Wah, Wah, Wah!

I detest whining. It's so annoying and just gives people an excuse not to do something. Most whines begin with the word "But..." and are followed by lots of "I can't" declarations. When my children were young and into whining, I tried to quickly shut them down with "I don't hear you when you whine. Try again and this time talk to me." It usually worked.

Today, I realized I'm a whiner about something. Just typing that gives me the creeps. I hate to admit this, but as I read the scripture for my daily prayer time, it slapped me. I'm whining that I can't do something God has repeatedly told me to do. Not run for office, go into missions, or fast for months. No, it's something I love doing. He told me to write.

So, why the whining? Because I'm afraid.

You see, I'm afraid I'll fail at this. That I'm not "good enough." Who do I think I am to attempt this? Who in their right mind would spend time reading what I think? I'm limping along with it, trying to spend time writing and hoping to finish a project and slide in under the radar achieving moderate success. Success that would validate my effort, that would satisfy God. All the while, wondering if I really have what it takes.

Have you struggled with something you think God's told you to do? Are you supposed to use a talent, maybe one that you're not sure is all that stupendous? Are you running to Nineveh to catch a fish?

Today, I read 3 verses from Exodus. Sometimes, God only needs six words to convict me. Moses was whining to God. Knelt down, shoeless and stunned, he managed somehow to move into whining and uttered,


"O Lord, I’m not very good with words. I never have been, and I’m not now, even though you have spoken to me. I get tongue-tied, and my words get tangled.”  (Exodus 4:10 NLT)


Did you catch them? "I'm not very good with words." I'm not very good. Do you ever think that? Do you say it to God when he asks you to do something? You know what? You're right. YOU aren't very good, nor am I. But, God is and he went on to tell Moses the same thing he'll tell us:


“Who makes a person’s mouth? Who decides whether people speak or do not speak, hear or do not hear, see or do not see? Is it not I, the Lord?  Now go! I will be with you as you speak, and I will instruct you in what to say.”  (Exodus 4:11-12)

Well, that takes care of the whining about what to write, doesn't it? I think I'll post this verse over my desk. But, I'm still not full of confidence. I worry that if I gain great confidence, I'll become prideful or arrogant over something that doesn't warrant it.  Maybe a good piece of writing, but nothing on the Best-Seller list. Won't I look silly! 

I moved on to my next verse for the day:

"We are confident of all this because of our great trust in God through Christ.  It is not that we think we are qualified to do anything on our own. Our qualification comes from God." (2 Corinthians 3:4-5 NASB)

I think my Parent is saying, "I don't hear you when you're whining." 

  

The Rainy Day House

     I read a quote today that seems fitting as I sit in my office listening to thunder roll across the morning sky.  (My companion, Woody, seems undisturbed!)

"Walking through puddles is my favorite metaphor for life." (Jessi Lane Adams)

     It's been years since I stomped in puddles during a summer rain. When the thunder ended, Mom would send us out with instructions to jump in as many puddles as we could find. There was something about getting the nod from her to drench ourselves with abandon that made it more exciting! Maybe I should invite the 6 year-old neighbor to join me later.

     Now that the Kentucky Monsoon Spring has abated for several weeks and the record breaking heat early in June baked us to clay, I'm ready for a rainy day. What, you say? If you look back a few posts, you'll find me whining about gloom. But yes, being the fickle woman that I deny being, I am loving being inside my cozy office with the rumbles outside.

     I've always wondered if I was born on a rainy day. There's something secure about being inside, safe and dry with warm lamplight glowing and some Campbell's soup simmering for lunch that makes me feel... loved. Having a safe "harbor" in the storm and being cared for by people who love me - can there be anything better?

     Childhood rainy day memories are good ones. I remember neighborhood friends at the door with red rubber boots slipped over Keds and dripping umbrellas on hurriedly spread out newspapers on the floor. We'd open the legs to a wobbly card table and spread out the monopoly board and distribute paper money. (Who would get the the Scotty dog or top hat as their token?) Hours of board games moved into fort building with blankets topping the card table as well as footstools pushed into rows to form tunnels. The search for batteries ensued for flashlights, as we pretended to be pirates in caves. Imagination at work. Sadly, something that isn't given much notice today. Adventure would be interrupted with soup and hotdogs followed by a "rest time" with comic books. We'd read about Beetle Bailey, Little Lulu, Casper, and SuperMan until they inhabited our dreams. Ah, to be back in the rainy day house. Safe, secure and loved.

     Ah...but I am.  :)

Honoring Heroes

Memorial Day usually finds me hauling out flags, grilling dinner and feeling very patriotic.  However, I am a child of a World War II Navy Veteran.  A gentle man, now 89 and trying to remember simple things while spending his twilight years in an assisted living home in Florida.  I recall how he tried to tell me about the war when I studied it in high school.  The terminology confused me and I'm sure I just wanted to be done listening and call my girlfriends.  It wasn't until years later, after Vietnam, after having children of my own to protect, that I sat with my husband Mike and truly gave Dad the audience he deserved.  It was then that I realized the bravery he and so many others showed.

If you've seen the movie "Saving Private Ryan" you'll remember the horrific scene at the beginning of the movie.  The beach scene at Normandy France.  It was there my father, then a Lt. jg, fresh out of an accelerated class at YALE and not even 22 years old saw death and mayhem.  A young man with barely a beard to shave and dreams of a future put on hold as he watched scenes he never forgot.  I learned of his ship, LST-133, and how they eventually hit a mine when returning for a second trip to the beach.  How they limped back to friendly port.  How they were awarded the Navy Citation Medal.

Like many from that war, my dad never talked about it.  Now, it's what he talks about most to any man he finds who served as well.  Several years ago, my mother told me about Dad receiving a phone call from an old ship mate telling him of a reunion being held.  They were too advanced in age to make that trip, but the amazing thing was, after hanging up, Dad sat down and started to cry.  After LST-133 hit the mine, Dad had held a severely injured man's head in his lap until the medics took him away.  There was no doubt in Dad's mind that he had not made it.  For almost 50 years, he lived with that  memory. "He's alive." he whispered. During the phone call, he learned that his shipmate was, indeed, alive and living out his old age.

I have a blue binder with pages of memories from my father's youth.  Many of those pages deal with the war. I have included segments of his description of D-Day on board his ship.  His words are in italics.  I tried to summarize others to shorten the post.  On this day of honoring heroes, please indulge me in giving tribute to my dad, who like so many others put themselves in front of death to defend all our American freedoms.

Walter "Bud" Witherbee

"The 'word' came down to us that finally we were to set sail from Portland on June 6, 1944.  I was not yet 22 years old.  We had been briefed beforehand on the situation with the Germans on the beach- where the strongpoints were, etc.  An immense fleet of ships had been gathered along the southern coast of England and now was proceeding on its appointed task in the invasion. Our appointed landing beach was designated Easy Red, the toughest place of all. Paratroopers were supposed to drop behind enemy lines on the beach and knock out German coastal artillery before we got there but they got confused and dropped into wrong positions with accompanying loss of life.  Likewise the gliders, who were supposed to land behind enemy lines.  They landed hither and yon with resultant loss of life and equipment.  This was to be done pre-dawn and in the darkness, which it was."

Dad goes on to recount how LST-133 received orders to beach at once - best possible speed.  When you beach at "flank speed" you don't come off again.  As they tore through the anchored ships toward the beach they saw they were the only ones moving.  A suicide mission.  My dad was the gunnery officer and broke open the small arms locker so the men would have some protection when they had to abandon ship.

The Captain (a regular Navy Chief Signalman before Pearl Harbor) was on the superconn, an elevated platform with ladder mounted above the regular conn where I was stationed.  We proceeded and got closer to the beach, I could see the effects of the earlier beachings.  Solid wreckage of smaller vessels.  There was no way to beach except to run over one or two of them.  We came closer and closer and then, suddenly to port, a blinker light going madly.  I read the blinker.  It said, "LST 133 STOP! DO NOT BEACH!"  No action from the captain.  Surely as an ex-Chief Signalman he can read it.  Still no action.  Finally in desperation, I hollered, "Captain, that LCI says 'stop, do not beach!"


"Very Well", he replied looking through his binoculars surveying the wreckage on the beach.  


The LCI continued to madly blink the same message.  I continued to wait for action from the Captain and got none.  Once again I hollered to him relaying the message.  Muttering "Very well" again, he finally got the message and at the last possible second ordered "Hard right rudder!"  We almost broached on the sand but made it successfully.  We anchored, the closest ship to the beach, just south of the largest German gun emplacement on the beach.


The following day, or as the Navy man put it, D-Day plus one found them with orders to beach at a different spot at high tide. They followed orders and once again upon nearing the beach, they were met with another blinking light saying "STOP! DO NOT BEACH!" It was too late, they beached.  The tides at Normandy were so immense that they had to wait 3 hours for them to recede and another 3 hours to come back in so that they could come off the beach.  As the tides receded, the men on board saw the reason for the frantic message.

There were iron poles braced on either side by two short iron poles.  Where they came together at the top was an explosive device.  Our port side lay against one of the bracing poles and our starboard side was against the other.  About 10 yards from our bow doors was a third similar device rigged so that when the explosive at the bow went off, it triggered the others.  Bear in mind, that my main storage area for ammunition was forward.  There was nothing to do but wait. 


Seeing that they had landed safely, the Admiral then ordered the other LSTs to go ahead and beach.  Luckily, none hit any mined poles.  Later, after the tide came in and Dad's ship retreated from the beach, they received another blinker message.  This time it was the flagship saying "LST- 133 WELL DONE!"

Well done, indeed.

Remember?

I love a good story. And a storyteller who can paint with words. My mother could capture my imagination and weave it through the stories of an era past. Whether sitting on the steps leading into our kitchen or lying with my head in her lap as she stroked my long hair, she would remember pages of her story. I can still hear her voice in my memory.  Soothing, amused, and sometimes pained. I focused on every word and tried to store it in my memory along with nursery rhymes and Winnie The Pooh adventures. I knew then that someday these would be worth retelling.

This August, I'll remember her passing for the second anniversary. She was such an amazing, gorgeous, funny, intelligent survivor of a life that could easily become a novel. What thrills me the most is that she was always a Jesus-truster and in the latter years, finally knew the personal surrendered relationship that makes all things new. I have no doubt she is singing love songs to him in heaven with her restored voice and I look forward to joining in with her someday. What a treat to harmonize together!

Mom was always my sweetest encourager and my efforts at writing were met with cheers. When I sorted through her folders, I was touched to find one filled with every piece I had sent her. From dramas written for church production to devotional thoughts on raising children, they were three-hole-punched and clicked into that folder. Knowing her, she reread them often.

Six months before she died, I had the fortunate opportunity to attend a 3 day writing workshop with a dear friend and mentor. I had submitted light devotional material thinking that was where I needed to pick up after putting my writing on hold for twenty years. When my friend, Cec, met with me on the first day, he gave me some compliments and critiques but then sat back and said, "This is good and it's fine, but I can't help but feel there's something better just waiting to be written by you. I don't know what that is, but I know it's there." At that moment, I knew what it was. I returned to my laptop sitting among the other writers at the table and opened a new page. Memories flooded my mind and I could envision the stories as if I were watching a movie. A little girl in an orphanage during the depression. A life with strict foster parents who showed no love. A teenager with a promising voice singing at nightclubs followed by late night homework. Big band travels. Marriage and divorce. Marriage again and a house full of children and friends needing shelter. Alcohol. Murder. And always hope. My fingers flew and the scenes unfurled. When I told Mom I was writing her story, she cooed over the phone that it filled her with happiness.

It's a disappointment to me that in the two years since then, I've only written six chapters of her story. A blip on the screen. I repeatedly vow to carve out time to write. I head to the library to become a sequestered novelist. Too many times, my plans are set aside for other things on the to-do list. But, when I succeed and sit before the screen, it happens. Suddenly, I'm lying on the couch and if I concentrate, I can feel fingers lightly stroking my hair and hear a beautiful voice telling a tale.

I'm One of His Peeps

I was out the door this morning by 8:30 (a rarity for this non-working woman) and headed to 3 stores before the impending storms dumped copious amounts of rain.  I wanted to scoop up all the needed supplies for dinner.  Today is my turn to pamper a friend who just had a knee replaced by taking dinner to  her family of five.  Nothing fancy, but comfort food: pot roast and brown gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, fresh fruit salad and brownies.  She'll feel satisfied if not healed by the last course! Chocolate has definite healing properties.

As I checked out at the first grocery, the woman bagging asked the question of the day, "So, are you fixing a big Easter dinner this weekend?"  I'm sure she'll hear most women reply with menus of ham and potato salad or maybe something made with jello and pretzels.  She looked disappointed when I answered, "No, not really.  You see, my family's involved at church all weekend.  We always have been, really, and after 3 days and 5 services, they just want to veg."  She nodded muttering a polite "Oh."  I felt like I was suddenly un-American or un-Christian or something very "un". I tried to smile at her and assure her that we loved our church. The one right down the street. It's great. She kept nodding and dismissed me with "Well, have a good one, Hon." I felt I had somehow failed at Invite-Someone-To Church 101.

Driving home, I wondered when Easter became all about ham. I like ham. A lot, actually, but seriously, how did it become an Easter staple? We can't escape the bunny hiding eggs. (Not carrots or anything associated with rabbits. How do you explain bunnies with eggs?)  For way too many, Easter means meals spread on pastel tablecloths along with candy, chicks, daffodils, and children snatching dyed eggs before others can grab them.  It's tradition.  Don't mess with tradition if you want to get along with Great Uncle Albert or better yet, your mother-in-law who prepared all this food.  Still, I wonder, how can we shine the spotlight on, as Linus from Peanuts might say, "...what it's all about, Charlie Brown."

For me, Easter is tied in the top spot with Christmas.  I adore waking on Easter Sunday picturing the joy that Mary, Martha and all the Christ followers must have felt when they found out Jesus was alive.  As one of His, my insides sing with excitement on Easter.  I imagine what it would have felt like to be in their company. The wide-eyed disbelief followed by hugs and shouts of promise and laughter. Oh, to feel that excitement about my savior every morning!  I don't have to be one of those believers in the garden staring at an empty tomb.  I'm seeing my own empty tomb that was once filled with a self-centered life that only gave me frustration, jealousy, worry and despair. A grim hole with no sign of light. That was before I gave in.  I turned everything over to Jesus and said, "I trust you. You lead and I'll follow." Now, there's a light shining - it never goes out.  Now, I look to heaven knowing where my savior waits for me.  He's with the Father.  He's with my loved ones.  He's waiting to show me the room he has ready for me in a place I can't even imagine. Because he won.  He defeated death.  I'll live with Him forever. All because I surrendered to the the One who loves me most.  You can have my candy and ham - I'll take the Risen Christ.

For the Birds

I don't Tweet, but I'm into birds right now.  I've always enjoyed watching them outside my office window. Yellow finches hang on my feeder, woodpeckers drop by for suet, and vibrant cardinals add a splash of red.  An amazing show as long as I keep the feeders filled.

As much as I like the real deal, I'm being drawn to the 2D bird.  Cute little graphics.  Those pudgy little guys are everywhere and I'm all about them.  As a scrapbook fan, I find they're everywhere in the craft world.  As any good scrapper knows, you move from actually doing the pages filled with photos to simply enlarging your collection of supplies.  I've been in that mode for quite some time and could scrap for about a year only buying adhesive.  But, these birds!  So cute.  And, the best part is they don't fertilize!

I made this little guy this morning with my Cricut and a software program that is amazing.  It's called Sure Cuts A Lot and has revolutionized my scrap world.  Can't wait to explore all the possibilities, but until then - I'll be filling the feeders.

Potted

I love to fill planters with color. My annual search for flora begins in April with a trip to local garden centers overflowing with pinks, vibrant reds, white, purple, blue and sunshine yellow. I walk around the tables imagining my deck and patio garden as if they were in a Jane Austin landscape. I dream of hanging baskets cascading with wispy blooms. My goal is to create an oasis of color and tranquility where guests can sit and savor. Spring plantings promise so much. Drought delivers something different.

Every year, I remind myself that around July, the baking sun and rising temperatures will win the battle. I know that this usually prevails, but those gentle petals beguile me into thinking we'll spend the summer together.  I picture myself sipping lemonade beneath shade trees (that grow on a slope in my yard quite unable to sustain peaceful benches). In this idyllic scene, I sense the breeze as it flirts with gentle blossoms and smell the mossy fragrance of rich potting soil.

Now, cut to reality. In August on my deck, the potted plants that remain have cracked soil, withered leafless stems and fading flowers begging for mercy.  Even if I remember to water them daily, there are times when even the sturdiest of geraniums would be best served in the compost pile. If I had one.  And, seriously, who wants to sit outside and muse when sweat runs down your temples and even the dog is whining to go inside? I'm an A/C girl and not ashamed to admit it.

This April will find me full-throttle and elbow-deep in planting.  I've surrendered to the fact that I'm a floral optimist.  You'll find me filling planters and humming some Disney soundtrack hoping this year will be different.  And, if by some chance it is, stop by for lemonade.

Marching Orders

Yesterday I was domestic.  Rare around here anymore.  I used to be a pretty good housekeeper.  Now, I'm a really good dirt hider. Cleaning can be physically exhausting and a bore.  Just saying.  But, can I just "air out" a few things?

Winter 2011 has been full of, well, germs.  Friends have all been bombarded with two illnesses.  One is the Type A flu that wasn't included in the Flu shot we were all supposed to get.  It's taken body builders down.  Most have been lifeless resembling Olive Oil and sometimes whining with fevers for five days.  Not to mention the cold symptoms.  The other is the Norovirus which is a vicious stomach/intestine thing that has docked cruise ships.  It, too, lasts for almost a week.  Highly contagious. Some lucky souls have had it twice. Within the last two weeks, both of my adult kids have joined the ranks. All this makes me want become a high-class hermit. Forget the cabin hidden in the hills.  I'll take a disinfected suite on a sunny island with plenty of fruity umbrella drinks.

So, with everyone finally out of the house and temps close to 60, I opened windows, scoured bathrooms from top to bottom, changed sheets and sanitized everything but the dog.  If I knew how to do that, he'd be even whiter. (Wonder why he's been in his crate all day?) My hands look like I've been on safari without any moisturizers.  I may need Crisco by this point.

As I type, the aroma of Lysol permeates my tranquil moment.  If we can make it until Spring,  I may not have to clean again for at least 6 months!  We'll all be out on the deck anyway, sipping our umbrella drinks.

Turn on the Light!

      I am not one of those whiney winter people who incessantly talk about being ready for the beach, but today, I've met my match with grey. (Or "gray" as it's spelled in the States.)  I've lived in Louisville all of my life and therefore, am familiar with the Ohio Valley and what living in this crevice brings.  In the summer, the humidity is a constant bedfellow with the hot temperatures.  Breathing becomes inhaling "soup".  Winter in the valley here can surprise us with stalled snow systems that nestle in and dump us with record amounts.  In 1994, we received 22" of the white stuff!  No matter the season, our hometown wears the moniker of Top Allergy City.  How's that for a marketing gimmick?

     But the grey!  The constant clouds!  This year, it seems so... grey. I just looked up the average number of cloudy days here and it's 171.  Not counting the partial days.  

     Today is a Saturday.  Usually a day when people are out running errands and life seems to bustling.  I decided to escape from the house where the grey has taken up residency and fill up amid people. I bought a new cell phone case. I shopped at Target - usually a happy store for me.  Ate a healthy salad in my car with the grey skies filling all the windows.  I browsed at Barnes & Noble (my favorite guilty pleasure) sipping a free coffee and looking at spring decorating magazines.  I was planning to make another stop when I threw in the dingy towel. "I'm actually depressed!" I said aloud. My van headed home.  So, what's the answer besides move?  Buy one of those goofy sunshine lights?  

     Are you serious?  These babies cost around $140.  I'd rather spend that on chocolate and a ticket to the islands.  Besides, I can't see me sitting in front of this every day soaking in happy light without feeling ridiculous.

     Maybe if I post some photos of things I love, they might distract me.

     This is my most favorite color and makes me happy:

     This guy has made me laugh for 32 years!

     I would LOVE to travel here someday (even though they have a few gray days as well):

But, until then, I've decided to put on some rocking music that reminds me of summer nights in high school. I'm going to finish scrapbooking the photos of our cruises.  I've turned on all the lights in my office and I'm telling myself it's May in the Bluegrass state.  I may get out the summer linens and set the table.  Or inform the nut of my life (see photo of old glasses above) that we're heading out to dine.  Who knows? There may even be chocolate involved.  Beats staring at a light.

Here Comes the Sun

I'm amazed that with all the available television channels, I find so little worth watching.  We've even followed ridiculous programs that show cooking competitions, truckers on perilous ice roads, dog trainers, junk collectors and wedding dress selections.  I won't even try to watch the little girls who compete in beauty contests.  Their mothers spray tanning tiny four-year-old bodies, applying false eyelashes and veneers over tiny teeth. Seriously.

All this supports my love of our DVR.  It has revolutionized television. I even use it as a verb now. "Did we DVR that?" We tape the shows we enjoy - including the stupid ones- and then watch whenever we want to be entertained or zoned out.  Wouldn't it be great if they could translate that to your glasses so that whenever you're in a boring meeting, you could watch a show without anyone knowing??  Hmm... I may be having a millionaire moment here.

One of the shows I enjoy DVRing is Sunday Morning on CBS.  Only have a few minutes to watch something worthwhile?  This show has it.  The program is 90 minutes long, but filled with several segments. Some are political, some amusing and most of them are on people, places, or objects I would never learn about otherwise. Most are followed by the signature "sun" done in various artistic ways using all kinds of mediums.  I look forward to these each week.

A few months ago, we watched a segment on Kodak Kodachrome film and it's demise. There was only one small business that developed it anymore and it was shutting down. Digital imaging has put it to rest. I remember loading film into various cameras including a Brownie, Instamatic, and later 35mm dinasaurs like my father's Lycra which needed a separate light meter. That film in the hands of talented photographers captured many images we hold dear.  Remember the haunting eyes of the girl in Afghanistan on National Geographic? 

As I type, I'm learning about Gypsy Rose Lee.  Now, that isn't a topic my coffee chicks would bring up but I'll be ready for the Jeopardy category when it surfaces.  She was born in 1911 and became the first famous stripper. Lady Gaga has nothing on her.  Not what I'd call a role model, but interesting none the less.  Up next is a story entitled "The Real Lois Lane".  From racy to reporter, this show covers it all! So, as I dress for church, I'm assured that when I have a minute to sit, I'll be entertained and educated by Sunday Morning.

  

Who Knew?

I was not a great student in school.  Throughout elementary and high school, my parents tired of hearing "She's not working up to her potential." I don't think that was a surprise to them after several report cards.  When I was interested, I made As.  Most of the time, I was more interested in the people around me.  And the art work on the bulletin boards, the change of seasons displayed through the windows, and what everyone in class had stored in their cigar boxes.  I wasn't even close to what is now called ADD. My "condition" was and is what I'll call Creative Observation.  I'm fascinated by people, nature and objects around us.  They used to call people like me "Dreamers."  I'll take that.  I like the quote by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe "Dream no small dreams for they have no power to move the hearts of men."

I've told my husband (who listens to me patiently trying to "get me") that I see things sometimes in a movie format.  If I were directing, how would this be shot?  What kind of lighting would it need?  Sound effects? What would be in the next scene? I suppose that explains my love of writing.  I can lose myself in the scene on paper.  I want the reader to feel as if they're in the moment.  I relish a good book that takes me there; when I can see the thunderous sky, feel the scratchy sweater or smell the bubbling stew.  I just wish I were more of a wordsmith to accomplish that.  It's fulfilling for me to try and whether my efforts travel anywhere outside this blog, I'll continue dreaming on paper.

Writing at home is usually in vain.  The phone rings, the dryer buzzes, the dog wants to go out, email consumes my time, and snacks are far too easy to divert.  But, I've found an oasis for me, a secret hide-out where I nestle in with laptop, a tall travel mug of coffee or ice-tea and a blank screen.  It's a small room at my local library that can be reserved in advance.  Free wi-fi offers me a chance to turn on gentle background music as I write and plenty of research material for my efforts.  There's a window looking out on trees and another showing library patrons in the main room.  I shut the door, put the "Reserved" sign in my window and head for destinations only my imagination creates on paper.  I'm lost.  Engulfed in a world that I create and it fills me with satisfaction.  At this point, you may think I'm a little too out there, but I ask you, "What childhood book took you to a place you remember with fondness?"  Was it fighting pirates in Peter Pan?  Traversing the woods with Winnie the Pooh?  Did you smell the grass in Little House on the Prairie or cry at the end of Old Yeller? Who wasn't mesmerized by the imagery in the  Harry Potter books?

I'm heading off to my writing hide-out now.  I've allowed myself two hours to dream today.  I'll shut the door and open my mind to all I stored there in those days of Creative Observation when I was a student of fluctuating grades.  Isn't it ironic that the room I now use at the library - the place where my mind seems to expand - is called the Study Room?  Here's hoping I work up to my potential!

Hunting for Home

I recently met three of my young gal pals for coffee and a bagel in a cozy chain restaurant.  I'm always amused and greatly flattered that they include me in their invitations exclaiming, "We don't think of you as old!"  Funny thing since I'm in the same generation with their moms.  I listened as they discussed the possibility of having another baby, the dynamics of disturbing their current family cocoon and the perils of potty training.  I sipped my creamy coffee and recalled with warmth those busy days in my home. When burping cloths adorned my shoulder and My Little Pony panties charmed a training toddler.

Currently, those small children that kept me continually in a dizzying pace are now young adults and seeking a place to call their own.  My daughter, 26, just signed a one year lease for her first apartment.  She's full of excitement. Scouring websites for furniture and shower curtains, wondering how her budget will survive, deciding which wall color to choose and who to invite over first. It's a test in balance. Balancing needs and wants, friends and time, work and play and how often to head to Mom and Dad's.  I'm enjoying her anticipation.  It reminds me of days when possibilities seemed countless and life stretched so far ahead.  She'll do well.  And if we're lucky, she'll invite us over for pasta and I'll smile at the warm candles welcoming us on her table.

Our son is sleeping on a couch.  Not ours.  He wants to live in Nashville and test his dreams in music.  Along with two college buddies from the area, he lived in a wonderful renovated house downtown.  Great house, lousy neighborhood.  After one break-in (which was costly for the roomies), one attempted break-in and 2 cars with windows smashed in 2 separate incidents on the same night - they packed up and moved out.  So, for seven weeks, my twenty-two year old musician has been in his words a "gypsy" living out of his car and sleeping on a couch.  It's not that they haven't looked.  But, it's February and seven colleges in the area are still in session, so the rentals are all full.  I know that as the snow melts and temps rise, so will his chances of finding the right place.  Still, a mom hates thinking about lumpy couches cradling her kid, no matter the age.  And, it doesn't help when he texted today that he's sick.  I reminded him of the box of chicken noodle soup I sent in his last "care package".  Love in a box.

Transitions.  They can be rough at times or smooth sailing.  They're never predictable.  As they leave, I long to be the mom who hugs with a twinkling eye that says "I believe in you. Enjoy the adventure God has for you ahead." But, as I hear the door close, a piece of my heart will be still. Although both of them are looking for a place to call theirs, I'm hoping they will still think of this house when they long for home. This one has the real chicken noodle soup and a mom who's always waiting at the door.

Time Ticks Away

I’m a clock lover.  No matter what type of store I enter, I seem drawn to clocks.  I have no idea why, but they comfort me with the tick, tick steadiness of their voice always in the background.  Guests in my kitchen are fascinated by the clock on the wall saying, “ What a wonderful old clock!” and ask, “Do you tire of the noise?”  I usually laugh and tell them to listen closer and they’ll hear the one in the next room.  It sits on the mantle and has a different rhythm.  As does the large very old clock in the front hall when it is wound.  Three distinctly metered ticks of time going at once.  When you focus on one, the others fade.  My two children have grown accustomed to the sound and it reminds them of home.  Time ticking away.  

This morning as I read in Jesus Calling by Sarah Young, I was stopped by a word. One word that made me realize how very much I needed to spend time with it. In this devotion book, the author writes as if God is speaking directly to the reader.  To me. Here is the sentence that grabbed my attention this morning: 

“Thank Me for this day of life, recognizing that it is a precious unrepeatable gift.”

Unrepeatable.  That’s the word.  Today is unrepeatable.  Never to happen again just this way.  Not like the movie, that shows an ungrateful man repeating the same day over and over. We don't have that luxury.  There will be no “do-over” as kids cry loudly in outdoor games.  No- today is unrepeatable.

What if it were? If it were like my DVR where I could instantly back up and hit play again?  Ah, but the DVR only records what’s already happened.  It can’t change it.  Most of us who might long for a do-over want to make some changes.  In the way we reacted, the words said, the person ignored, the complaining spirit we nursed all day.  What would your do-over DVR change about yesterday?

I think I’ll post that one sentence on a card where I can see it every morning.  I need to realize that Today is a gift to be thankful for no matter the circumstances.  It’s the only Today I have. 

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. - Hebrews 13:8

New Resolution 2011

“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” Psalm 111:10

Priscilla Shirer got me where it hurt this morning. I decided to do her study “He Speaks to Me” on my own. I’ve taken a break from leading study and thought this would be a good place to focus as I try to allow Him more of my time.

I do want to hear from Him. I’m so empty. And with that emptiness, I’m all over the place with trying to control. My family. Their choices. My friends. My health. Even my dying. Seriously. I’ve prayed and worried about dying before it’s my time because I’ve treated my “temple” so badly. That, in itself, is unquestionable. But, whether I die now or not, is not my decision. It’s God’s. Obese people die and live. The timing question is not ours, but His.

But, back to Priscilla. She did a good job of researching the words used in the verse above and then asking the one question that brought it into focus. Fear really translates into “respect and reverence”. I have long felt that we treat The Holy God way too casually. “Jesus is my best friend” is a statement made by youths as they accept Christ. They, perhaps, need to put it into that perspective due to their limited understanding. But, do we, as adults? If our understanding of who Jesus is compares to a child, then as the Bible instructs, we have to get off the bottle and chew some spiritual meat to gain a deeper knowledge of this unfathomable God. As you study encounters with God through visions in the scriptures, you find... holy. Those who “saw” him in these visions didn’t approach him and ask “What’s up? Wanna go hang out?” They fell on their face and some went into a coma! An angel had to wake them up and give them strength to stand. Best friend? Yes, definitely. I AM. Yes- and all that the name implies. And we’d better start realizing that so we can grow in our faith and not remain babes.

Once we revere him and respect him, we can begin to gain wisdom. We can look at things from a holier perspective and then decide what to do. As we study God and his teachings designed just for us, we’ll change our ideas of how to handle things. Of what’s truly important. Psalm 128:1 tells us “Blessed are all who fear the LORD, who walk in obedience to him.”

Priscilla said that as a child, her parents often said, “You must not respect me or else you would obey me.” She had us list areas where we’d like to improve on obeying. Take a moment and list a few. Got those down?

Then, she popped the question. Based on practical obedience, (how you’re doing with those areas) - where would you fall on the “respect scale” with God? If you’re doing pretty well, maybe you’re on one end of the scale enjoying a close respectful fellowship with Him. If you’re falling in the middle, you’re still missing out on the benefits of walking in obedience. If you find yourself, like I did this morning, realizing that you’ve ignored his command and kept right on heading down your own road, you are not respecting Him. God. The “I AM” who is the only one. The “put-you-in-a-coma because I’m Holy” God. How are you doing with that respect thing?

Ouch. No wonder I’m feeling empty. I’m ignoring my creator. My strength, shield, encourager, comforter, Rock, lifter of my head, lover of my soul and patient Father. Why does the idea of obeying feel negative as if it will take away my joy? Am I thinking my joy comes from...what I want? I’m afraid I have been. Seeking satisfaction from idols. I will only feel satisfied when I’m obedient and walking hand in hand with him.

My resolution isn’t for the New Year but for each day ahead. I will seek to revere my God and walk in obedience to honor him and live each moment in fullness. And, in order to do that, I have to spend time with him. I have a feeling he’s waiting.

Just Words

“I hope the worship’s good today. I hate it when we sing those songs I don’t know or they’re too high. And I get distracted by the clothes some of the singers wear. Oh, and I hope they do a video. I love those. Unless they’re totally cheese. Who’s preaching? Last week it was that guy that talked real fast and I don’t even remember what it was about. Wonder if we should sit upstairs or down. Where will the crying baby be this week?”

Do these thoughts sound eerily familiar? Maybe on the drive to church a few have run through your mind. After dressing, getting the family ready, loading the dishwasher, letting the dog out/in and heading out the door for worship, your brain may be in overdrive. You’re on your way to worship. To...worship.

Uh-oh.

The other day, I felt I needed to spend some time in Psalms. It’s been a while since I read some of those. I get bogged down when I hit the ones that focus on enemies chasing and the depression of the writer dwelling in the pit. Now, there have been times when those psalms speak to me and I’m thankful for them, but I also like to read praises about God and his providing for us. So, I grabbed a Bible a friend had given me. It’s a version I’m not familiar with: The New Century Version by Thomas Nelson. I flipped through to the first psalm that opened up. Psalm 48. It begins with accolades about God’s city, his Mount, his power. Great stuff. Reading the first eight verses makes you feel like that kid who boasts “This is my Dad!” Yeah, this is my God! So, I’m reading along when I get to verse 9:

“God, we come into your Temple, to think about your love. ”

We come into your temple. Hmm...my first thought is my church. Of course, as a follower of Christ, I’m well aware of the scriptures about the temple. (My body’s a temple for the Holy Spirit. Christ is the cornerstone.) But, if I’m thinking of a physical place where I go to worship, I think of my church. The sanctuary I rush into. Within YOUR temple, O God. Not the temple where the worship team rules, or the videographer, or even the speaker. God’s temple.

To think about. Not sing, not clap, not shake hands, not be entertained. Thinking. It means really pondering something. Not just your quick thought. You have to invest some time on that one. Chew it over. Another version I looked up uses the word meditate. That word seems to have a stop sign attached to it. I don’t meditate when I’m running or doing. I have to get quiet, be still, and am usually alone when I meditate. But, even in a Sunday morning crowd, I can spend some time thinking about what I’m saying or hearing. Hello? What is the purpose for being there, anyway?

Your love. I know there have been times at church where I’ve been able to wrap my thoughts around his love. Communion is designed for that - when I’m focused. Sometimes, while singing, I can block out distractions and offer him praise. Occasionally, a time is built into the service for reflection. And, if you tear apart most messages, they’re all about how much God loves us. Four letters, little word, unfathomable concept.

A small verse tucked inside a great psalm is packed with some meaty stuff for me to think about today. And on Sunday. When I enter HIS temple to THINK about HIS LOVE.

Time for a Change?

"Same old, same old." he answered to my question "What have you been up to?" I nodded with understanding and maybe a bit of agreement. It can feel comfortable doing the same old thing every week, every day. I don't have to worry about knowing how to get it done or what to expect. It feels safe. Routine. Just settle in because, yep - it's all the same.

And, it's all boring. I'm reminded of the movie "Groundhog Day"with Bill Murray. It's touted as a comedy and he's always good for a few laughs, but while watching it, I noticed a sobering lesson. Day after day, he reruns the same 24 hours. Same people, same comments, same outcomes. And, after a while, it didn't feel safe and satisfying. It became boring and frustrating. His actions and words became mindless. He was on auto-pilot. The jovial comic expression on his face became sleepy, blank, emotionless.

We all enjoy the comfort of stability and routine at times. I admit to owning a worn out fleece robe that just feels good. It's my grown-up "blankie" of sorts. It's been washed for more years than I'll admit here and looks like something you'd bag up for donation. But, I love it. I have other robes that I wear, but this one...is my go-to when I need comfort wrapped around me.

My husband, Mike, thrives on routine. For some 28 years, he's started each day with pretty much the same exercises. He does them at home and on the road. He's done them in Israel and on camping trips. (I sit with my coffee mug and encourage him!) As a pilot, he's trained to run a "check list" and that's certainly something we passengers are thankful for. Routine can be a good thing in lots of circumstances. The question is, when does it become a road block? When is it time to change?

Change. The word can cause some to begin sweating. "Oh, I don't do well with change." Who really does? How many of us now enjoy standing in the lines at the airport with our bare feet on cold dirty floors anticipating a pat-down? How about watching the stock market play ping-pong with your life savings? Ever had a child? Enough said. It's a fact: we're surrounded by change and we're trying like crazy to avoid it at all costs.

Revelation 21:5 tells us that John saw He who was seated on the throne saying, "Behold, I am making all things new." He didn't say, "I made all things new." He's active - now, forever making. In the process. There's hope in that.

Have you ever used the saying, "I'm a work in progress."? Ah, busted. Do I say that and then grip my routine life? Do I offer him the chance to work in me? All things are being made new. That includes you. When I'm in a great place with people I love and life seems perfect, I want to whine, "But, I like this. I want to stay here." I probably felt that way before I lived for Christ. Would I go back to that? No way! I'm new. He made me new. Still is. I'm so glad I have examples of people changing in the Bible. Bad guys turned into heroes, prostitutes into cherished women of God, aimless wandering whiners into chosen people. Some changed instantly while others took lifetimes. No matter how long it took, the change was always better.

Seems to me that I have choices here. I can fold my arms, say no and miss the "new" that God promises to give me. I can let go one finger at at time, delay my "new" and grieve God. Or, I can take a deep breath, embrace his promise and step forward. Hopefully, when asked what's new, I can answer "How much time do you have to listen?"

Am I "Mouthy"?

Old blog, new look. I liked the old one, but I’m one of those people who likes to change things up sometimes. You’d never know that by visiting my house. Once a knick-knack finds it’s spot, it’s there until it petrifies. (With the exception of Christmas decorating. We still haul out tubs of snowmen, villages, elves and Santas to sit anywhere we can stuff them. Then, usually before Baby New Year can change his diaper, they’re all back in the box and shelved while the knick-knack resumes it’s rightful spot.) But, blogs are meant to change and perhaps right along with their blogger.

Looking at the title, I still like Wendie’s Words. I’ve always been a fan of cheesy alliteration. Just give me a few minutes and I can come up with a string of words for any letter excluding X. The Lettering Lady from La Grange. I rest my case. That silliness aside, I began my morning thinking of writing. I think about it a lot, but seldom engage in it. So, with some trepidation, I bowed my head to ask for direction in my day. The words of Psalm 19:14 took hold. “May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, Oh LORD, my Rock and my Redeemer.” Where did that come from? Why did that pop up? I continued as if on autopilot, “May the words of my mouth...” Or, maybe “May the words on my paper...” What I write matters. If to no one else, to God. I’m not looking for a following for this blog. But, I am looking to please him.

Words hold power. We’ve all experienced the joy of positive words and the hurricane force of painful words. I wonder, however, if we need to be reminded of this truth in light of today’s “social networking”. I admit I”m addicted to Facebook. It’s so easy to keep up with your friends and even those you’re mildly acquainted with. We can see pictures of the latest vacation, graduation, baby and even dinner entree. I know when many are in need of prayer or simply bored. We send birthday greetings and post words of encouragement. We even ask for advice on where to buy the best or who to call for plumbing. Yep, Facebook can be a great way to keep up.

Keeping up can also be viewed using a smudgy film. I’m sad to say that some of my friends have seen the dangerous side of networking. Oh, not the scary stalking stuff we hear about on the nightly news - and that IS dangerous. I’m talking about posts. Among your 647 closest friends. I’m reminded of the preschool song I taught my kids with the words, “Oh, be careful little mouths what you say.” When you hit “comment”, the words are out of your mouth so to speak. Oh, sure, you can go back and remove them, but in that split second, who saw them? Usually, we leave them alone and go on. There those words sit. Someone wise pointed out that there is no tone to posts or emails. No facial expressions or ways to interpret. So, Facebook Friends, “Be careful little posts what you say.” Before you post, take a minute to ponder all the possible ways it could be understood and ask yourself if this needs to be out there. As Psalm 14:19 reminds us, we should strive to be pleasing in His sight. The last line of the preschool song assures us that when we are careful, we can know that “the Father up above is looking down in love.”

Feels Like a Summer Night

There's a feel to the air that I can only describe as summer evening. As an adult, I know it's humid and we complain about it being hot and sticky, but I remember as a kid heading outside after dinner and feeling that night air.

The sun is out, but lower and slower. The intense heat turning in for the night. My collie, Lucky, no longer pants but lies still beside me while I sit waiting for the other neighborhood kids to be released from eating one more bite. They head out the doors ready for last games before being called in for baths and turned down beds. We can hear Mrs. White chatting while bouncing in a metal lawn chair. Mr. White, in a short-sleeve shirt as thin as a lady's hanky, drinks from a beer bottle and mops his forehead. Next door, we hear the "snip-snip" of manual hedge trimmers as Mr. Colette manicures his living fence. Back doors are open and the sound of clinking dishes being rinsed of suds mingles with the voices of Chet Huntley and David Brinkley.

Whirring bike wheels spin closer and soon, there are half a dozen Schwinns lying on the lawn while we sit in a circle voting on our last game of the day. Kickball? Cops and robbers? Pitch a few? Kickball wins out and we begin picking teams by playing hot-potato. Divided, we begin and circle the bases. My mailbox is first base. I never stop at first and often round third for a home run. Darkness quietly wraps around us as lightening bugs dance and a chorus of creek-side croaking begins. We can barely see the ball as it bounces toward the next kicker. Suddenly, the sound of a dinner bell breaks the air. "Hey Joe, it's your bell," the first baseman hollers. Joe waves and heads through the back yards. With that, one by one, the signals from other bells resonate. We wait it out until the last players are forced to take the ball home and wait for tomorrow.

Mr. Bubble fills the old tub and cotton pajamas wait. The window is open next to the twin beds and the attic fan plays a sonata of rattles drawing a breeze across my thin cowboy blanket. After "Now I Lay Me" and kisses from Mom, my little brother is soon breathing deeply in the bed beside me. When I'm sure Mom and Dad are downstairs, I switch on my flashlight under the covers and read adventures of Beetle Bailey, Little LuLu, Casper, or Archie. The fan rattles a lullaby and I feel the flashlight being pulled from my hand. Snuggling deeper under my covers, I faintly hear the crickets as I give in to deep sleep. Dreaming of tomorrow and the wonderful adventure of simplicity.

Soup's On

It's been one week. One week of blowing my nose, tossing tissues into trash, taking pills, drinking water and coughing like a TB patient. Spring is arriving and what we have to show for it in my allergy-laden house is ... disgusting.

With that nasty picture painted, let me move on to comfort. Soup's on. Homemade, pulled from the freezer vegetable soup simmering on the back burner. Soup is my go-to food whenever I'm feeling lousy. The aroma of beef and tomatoes floats downstairs where I sit at my computer promising to wrap me up in comfort for the day. I'll ladle out a steaming cup of soup for my coughing husband and stuffy daughter and pop a hot cornbread muffin beside it. We'll all sit down at the kitchen table with big napkins and bigger spoons. And then, soup will do it's magic. The steam, the smell, the warmth.

My mom was a soup lover. From the red and white cans to the many pots of home made flavors, we ate soup on a regular schedule. Left-overs were made for soup and as a child from the depression, she knew how to use every scrap. I'm a baby boomer and although not as spoiled as the next generations, we boomers certainly didn't do without much. We teethed on television, had Barbies and GI Joes, parked the station wagon at the drive-in and asked for all the newest fads touted in commercials. I was in the generation whose parents pledged to provide a better life to their kids. And they did - with gusto. I was privileged and pampered, but never spoiled. And when it comes to soup, I can throw together a mean pot from just about anything. So, next time someone tosses you a bone - throw it in a pot and chop an onion. It's soup time!

Finding You Already HAVE a Blog!

FOUR YEARS - since my last post. Had enough time to ponder that one?

Actually, I didn't even remember setting up this page. I wanted to explore this blog thing a while back and vaguely remember going to the website. When I tried to sign in today and create a page, it brought me here. Gotta laugh. I think four years ago I was intimidated. This was a new world I hadn't seen yet. I worried about how to make a great page, what to write that anyone would care to read (this thought being a writer's constant companion) and I probably had to get off of the computer to do some necessary task like cook dinner. And now, four years later, maybe I can add something a bit more interesting. No promises, mind you.

I'm currently reading Crazy Love by Francis Chan. I'm immersed in this book so far. So many of the thoughts expressed have been running through my mind for months. Don't you love it when you find a book that not only speaks to you, but yells? It's a God thing. He's knocking. The subtitle is Overwhelmed by a relentless God. Yeah, he is. I'm so glad. If he wasn't relentless in pursuing me, I'd be face down in a sludge pit by now. I still tend to slip and slide close to that pit more than I like to admit.

A few lines from the book have lived with me all day. Maybe they'll pluck a nerve in you, maybe not. Just thought I'd share.

The irony is that while God doesn't need us but still wants us, we desperately need God but don't really want him most of the time. He treasures us and anticipates our departure from this earth to be with Him - and we wonder, indifferently, how much we have to do for Him to get by.

A wise man comes before God without saying a word and stands in awe of Him.

Isn't it a comfort to worship a God we cannot exaggerate?

Yes.