Don't Blink

If my life were truly a book, this would be where Part III begins.

Our kids, the ones I have written about so much- the ones who have consumed by life and my sleep and my pocketbook, are officially grown. Granted, they've been grown for a while, but now it's like grown-grown. It's such a bittersweet thing- something I would not trade for anything, and yet something that causes me to pause and reflect. The youngest has left the nest.

You see, she got this crazy idea that she was ready to go- much like her older brothers moved on years ago, and all my cooking and laundry-doing could not convince her to stay at home. I walk around a house that is full of moving boxes in her bedroom and her half-eaten ice cream in the freezer and wonder what in the world I am suppose to do now. It's not a sad feeling, just a different one.

I try to grasp how quickly the time flew by. Over twenty-seven years of babies and houses and jobs. First days of school and graduation diplomas. Laughter. Tears. Happiness. Anger. Successes and disappointments. All those things that make a house full of people a home full of love. What an honor it was to raise those children. What a privilege it has been to watch them fall in love.

So here we are. Part III. New beginnings all the way around. I found my way back to this blog because for me, writing is the best therapy. The husband says I should turn her room into an office and finally complete that book or work on that doctorate or make crafty things to sell. I think I should probably start with cleaning the house...

That'll keep me busy long enough to plot my next move.

Time Will Tell, Little Grasshopper

Note- I started this entry somewhere towards the end of May. For reasons known only to me and my mood at the time, I delayed finishing it. I felt like I was rambling a bit, but now that I think about it, what is the purpose of this blog if not for mid-day ramblings of thoughts that meander their way through my mind? Anyway, rereading it now does not change a thing. I think the same as I did three weeks ago. Life moves on. I'm gonna go with it as is, with the exception of adding a side note at the end.

Here goes nothing. 

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

For the last week, I have been bringing home bits of a classroom one trunk load at a time. What remained at this time yesterday is currently in the car and at this time tomorrow, I will have officially closed the door one final time.

And I'm not sure what to feel.

I'm a little sentimental. I've made friends. I've loved kids. I'm also a little guilty. I am leaving by choice, after all. It's been a wild ride since the fall of 2012. As I sat in my classroom today- empty and quiet, I laughed a bit when I remembered how much I wanted to be there. For that job I had prayed.

And for the record, it was a job I did not get. I applied and was denied. Subbed and eventually hired. Receptionist. Secretary. Cook. Teacher. Principal. All in the same location, mind you. I've had many a full circle moment in my life.

The Lord and I have talked about this particular route often. To try to put into words how I feel never really describes the true picture. There are some things the heart cannot explain or for that matter, describe in a way that doesn't sound... well, just not clear. HE has helped me in every situation, every role I have been assigned or chosen or settled.

I know I'm dedicated.
I know I've given it my all.

But I might always wonder if I did enough.

There was a time, a very long time ago, when a lady prayed for me at church. She said my life was like a tree, full of leaves and brimming with fruit. As she looked at me, she said you must be a teacher. At the time, I was not... far from it, in fact. Now you can think what you want, but I can promise you that the woman looked me square in the eye and said that all those leaves, all that fruit, represented children. She said my life would be full of children.

Krystle. Mary. Sam,
Huey, Llani, Shae.
Adam. Jesse. Ashton.

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

It was at this point that I stopped writing that last go 'round. After all, I asked myself, how can I possibly name every student who impacted me in some way or another? Shouldn't I save that for a potential retirement speech one day?  Besides, the thought occurs to me anyway that my life is full of children. My own. Those three consume most every waking thought. I wonder about them. I worry about them. I enjoy thinking about them. They crack me up every time we are together. They are my greatest accomplishment.

Those kids in the classroom, though. They are extended family whether they want to be or not, and just like extended family, I am glad to see them come along and more glad to see them go (don't act like you don't think the same thing every holiday season). The classroom setting may change, but the teacher-student dynamic does not.

And thus the reason for all those leaves on that vision of a tree.

I don't know what my future holds. I pick up a key to my new classroom tomorrow while also talking to the powers who be about some volunteer work at a local museum. I might be on the downhill slide of this roller coaster we call education, or I might just be catching my second wind. As I tell any kid in my life, time will tell, little grasshopper.

Time will tell.

There's a whole lot of love yet to give.

My current coffee shop view. I heart summer break.

The Month Of May

May is a pretty confusing month for me.

It's the last month of the school year. So that's an easy one.
Score.

It's the month our youngest son was born.
Double score.

Mother's Day, Memorial Day, and Cinco de Mayo (for which only Americans "celebrate").
Score, score, and (kinda?) score.

It's also the month we bid farewell to a tiny one we never got to meet. It's the month of my dad's birthday that no longer carries the need for a phone call to the local radio station. And, tying in with that last one, it's the month he received a diagnosis that was so detrimental, I can tell you where I was and what I was wearing when I received the call.

There is no scoring on either one of those. Three days in May that are, indeed, rather depressing... not that we're keeping score.

(lol?)

Recap?

Let's start with the end of the school year. I have often wondered why "Teacher Appreciation Week" is part of the month of May. Trust me, in May, every teacher is good. Tired. Exhausted. Completely over every kid in the class, but good. The end is in the sight. Lesson plans are a formality in which we're not even sure anyone is paying attention. Grades are merely a last-ditch effort for saving that one kid from summer school. We are seriously just going through the motions... much like that last week before Christmas Break. Teacher Appreciation Day/Week/Month (however you wanna roll) should fall somewhere in that post-Christmas, January-apocalypse, February-praying-to-the-snow-gods* calendar pit where you re-evaluate your life choices and momentarily contemplate teaching in the penitentiary** just to ease the mind-numbing reality of being surrounded by students who already think they're in spring break while still complaining of freezing, mid-50s temperatures.***

(I apparently had to get that off my chest).

On to our youngest son. {Sigh} We have been blessed beyond measure. To brag on one would be to brag on all three. Each one brings us great joy... this one just happens to have a birthday in May.

Mother's Day. Memorial Day. Cinco de Mayo. Each one nothing more than a reason to eat, drink, and be merry (although the meaning of the first two is so much more understood than the latter). Lucky for you, however, I am in no mood for a history lesson today.

May 5, 1995. The day we said good-bye to the one who surely bore the trademark red hair. We'll leave that with no more. It hurts too much to ponder and life does move on. Some day we will meet again and even so, our cup overflows. I have never asked why.

May 7, 1947. May 23, 2014. What would mark the beginning for my dad and the totally unnecessary detour that marked his ending date. Again, we'll not camp out here, but for entirely different reasons. If I ask why on anything, this will be the one.

You see, I feel like he could have saved me from so much. He had a way of asking questions without really asking questions. I remember when I told him that I had agreed to move his beloved grandchildren (and let's not forget me) nine-hundred miles away. He never questioned me. Never told me I shouldn't. Just said keep this in mind and be sure you think about this. He and my mom both set the perfect example of how not to interfere, but simply let grown ups make grown-up decisions, even if it went against their very desire. A line of thinking totally way off base (for this particular entry) and most likely better reserved for the posthumous So-That's-What-She-Really-Wanted-To-Say! book.

Even so. The thread of my being holds true.

I'm in an upside-down world;
A conundrum of sorts.

Beautiful, confusing, hopeful.
A riddle yet to be solved.

Much like the month of May.

* I do not believe in snow gods. I believe in the one true God (although I have been known to agree to a "snow/ice dance" with one particular parent).

** I have no doubt these are great positions with excellent benefits and students motivated to learn. No offense intended. Seriously. Hook me up.

*** I, too, think that mid-50s are entirely too cold and every effort should be made to locate an electrical socket for the plug-in blanket I keep on stand-by no matter where I go.

And, finally, although I was weary of asterisks, if I ever do write a book, it'll be a doozy. You can bet every teacher's end-of-the-year smile on that one.

Minor Breakdowns, Random Lists, and Black Velvet

I feel it only fair to say that on the last day of school before Christmas Break began, I spent a solid fifteen minutes sitting in my car, in the school parking lot, crying (admittedly) a bit uncontrollably. Overwhelmed. Frustrated. Tired. Asking the Lord to change my direction or change my heart. Just throwing that out there first so when you read this feel-good, life-is-great entry that follows, you'll understand that my life, like yours, no doubt- can be quite the roller coaster. That is the reason I take the time to preserve memories like this. We all need reminders.



I am currently sitting on my front porch in 70-degree weather finishing up lesson plans and answering emails (or at least thinking about answering emails) and fully soaking up the remaining hours of what has truly been a wonderful Christmas Break. Those who know me would probably say that I say every Christmas Break is the best one ever, but this one has definitely been one for the books.

What made this particular break so incredible had everything to do with a folded-up, yellow sheet of legal paper I keep in a safe*. I've mentioned it enough that the family knows about it, and I take it out on occasion. It's a list and although I did not date it, I can guess that I must have been around twenty- maybe twenty-one, when I wrote it based on the content. The title seems a bit dramatic, but believe me, I was a bit dramatic in real life at the time.

25 Things I Want To Do Before I Die

All these years later when I look at that list, the 20-year old me makes the 48-year old me smile. I like to think that's a good thing. The top two things listed are to get married and have a baby (check and check). From there it's everything from seeing the ocean to riding a motorcycle to visiting Hawaii. As I've done things, I've marked them off with the date it was accomplished. Some things were easy to do, and some things will simply never happen. I'm okay with that. It's not a do-or-die kinda bucket list.. just the wish list of a young girl leaving her hometown for the first time. Amidst the wide variety of things written, #24 states: 

See the ballet, The Nutcracker, in a black velvet dress.

I'm not entirely sure what prompted this one. Having grown up in a small town, I suppose it sounded sophisticated and worldly and everything I aspired to be at that time. Whatever the motivation, there it sat, written in blue ink and waiting for the time it would be marked off. I know this is not a particularly hard thing to accomplish, but there rarely seems to be a time in life when money and opportunity are in the same place at the same time.

But the stars had aligned for this one.

The youngest directed me to tickets (for her and me) at a local theater for the Great Russian Nutcracker performed by the Moscow Ballet. She went on to insist that I "do it right" and found a beautiful, floor-length black velvet dress that fit me like a dream. To make it all extra special, the date of the ballet ended up being on my birthday. I spent most of that afternoon getting ready- even the husband sported a tie for the birthday dinner with the family before the performance. I seriously felt like I was going to the prom as I walked into a local restaurant while wearing what amounted to a formal dress, but I was so happy that I did not care. This was my moment and I was determined to enjoy every bit of it.

I'm a bit of a birthday diva, I suppose.

After a wonderful dinner with all the kids, our sweet girl gave up her ticket at the last minute so her beloved "pops" could escort me to the ballet. Her instructions were quite strict- he was not allowed to make fun of it in anyway- she knows her blue-collar father well, and off we went. I may or may not have panicked when I saw people walking into the theater in jeans (what kind of world is this anyway?), but with encouragement from the fella and a "who cares" text from the daughter, I proceeded to have the time of my life.

And I've had many a great time in my life.

As I sat through the Second Act, the fella staying quiet as per his instructions, my eyes filled with tears. As silly as it may sound, my life- the good and the bad, rolled through my mind as I sat there, all wrapped up in black velvet with the hand of the man I love holding mine. All I could think of was how beautiful my life has been. There have been dark days, dark years, and yes, a few dark Christmas seasons... but it may very well be those dark times that cause me to embrace the light, to cherish the good, and to hold tight to the moments that make me stand in awe. It was, indeed, an awesome moment and a wonderful memory made as I checked off #24 later that night.

I suppose the reason I write this, along with that sad disclaimer at the top, goes back to those last days spent with my father. I've often wondered how his mind processed the reality of a life approaching the final sunset. He was always one to offer advice or give an opinion, and when asked if he had had a good life (yes, we seriously had this conversation), he said the words that are forever in my ear: We've had good times and bad times, and I wouldn't trade any of it for a dime.

Well said, Dad. I won't ever forget.

The good always outweighs the bad, tears do give way to laughter, and the dreams of a 20-year old are never too far removed to be fulfilled.

I've got the picture to prove it.

*By the term safe, I am referring to a secure location used to store my sentimental stuff and not valuables that would be worth anyone's life or prison time, just so we're all clear. I'm a school teacher, remember. There are no valuables. =)

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.

Things That Make A Life

The youngest sent me a text earlier this evening that simply stated,

I've cracked open the cedar chest.

I read her words out loud to the husband as he was driving us home. Don't get sucked in, was his reply. When I walked in the door and saw photo albums strewn about, I tried my best to walk away. I changed my clothes, thought about how inviting the bed looked, pondered the laundry still in the dryer, and finally gave up all those thoughts of nonsense and found an empty spot on the floor.

Who was I kidding anyway?

I looked through one photo album after another and periodically removed my glasses so I could have a closer look. I must have been looking rather intently at one particular picture because that know-it-all of a husband quietly remarked, You know you were there for all that, right? Duh. Yeah. Of course... but where did that time go?

My life in a cedar chest.

Baby pictures of me. Baby pictures of our babies. My old Girl Scout sash. My favorite book as a young girl. My first pair of glasses from the fourth grade. Baby dolls and baby clothes. Notes my mom wrote me. Cards my dad gave me. My high school graduation cap and gown. Yearbooks. A glass piggy bank my grandpa gave me. A musical piano my brother gave me. The bride and groom topper from our wedding cake. Basic training certificates. Handmade gifts. The list goes on and on.

That baby of ours, the one that will turn the rather grown-up age of eighteen tomorrow, handed me a small manuscript in a clear kind of report cover you can buy at any Walmart and said, Mom, you may never be famous, but you sure can write good (or something to that effect). I took what she had and immediately recognized it as something I wrote many years ago about the struggles of being a fairly new wife and a young mother to three kids under the age of five. She said she sorta skimmed through it and was asking my permission to read it in its entirety. I said yes while at the same time hoping there was nothing in there that would scare her silly. After all, reality is always so much more frightening than any work of fiction.

I know we don't take anything with us when we leave this world, but what we leave this world can do more than just collect dust. After all, somewhere along the way there will be someone who will knock off that dust and discover a life.

And when they see mine, I hope they see a life well lived.

Santa, Me, and My Mom As A Seamstress

Ahhhh... Christmas. A fellow blogger posted a black and white photo of himself with the big man and that image stirred up my own memories of childhood holidays.

My mom knew how to make me into one stylin' girl, that's a fact. For as long as I can remember, she made my clothes and even now, my favorite color is pink.

My own daughter, no doubt, will question the length of this dress. Yes, it's short and yes, I still have those same looking knobby knees.

Another beautifully-made dress... I love the apron with this one. Now maybe you understand why I love aprons to this day. It just makes the woman.

Another apron! Score! And yes, I still believe in Santa at this age and yes, this is the same Santa! Gotta love small towns and holiday traditions.

Obviously, I hope, the sophistication of my pantsuit should indicate that this will be the final picture of Santa and me. The man has to be wondering how many more years he will see that redheaded girl. I wonder if he looked for me the next year.



My parents worked hard to keep the dream alive and for that, I am forever thankful. Because of the memories I had, I carried those traditions on to my own family and have often said that the fun of the Christmas season was putting our little ones to bed after they had meticulously set out a plate of cookies and a cup of milk with the big guy in mind. The memories of those joyous squeals in the morning preceded by the pounding of little feet will always bring a smile to my face. My proudest moment, though, would have to be the year the reindeer left remnants of their midnight snack of carrots in the snow in full view of the living room window. Oh my. I can still see those kids, noses pressed to the cold glass, talking among themselves about Santa's reindeer. For me, that memory is equivalent to the year my grandpa told me he had seen the red glow of Rudolph's nose high in the winter sky on a Christmas Eve while he was locking up the doors of the factory. Even now, I remember the excitement and awe I felt as a child.

Those are the kinds of memories that time just cannot touch.
Kind of like the outfits my mom use to make me.

Forever cool.

From the Mouth of Hope

Rarely do I write about classroom experiences for one simple reason...

I would surely offend someone.

This particular moment in time, however, demands attention and for that reason, I'm going to break one of my self-imposed rules and write about a class I was honored to lead on Friday. Every year, if the eleventh of September happens to fall on a weekday, I venture away from my lesson plans and focus on the events of that fateful Tuesday now fourteen years ago. I begin each class period by allowing about five minutes for students to write about what they already know (or think they know) regarding 9/11. While they are writing, I write September 11, 2001, in the middle of a clean white board. I then ask for students to begin describing that day using only one or two words. Invariably, this train starts off slow and then picks up so much speed that I have a hard time keeping up with it. As words are called out, I write them on the board in various places with the goal being to connect everything to the date of September 11th.

It works out much cooler than my lame attempt to describe it.

At any rate, the expected words come pretty quick.

Twin Towers.
Planes.
Fire.
Hijackers.

Then I start asking for specifics.

Bin Laden.
New York.
Pentagon.
Pennsylvania.

In between all these, I will hear other words that I may not have expected.

Depressing.
Overwhelming.
Confusing.
Despair.

During one afternoon class, though, I heard a word that stopped me still in my tracks. I was facing the board, marker poised to write, when I just had to lower my head and thank the good Lord in Heaven for allowing me to be right where I was at that moment.

The word?

HOMEGOING.

Homegoing. Even now it's a word that my spell check keeps underlining in a red squiggly line. It doesn't sound right. It doesn't seem like it should be right.

But it is so right.

You see, this student understood that as tragic as the events of that day were for those of us left standing on this side, September 11, 2001, was a day of celebration for those who stepped to the other side in faith on that fateful Tuesday morning. It was, in fact, a homegoing. Out of all my years, I've never witnessed such a positive outlook and attitude.

May we always be reminded that we know not what each new day might bring. It may be just another ordinary day out of what often seems to be a neverending week, or it may be the very day that we rejoice in an eternal life while the rest of the world looks on in terror that can often come from this life.

I hope this crazy made some kind of sense.

The note I was handed the morning of September 11, 2001.

Walmart Lines Are So Long I Get Completely Philosophical (Or Something Like That)

You know, I knew that sooner or later I would go here.

I just didn't expect to go here today.

While waiting for what seemed forever and a lifetime in the Walmart check-out line, I observed many, many things. Kids, mostly unsupervised, bouncing from one end of the line to another. Gawking at candy. Crawling on the floor. Whining about blankets. Totally and undeniably annoying.

There was one boy with who I instantly fell in love with- might have been his red hair, but he mostly stood close to who I assume to be his great-grandmother and pretended he was knee-deep in a jungle somewhere, machine gun sounds at all. When it came time for granny to load her items onto the the check-out thing, he helped and stacked and beamed with pride when she dropped something and he picked it up for her. When she told him to put on his coat, he dutifully zipped it up and patiently stood guard while she paid for her purchases.

Man, did that make me think of my own little boys.

There were magazine covers screaming immorality from every glossy issue and since we're on the subject, can someone please tell me how Cosmopolitan gets away without having to sport a brown wrapper to conceal its obviously very adult themes in every issue? Good Lord. There are things that just don't need to be in the check-out line, people. Seriously, if there are problems in that department, go home and google it in the privacy of your home.

But I digress.

If you've paid any attention to headlines in the past six months or so, then you have no doubt heard about the young lady diagnosed with terminal brain cancer who chose to end her life on her own terms, so to speak. Without a doubt, there are arguments for both sides of this discussion and I am not here to spark the debate on that. What I am here for, however, is to present a very public thank you to my father for not making that decision, no matter how unpleasant the ending may have been. You see, there was the beauty of life in all that unpleasantness.

As I stood in that check-out line watching a little red-headed boy and thinking about the young woman's life that ended way too soon (her choice or not), I unlocked the treasure chest of memories tucked back in the recesses of my mind and pictured my daddy as he was in those final days. No, he would not have wanted things to be the way they were, but if he had ended his journey in his own timing, we would have missed the gift of his passing. He didn't just go to sleep, he literally left this world. We witnessed it just as you and I would watch someone walk out a door.

I miss my father terribly, and yet when I think about that moment, my heart is at peace in knowing all is well. And no, I don't know how I would react if a doctor's report was to paint a traumatic ending to my life here on earth; I can only pray and believe that God's grace would be sufficient to see me through to His timing and not my own. Surely where we are weak, He is strong. If He is for me, who can be against me?

By my God, I can leap over a wall.

Even if that wall is death.

I know what waits on the other side.

If you are struggling with God's timing, whatever the situation may be, I would encourage you to stand strong and just... wait. Even as I stood in that line and thought about how our little family of five has grown from babies to toddlers to teenagers to independent young adults, I was reminded that nothing stays the same forever. Situations that we feel locked in have a way of changing faster than that Seattle-Green Bay game last night (and if you're not into football, I'll translate that into "pretty darn quick").

I truly believe His timing is perfect.

And redheads rock the world.

For you cause my lamp to be lighted and to shine;

 the Lord my God illumines my darkness.

 For by You I can run through a troop,

 and by my God I can leap over a wall.

 As for God, His way is perfect!

 The word of the Lord is tested and tried;

 He is a shield to all those who take refuge

 and put their trust in Him.

 For who is God except the Lord?

 Or who is the Rock save our God? 

Psalm 18: 28-31

Don't Let The Front Door Hit You On The Way Out

Apparently facebook thought they were doing me a favor by organizing my "big moments" and a few assorted pictures into a collage deemed "My Year In Review" or something like that. I'm assuming that they took the pictures and/or updates with the most likes and/or comments to make a quick scroll to showcase my year.

As if facebook knows me.

Sure, they got a few things right... those things that I care to post to facebook anyway. My kids. My dad. The discovery of my lost wedding album. After scoffing at what took about fifteen seconds to view, I thought,

Is that all this year was?

So I danced across a few virtual stepping stones and peeked at my blog. Thirty entries for the entire year. The least I've posted since I began blogging around 2010. I've come to acknowledge that my year is not about what all was posted, but everything that was not.

Or something like that.

I have cried more this year than I knew was possible (and believe me, I am a crier). I've witnessed things that I still see practically every night when I close my eyes. I've driven more miles, stared at more walls, and prayed more prayers this year than any other year... of that I am certain.

Where does all that leave me?

In my opinion, stronger.

And more glad than ever to slam the door on 2014.

Not to forget,
but to move forward.

Wisdom found on facebook. Who knew?

So long, year. Hello, blank page.

Memories Don't Cost A Dime

Antique shopping has a way of knocking the wind out of me. Maybe I think too much. Maybe I over think everything. Whatever it may be, I am a thinker and all that thinking can bring me down, or at the very least, cause me to spend an entire afternoon thinking about life.

I cannot help myself.

I look at wedding gowns tossed casually over chairs and think about the girl who wore that gown at some point in time. The pride. The hope. The heartache? My own wedding gown is tucked away sealed inside a box at my mom's house. Will it one day take up space in some dusty back corner of a downtown shop with no one near to tell the story of the day that dress made a walk down the aisle? You see, I don't see so much the fabric left behind... I see the dream that it enveloped.

My dad and me.

I look at military uniforms and ribbons and medals... some preserved under a glass case and others collecting the silky trails of a rogue spider spinning its web. Their stories of courage and dedication lost to the ages. I long to hear the tales behind each worn name tag. These were sons, daughters, husbands, and wives. These were lives lived. How do such treasured items make their way into the hands of strangers? Is there no family left?

I look at paintings and see the soul sitting just behind the eyes. I browse through books and think about the people who turned the pages. I tinker with kitchen gadgets and relive memories of my grandma. I spend an hour and a half sifting through the memories of other people and walk out without buying a thing.

Taxing on the mind.
Easy on the wallet.

Happy Antiquing.

Surrender That Ship!

Well, we're gonna go ahead and knock a few things out of the way. I've got a stack of school work and lesson plans and bills to work my way through and anyone who properly knows me understands that the key to procrastination is taking care of things now that could be taken care of later.

Or something like that.

To even stand a chance of getting around to what really needs to be accomplished today, I must first take some virtual time to think about one of my new favorite quotes. Consider this,

When I meet a wind I cannot fight,

I can do naught but set my sails

To let it take me where it will.

That is taken from a book I've been reading called The Rose Garden. It's not a bad read, but I won't give it my full recommendation until I finish it. If it ends in a way that makes me want to throw my nook across the room, well... it will fall short from getting my five stars. That particular quote, however, caught my attention and made me pause what I was reading the other night to write it down. In the last thirty-six hours or so, I've been thinking about the truth and wisdom steeped in those words.

How many times have I fought that wind? How many times have I grown weary from struggling with the sails and fighting the current and cursing the direction it is taking me? How many times have I given up the fight, exhausted, after coming to the conclusion that there really is no fighting that kind of wind. The course before me has been set and no matter how hard I may try to steer it the other way, I only end up losing time and energy and find myself right back to that original course.

If that makes any sense at all.

Today I am thankful for the course that has been set especially for me. This thought brings to mind Psalm 139:16 (The Message):

Like an open book,

 You watched me grow from conception to birth;

All the stages of my life were spread out before You,

The days of my life prepared before
 I had even lived one day.

God has answered my prayers more than once in the midst of strong winds in which I have no control. He steers the ship with His very breath even while I doubt His direction. Without Him, I would have surely perished already by my own hand. No, that is not a suicidal thought... it's a factual statement. My ways and my thoughts and my plans would have already been my own demise. Do you get that? We were never meant to survive on our own. We were meant to follow the plans of a perfect Creator.

So anyway.

That's what has been on my mind and now that my peace has been said, I can move on to those other things like presentations and state standards and electric payments.

Then again,

It might not be a bad time to mop the kitchen floor.

Watermelon Memories

In my mind there is a picture and in keeping with my usual way of doing things, it is a picture I cannot find.

Ten bucks says it's in the same place that wedding album is...

Anyway.

In that picture are three little kids sitting at a Little Tikes table. They are dressed in swim attire and sitting inside a garage as they drip and dry and eat watermelon. If I remember right, one has a leg kicked up, one is ready to take a bite, and one is just plain laughing. It's the picture I think of when I think of the Fourth of July.

As you know, holidays always make a me a bit sappy. I think of how our kids have grown and how much I miss my own family and well... it can be easy to get locked into what use to be. Thankfully, for you anyway, I'm not so far gone that I can't see the life taking place around me.

The oldest just traded his dirt bike for a boat. I don't see a lot of that boy as it is; now I'm assuming I'll see even less of him. But you know what? He's happy and healthy and free. He's a joy to watch (even if that watching forces me to stay up late some nights).

The middle is so sure of who he is... all I know to say is that there's a part of me that's jealous of that confidence. To see the change that's taken place in that boy is nothing short of miraculous- and there was nothing ever wrong to begin with- but the last year has been marvelous to watch. 

The youngest. She met me at the door yesterday with a cup of coffee, a freshly baked brownie, and a smile. To someone who is drowning in the slippery slime of doubt right now (that would be me, not her), that random act of kindness completed my day and offered me hope. 

Three kids. Growing up before my eyes and yet forever young in my heart.

And seeing as how I can never seem to find the pictures, that's a good thing.

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.

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

You May Not Think This Is Pretty, But I Sure Feel Better

May I ramble on for a bit?

...and if you know me in the real-life-kind-of-way, please don't bother making a mental note to ask me tonight or tomorrow or the next day what in the world this is all about...

Just let me ramble.

~*~*~Sheesh.  I've already deleted what I thought I wanted to write at least three times.~*~*

Let me try a different tactic.

My weekend was awesome. I love rainy days and March Madness and a husband who likes to look at shoes. I'll be the first to admit that I don't know much about this modern world or pop culture or what irks nineteen-year old boys, but I do know what I like (emphasis on the I).

And maybe I just now understood what it is I want to write.

Boy, this is gonna be selfish. Brace yourself.

I did not incur a massive student loan debt to please other people. Crazy, but true. I knew exactly what I was doing. I started out seeking a degree in elementary education when I mentioned to my husband about one semester in, "You know, I really don't want to do this psycho-questioning-how-a-state-thinks-you-ought-to-teach madness for four years."

"So do what you love," the man of the house answered back.

"I love to teach."  "So what do you love to teach?"  "History."  "So teach history."

I listened. I prayed. End of my life-changing discussion.

Off toward a history degree I went. That diploma now hangs on my wall. A job (in that field) is yet to be found.

How can that be?

How can I have such a burning desire to teach history, to talk about history, to do anything that has to do with history, and still be sitting here bemoaning the fact that as of right now, that diploma is absolutely useless to me?

Well, unless you count the fact that it was a MAJOR ACCOMPLISHMENT...

Anyway.

I am frustrated.

But I'm still proud.

I have mentioned before (on this blog) that graduating college is on my list of  25 Things To Do Before I Die. Apparently I should have added a number twenty-six: Gain employment that actually uses said degree.

I'm somewhat sorry you've been subjected to this ramble, especially if you were looking for something uplifting or comical. You might want to check out some of the other blogs listed on my page for content a little less me-related.

Lord, can I move back home yet? Just take me back ten years and let's go at this thing from another angle.

Seriously.

I am so not getting this plan of Yours.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

neither are your ways my ways, says the Lord.*

And there He goes again, reminding me of whose life this is anyhow.

Not mine. All His. Wait I will. I love when it He talks me out of my whining.

(Just please don't let Kansas make it to the Final Four. Please?)

And Amen.

*Isaiah 55:8-9

Distractions of a Cedar Chest

Do you ever spend most of the day cleaning only to look around and see that nothing is actually... well, clean ? That has been my day and it has by no means been a lazy day, but good grief. I might as well have spent the day on the couch doing nothing.

I woke up at eight.
Had two cups of coffee.
Spent close to an hour online with my mom.

Made a late breakfast or an early lunch, depending on your point of view.
Started laundry. Changed sheets. Cleared the floor of clothes and shoes.

Let the daughter dive into the cedar chest.

And that's where things got a little out of whack. You see, that cedar chest is full of treasures. Baby blankets. Baby pictures. Baby dresses. Dolls. Cabbage Patch Kids. My first pair of glasses, circa 1978.

We looked at pictures from my basic training, the husband's basic training, and our early years together. I pointed out that in both group pictures from my basic and technical training, I am standing by the very girl my husband-to-be dated in his high school years and was very much infatuated with. This little known fact came to light one day when he drove to my base to pick me up for a date. I let him in my room, finished doing whatever I was doing, and turned around to see a rather pale-looking face holding a framed picture and looking at me in disbelief. He asked me how well I knew the girl I was standing next to in the photo. Rather well, was my reply. He shook his head in disbelief and we moved on in life. To this day, we still laugh about that moment and wonder at the odds of such a thing happening. Considering we grew up a thousand miles from each other, joined two different branches of the military, and trained on two separate coasts... I'd say the odds are pretty slim.

So that little story, though retold many times before, was at least one distraction of the day.

We found a pair of crocheted baby shoes that belonged to the husband. A crocheted baby hat and sweater that came from a great-uncle. A crocheted stocking cap that was made by a grandma. Crocheted blankets. Quilted blankets. Embroidered blankets. School pictures. Report cards. Lots of construction paper artwork.

And still not a wedding album to be found.

I finally had to walk away, leave the memory feast to the daughter, and carry on with the laundry. I've yet to vacuum. We did manage to squeeze in the mandatory grocery run and hit up Sonic for happy hour. A strawberry limeade and sunny weather make a Saturday a little more complete.

Even if the housework is not.

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.

What If It Was You On That Corner? What If It Were Me?

I woke up dreaming about football.

I seriously have no idea what is wrong with me.

Maybe it's hormonal.
Maybe it's lack of anything to look forward to.
Maybe I'm just weird like that.

And yes, the last option, well... maybe the first one, too... is most likely the correct choice. To say I have nothing to look forward to would be to say there is nothing going on in my life and that would be a lie. Today, for example, I have little smokies and meatballs and hopefully some chicken wings to look forward to. Tomorrow, I have a half-a-day of work to look forward to. Next week, I'll have a paycheck to look forward to. Next month, we've got a Can't Wait To See How The Lord's Gonna Pull This One Off moment to look forward to.

There's plenty going on. Plenty to look forward to. Plenty to pray about.

We are in The Land of Plenty.

Anyway.

Yesterday I took the youngest out so she could spend her hard-earned babysitting money. At one particular stoplight, we noticed a ragged-looking old man walking from car to car as he held up his cardboard sign for the passerby's to see. On our way out of the shopping center, we were waiting in the same intersection for the light to change. He was on our side, a sight we see far too often.

Different person. Different crossing. Same sign.

I was pretty sure I had a dollar and as it turned out, there was two. Rolling down the window, I handed it to my daughter who in turn handed it to him. He smiled with stained, crooked teeth while thanking and blessing us profusely. The light changed and he stepped back to wait for the next line of cars.

The girl and I talked about that man as we drove away. How do you know he'll use the money he gets for food? You don't. Simple as that. The husband will often recall the time he was at a convenience store picking up trash and dug deep into his pockets to give a man (who asked) his last $1.47 only to see the guy walk straight into the store to purchase a single can of beer. The time was eight in the morning. He, the husband, was so mad that he stopped the guy as stepped outside and popped the top. I won't repeat here the exchange of words.

So the only thing I could say to my girl was this,

But for the grace of God, that is not us on the corner.

Not your dad, hoping to bring something home. Not me, wondering what we'll do tomorrow. Not you kids, looking for a place to sleep. What that man does with any money he collects is between him and the Lord. Period.

He was on my mind, though, when I crawled into bed last night. I don't know why his face stayed with me. In our area, you see the homeless all the time. Under the bridges, pushing their carts, lined up by The Salvation Army. It's a sight so common, it's easy to grow immune to it, but that guy... that old man with the stained, crooked teeth smiling and thanking and blessing us profusely... he's a sight I won't soon forget.

I wonder what the Lord's got in mind now.

I'm not where I want to be, but I'm not where I was...  He's still working on me.

The Final Post

Of an eventful year.

I graduated college. 

I played with a cat.

I scrapbooked.

I survived the daughter's first dance.

I survived the graduation of the oldest.

I visited my favorite place.

I read the Twilight Series and lost a month of my life.

I resisted the allure of little, sweet kittens.

I documented yet another repair of Dodge Grand Caravan.

I waited in long line at Chick-Fil-A.

I watched the daughter cut off her hair.

I watched a son cut off his hair.

I planted.

I sat.

I played with another cat.

Here's to the end of one year.

And the coming of the new.

You just never know what might be around the corner.