I speak of Embarrassment.

Oh what a plague it was, constantly challenging my happiness…ever haunting my sense of contentment. It was especially bad up to and through my teenage years. But don't we see it everywhere? People are embarrassed. Embarrassed of things we have no business being ashamed of - family, home, standards, morals, convictions…We're embarrassed.  It drives people to try and set up a standard of life that is ridiculous.  Instead of doing what is sensible and honest and what we like, we'll often do whatever it is we think will be "Accepted by Friends"…{ I believe it's often an attempt to appease our  so-called friends so that they won't talk badly of us…we fear that stab in the back and go to great lengths of worry and stress to please them.}  It's ultimately not a true reflection of what we can afford, or what our lifestyle is like. {And may I say that if you're so concerned with the gossip and backstabbing of your friends, perhaps you should consider deepening your friendships beyond material things, or letting go of such friends altogether? It's not worth such non-essential stress in life.}

 I remember going out to eat with my family. That number of people doesn't escape notice, especially looking as much alike as we do. My face was red because I blush at the times I wish I wouldn't. There was so much to be embarrassed about. We were behind the times - who wears jean jumpers anymore? Who still has a beeper? We were so loud and everyone was looking at us. The girls didn't have their hair fixed and buffets are humiliating establishments of society.  I was embarrassed, and with doggone good grounds. There was so much to be embarrassed about.
 
Or was there? What would happen if we were to stop being embarrassed? Most often, when we are brave enough to look that embarrassment in the face, we'll see it's no more than a bully's attempt at making us ashamed of the best things in life.  Giving into that Bully is willingly robbing ourselves of a rich contentment and happiness. I've been on a quest for over a year now, not to give into the lie of Embarrassment. Oh, I find myself wondering in fear many times, "What if they think - " and then I stop. When I've gotten that far, I realize I'm not living an honest life; I'm playing to the crowd if I let "What if they think", sway my decisions. So what if they do think? Go ahead!  Face the worst. What if they think I'm fat or tacky or my teeth are crooked or my arms are hairy or my ears are too big or my shoes are clunky? What if they think my family is weird and rowdy and don't use good manners? Well? What if it's True? A lot of the times it is. And that's when I've got to face the truth myself. I'm not perfect. Neither is my family. Neither is my home. Neither are Any Of Us Humans.  There is a freedom in looking your fears square in the eye, then moving past them. Let them think it. Let me accept the imperfections of my own life.  We all have them.

But stop beating yourself up. Quit letting Embarrassment beat up your life and the things you value.  Love the people and places and things in your life because they are yours. Be thankful for what you've got and you'll find embarrassment slinking away in a shadow of its own shame for ever having tried to make you regret the Honest and Best Things in life.

The other day I was standing at the base of our driveway, looking up at our house.  That old house is beat up, worn out and lived in. It's seen more life in these 30 years than some houses see in a lifetime. I love this old house. This long, grey Submarine of a house. This place full of memories and love and protection and freedom; this haven away from the storms of life. I love this house. And as I stood at the end of our driveway looking up at it sitting on its little hill, with shrubs and bushes nestled before it; with its tall pines on the side and with the elm and maple standing behind it - those solid old watchtowers  - I saw the prettiest place in the whole wide world.

home fires

One of the things that has made me smile today was waking up to the clatter of dishes, the shuffle of feet and daddy singing "Count Your Blessings" in a bearish growl, all by himself in the kitchen. Daddy cooks breakfast during the week, most times, and he and I are breakfast buddies. He does a bang up job of doing it all just so.  He fries bacon first, in the large skillet and turns them only once.  Then, when the bacon is perfectly brown and crispy, but not too crispy, he forks it onto a plate lined with a paper towel so that it soaks up the extra grease. When the skillet has cooled a little, Daddy cracks an egg on the counter with one hand and eases it into the pan with the remaining bacon grease.  The edges of the egg crackle a little and bubble, and when daddy flips them, he does so gently.
"A leedle crahhcks tooo de ehgg ahhnd theen intoo deh pahn, mahn, ahnd eez' een' thehhre' mahn," he says and hums and sings to the stove.
 We sit at his end of the table to the predictable goodness and, depending on who's up, there will sometimes be a third or fifth to join, but however many are present, we join hands and daddy prays over the food and the day.

This week I've been thinking about the blessing of having parents who love God and me. They love all their children, but I have personally tested their love - sometimes sorely - and have found it true and enduring.  I was not a nice child. I was temperamental and moody and pitched fits about anything I didn't like.  There seemed to be an anger that had a grip on me and as I became a teenager, this only grew worse.  Though I didn't pitch tantrums in the same fashion I had, that rebellion knew how to manifest itself in hurtful ways. Mama would put an arm around me, or ask how I was, or do any number of things she could to show that she was interested in my life and that she cared about me. I'd say terrible, mean things to her and as soon as I said it I could see in her eyes that my arrows had struck their target.  It's a horrible and wretched thing to see your mother's eyes full of pain that you've just inflicted. And yet, she has always reacted in a calm, quiet way, still reassuring me that she loves me more than I could ever know.  I can still be moody.  Can still pitch fits inside and deal with that dreaded Old Man.  But by God's grace I've seen love in action in a consistent way and it has done much to shape the person I've grown into. Thank goodness, I am still learning from the example of parents God has given me.

I think perhaps one of the saddest losses of character we have experienced society at large, over the past several years, is that of Shame. Shame is an agent of that Noble and Blessed thing we call Conscience, I think. It is a tool of sorts that picks at the Dam of Pride and helps us realize we're wrong. It is the thing that gnaws at my thoughts as I lie in bed, knowing I've not acted right or kind to someone and it prods me to get up and set things right, not letting the sun go down on my wrath.  I've done that before, by the way - gone to bed having said words in anger to someone I love and while lying there, I've known that if I didn't get up and apologize and ask forgiveness, that it would trouble me all night. But being stubborn, I'd not get up. I'd lie back down and go to sleep.  Not only have I been troubled by dreams, but by the way I felt on waking.  It's a sense of tension, embarrassment, then pride - not wanting any of that to show.  Often, the fact that I hadn't made things right the night before would carry over into the whole of the day and I'd go about sulking and moody, smoldering like coals doused with water. How silly! Pride hurts to step on, but it's always on the other side of pride that we'll find a sense of peace and resolve, even if we have to make a fool out of ourselves to do it.

Mama says "Family is worth 'It.' .  Whatever that 'It' is in your life, it's worth it. It's worth the hurt you feel when raising your kids. It's worth the nights of caring for sick children and exhaustion and homesickness you will feel; it's worth the work it takes to feed and love and make a home for your family. You'll never regret the love you put into your them. But Satan hates the family, so of course it won't be easy to have one, or to be consistent or to be loving all the time. But the thing that counts is that you keep trying, and you keep doing and you get back up again when you feel like a failure. There will be days that you know all of your time and work, blood, sweat and tears have been Worth It."

on words

They're just consonants and vowels.  Just sounds organized into frameworks we call words.
What do they matter? But so much of our world is affected by words. Words from the President to the Nation, from Preachers to congregations, from Daddies and Mamas to children, from children to friends and siblings.   Words everywhere.  We couldn't live a normal day without them.
Perhaps I am more affected by them than others. But I think not.  If they are gentle, curious and encouraging, I want to do better and feel loved and am inspired by them. If they are hard, edgy, and said thinly and with annoyance or anger, it's hard to think of anything else.
Words are huge. Strange things, and powerful. There are some thing in the every day carrying out of things that can take little or no extra time, but that can affect the surroundings and people considerably.
Kind words are one of them and will never be regretted.
How much Words Reflect, too. It's as if they hold that magic mirror of the Beast's that says "Show Me Gabrielle," as soon as I open my mouth…That's kindly disturbing.
I hope I can grow in speaking well, and speaking gently.  Speaking so that instead of someone feeling discouraged, shoved away or inadequate, they might feel like they've just had a conversation consisting of 'Apples of Gold in Pictures of Silver'.

:: just a few of the many things proverbs has to say on the matter  :: 

'There is that speaketh like the piercings of a sword: but the tongue of the wise is health.' 12.18 

'The lips of the righteous feed many: but fools die for want of wisdom.'  10.19-21

'A wholesome tongue is a tree of life: but perverseness therein is a breech in the spirit.' 15.4

'Pleasant words are as an honeycomb, sweet to the soul, and health to the bones.' 16.24 

life of a thought

almost i am persuaded that a thought has no form, no breath, no life, 

until it lives on paper. 

Tuesday Musings

He says to pick up where I am. So I do, because he says.

                                                                                                     Tuesday, February 12, 2013

Daddy sounds positively like a pirate when he sings in the shower.  

Getting ready for school this morning, Anna Gette scurried into my room and said,

"Rey-Moose, your room always smells like what I imagine an Israelite room to smell like."

"Oh really?" 

"Yeah," as she spread on lotion.  "With all the oils and such.  Tootles, Rey."  And away she scampered to carry all her portable property to the car.  Anna Gette carries more portable property to school with her than anyone I know.  Today we made 4 trips to the car loading it down, nook and cranny.  As always, she had two coffee cups and two straws and celery by her side. 

Chris' text to me yesterday: 'Just wanna say i think you're a swell sister and friend.  Let's get a boat and raincoats and wait for the water to rise enough that we can float away into the Hundred Acre Wood."

  Sweet Brother. 

It's dark and wet and dreary again this morning, but the coffee is perking and the early grey light even has some promise of goodness.  I can hear Mama and Daddy laughing in the living room.  Daddy's laugh in the morning is more like a great rolling thunder, low and rumbling.  He is fitly called Papa Bear.

 Last night Dawn stood at the foot of my bed in her usual place, rubbing my feet, the dear soul.  It had been a while since I'd been here to take part in this evening ritual of foot rubs and deep thoughts by Dawn. 

"Of all my fears when I was a little kid," she said, her long, golden brown hair tumbling over her shoulders and shadowing her bright, sober eyes, "Because, you know,  every kid has fears - of all my fears - my greatest fear was growing up.  I used to pitch tantrums in Mama's room and scream and kick my legs, I feared it so much.  I think I was more afraid of growing up than I was of the dark."

Oh, Childhood, you were a wonder and a terrible thing to leave. 

What is it that we fear so much in leaving it?  And what is it that we so long for when it's gone?

  For days like this Abe says to take it by the horns and make it what you want it to be.  'Roll with the punches or get rolled on', he reminds me of the old  adage, 'But in any case, shake off dull sloth, and gird up your loins, kid.'

Dawn is my 

daily inspiration. 

Don't ask why if 

you don't know.

For answers, please make your reservation for 

Thoughts With Dawn.

Call 770.787.4039 

and someone should answer the Land Line.

mondays are for sentimentalists

If I didn't know our family, I wouldn't think it possible for such a sentimental bunch of people to exist. 

I remember the one and only time Daddy changed the lock on the Purple Bathroom Door. He did it when we girls were occupied with something else and so we didn't notice it until one of us blithely skipped in there and turned the lock - What??? It was not the same one at all. Oh that wretched lock! It didn't click when we turned it, and the knob didn't make the swish noise when it twisted. It was bright and shiny and gaudy where our other one was worn with the familiar grip of all our hands…TERROR!  We held a grudge against that knob for the longest time and some were near to tears when it first happened. I believe this is the moment Daddy realized just what he could be in for.  Ever since then, he has been sure to warn us about changes in the house, having sit down pow-wow's and mourning sessions which has alleviated some of the bitterness in change's sting.
Today I found a big piece of crumpled paper on my bed. On it was painted in a scrawling hand a riddle about roses and violets and the name of a 'supposed' flame. I saw it and hmphed, smiling.  Dawn had painted that at least 5 years ago, and I remember exactly where we were when she did it.
"I was going to throw it away," she explained, "But Merry said I should show it to you."
She walked away and I went to fold it and toss it but it stuck in my hand, and I couldn't find a good enough reason to toss away such a valuable piece of history and in the end it was stuffed away in a cozy little nook in the closet.
 
  Sometimes life shoots pure shots of joy. I've taken note of some of these happy scenes and here are some:

• Old man in line with his wife, rubbing her shoulders in the slightly gruff, very manly but gentle way and leaning down every once in a while to smile at her and say something that made her smile.
• Dashing colored couple in the rain, the gentleman holding the umbrella over her bent shoulders and standing very tall in an overcoat
• Chris at his house sitting in the middle of a pile of books and odd sentimental objects…a 'do not remove from AC' sign, a ticket he got in Guatemala, dixie tag, WW2 posters, autographed, napkins from Puerto Rico, photos from Philippines, outdated clothes and foreign money.
• Our church members standing on the edge of a river, one very sunny Sunday, singing and watching Daddy and Dylan wade out into the water for baptizing. The sun filtering down through leaves and brother Hermon wearing his daughter's black square sunglasses.
• Dawn. And her face when she talks to me. Or talks at all. I could stare at her expressions without saying anything, for a very long time.  If you haven't talked to her lately, do it. The conversation is generally twice the reward, and it's almost impossible to walk away without reflecting.

recalled to life

                                    

  'what's a resurrection man, father?...has to do with diggin up bodies, don't it?'

 i find it amazing that we've been given hope, a new life, new purpose, new vision, a new man.  that we've been chosen, greatly loved.  yet, at the first trip from satan that sends us sprawling face to face with the fresh grave of our old man, we lose sight; and if you struggle with pride as i do, then your first impulse is not to look away, but to look deeper.  for we see ourselves, our corpses lying there and are appalled.  we think 'surely that's not me.  i know i can't be as ugly and repulsive, so eaten with that sin cancer for me to be as bad as all that.'  so we become discouraged, and again pride refuses to yield and we begin digging, searching to find something redeemable in the filth, attempting very hard to perceive ourselves as a little less bad.  'if this is me,' we think, 'then i know there's something better than what i'm seeing on the surface...i distinctly remember having done some good, and having been noble and kind - hearted.  i've done some very good things, yes i have, so they'll see that.'  and we start calling to mind all the  thoughtful things we've done, all the times we've sacrificed, held our tongue, prayed, wept, labored for others.  problem is, we generally create a bigger mess when we commence our grave - digging than when we started and soon find ourselves deeper and deeper into a mire of pity and slough of despond.  but oh, doesn't satan love it?  it's one of the easiest lies for us to believe, that when we are discouraged if we look a little deeper we'll surely find some perk about ourselves that will cheer us up; when really, we're poking around our old corpse, carefully dissecting, probing, examining the rotting stink that we call our old man.

    a much more simple way and less messy is, when we find ourselves eating dirt  and we know we've done wrong, been sharp, acted in pride, given in to temptation or the countless other traps satan uses on our weakness, instead of looking at your corpse, look at the cross. look up. look at the blood.  Jesus didn't agonize in vain; you were greatly loved, accepted, forgiven.  and that is what satan cannot stand for us to think of and call to mind and rejoice in.  but that is the truth: we've been called to life and there's no reason to spend this one staring at our remains and living in a grave yard.  of all things, of all people, we are incredibly blessed. 

              

i wonder if they will still let me dig in the tresure chest..

 for several months now, i've been wanting to go to the dentist [note: we suddenly care about these things when we grow up].  i have been disappointed because i couldn't see when my artist's fare would allow for me to go. but the other night when i came home a wonderful thing happened in my life.  i was eating my dad's chili { gooood } when he told me he'd signed me up for dental insurance. {yes. i know, i really should have been the one researching my own insurance policies and figuring this out for myself ....but i didn't.}  now, you can imagine my thrill.  or maybe you can't.   it was like robinson crusoe's ecstasy at seeing his ship coming to take him away...i was being taken away from an island of undentisted teeth forests to a paradise of teeth rich people. i imagine this place to be  where all the people walk around with sparkling gastonly smiles, and who constantly slide their tongues across a white, squeaky set of teeth.  as defoe would say i was 'delighted to the highest degree'.  ever since then, i've caught myself staring into space wondering what the dentist would say if he saw my teeth right then. i  imagine his wince and a deep etched frown. so, i have taken special pains to be particularly mindful about keeping them in unreasonably good health.  this has been made easier to do since anne has told us that sugar ferments and the acid causes deterioration of our teeth. 
[egh. i know. the truth is sometimes repulsive.] 
here, may i say that i don't understand those who don't floss regularly. let's face it: it's just plain gross not to. so if you have dental floss, use it.  it's one of those things in life you'll never regret.  and if you don't have it, then look around for a girl with long hair and use your ingenuity.  [it's not too far fetched... i imagine adam.  and we might as well get used to the thought now, for i doubt they'll be selling dental floss in the apocolypse.]
  to you, december 1st, i say wait for me, you dear canine day.  

i am coming.

 

i hope my nurses will be just like  
these motherly figures.

goooood morning

  

 chillin' with melia for morning music and blogging....good morning world!!!

morning is one of my favorite parts of the day.

it's hopeful, peaceful, quiet and yet,

there is a sense of building energy in facing the day.

'His mercies are new every morning'...i sometimes wonder if that could be one reason i enjoy it so much.

aghh..there are so many things to do in life!  good things  - meeting goals like climbing mountains, doing triathalons, running as many half-marathons as i want to in a year, 

having a ton of kids and helping shape their lives, being more adept at photography,  jumping off the bridge on hwy 36, doing 100 pushups at a time, fulfilling God's purpose for my life, finally figuring out ONE signature,  learning how to make a perfect recipe of baklava and ending up half as good a cook as my mama.

i want Jesus to be beautiful in my life and dad gummit!  i'm so far from where i want to be..

i was seven or eight, standing in the gravel parking lot of our church looking at all the 'big kids' who were going to pizza hut in their cars. i knew from that point just how being a big kid would feel.  it would feel empowering, liberating...you would know everything about life there is to know and have all the money you could ask for, and every barbie, gun and car you wanted plus candy - or anything else!!!! for goodness, sake, they're grown ups.  'once they hit that age, they have reached the destination and they cruise through life without all the cares i have...like how long it'll take t i finish school tomorrow ....or that my best friend can't come over for the third week in a row...ahh!!
poor me.'

but now, i'm here.  22.  and i find i don't know half the things i thought i would..why don't i feel i've reached the destination???  

huh. simple. i haven't.  

and i hope i don't forget it.  i hope that is the one thing that will become always clearer to me; 

this world is not my home.

to lose my life

 is to find Christ.
aaaaand as for all the things i hope to do???
well, do any of us really know what we will or will not accomplish?
   i  anticipate the challenge of finding it out.

love i hope to have

reconstruction of an old notion.

             I used to think of a humble man as someone who was stripped of all confidence, strength, backbone, and who donned more of an air of timidity and self-consciousness than that of a man seasoned with wisdom, integrity and courage.  If he had any, he hid it.   But observation, time, experience, books, have contributed to reshaping my thoughts on this.    I've been in groups before where there was that percentage who had an acute eagerness to supply the answer to any question, be the best at the activity, know the most on any given topic.  Now, the answering of the question, the striving to do well, the amount of knowledge one has and the desire to discuss would not be things separating the humble from the proud; rather, i believe it to be the eagerness.  It's that felt drive and energy compelling the person to perform, to prove.  So what about the humble man then?  Does he sit idly by with folded hands and fake diffidence? does he refuse to engage in competitions, debates, races, challenges? does he back down simply to avoid the possibility of appearing proud?  No. All that should be encouraged.  The difference is that the humble man would be confident and satisfied enough in his own knowledge, opinions, standards and achievements that when he does engage in these things he would not do so with the purpose of proving to others the abilities he recognizes in himself.  When he arm wrestles it will not be for the purpose of proving to the surrounding bystanders that he has enough strength to win;  he would do it for the sheer pleasure in the challenge itself and for the reward of satisfying himself if he wins. That when he participates in conversations it will not be for the chance of showing what he knows and even when the opportunity arises to display his knowledge on the matter, he could be content to listen to another expound on the subject instead of feeling compelled to take the floor himself, though he might have expressed it better.  That when he is reproved he will take the reproof and consider it;  that he will be thankful for the person caring enough about him to 'wound' him as a friend; that, instead of bristling in self-defense and attempting to justify himself, he would use it to help shape himself into a man that is better than he is.  'A humble man will learn, but you cannot teach a proud man anything, for he believes he already knows it.'  I look at the men in my life I esteem the most and recognize one thing that sets them apart as Great Men.  Humility.  I tend to think and write on things I myself struggle with and hope to grow in.  This is definitely one of them.

   C.S. Summed it up nicely in his words:  'Do not imagine that if you meet a really humble man he will be what most people call 'humble' nowadays: he will not be a sort of greasy, smarmy person, who is always telling you that, of course, he is nobody.  Probably all you will think about him is that he seemed a cheerful, intelligent chap who took a real interest in what you said to him.  If you do dislike him it will be because you feel a little envious of anyone who seems to enjoy life so easily.  He will not be thinking about humility: he will not be thinking about himself at all.'

i am glad i'm alive. i am glad i am chosen. there are so many beautiful things in life and in mine, i feel i've been given a double portion. rarely have i ever felt alone. my family, my church, the friends i've been given have surrounded me my whole life and though there have been moments when i've felt that loneliness, i have known that underneath are arms. everlasting arms. so much to love and so much to be thankful for, i cannot imagine why God loves me so much.