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.

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 Secret To A Happy Life (When I'm Not Complaining, That Is)

I woke up with two, make that three thoughts in my head:

1). Good grief, it's after ten o'clock already?
2). My gosh, that felt good to sleep in.
3). Good Lord, it's Good Friday.

Look, my thoughts don't run too deep when I first wake up. All I can tell you is that I heard a lock turn on the front door, found myself stretching in the middle of an otherwise empty bed, and reached for my glasses to see the time. I didn't get up right away; I stayed put and soaked in the moment for a bit. There wasn't a whole lot of thinking going on.

I do have a lot before me today. There's a pile of laundry on the washer, a pile of laundry beside my bed, and I'm pretty sure a pile of laundry in the bathroom. I want to clean the house, polish the floors, and remove the hairball from beside the computer chair. I've got flowers waiting to be planted, a grocery list to be checked off, and a pesky fountain pump outside that needs to be fixed. Oh, and there's the two porches and swing and rocking chairs sporting that fine, yellow pollen...

So why am I still sitting here?

I'm taking in the moment, my friend.

Earlier in the week, a friend and I were talking about how people get so busy with their lives, the idea of having fun seems foreign and something they have to plan into their schedule. She was talking about the fun that happens with her family all the time... games, bowling, stuff like that. I'll admit that I'm not the best at that kind of fun, but one thing I am pretty good at is knowing how to appreciate any given moment of any given day. Some might call that laziness. I call it a very good system.

Like today. I know what this day represents to me and my faith. I don't have a Bible open before me and I don't have the highest of Christian vocabularies, but when I have to pause from typing to wipe a tear away from my eye and my heart chokes up a bit due to an emotion that I cannot describe to you... well, I don't even know what to say. Without this day, I would be a hopeless mess.

I am a sinner. I'm lousy at church attendance.
I don't read a devotion every morning.

I complain. I whine. I doubt.

But there is Someone. Someone who knows me better than myself. Someone who knows that once I peel back the cares of this world and get past the imperfections of this body, I'll find peace. Peace that could only come about because of a Man and His WILLINGNESS to take MY mess upon Himself and turn it into something beautiful.

There truly is no greater love.

So yes.

I sit and think about all I need to do.
I sit and think about all I need to know.

Only then will I get up and get busy.

It's a system, and it works well for me.

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.

Putting The Merry Back In Christmas

The following was a post by a local radio station on facebook.

This is supposed to be the most wonderful time of time of the year,

 but for some it is not. What are you doing to truly enjoy the Christmas season?

Well, let's see.

First, I'm being honest about things. Being tight on Christmas funds is nothing new for us, but this year is notably different. I refuse to spend an unemployment check on gifts (besides, seeing as how I just put fifty bucks worth of gasoline in my vehicle and the water bill is due, there wouldn't be a whole lot of fun money left anyway). What we will spend will come out of our savings and, no news flash here, I will not drain that account to appease anybody. Thankfully, I'm in luck. My parents love anything to do with our kids, our kids love anything we give them, and my husband loves me. I can count on one hand the others I have already bought a gift for and the rest of the clan (neighbors, acquaintances, and such) will get some homemade goodies straight from my kitchen.

Second, I am surrounded by Christmas cheer. Remember that post about the husband's new found purpose to decorate? Well, he didn't complete everything he had on that original list, but our home is very festive nonetheless. You can't help but hum a little tune of Jingle Bells when you walk through the front door. Plus, last week I fixed a ham for supper one night and just for kicks pulled out the good china. Nothing says good mood like eating what feels like a fancy dinner on an ordinary week night. Today I used that leftover ham and fixed a soup that my husband deemed grandpa worthy (older-than-dirt family recipe) and let my girl whip up some chocolate-covered pretzels. Nothing says Christmas more than sweet and salty snacks.

Finally, and I guess this is the most obvious, I think about why we have this season anyway. I can never think of Christmas without thinking of Easter and how a baby in a manger ended up a man on a cross. December will come and go, gifts received will eventually become nothing more than memories, and sooner or later we will all have our fill of fudge and frosted cookies. We will continue to pay too much for gas and try to cut back on the water bill and pray the new year brings employment. Life goes on no matter what the holiday may be. Through it all, I am comforted by what I know to be true. He is not a baby in a manger anymore and He is most definitely not a man still on a cross.

He Is My Resurrected Savior.
My Soon-To-Be Coming King.
The Only Reason For The Season.

And in Him I find enjoyment.

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.

Sifting Through The Stuff

For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand [anywhere else];

 I would rather be a doorkeeper

and stand at the threshold in the house of my God

 than to dwell [at ease] in the tents of wickedness.

   For the Lord God is a Sun and Shield;

 the Lord bestows [present] grace and favor

 and [future] glory (honor, splendor, and heavenly bliss)!

 No good thing will He withhold from those who walk uprightly.

Psalm 84:10-11, Amplified



Thank goodness for good friends.

I have a good, good friend almost nine hundred miles away. We met in the summer of 2001 when we were gearing up to kick off a brand new school year at a brand new school. Dare I say it was friendship at first sight? Not everything in life comes that easy.

I woke up this morning in a not-so-good mood. I definitely was not thinking about the goodness of the Lord or His mercy or future heavenly bliss. I was thinking that my head hurt and I did not want to face the day and I certainly did not want to drive kids to school. With two sick kids anyway (yes, we've went from the one sick kid yesterday to now two... just in case you're keeping track). But anyway, I was thinking What's the point of just taking one kid to school? We'll all just stay home so I can rest my aching head.

Except that one (not sick) kid loves school. To her, missing a day for no good reason would be one of the top five worst things that could ever happen to her. She wants to do well. She wants to be a teacher (be still my beating heart). One of the top five worst things I could do to her as a mom would be to make her stay home. So we went to school and I stopped to get gas which required a little shuffling of the funds so nothing would bounce. Just another day in our economic life.

Before I had even had my first cup of coffee, my dad called. He was talking about his weekend (birthday on Saturday) and he made a comment about Mother's Day. It was a sad, sad day. Now he didn't go into details, but I'm not entirely slow on most things: neither one of my parents have a mother still living. I bet that was a sad day. Stuff like that tends to put most things in perspective for me.

Back to my good, good friend, though. I fired up the computer this morning to see the above scripture she had posted (verse 10). I skimmed over it at first, but couldn't get the words out of my head. I broke out my handy-dandy, duct-taped Bible and read it a fourth or fifth time. At some point, the fog of self-pity that I woke up to began to clear.

One day with Him would be better than anything else.

Even if I was the door person.

It makes my heart smile just thinking about it.

All this other stuff is just, well... stuff.

stuff: noun. Refuse or worthless matter; nonsense.

That kind of puts things in perspective, too, doesn't it?

And it all makes me think of a song.

Thank you, Sharon, for being my good, good friend.

And for reminding me every day of the God we serve.



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.