Bookmobile

I was giddy with excitement in those days. The day when the bookmobile would pull up in front of the school. It was always one of my favorite days during my elementary school years. Grade by grade, class by class, we were lined up and allowed — just a few students at a time —to enter and browse.

Some of you might wonder just what in the world I am talking about. A book, what? Mobile what?  I thought they were the thing back in the 60's; however, after a discussion with friends, I soon found out that those little libraries on wheels did not exist across this nation of ours.

No, in fact, I was the only one of us who had experienced this life-changing event. I'm not exaggerating, not at all. For I truly believe that the bookmobile changed my life. I can remember climbing the steep bus stairs, holding onto the metal rail, eyes wide, trying hard to peer inside. It had been turned into a mobile library for children, and as I finally made my way onto that most wonderful of wonders, I knew, I knew that I was just where I was meant to be in a bus full of books. There were no windows in this bus--only 3 tall walls of children's books. Two very long sides and the back wall of the bus were lined with books.  Books about dogs and horses, books of mystery and travel.  I couldn't get enough of the smell and the feel of each book.  I never wanted to leave.

Yes, I loved Bookmobile Day.  I can't remember how often it came, but I do know those days were the best.  Leaving class early, standing in line, waiting my turn, and then--books, all sorts of books. Books galore!

I lived in the Los Angeles area at the time. I'm wondering if those libraries on wheels were more for inner-city kids. No matter--I still loved watching that big bus pull up alongside the school. I loved waiting in line for my turn. I loved letting my eyes wander over each and every cover. I was mostly looking for anything Lassie related. I was in love with Lassie and often pretended that she was lying right next to me while I read. I later (via one of those books) found out that there was also a dog named Laddie, another collie. I loved reading about horses, too. Black Beauty, Flicka--any kind of horse would do, I just loved reading about them all.

So just how did going into that bookmobile change my life — well, later, as a teenager, I ended up riding, showing, and owning 2 of my own horses.  I've also owned 2 collies and 3 Shelties — thus far, and my life isn't over yet. Those books from my childhood also sparked my interest in travel, as I read about Heidi and her adventures.  Books — I believe they changed my life.  I didn't become an "I can't do anything" type of person; instead, I became an "I can do anything" type of person.

If you ever want to do something really great for a child, buy them a book. It just might play a huge factor in who they one day become. You just never know.

She Calls Me Martha

My sister and I have what some might call--a complicated relationship. I am 2 years older than she. Therefore, by birthright, I am the boss. At least that's what I'd like her to think. Yes, I am the bossy older sister. And don't tell her, but I like it that way.

Really, though, just what is our relationship like? I know one thing--we are complete opposites in just about every way. I'm a brunette with brown eyes; she's a blond with green eyes. I look like our father, she looks like our mother. Our personalities are different, too.  I'm quieter; she's rather loud. Introvert, extrovert. Yes, there are so many differences between us, and yet, we are sisters.

And so our relationship is sometimes complicated by the fact that we are so very different, yet we are related. At times, it's amusing to watch her get so frustrated with me. I think she'd secretly (or not so secretly) like for me to be a little more like her. A little more bohemian, more hippyish, freer--and yet, that is not me at all. Hence, she regularly calls me Martha (as in Stewert). For me, like Martha, I am a little Suzy Homemaker. I love to cook, bake, clean, and decorate my home. I love planting little container gardens, taking pictures, and traveling.  I love to sit in quaint little cafes, ponder craft ideas, and have coffee with friends. I am the more refined of the two of us.

That's not to detract from her qualities, though--she's just different from me.  She likes many of the same things I do, only in a slightly different venue. Rather than a cafe, she prefers a hippy-style coffee house. And where I love antique dishes, she'd just as soon eat quickly via a paper plate and get on with the day. Even our shopping habits differ. I love designer anything, and she'd just as soon go to the local thrift shop. Yes, we are very different.

She was here this past week, visiting for a few days for the first time since I moved to the Midwest 14 years ago. I see her maybe once a year or so since moving. At first, it was a little hard for me to find my way around her. I didn't want her to be uncomfortable in my home, and yet, I had to be myself. So I compromised a lot. I didn't get out the fine china; I kept it casual. Martha style. Instead of using my dining room for dinner, we sat out on the deck while eating off my cute Italian patio dishes. I worked hard, and I believe it went well. I refrained from baking or cooking too much. I didn't do any crafty projects, and most of all, I didn't clean around her. I waited until she went to bed to pull out my swifter. Yes, I was quite proud of myself. I was able to contain Martha for the most part.

I'm wondering now what she thought of her visit. Will she want to come back? Did she notice my attempt to keep Martha at bay? Or, in all my efforts--did I fall flat? These are my questions. Was her trip here an epic fail, or did she enjoy her visit with Martha?   I'll wait and see. Or just ask myself one more question — what would Martha do?

Half Of Me

I did something that I rarely do, in fact, what I did is very much out of character for me. I allowed myself to imagine my life without him. Without the person that I have been married to for 2/3 of my life. I try very hard not to ever let my imagination run away with me; however, this time, for a very short time, I allowed it. It ran wild and made me cry; most of all, it made me think.  Think about life--with and without him.

He was gone--in Africa. I was home--alone. No one was around, and it was late at night. I put on some music, sat in my rocking chair, and began to ponder life--alone. Now don't get me wrong here, I don't mean life alone without God or friends or family, I just mean life alone without my spouse-- without him. We've been a couple for almost 42 years now. So, you have to agree with me that with him gone, my life would be different. Completely different. And that was the thought I pondered. What would my life be like--alone?

He had been gone for several days by then, and I had established a routine of sorts. I went through the motions of everyday life, and as I mentioned above, this time around, I actually thought about it... what if this were to become my forever routine?

I am not going to sugarcoat this for you; no, I am going to be as honest as I can be here. I do not ever want to experience what I experienced in those very few moments. I do not ever want to be without him, 2 weeks alone is one thing, but life? The rest of my life? Well, that would be quite another. As I sat there crying and allowing myself a short time of grieving for my perceived loss, I felt so incredibly lonely. So very alone that, in fact, I felt a chill descend upon me. I sat there rocking, crying, cold, and alone. I felt right then and there as though I, too, had died. And it was then that I realized that all there would be left of me if anything were to ever happen to him--is half of me.

Yes, I could go on, go on living. I am a very independent person. I am strong. I am brave--kind of. I know that God would comfort me, help me, and never leave me — I know these things. I would learn over time to go through the motions of life. However, nothing would ever be the same for me again. We've been together too long for that now. We've never been apart for more than 2 weeks at a time, and even when we're apart, we are in constant contact.  We are what some of my friends call "attached at the hip," and we are OK with that. We like being together. So, how could I possibly function without him? This is the question that I pondered that night, for just a few short minutes, for just a small increment of time--yes, I indulged myself in some pretty morbid thoughts.

That was a while ago--and I'm over it now. I won't do that again. The experience was a little too real for me. It was too hard to handle, to think about, to contemplate. However, now I know. That if or when anything ever happens to him, if or when he is taken from me--well, no matter how I look or seem or act...you will only ever really be getting half of me. That's all that will remain. Because the day he is gone, the day he dies, the day we are separated in this life together--that will be the day that there is only half of me. I see that now.  I will carry on with only half of my heart. I will always honor my husband. And I will lean hard into Christ and trust him. I will make it through the rest of my life with only half of me.

Ephesians 5:31

The Message (MSG)

^29-33 No one abuses his own body, does he? No, he feeds and pampers it. That's how Christ treats us, the church, since we are part of his body. And this is why a man leaves father and mother and cherishes his wife. No longer two, they become “one flesh.” This is a complex mystery, and I don't have a complete understanding. What is clearest to me is the way Christ treats the church. And this provides a good picture of how each husband is to treat his wife, loving himself in loving her, and how each wife is to honor her husband.

The Art of Compromise

My husband does not like to man the grill, nor does he like to dance. Me? Well, I don't do toilets or sports. We let each other in on these little secrets of ours early on in our marriage. We both agreed — let's compromise on these particular areas of our relationship and not put pressure on each other to do what we don't like doing. So far, it's worked out just fine for us. I do the grilling, and I don't bug him to take me dancing. He cleans the toilets, and he doesn't bug me to go to sports games or watch them on television.  It works--for us. We are a match made in heaven.

There have been times when some people have said to me, "You make him clean the toilets?"  That's terrible, that should be your job! Really? And, once in a while, some well-meaning visiting male will comment on me manning the grill. Really? Is it that big of a deal--these gender specific roles that have been placed upon us by society? Because they aren't that big of a deal to us. However, some areas of compromise have been a bit harder for us. And that's what I want to talk about today. Compromise.   Or lack thereof.

I am wondering if, given that we met and married young — well, maybe just maybe that fact has played such a big role in our ability to compromise. I'm not for one minute saying that it's all been easy because it hasn't. We may have learned this art a little earlier or more quickly than some.  We had no choice, really.  It was either compromise or argue, and I hate arguing, but I also hate giving in.  So, there you have problem number one. Who caves and when? For us, it was all about talking it out, giving our reasons as to why we felt a certain way, and then actually hearing each other. When we took the time to share our hearts, when we didn't ridicule each other, when we listened, really listened — we were able to come to terms with each other's requests and compromise. And yes, sometimes that took longer than at other times.  Much longer!

I have witnessed couples that do not wish to compromise at all. It is their way or the highway--so to speak. And I believe that is why the divorce rate is what it is today.  My husband and I made a promise to each other many years ago, when we were just starting out, that we would never use the D-word.  Also known as divorce. We decided that we would strike it from our vocabulary and that even if it killed us, we'd talk it out, come hell or high water. And boy did we. Some of those talks lasted until the wee hours of the morning. I think sometimes we would eventually compromise just so we could finally get some sleep! Yes, a compromise was that important to us. We have been a couple for almost 42 years now. Dated for 2, married for almost 40. Was it all easy? No. Did we always come to a place of compromise? Yes. And that is how one avoids divorce--in my humble opinion.

It is an art form; it is a marriage dance; it is letting go of "I'm always right"; and it is bending and becoming flexible. It can be something as simple as cleaning the toilets or something as life-changing as moving across the nation for your spouse's job. I remind myself daily that I love my husband, that God brought him into my life, that I have been blessed abundantly, and that by compromising just a little, I receive a lot. And that getting along makes for a better friendship. I have noticed that as we grow older together, and I see him trying hard to compromise, it makes me want to compromise right back — just to make him happy. Yes, I can see all that now. That for all these many years we have been, for the most part, dancing a dance of compromise to our own rhythm. It works for us, this art of compromise. The very idea of not being together, the idea of divorce or being separated, or not having each other is a foreign concept to us. We made a vow before God almost 40 years ago, and we will keep that vow — we will compromise.

Yes, compromise, in my opinion, is an art form--it is hard, and at times it can feel like we might be losing a part of ourselves in the process. It isn't easy giving in, not one little bit. It is give-and-take; it is putting someone else above yourself; however, I believe that is what we are supposed to be doing in the first place. Putting others above ourselves. That's the art of compromise.

Biking with Rocks

I had a dream last night —this is what I saw: a picture (mental snapshot) of me riding a bike in a foreign country. I was riding along, very happy, smiling, content. Not a care in the world. Most likely, I was in France since that's my favorite country. And then I noticed something. Others were riding with me, but they were struggling. When I looked over at them, I saw that they had big rocks tied from ropes hanging off the backs of their bikes. They weren't smiling. They looked very serious. Their foreheads were scrunched up, they were sweating, and they were tired. My first inclination was to stop them and tell them what I was seeing. Instead, I paused. I'm not here to change their culture. This is their way, this is how they do things here. And I am here to learn from them. Embrace them. Enjoy them. Be a part of them.  

However, as I was still riding my bike, my smile faded into concern. I questioned God. I asked him — What should I do? Should I stop them? Should I tell them what I am noticing? Should I show them how to cut the rope? Should I let them know how much faster, how much easier, how much more freeing it is to ride a bike without dragging rocks behind it? I began to slow down a bit — what should I do? What? For I did not want to offend them.

A conundrum for sure. This all came to me in the blink of an eye. I am still praying about this. What is God saying to me? No. The real question is — do I share what God is saying to me, or do I just wait? Do I sit back and patiently pray? That is the real question. What would you have me do? Would you want to know? If you were dragging those rocks behind your bike--would you want someone to help you cut that rope? Or would you rather continue to do it — your way?

Each person is different. I understand that. And I am not here to change your culture; however, I am here to proclaim peace. To teach, to preach, to share, to pray--to cut ropes. Yes, I am here to cut ropes. To show others how to leave those rocks behind. Am I brave enough to do that? And if I am not brave enough, then why, oh why, did God put that picture in my mind, in my heart, and in my prayers?  

This was my morning. And now for the afternoon, I think I shall go ride my bike--and pray.