The Great Move 2007-2016 (but more importantly, my grandma)

Labor Day Weekend is a weekend that doesn't go unnoticed around our house and not for the hamburgers or summer-goodbyes or those ever-present, always-happening mattress sales. We mark Labor Day for an entirely different reason and it's usually brought up in conversation the week prior to that good excuse for a three-day weekend.

Labor Day Weekend, for us, is the weekend of The Great Move.

I won't go into a lot of detail about that event for this particular post. If you know me, you know the struggle. If you've been around the blog long enough, you know the story. There really is no good reason for rehashing decisions, increased mortgages, and moving trucks.

Although I will say that while driving along the interstate yesterday, a moving truck was spotted and I couldn't help but think back to that big, yellow Pinzke truck and the devastated woman who was following behind that big, ugly yellow thing in the family car.

But anyway.

What I have been thinking about was that long good-bye to my grandma. Standing on her front porch, knowing she was old, knowing how much distance would be between us, not knowing the future... that is the moment that has been on my mind this weekend. I was the last of our family to step away from her and I can still remember how difficult that seemingly small act was that particular Tuesday morning. I had her china wrapped in layers of bubble wrap- she didn't want to wait on that one, and I had all those precious memories of her and me stored, like layers, in my mind. It was if I was taking that long good-bye hug, wrapping it in its own protective layer, and silently closing a well-used file drawer.

I did get to see her again just three months later for two wonderful weeks at the end of December. Again, if you know me, you know that story and if you don't, search the labels on the left of this post for grandma and find the 2011 post titled "Five Minutes Late". It's a heartbreaker, but it's all true and it's all life. While I remember those last weeks and the special moments the Lord gave us before He called her home, it is the memory of that moving-away goodbye hug that whispers to me from time and time and takes me back to a little front porch in a little hometown.

It's been nine years (nine years!) since that goodbye. From where I sit at my kitchen table, there is a sewing machine to my left with stacks of fabric squares destined to become a quilt. That's the mark of my grandma on my youngest child. To my right is her china, long unwrapped from the layers of bubble wrap and quietly waiting for the next holiday when the kids know, without me having to say a word, that those dishes do not go in the dishwasher. In the dryer right now are washcloths- threadbare, but hanging on, that she made. I look up and see my current last name painstakingly crocheted into a rectangle that looks like lace. There's two more of those in an envelope already made by her long ago with the strict instructions to give them to my sons on their respective wedding days.

And in my heart, just like in the hearts of my kids and parents and aunts and uncles and many cousins, lives the presence of the very Savior that she was so sure to teach us all about and model in her everyday life... right up until her exit from this world and entrance into the next.

So while this weekend could cause me to think on any variety of things and the way things were and the way things are, I am reminded of the little, old woman who was shorter than me and whose house always smelled like onions and mothballs and that, my friend, leaves no room for regret.



Until we meet again on another front porch, Grandma.
I look forward to sitting with you at a different kind of table.

A Reason To Pause

In a day that's been full of a whole lot of (professional) busy work, (personal) goal-setting laziness, and good ole (American) football, I would be amiss if I let one important tidbit of information slip by...

The little lady pictured here left this world behind seven years ago today. If you're new to the neighborhood and want to learn more about her (and I don't know why you wouldn't), check out the entries located under grandma in my mood section on the left side of this page. She was quite the inspiration, I can promise you that.

She's the reason I accepted Christ.
The reason my daughter is quite the seamstress.
The reason I know that, as a matter of fact, you can freeze gallons of milk.

And she is missed every day.

(Fiery) Memories of My Grandma

Tomorrow is Way Too Old Wednesday (aka Senior Citizen Day) at our school. It's all in good fun... just another way to celebrate Homecoming Week and get away from the same old-same old. I've spent the last hour or so looking through my closet and the kids' closets and have discovered a few things about myself.

1. Trying to dress old is lot of hard work, and

2. I have a lot of old looking clothes from which to choose.

I'm not sure what that says about me and my (fading) sense of style, but all this old talk had me thinking about my grandma and how she would dress.

Long-sleeved shirts. Polyester pants. Curlers.

And the occasional ball cap.

Here she is with the oldest clearing away brush from our land. I would bet good money she had a matchbook tucked away in those jean pockets. That little lady was notorious for tossing a lit match in order to clear the land. The husband had to chase her around more than once with a garden hose in his hand. Oh, that still makes me laugh. Anyone who knew her knows how much she loved working outdoors.

She loved to quilt and sew and fish and garden. She would put anything in the freezer rather than throw it away. I remember one time she offered us tea... frozen in a ziploc bag. She would freeze milk if she thought it would spoil before she was able to use it all. She saved peanut butter containers and whipped topping containers and tubs of butter containers. She was not one to waste.

Her house often smelled of boiling onions or cabbage or beets.
Her refrigerator was typically full of a variety of leftovers.
She really did always have something in her cookie jar.

Good grief, I miss that woman.

Yes, tomorrow I will be thinking of her. My entire outfit is modeled after something I think she would approve. I may be missing the scent of mothballs, but I'm hoping to have fully captured her style.

Nothing fancy. Everything practical.

I'll just leave my matchbook at home.

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.

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.

On Quilt Blocks, Hamburger Helper, & Things I Can't Find

Today was a no-school day for the kids and the daughter spent part of her afternoon laying out quilt blocks she has been embroidering. Her cat was in the midst of it all as she carefully placed block by block on the floor, sighing every now and then. As I watched her, I thought about my own quilt blocks that I have been working on forever and dusted off the bag they have been hiding in. She suggested that we work together to finish hers first and then work on mine. I know it sounds like a perfect mother-daughter-kind-of-thing to do, but I respectfully declined her request. My reason? My stitches are nowhere near as perfect and straight as hers. Believe me, she would be regretting her decision the first time she'd have to rip my work out and start again. Look at it as a way to keep the peace.

Discussing quilts got us discussing our grandma which got us pulling out and talking about all the quilts she made us. In turn, that led to us digging around in the attic looking for other things which led to the squeals and delight of finding a favorite baby doll and dressed-up Barbies still in their box. By the time we wrapped things up so I could start supper, the couch was covered with quilts and such, and her bed was hidden beneath handmade doll clothes and passed-down jewelry. Now that supper is finished and the kitchen is clean (that would be the Hamburger Helper part), I suppose it's time for me to clean off the couch. I gotta have somewhere to sit... and maybe, just maybe, complete a stitch or two.

As for things I can't find?

A Quilt. Don't panic. I know it's tucked away safely somewhere.
Besides, I only have so many places to stash stuff around here.

A Box of Baseball Cards. Not a big deal to me, but a very big deal to the husband.
This is the current Great Mystery within the household.

And it seems like there was one other thing, but (of course) I can't remember it.

Except that wedding album... I still can't find that wedding album.

I'm betting it's all in the same place.

Thank You For The Reminder

In case you've ever wonder if you make a difference;

If you mean anything to anybody at all...



Consider the following facebook post written by my daughter and marvel along with me at the lasting impact of a grandmother to her great-granddaughter.

It's hard to believe that it has already been five years. I can still hear you say to people "That's my girl." You don't know how much I miss hearing that. You were a best friend to me, & like a second mother. You taught me so much--how to cook, sew, garden, what those weird little black lines on fish were... (veins...who woulda thought....) & especially, about God. I remember sitting by your chair as you read from the Bible. In the morning we would wake up at 4:30 & head to the kitchen and listen to KS-95 then go walk. I didn't cry at your funeral; I just couldn't. We'd had some of the greatest times together & I didn't want them masked by sorrow. I share some of the greatest memories with you. I miss & love you, Gramma Faye.

And to that, I have nothing more to add.

Except,

If you have the time, take a moment, read this entry from the past, and remember with me.



And please, go hug your grandma.

Praise To A Lady Who Knew How To Wait

"Sometimes God digs a well of joy with a spade of sorrow."

Those words are courtesy of my grandma who was a prime example regarding the power of finding peace in God's timing. I had never heard of that saying until I was reading through her bible after she passed away. Written in pencil near the back cover,  I instantly memorized those words.

I was emailing my mom earlier telling her about my day so far.
It went something like this,

Van is messing up again.
Spilled fingernail polish on my good black pants.
Used a black sharpie on the above mentioned pants.

Went to a job interview.

I honestly don't know what will come of that interview, but it did originate from a call out of the blue. There have been times before when I was sure I had something and I didn't; this time around, I'm not so sure. Who knows? Maybe that's a good thing.

I mean, really... what are the odds of car trouble on your way to an interview in which you are wearing sharpie-doctored pants? What I can tell you is that I seriously just wanted to crawl back into bed and not come out again until it was time to pick the kids up from school, but I went.

I put on my game face and did the best I could.
That's what Grandma would've done.

Ha! Not the black sharpie part

She would have whipped up a new pair pants on her sewing machine...

I'm doing the best I can, Grandma. I promise.
Just don't look at my dirty windows and blinds.

I Miss My Grandma

With yesterday being the birthday of the youngest, I spent a somewhat sappy afternoon watching home movies dating back to 1998. I don't know that the kids were all that into my spontaneous trip down memory lane, but it continued well into the night with the only break being a birthday supper at Cracker Barrel and a lengthy walk through Walmart. The clock was approaching the eleven o'clock hour when I began to pick up clues from the husband that it was time to call it a night. We went to bed, but the memories didn't stop as we both talked about how much our family has grown.

We were young, skinny, and looked good back then,
the husband remarked. What happened?

What happened? I joked. Those kids were what happened.

Good point, he said before he went to sleep.

While he softly (?) snored, I thought about what really bothered me regarding all those videos. It wasn't so much the passing of time... watching all that was a good reminder of how tired I always was with three kids ages five and under. And sure, I was a lot thinner then, but personally I think I look more healthy now with a little extra padding to the face and other places (hey, don't deny me that lie). I'll tell you, what bothered me the most was that nearly not enough camera time was given to a little old lady who made brief appearances every now and then, and I was almost always the one behind the camera.

Forget the baby! I kept screaming in my head yesterday.
Focus on Grandma.

Enough of the baby crawling already, I would think.
Isn't that Grandma on the couch?

You see, I didn't realize then what I know all too well now, and that realization forced to me acknowledge a cold, hard truth that has stayed hidden within the rusty files of my mind for almost five years now. It seems so silly to say it out loud because we all understand the cycle of life, but say it I must:

I really didn't think she would ever die.

Praying My Life Away

Lately I cannot get prayer out of my head.

I walk though the house praying.
I go to bed and pray before I go to sleep.
I wake up in the middle of the night with a prayer in my head.
I open my eyes in the morning thinking I better get to praying.

So this morning, in the wee hours before daylight, I thought about all this prayer... that either there is something going on that I cannot see urging me to pray, or that I am just highly suspicious and somewhat doubtful of good intentions. If you know me at all, the last part would be very believable, but I can't help but think a target has been put on my family and there is no way I'm about to sit by idle waiting for it all to unfold.

And so I pray. I start at the top and go down to the youngest just like my grandma would do. Which brings me to another question.

My grandma would always pray for me. I was number twelve on her list of thirteen grandchildren. Believe me, I've heard her and I've counted. She would start with her firstborn that died way too early, go on to her oldest child to the youngest, start with the top of the grandchildren and work her way down, and moved on to her great and great-great grandchildren. Now with those, I don't think she called but a few of them by name (she had a lot), but she always, always, always prayed for the all the babies.

Salvation. Protection. Wisdom to stop doing something stupid.

I thought of her and the times I would hear her pray at night and the example she set before me. Which raised that question.

Who is praying for me now?

A Repeat Of A Good Thing

Some things just cannot be repeated, but should be shared time and time and time again (and I'm not talking about those annoying inspirational sayings I find on facebook on any given day).

Did I just use "annoying" and "inspirational" in the same line?

Anyway, in thinking about Good Friday,  I went back to what I wrote last year. My thoughts have not changed. I cannot improve or alter what has already been written.

He is the same yesterday, today, and forever.

And Good Friday is still one of my favorite days of the year.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

(originally written Friday, April 22, 2011)

Good, Good Friday

Restore to me the joy of Your salvation

 and uphold me with a willing spirit.

Psalm 51:12

I woke up in the wee hours of the morning thinking about my salvation, the bible my grandma gave me, and a cup of coffee. Of course, when I walked into the kitchen and realized it was, in fact, only 2:00 a.m., I decided maybe that cup of coffee should wait. Seeing as how there's no school tomorrow and the only alarm set belongs to my hard working man of a husband, I fully intend on sleeping in. I'll enjoy that coffee then.

I sit here, though, with a bible my grandma gave me. My mom's handwriting on the inside cover says 12-25-80. It does indeed show its age. My name embossed in gold on the front is just about worn off, threads can be seen sticking out on the spine, and the overall feel to it is just plain flimsy. There's post-it notes sticking out, cards about missionaries inside, and a random drawing the middle one made. Me and my bibles are a funny thing. I know I'm blessed to have so many; I don't take that for granted. Each one is special and each one hard to part with; in fact, I think I've only parted with one in my whole life and that was for my brother some time ago. Letting go of that bible was like letting go of me. It's personal. You want to know something about me, look in my bible.

(And if you don't like writing in a bible, then I'm afraid you might not like me. I write, highlight, underline, put squiggly marks... anything to help me remember something I know I need to remember. I use to think this was wrong until I saw my grandma do it. And we all know if Grandma did it, then it must be all right).

Anyway, my current bible is held together with duct tape. Tacky? Maybe. But replacing my Amplified would be like replacing my right arm. I'm just not ready to make that step.

And so I sit here thinking about bibles and my grandma and a time many years ago. The year of 1980 was a big one for me. I was ten (double digits, you know) and one Sunday night I followed my family to an altar in church. I remember crying because everyone else was crying and I remember repeating the words of a salvation prayer.

Yes, I believe Jesus died for my sins.

Yes, I know, in fact, I am a sinner.

Yes, I believe His Blood was shed for me.

Yes, I accept His salvation.

I didn't fully understand then what a beginning that would be. I certainly did not live a squeaky clean life. My teenage years are a blur. My family did not have a stellar church attendance record. I only went to church camp once and never had any desire to go back. There weren't many things in my life that were consistent because I tended to make everything complicated (and this has nothing to do with my parents, Dr. Psychologist), but there were three things that were always there:

My grandma.

My bible.

My salvation.

(Do you notice the common theme that always seems to run through my ramblings? My grandma is always there. Living on. Living forever. Living through me. I sure hope her reward is great).

My twenties came and I found myself in basic training crying out to the Lord once again. He was there. My thirties came and I found myself deep in a marriage with three little kids and I cried out to the Lord. He was there. Now just at the beginning of my fourth decade on this earth, I cry out to the Lord on any given day (teenagers, you know). He is there. Please don't take this wrong when I say Good Friday is probably my most favorite day out of the whole year. I know it's a somber day that we mark (as Christians) in that Jesus was so cruelly treated and beaten and crucified.

But if it were not for Good Friday, I would be lost. We all would be.

If it were not for Good Friday, there would be no Easter Sunday.

If it were not for Easter Sunday, we would have no hope.

I believe Jesus Christ was born of a virgin,

Was crucified on a cross for forgiveness of sins,

Resurrected on the third day,

And is indeed coming again.

My bible says it. It's highlighted, underlined, and surrounded by squiggly lines.

My grandma said it. I'm going to meet her in the clouds one day.

And that's all I need to know.

Have a good, Good Friday.

Priorities

Things that make me laugh:
My husband. My kids.
And thirty-some hits within three minutes of posting a blog entry entitled Hot Booties?

Things that make me cry:
My husband. My kids.
And reading what my dad writes in the cards that he sends.

Things that make me thankful for the life I've been given:
All of the above. All of the below.
And everything else that comes in between.



The last time this group sat together.

My mom. My daughter. My grandma and me.

My present, future, and past... in that particular order.



This Little Light Of Mine

I sit this morning and think about the people that pop in and out of my life. There one day, gone the next. In a virtual world (and I promise I am not going to get hung up on this), it is so easy for any one person to be your friend or follower for any length of time and then suddenly disappear with zero to little explanation. The same thing can happen with friends in the real world. People simply lose track of each other. The whole thing brings to mind a verse out of Psalms (144:4):

 Man is like a breath; His days are like a passing shadow.

I remember an illustration I once gave to a junior high class. I stood in front of a group of 7/8th graders, lit a match, and blew it out. I drew their attention to the wisps of smoke that escaped from the extinguished burnt end... thick at first, but then slowly drifting and trailing away to nothing until all that was left was the faint smell of smoke in the air. I then proceeded to tell them that was a picture of their life.

Yeah. I am one ray of sunshine in the classroom.

Life is so fleeting, though, isn't it? We never know what the next turn will bring and we never fully understand why we had to make that turn to begin with. I loved my grandma like crazy, you all know that. I talk about her often and hope I never stop, but the simple fact remains that she is no longer here. Her time, her purpose, her existence on this earth came and went with the passing of eighty-nine years. She closed her eyes in this world and opened them in the next.

Oh, where would we be without that hope?

I think about my life. Am I fulfilling my role or simply going through the motions while the match stays lit, so to speak. Do I pop in and out of people's lives without making a mark, without leaving anything behind besides the smell of a burnt match? Am I easily forgettable or am I like a nagging pain in someone's head that they can't easily get rid of? Yeah, that thought makes me chuckle this early in the morning, but I have to say that I would rather be a pain than forgotten.

Wow. I do wonder where the thoughts in my head come from at times.

I want to be a good wife and mother and all that goes with that, but I also want to be a good friend and a mentor and somebody that makes you think. I want to me that person that points the way to the Lord, not because I wear a Jesus shirt or a Jesus pin or thump you over the head with my bible. I want you to know that without Him, I would be nothing. He saved me when I didn't deserve it; He led me when I wouldn't listen; and He holds my hand when I cry.

He's the light on the end of my match except His flame never goes out.

It just moves on to light the next one when my match burns out.

Kinda like passing the torch forward, huh?

The Celebration Continues

1. I've had the windows open ALL day.
2. I bought my first pumpkin spice latte of the season.
3. I'm sitting outside in the screened-in porch watching two cats play.
4. I took a new profile pic for facebook that didn't scare me to death.
5. And an encouraging thought hit me while I was folding laundry:

My husband's eighty-four year old grandma. She's my biggest fan on his side of the family and the only one who has ever truly liked me regardless of which side of the Mississippi I grew up on. We had her over for dinner last week for my husband's birthday and she always makes it a point to compliment the many quilts in our house. She knows my grandma made them and she spares no praise in admiring each one. She spent some time talking about her days in high school and how she has outlived most of her eighteen senior classmates (the girls are outliving the boys, she said with a smile). If we had never moved here, I would have never had the chance to know her.

Yeah, grandmas are a very big deal to me.

I need all the help I can get. =)

Roll Call

When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more,
And the morning breaks, eternal, bright and fair;
When the saved of earth shall gather over on the other shore,
And the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.

Call me an old-fashioned girl.
I definitely can't hang long with the contemporary group.
Guess I'll always be a traditionalist at heart.

On that bright and cloudless morning when the dead in Christ shall rise,
And the glory of His resurrection share;
When His chosen ones shall gather to their home beyond the skies,
And the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.

My grandma took me to church as a little girl.
I still sat by her as an adult (most of the time anyway).
Her voice singing is a permanent recording in my head.

Let us labor for the Master from the dawn till setting sun,
Let us talk of all His wondrous love and care;
Then when all of life is over, and our work on earth is done,
And the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.

Victory In Jesus.
In The Sweet By And By.
Leaning On The Everlasting Arms.

Sing me an old hymn and my eyes will start to water.
One of these days, I'll be sitting by her in church again.
When the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there.

Digging Through Pictures

I have spent the better part of the morning searching for a picture I know I have, but for the life of me cannot find. I've dug through two boxes of pictures and searched several photo albums. No luck. I know it's there somewhere. What mom does not take a picture of her firstborn on the first day of kindergarten? I know I did. I can practically see the boy's shirt, his backpack, and the exact location I made him stand to snap the pic. Good grief. These things are important, you know. I've got to have that picture to go along with his first day of his senior year picture. I think I have discovered my new obsession for the rest of the week. That and a new resolution to get some scrapbooking done. Anyway, through my archaeological dig in the cedar chest, I did uncover a few treasures. I'd say they're worth passing on.

This one features Laura Ingalls Wilder on the left and my daughter on the right. She (my girl) is standing in the same location Laura is at her home in Mansfield, Missouri. Behind her is a spring and through information I found detailing Laura's pic, I was able to position my girl in the same spot (I do things like that). The dress, apron, and bonnet (off the back of her neck) was made by my grandma. She had quite a few dresses like that, all still saved, waiting to someday be made into a quilt. One story my girl likes to tell is that before I would take her to Laura's house, she had to read all her books. I'm thinking this is around the third grade (she'll correct me if I'm wrong).

And if you're a Laura Ingalls fan, I highly recommend this biography that was recommended to me many years ago. Don't trust the show, people. Read the book.

Here's one of my boys when they were little baking... something. Today their specialties include muffins, grilled cheese, ramen noodles, and easy mac via the microwave.

Hey, how's this for random?
See kids... I'm an equal opportunity humiliator.
Me, in the fifth grade.

This one is my grandma doing one of the many things she loved best. Along with going to church, fishing, gardening, and sewing, she loved to work outside. We still joke about how it was smart not to let her walk outside with a lighter in her hand. Her solution to clearing away anything was to set it on fire. One of our favorite memories is my husband following her around with a garden hose as she used a rake and burning leaves to "help" him clean away some brush on our ten acres. She is pictured here with our oldest.

So I didn't find the picture I was looking for, but I did find a few good memories.
Now I've got to go clean up the mess I made and in the process, keep looking.

I will find that picture.

Words From My Grandma And Late Night Tacos

It's four in the morning and I'm wide awake. Well, the wide awake part would be an exaggeration... actually I am very tired. My eyes hurt. My head feels funny. My tummy just might be protesting that Taco Bell run we made sometime after ten o'clock last night. And yet, here I sit.

I was having the most amazing dream. My hair was long and full and brown (of all things) and full of the most beautiful curls. I was sitting in a bar (sorry Mom) with a man not my husband (sorry husband) talking about life. Then, at some point, the man got bored and my husband walked in, somewhat relieved that I had found somebody else to talk to if even for a few minutes. I am so not kidding here. This is the story of my life.

I woke up with a smile thinking about those beautiful curls. Dreams have a way of fading quickly, however, and as the cool air from the fan hit the back of my neck, I was reminded that my hair is not long, has more waves than curls, and is most definitely not brown. I could hear my husband snoring softly beside me and I was reminded of the reality in which we live.

We are both out of work with no real plan in sight. Just when it seems that there might be a sliver of hope, that hope is snatched faster than it can take root. Some might say it's a spiritual battle and others might just call it life. All I know is that with each passing day and each local news show, heaven is looking better and better. Shoot, drugs are looking better.

Did I say that out loud? Ha. Do you ever have thoughts like that? Who am I writing to anyway? I sometimes think a diary would be better, but then I have a fear of somebody reading it after I'm dead. How crazy is that? I sometimes think I should pull the plug on this one (blog) and start again, but I often feel like my life is nothing more than a bunch of re-starts. Not a bad thing, I know, but some things are just what they are. No sense hitting a delete button trying to pretend none of it happened.

Wow. This is turning out to be a tad bit depressing. I sure didn't mean it that way. The mind is a funny thing. One minute I can be full of hope and the next I can be certain things will never go my way. Maybe that's the ticket right there... my way. Good grief, will I ever learn? It's times like these I wish I could call my grandma. Somehow it always made me feel better to hear that she had the same struggles I did. I'll never forget the time she told me about her early days of marriage and her mother-in-law. I can still see her talking about it all. She was just as fired up about some sixty (or more) years later as she must have been when she was actually in the middle of it all.

It does help to hear people share their honest stories, doesn't it? Not those Sunday-suit-sitting-in-the-choir stories, but those down-to-earth-life-can-be-crap stories. I learn more from hearing how someone overcame adversary than from someone telling me what I should be doing, if that makes any sense. My grandma was like that. Sure she would tell me what I should be doing (for instance, I don't know how many times I had Hebrews 10:23-25 quoted to me by that little old lady) but she would also share her own experiences with me to try to teach me something. That meant a lot.

Anyway, I guess there's not much else to say. Today is a new day. Anything can happen. If I were to hang up hope altogether, I would truly have nothing to live for. I don't know... maybe I should get that diary.

And by the way, Hebrews 10:23-25 says this: Let us hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering; (for he is faithful that promised;) And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works: Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as ye see the day approaching.

That was her favorite verse to throw my way when I told her I was tired of going to church. I still repeat that same thing to myself often and have used it on the kids on more than one occasion. Thanks, Grandma. =)

Dear Katelyn,

Thirteen years ago we had a new baby girl that was destined to wear pink for at least one full year. I know that's not one of your favorite colors anymore... I'm guessing I probably ruined it for you (that and frilly dresses and hair bows and lacey socks). I would apologize, but it's hard to be sorry for something that was so much fun.

Actually, you and I have had a lot of fun times. I use to rock you and sing things like Bye-O Baby and You Are So Beautiful. You would play in the kitchen while I cooked and dig out every measuring cup and wooden spoon and bowl you could find. Maybe that's why you still enjoy the kitchen today. You've spent a lot of time in there.

Grandma Faye had you using a quilting needle when you were two and sewing on a machine by the time you were three. I'll never forget the time I picked you up from her house and your little finger was all needle-pricked... somehow you hadn't quite mastered the thimble yet, I think. Even today, if someone in the family needs something mended, they go to you.

Grandma taught you about canning and making grape jelly. I don't think there was much she wouldn't let you try. In fact, I'm pretty sure she was your first best friend. If we have done anything right in our life, it was raising you kids in a place where her house was just a walk away. I am so thankful she was a part of your first nine and a half years (and don't even get me started on Granny). You are one lucky girl.

So now you're thirteen and things like Barbies and American Girls and Big Baby are nothing more than a part of your memories of childhood. All you talk about now is i-pods and cell phones and laptops (and sorry... the answer is still no on all three of them). Don't fret, my dear, you've got a whole life ahead of you to gain access to all those techno marvels. There are just too many things in this world to compete for your attention. For now...

Enjoy your books.
Learn to relax.
Love your kitten.

Oh, and feel free to bake. Often.

Your dad and I are very happy with the young woman you are becoming. Your grandma would be thrilled. Yes, you're gonna have struggles, but that's just part of it. You've already overcome a lot in your young life; you'll think back on those times when things get hard. And remember everything your old mom has taught you:

God is all powerful.
Jesus will forgive.
You have a purpose.

And Starbucks makes the world go round.

With much love to you,

Your MOM
(not your friend, buddy, or pal, but ALWAYS your biggest fan)

P.S. Dad just read this and reminded me of the time you asked if you could call Grandma "Mom." I can still see her giggling when she told me that (even if I did NOT think it was funny at the time). Ha!

Good, Good Friday

Restore to me the joy of Your salvation

 and uphold me with a willing spirit.

Psalm 51:12

I woke up in the wee hours of the morning thinking about my salvation, the bible my grandma gave me, and a cup of coffee. Of course, when I walked into the kitchen and realized it was, in fact, only 2:00 a.m., I decided maybe that cup of coffee should wait. Seeing as how there's no school tomorrow and the only alarm set belongs to my hard working man of a husband, I fully intend on sleeping in. I'll enjoy that coffee then.

I sit here, though, with a bible my grandma gave me. My mom's handwriting on the inside cover says 12-25-80. It does indeed show its age. My name embossed in gold on the front is just about worn off, threads can be seen sticking out on the spine, and the overall feel to it is just plain flimsy. There's post-it notes sticking out, cards about missionaries inside, and a random drawing the middle one made. Me and my bibles are a funny thing. I know I'm blessed to have so many; I don't take that for granted. Each one is special and each one hard to part with; in fact, I think I've only parted with one in my whole life and that was for my brother some time ago. Letting go of that bible was like letting go of me. It's personal. You want to know something about me, look in my bible.

(And if you don't like writing in a bible, then I'm afraid you might not like me. I write, highlight, underline, put squiggly marks... anything to help me remember something I know I need to remember. I use to think this was wrong until I saw my grandma do it. And we all know if Grandma did it, then it must be all right).

Anyway, my current bible is held together with duct tape. Tacky? Maybe. But replacing my Amplified would be like replacing my right arm. I'm just not ready to make that step.

And so I sit here thinking about bibles and my grandma and a time many years ago. The year of 1980 was a big one for me. I was ten (double digits, you know) and one Sunday night I followed my family to an altar in church. I remember crying because everyone else was crying and I remember repeating the words of a salvation prayer.

Yes, I believe Jesus died for my sins.

Yes, I know, in fact, I am a sinner.

Yes, I believe His Blood was shed for me.

Yes, I accept His salvation.

I didn't fully understand then what a beginning that would be. I certainly did not live a squeaky clean life. My teenage years are a blur. My family did not have a stellar church attendance record. I only went to church camp once and never had any desire to go back. There weren't many things in my life that were consistent because I tended to make everything complicated (and this has nothing to do with my parents, Dr. Psychologist), but there were three things that were always there:

My grandma.

My bible.

My salvation.

(Do you notice the common theme that always seems to run through my ramblings? My grandma is always there. Living on. Living forever. Living through me. I sure hope her reward is great).

My twenties came and I found myself in basic training crying out to the Lord once again. He was there. My thirties came and I found myself deep in a marriage with three little kids and I cried out to the Lord. He was there. Now just at the beginning of my fourth decade on this earth, I cry out to the Lord on any given day (teenagers, you know). He is there. Please don't take this wrong when I say Good Friday is probably my most favorite day out of the whole year. I know it's a somber day that we mark (as Christians) in that Jesus was so cruelly treated and beaten and crucified.

But if it were not for Good Friday, I would be lost. We all would be.

If it were not for Good Friday, there would be no Easter Sunday.

If it were not for Easter Sunday, we would have no hope.

I believe Jesus Christ was born of a virgin,

Was crucified on a cross for forgiveness of sins,

Resurrected on the third day,

And is indeed coming again.

My bible says it. It's highlighted, underlined, and surrounded by squiggly lines.

My grandma said it. I'm going to meet her in the clouds one day.

And that's all I need to know.

Have a good, Good Friday.

Dresses and Quilts

My girl wore a dress to school today and looked absolutely beautiful. I couldn't help but admire her and then after thinking about it for a few minutes, I thought, Hey, that's my dress.

And it looked so much better on her. Things sure have changed.

I've got a cedar chest full of her frilly little dresses that she had as a new baby. By that stack, there are several my grandma made for her; some have bonnets to match, a few have aprons. Then there are the ones my mom made her. Now those are the fancy ones. I have never known a better seamstress than my mom. The clothes she can make would rival anything you could find in any store, at least in my opinion. It's just too bad that gene skipped me.

I wonder sometimes what we will do with all those dresses. Mom has talked about making all of them into a quilt, especially the ones Grandma made. I love that idea, but my oh my, do we ever have a lot of quilts! From where I sit, I can see one that Mom and Grandma worked on (a lot of embroidery!), one Grandma made for our wedding, and the last one she gave me before she went home with the Lord. In our attic there are at least four that I can think of... one for each of the kids and another her and Mom worked on (more embroidery).

Here we go again. My grandma is everywhere I look. Her face is to my left smiling at me now.

Good morning, Grandma. How's that heavenly garden working out?

And with that, I'm gonna quit. I've got too much to work on today and it is much too gloomy out to take a trip down memory lane. The memories are good, but I've got a feeling that any more talk about dresses, quilts, or gardening will suck me in and not let me go for a while.

And the last thing that little old lady would want is to witness a pity party. She's too happy anyway. Her girl went to school in a dress today, swinging that hair and talking nonstop.

Things are just as they should be.