Pretty Awesome Stuff

It's that time again.

High School Sweethearts 1965

Still High School Sweethearts 2012

You have no idea the amount of pressure these two put on me and my own marriage.

I mean, here they are.

They've been through everything. They raised two kids; worked more than one job each to make ends meet; put a doll house together in the wee hours of a Christmas morning (only to have an excited little girl wide awake before dawn- one of their favorite stories to tell). They've seen one son go off to war, decorated a house with yellow ribbons, and breathed a sigh of relief the day he came home. They watched a daughter pack her family into a moving truck and drive far, far away.

(And due to time restrictions and the lack of kleenex close by, I'll stop there).

The point is, I think they're pretty awesome and the best kind of example a girl could have for her own life. Tomorrow they will celebrate their forty-seventh wedding anniversary and what would have been my grandma's ninety-fifth birthday. April 29th has always been a special kind of day.

I love you, Mom & Dad.

Silence Is Golden; Duct Tape Is Silver

I have been told that I am a good listener. To me, that's just the opposite of a good talker. Some people talk. Some people listen. I would rather not talk so therefore I listen. It's not that complicated and life appears fine and dandy until you consider the inevitable flaw in my non-socializing plan:

Who listens to the good listener when the good listener wants to talk?

I will answer that for you.

Nobody.

No, this is not some woe-is-me post. It's just a simple observation that has played out in my life over and over. I can be part of a conversation. There can be many people talking. I can politely wait my turn only to be cut off by the more expert talker. That's rude, yes, but that's not what hurts. What hurts is when no one notices I was interrupted by the expert talker and am no longer talking. Those moments totally wreck havoc on my already, awkward socializing skills.

Anyway.

I am chuckling as I write this. Like I said, this is not a kleenex-drenched rambling which you may have come to expect from me. These are just the thoughts that have been on my mind all week. Take me as I am. I am a deep well (I've actually been told that, by the way. I think it was a compliment).

At any rate, my mom reminded me tonight that I am a lot like her. That's all I needed to hear.

I'd pick her over any expert talker any day of the week.

The Night My Daughter Lost Her Dream

On Friday, the youngest helped me clean out my closet. It was no small task, but tedious work always goes better with a friend. With her ever critical eye, she helped me sort through what to keep, what she should keep, and what we should give away. In the midst of it all, we played a little dress up.

a twenty-year old uniform

I can promise you this, if I had my wedding dress, I would have put that on her just for fun, too. As it is, that once-in-a-lifetime gown is tucked safely away at the parents' house. It's a good thing. I can only imagine how many times I would have dressed up on my own just for fun.

Back to the closet clean-up.

We loaded up three, no four bags of clothes destined for the Goodwill truck. After dropping off our treasures to the nice man in the midst of the pouring rain, we agreed on a place to grab a quick bite to eat. It was here that her dreams were shattered. In retrospect, we should've went some place else.

She was decked out in an Air Force Academy t-shirt and comfy pants. We had just settled into a booth when an older man approached us, his focus all on her. I had my plastic fork ready to gouge out his eyes if need be while I patiently waited to discern his motive. It didn't take long.

"You in the Air Force Academy?"

No.

"You want to go to the Air Force Academy?"

Maybe.

"Impossible. Will never happen. Might as will end it now."

Okay, okay.... so that's not what he really said, but it pretty much sums it up. He proceeded to tell her the Academy is the hardest to get into (Google says different); mathematics is ALL they care about (Air Force Academy website says different); and if she had any hope whatsoever of even having anyone look at her application, she had best work for Congressman So-And-So and only choose that liberal *bleep* if she had no other choice.

And once again, maybe the liberal *bleep* remark is exaggerating the truth just a bit, but trust me, I'll not put to print the exact words that were said. Through all of this, I sat a little amused and very much amazed at the composure of my daughter. She kept a smile on her face, nodded every now and then, and pretty much just sat through this man's (albeit well-intentioned) tirade. Then she said four simple words:

Thanks for the encouragement.

I thought I was going to choke on my breaded, deep-fried chicken strip. Her words oozed sarcasm while the  smile on her face stayed in place. I thought, My God, that's what I sound like. I didn't know whether to cringe or high-five her. It really was a beautiful (?) moment.

The man left us in peace for a while only to come back to reiterate (in a thankfully shorter version) everything he had previously said. We laughed. We ate. We left. As we ran through the still-pouring rain to our van, we rehashed everything that had just happened on our ride home. I asked her if the Air Force Academy was still on her list of dream places for college.

Yes. Yes it is still on my list, Mom.


Crazy old man.

How Confident Are You?

I watched something unfold at my church on Sunday morning that I'm still trying to process. It was nothing overly dramatic, nothing too far out there, nothing that unusual... but it was something. Something that contains a story. A lesson. A not-to-be-missed moment.

I just can't quite put my finger on it.

So I am here to retrace my steps.

The daughter and I went to church together because one kid went to an amusement park, one kid went to his own church, and the husband was working. If I may say, we both looked pretty snazzy in our new spring dresses (though she might have been more snazzier than me) as we sat down together in our almost-usual spot.

(and I probably need to focus here if I intend to get anywhere with this).

In the midst of singing Because He Lives, I had a moment totally unrelated to what I am hoping to get at, yet it deserves sharing nonetheless. One reason I adore the church we attend is the hymns that are sung. I've got nothing against the newer praise and worship songs/choruses/one-liners-that-are-sung-twenty-times, but I love traditional, There's Power In The Blood music. These songs take me back to church days with my grandma. I can still see those red hymnals in front of us and her purse beside me that she would let me look through to find paper and pens. My brother and I played many a round of the dot-line/make-a-box-game-to-put-your-initial-in...

(and I apologize profusely for not having a better description than that)

...and I can even recall a few bruises I received from that same brother due to his twisted appreciation of a knuckle-buster he called "being frogged." Grandma would let us get away with so much before she would get onto us to sit still and listen. Time went by and I would eventually sit in that same pew by her with my own little family and my own little kids digging through her purse. If we weren't beside her, we were behind her or in front of her. You get the picture. Always near wherever she was sitting. It's because of this that I know (knew) her singing voice well. A soprano that could hit (or at least sincerely try) those high notes when they would come around. There are certain songs that I can still hear her singing even today:

Victory In Jesus. We Shall See The King. Star of Bethlehem.

Because He Lives.

So when I heard the beginning notes of that hymn on Sunday, the strings of my heart felt that gentle tug. Oh, Grandma. I could hear her singing right along with me even if her voice was only heard in my mind. I began to think of how thankful I am that one day I will hear her voice again. For real. There is so much joy in knowing salvation.

Anyway.

In the midst of the sermon, after the singing was finished, I watched an elderly man make his way back to his seat. He stopped in the middle of the aisle, though, and looked around. It was obvious to anyone watching that he was confused. He took a few steps back only to retrace his steps again and threw up his hands in what basically amounted to a moment of surrender. He was lost. An usher stepped in and led him to the next aisle where he was met by another usher (and yes, this is a fairly big church). From my vantage point, I could see an empty spot where a Bible lay on a pew. Sure enough, that was his spot. When that sweet saint of a man located the place where he had been sitting, he raised his Bible in the air along with a victory shot. The pastor repeated what the man said so we all could hear:

"It's the only thing that has never abandoned me."

I'm telling you, that moment did something for me. When I think about a man of his age with all the experiences and stories he surely has stored within, the confidence with which he spoke regarding the Book that he held up... well, you see, that's what I can't quite put my finger on. It was more than just a passing distraction. It's another one of those moments in which there really are no words to describe what my spirit longs to express.

Except I hope I never forget that image or that man.

Or my grandma's singing voice.

DOES THIS POST MAKE ME LOOK FAT? (And Even If It Does, This Is YOUR Chance To Chime In... Go Ahead & Give Me Your Two Cents' Worth)

(And I just realized my entry yesterday had to do with bacon. Y'all go easy on me, okay?)

Moving on.

Last night my dreams were so vivid, I could describe in detail to you the process by which I fixed a broken window sash and installed new mini-blinds. When I say detail, believe me, I mean detail... right down to the quarter-inch rectangle outlined with a border of bright green in which I slid a new glass pane into... and I have no idea where that originated. At any rate, I woke up this morning thinking about that window and other specific items and processes in that (or those) dream(s) and thought, if only life were that easy.

I am sure I am like you in that whenever my kids are hurt or bothered about something, I am hurt or bothered about that same thing. When they outgrew diapers and training wheels and elementary schools, I knew that my time of fixing things was coming to an end. Yes, I can fix dinner or fix their laundry, so to speak. I can buy things they need to fix a project and sometimes even help them fix a dilemma; but for the most part, that is where all the fixing ends. I can't fix a thought or an image in their head.

To be more specific, her head.

The youngest. The daughter. Our daughter. My daughter.

God bless her.

 Beautiful.
 Kind.
 Healthy.
 Smart.

And going through what every woman or girl, young or old, goes through and deals with on an all too familiar and yet regular basis. Body image. How she looks. What she likes and doesn't like. Comparisons.

You know how some of you tell me often that I should write a book? Well, I wrote a rather long book in my head last night and it was filled with stories from you. Women and men. How different people face the reality that what the mirror reveals WILL NEVER win over what photoshop and airbrushing can create.

Do you care? Did you care?

Look, this isn't the first time the subject has come up in our house. I'm sure it won't be the last. I have my own issues to deal with in a size fourteen pant. Five years ago I was a size four. A four. Somewhere along that particular path I think I got a little sidetracked with things like sweet tea and barbecue and those blasted chicken wings. That I can deal with. That's me.

But when I see my girl struggling, a girl in high school who runs and walks and bikes and is by all accounts a perfectly healthy young lady... well, even the middle, son number two, got a little upset last night when he described to me the LIES he sees twisting the truth every day for every man, woman, and child alive.

You have a thought? Leave a comment if you like or better yet, send me your story via the email address found at the very bottom of the left tab. You never know, I might actually take all those stored chapters I write in my head and actually transfer them to paper one day. I do think there's a book in there... I just have no idea what it's about.

Not installing mini-blinds, though. That's for sure.

Live Life With More Bacon

We like bacon around here, especially since I caught onto what most of you have probably known and practiced for years: bacon in the oven. Line a pan with foil, lay out the bacon, pop it into a cold oven, set the temp at 400 and the timer for 25 minutes*, and presto! Perfectly cooked bacon, fast clean up, and no grease-splattered clothes. We had BLT's last night and BLT's tonight- with one request for scrambled eggs and bacon. I'm telling you, supper doesn't get much sweeter than that. I definitely see a life with more bacon.

That's all I have for you, folks. =)



*Original tips I read regarding this method suggested a 17-20 minutes time span; 25 minutes in our oven results in what we like.

When There's Nothing Left To Do, Grow Tomatoes

It's one of my favorite times of year.

Spring Break.
Beautiful Weather.
Chirping Birds.

Final Four.

I woke up this morning with a single thought: Atlanta and four teams. Because of that, I have the laundry practically finished, dishes washed, porches cleaned, and not a hint of makeup on. I mean really... there's no need to do much beyond the brushing of the teeth and a half-done ponytail when leaving the house is not an option.

The youngest is not happy. She is an on-the-go kinda girl who does not understand her mother's obsession with basketball. She's standing on the porch talking to me now about growing tomatoes. Looking over my shoulder she says, Oh, you're writing another blog (and her emphasis on the word blog tells me she is not impressed).

Nothing like a kid to keep you humble.

She and her brother are out of school for the week. I've promised them a trip to the mall and a trip to the beach. It looks like both are going to work out for us in the next few days. Thank goodness. The weather is too nice to just stick to housework and besides, after the BIG game on Monday night, what else is there to do?

Apparently grow tomatoes.

I better get back to the conversation at hand. =)

My Shoes Are Muddy

I read Proverbs every day- well, most every day, and usually a verse reaches out and grabs me. Sometimes it might be a favorite one that I just like to reread and sometimes it might be one I've never paid much attention to before. Today there has been one that just won't leave me alone.

When you walk, your steps shall not be hampered [your path will be clear and open];
and when you run, you shall not stumble. Proverbs 4:12

I experienced another (minor) setback today and dwelling on that here would not change a thing. I tried to talk to the Lord about it and all I could come up with were words to a song: You are God in Heaven and I am here on earth, so I'll let my words be few. I mean really... who am I to complain when things don't follow my plan?

And just what exactly is my plan? Does it line up with His?
Am I just killing time until HE catches up with ME?

Deep thoughts, people, for a Thursday night.

It does seems like, for quite some time, my life has been the exact opposite of that verse. My steps are hampered. The path is muddy. I stumble over every branch in the road. Does that mean I've taken a wrong turn? Did I read the map wrong? Has the GPS failed me once again?

GPS= Global Positioning System

or

GPS= God Positioning System

If I'm on the global circuit, there's an easy explanation. I've had our own GPS take me down a wrong road one too many times. If I'm on the God track... well, He's certainly not the one out of whack.

Consider well the path of your feet, and let all your ways be established and ordered aright. Proverbs 4:26