Fake

Here is a blog that I didn't post when it was written. I wrote it because something happened after Easter that was unpleasant - I felt like people were being less than authentic. I had forgotten about it and just saw it in my draft file. It's not my best work, for sure, but here it is.

We had a very nice Easter. A diverse group of friends gathered around our table and along with the food, we shared pieces of our heart with each other. I was touched by the "realness" of it all. It wasn't "Norman Rockwell" and all, not even close actually. But it was good. We have this little tradition where we type out some questions and everyone needs to answer them the best they can. One question was, "What is the best gift you ever received?" I loved the responses - concert tickets, hand-made dice, a trip, eternal life, freedom, a generator (the generator supplied much needed heat to an ailing body) and the gift to eat large amounts of food and not gain weight (like only a 14 year old boy can do). There were no good or bad answers, no right or wrong, no pretty or ugly, no labels at all - just real answers. Some answers were funny, some serious, but that was up to the author. It was real and I like that. I like real . . . you would think finding real would be easy . . . but it's not. In fact, finding fake is much easier. . .

Hmm, bitter much?

Love 17

This post is for daughter number 2 who turns 17 today.

Honey, even with all it's drama, 17 is the best age to be. I know, I tell you this every year, but I really mean it, 17 is the best age to be. It's the most real you'll ever be. Everything that happens feels important and big and epic. And it is. You'll remember everything from this year, the music, driving, school, friends (girl and boy), the summer job and decisions you make. At 17 you are old enough to make independent decisions but young enough so you don't have to. You can ask me what I think is best, but do what you think is best. 17 is scary and that's part of the charm. 17 is awkward and that's part of the growth. 17 is a year after the "sweet" and that's what makes it spicy (in a good way). Live 17 authentically. Love 17, love you, love life. I'm so excited for you. I loved you before you were born and every single moment since that day 17 years ago. My heart explodes with pride and joy and love and anticipation as I watch you grow. I don't know what God has in store for you, but I know that He has something enchanting planned. I can't say it enough, love 17 while you are 17. Don't worry about tomorrow for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Enjoy each day with all its drama. Remember all the lessons you were taught, be kind, be polite, be gentle and be generous. Remember to keep balance and boundaries and practice manners and meekness. Remember to keep your eyes on Jesus. Remember how loved you are. And remember to love 17. . .

Welcome

This pretty spot is in my front yard. Since this picture has been taken flowers have bloomed and others have been planted. It's a small (or as I like to say, intimate) spot with five chairs. At any given time of the day you can find a seat that is in the sun or in the shade, whichever you prefer. From here, there is a nice view of the neighborhood and the hills in the distance. I sweep it almost everyday and add potted plants and flowers regularly. When I sit out here I usually end up with a visitor. It may be an unexpected visit from a neighbor or a spontaneous family gathering (hence the five chairs). My ladies Bible study decided it was lovely and we had our study here. So far this Spring I've had over a dozen drop-in visitors. Here, discussions have ranged in topics from politics to prom to parenting to puppies to pride and a whole slew of topics from other letters in the alphabet. I love it when I go out here to read a book and then I look up to see my children or my husband have come to join me. I sat out here in a light rain storm yesterday with a friend I hadn't seen for a month. We got wet, but barely noticed for we were so busy chatting. There has been much laughter and joy in this spot. It's by no means a beautiful spot, in fact, the concrete is cracked and discolored, and the columns are stained from years of weathering, and one chair is missing a screw (no comments please). But, I really love this spot and tend to it daily. I love that people come and know they are welcome and that all I can see is the beauty . . .

Our First Fruit

This strawberry is the first fruit from our backyard garden. It represents hours of labor preparing the earth for planting. One of our house guests spent hours in the garden with me digging and turning the earth. He even broke a shovel. My husband and I pulled out all the rocks in that patch of land and pulled up weeds and grass. Together we mixed in good earth and raked out roots. Together we bought small plants and plotted out where to plant them. We watered the new plants and watched them grow. This strawberry represents the miracle of growth from a seed, with the help of the Sun and the rain. It represents the sacrifice of our time to nurture our plants into producing fruits, vegetables and herbs. It's a big deal, it is our first fruit. This is not just our first piece of fruit, it is our only piece of fruit, thus far. So, at dinner tonight I will cut this strawberry into 5 pieces, a slice for everyone, and we will pray, thanking God for this gift and the many blessings that He rains down upon us. . .

. . .and that every man should eat and drink and enjoy the good of all his labor - it is the gift of God. Ecclesiastes 3:13

P.S.

Apparently, I did insult my daughter's friend - oops. It wasn't that I once called him a "quirky goat boy" or that I told him he acts like a 3 year old or that I told him he was good blog material. Nor was it that I told him he used an expression that I don't like and asked that he not use it my house. Nor was it that I once threw a chocolate whopper at him and hit him square in the lip and made him bleed. Nope, it wasn't that I told him to cut his hair or that I offered to give him a bottle of nail polish remover so he could take off his black nail polish. No folks, of all these things that someone may take offense to (though no offense was meant), he did not. Hence, my statement that I don't think he can be insulted. But, I found a way, unbeknownst to me, to insult my daughter's friend. I called him "friend". Notice the quotation marks (" ") around friend. That is what insulted him. He said the quotation marks made him feel less of a real friend - I guess he thought I was referring to him as a "pretend" friend which only makes my daughter sound creepy and not him. However, the fact remains that I made an offense and therefore I must apologize. Here is your public apology. "I'm sorry."

Hmm, I feel better.........

Stress?

I don't feel very good today. Maybe it's stress. What do I have to be stressed about? Well, since you asked. . .

. . . on Friday we had a house guest (using Pop-Pop's bed again) and he was sick, really sick, so sick I told him that the dog was chewing on the lung he had coughed up. He coughed in every room of my house, except my bedroom, from which he was ban. Then he decided to give up coffee and cigarettes, at the same time, while staying here. He walked around with a major head ache, in a fog, coughing up lung tissue in every room of my house. I was pleased about his decisions, but why did he choose this weekend to make good decisions? When he left I sprayed so much Lysol that the carbon monoxide detector went off, causing my daughter to scream. Then on Saturday, my son was playing baseball, he's the catcher, and he got hit with a 70 mph foul tip in the only place on his body that's not covered with protective gear - his collar bone. For sure it's broken, but he won't let us take him to the doctor's because he has his tournament game today. Instead, we anointed him with oil and are believing in God to do the rest. However, the school nurse called me this morning to question our actions. She thinks we're freaks. And then there's Bart, a.k.a. Barley, the world's second most worstest dog. In the six months that we have had him, he's eaten 7 pairs of eye glasses. Once I assumed Bart ate my glasses because I couldn't find them and I yelled at him something fierce, but the glasses were on top of my head. There is some kind of irony here about a Seeing Eye puppy eating eye glasses. . . And hot flashes are keeping me up at night. And my daughter's "friend" bought over a huge bag of Peanut M&M's at 9 pm and I think I ate 12 portions. And I may have insulted him (though I don't think he can be insulted) because I told him I was glad he was over because I needed new material for my blog . . .oops. . .so, yeah, I don't feel so good today. Do ya think it's stress?

Coffee Anyone?

A friend of mine has gone through a rough time. She's sweet and funny and a wonderful mother. She loves her kids and would do anything for them. She was at the grocery store, buying the kids lunch foods and she came across the coffee aisle. She walked down the aisle smelling all those wonderful coffee smells (she loves her coffee). She remembered she was out of coffee and went over to her brand, Starbucks Dark Roast Whole Bean Coffee, and that is when she said a little prayer, "Lord, I love this coffee, but I can't afford it. Help me to love the cheap stuff." She bought the cheap stuff so the kids could have the lunch foods they like. That very same day, unbeknownst to me, my husband won some Starbucks Dark Roast Whole Bean Coffee at a golf outing. He came home and said, "Here give this to L." I'm like, "Sure, I'll give it to L, pfft, because I don't want it anyway. But, hey, pfft, thanks for asking me." (Sorry, I'm a little bit of a brat sometimes, but you would be too if you were getting hot flashes every night at 4 in the morning. I tell my husband to have a pitcher of cold water next to the bed just in case I spontaneously combust like poor Mary Reeser who was likely going through menopause herself - but now I am digressing.) The next day was Bible study and when L came, there was a bag of her favorite coffee sitting at her place. She looked at the coffee and cried. Not my husband, nor I, nor anyone else for that matter, except God, knew of her little prayer in the grocery store. When she told us of her prayer, she said that the coffee feels like it came directly from the hand of God Himself and He is telling her, "You take care of the kids and I'll take care of you."

Mother's Day

Mother's Day gifts usually consist of flowers and candy. And that's a good thing because when you get "non-consumable" gifts you need a place to proudly display them. Vases and bobble head dolls or serving platters and candle stick holders are really lovely gifts (thanks kids) but they become dust collectors and sit along side other items that aren't used but a few times a year. Soon you have an attic full of things that don't "fit" in the house anymore. Then the garage overflows and the shed, too. The last thing mom needs for Mother's Day is another item that has to be stored. So, you can get mom flowers and candy OR you can get her a dumpster from 1-800-GOT-JUNK?

Oh, yeah, that's what I'm talking about. . . a dumpster!! Skip the flowers and the candy, kids, mama wants a dumpster. I have been asking for a dumpster for 4 years now. My husband asked, "Don't you want something pretty?" I'm like, "A dumpster is pretty." He asked, "That's what you want today - not that I'm saying you have mood swings or anything - but will you want a dumpster tomorrow?" I'm like, "I've asked for a dumpster for 4 years, I wouldn't call that a mood. Pfft." He asked, "What will your friends think?" I'm like, "Who cares. I want a dumpster!" He said, "Okie dokie." I said, "Hey, a friend of mine got her mother a Porto-potty for mother's day one year. What do ya think of that?" To which he replied, "Even fools are thought wise when they keep silent." Ha - I married a smart man . . .

Pop-Pop's Bed

About a year ago I was in a sort of panic. I wondered what I would do with my time when the kids were no longer homeschooling. I knew that it wouldn't be my choice to decide what I would do. I knew God had a plan, He just wasn't sharing that plan with me. After about a day of our last session of homeschooling it was put on our hearts to bring Pop-Pop here. We gave ourselves the summer to make up his room, go on our family vacation, ready the house and the yard and prepare Pop-Pop for the transition. I had to move, store or give away all our homeschool stuff; move furniture around; buy a dresser, a bed, a TV and shades and curtains; order cable, etc. etc. etc. As you know, Pop-Pop didn't stay long and then he died. I wondered about all the things we did to prepare that room for Pop-Pop's comfort. It was worth it for sure - it would have been worth it if he only stayed one day - yet, I still wondered about our family room that is no longer a family room, but a guest suite. Then I realized that in less than a year's time (8 months to be exact) we have had 8 people sleep in Pop-Pop's bed (not counting the members in this house who have slept there for one reason or another). Imagine, 8 house guests, some who have come repeatedly, in Pop-Pop's bed. Our guests range in age from 18 to 82. Our last (and most frequent) guest said, "I love your family," and later went on to say that he feels the love of Jesus in our home. My heart will surely sing with delight every time I wash those sheets. . .