Not Good Enough

I hesitate to write about this, I really don't think very many will understand the heartbreak that I endured. However it happened, it was a part of my life; it shaped who I've become, so I'll write about what transpired and brace for criticism.  They'll come; they have before.

At some point in high school, I decided I wanted to attend a Bible college after I graduated. I think I was in my senior year. However, I didn't actually get to go to Bible college (just went to a couple of years at a community college) until after I got married and had my babies. By the time they all started school, my desire to go back to college had returned, and with the encouragement of my awesome husband, I decided to follow my passion and go back to school.  I wanted to learn all I could about the Bible and God, and how I could make an impact on the world around me. Long story short--I wanted to be a preacher/pastor/teacher, but I didn't really know it at that time. All I knew was that I had a thirst for knowledge, and it had to be satisfied.

I loved going to school. I looked forward to dropping my kids off at their school and then driving off to my own. I was the best student ever. On time, an A chaser, enthusiastic, hard working, and serious. Very serious. I studied like there was no tomorrow. I read, wrote papers, studied hard, and took tests for about 3.5 years. And then one day, in one of my classes, our instructor asked the future graduates if they were excited about the upcoming ceremony.  He also mentioned quite innocently that the ordination ceremony would be held at a later date for the male graduates. What? The male what?  Ordination what? This is where you can imagine my head starting to spin. What did he just say?  I raised my hand and asked--Are you saying that because I am a female, I can't be ordained? You mean you've been taking my money for 3 plus years, and no one has told me this before? Are you serious?  

Yes, I said that and probably a whole lot more.  I honestly can't remember a lot after that. Only that my instructor called a 20-minute coffee break and asked that I meet with him privately. He told me that the answer to all my questions was exactly that--because of my gender, I could not be ordained in that particular denomination, the one that I grew up in. I sat there, stunned — feeling duped and very stupid. How could I have not known? In a fog, I gathered my books and walked out. Never to return. I did not graduate with my class.  I left and went home. Hurt, humiliated, dishonored, disgraced, defeated, discriminated against, and horribly sad.

My heart cried out--why, God, why would you let me become so excited about learning all about you and then let me come crashing down to earth--spiritually wounded beyond what I thought could ever be repaired? How? Why? I thought you loved me. Can't you see what I've been trying to do? Don't you care? Is that how you view me, too? Merely a woman? Not good enough?

At some point, though, I knew that I would have to pick up the shattered pieces of what was left of my academic heart--I had to move on, I had a family, and they were important to me.  I spent months licking my wounds; it was a very hard time in my life. I tried hard to come to grips with what had happened. My husband's support was what motivated my next step. That next step, however, didn't come overnight. There was a healing and forgiving process that I had to grow through. And just who was I supposed to forgive? It wasn't any one person's fault that I wasn't allowed to be ordained, and yet, who could I blame to make myself feel better?  

We moved a couple of years later; life returned to normal, and school for me was forgotten.  Until one day, that old desire for learning crept its way back into my heart. The thought occurred to me — I don't need to go to a private Christian college to get my degree; I could go to a public college. I toyed with the idea for several months before approaching my husband with my crazy scheme. Funny how God works. My husband had been praying for months about how to talk to me about going back to school. Interesting. The timing was perfect. And right about that same time, my daughter came home with a poster for my oldest son, which read-"Preach the gospel at all times; if necessary, use words." Profound, simple, true words--they hit me like a ton of bricks. I realized right then that I didn't need ordination papers from anybody — I had them — from God. My husband drove with me to the local college a few weeks later to register for classes — I needed the moral support. My new life was about to begin.

Yes, it was scary at first. I was used to good little Christian kids, churchy kids, not these types of kids. Not the hard types of kids who had gone through horrible childhoods. Who were looking for something--anything to fill the void in their lives. These college kids were a little rough around the edges; they weren't there to learn about Jesus--no siree. And yet I found myself loving them. Wanting to become a part of their lives, wanting to help, to be a listening ear--to be a mom. Funny how God works. Within weeks, I knew what I would major in. Psychology. Where others failed them, I would listen. I would be there for them. Even though I was a mere woman. To them, it didn't matter. I was good enough.

I loved school. I prayed for each person I met — all of my professors (many of whom I became close friends with) and all of my classmates. I never hid who I was and what I believed in. And I had learned a lifelong lesson--never let anyone tell you that because of your gender or your age or your skin color that you aren't good enough. Because while man might not accept you--God always does.

A few years later, I received a phone call from the president of the Bible College that I had attended. I had always liked him and was happy to hear from him. However, what he said next had me fumbling around behind me for a chair. Guess what he said — I have great news — we now ordain women! I sat down with a thud and let out a long breath. And then I very politely told him that I was no longer interested in being ordained by a church and that I had moved on to pursue other interests. I didn't want him to know I needed to hang up quickly — my emotions were beginning to get the best of me. Tears were starting to roll down my face, so I had to hang up fast.

How dare they do that to me? How dare they tell me one minute that I was the wrong gender one day and the right gender the next? How dare they turn my whole world upside down only to come along later and try to turn it right side up? Just who did they think they were? God? For a while, I felt like I couldn't even catch my breath. When my husband got home later that evening, I told him what had happened. He came over, put his arms around me, and reminded me that God had a reason for everything.

And He did. He accomplished His will in my life. He wanted me in that Bible college for those 3 plus years to learn what I'd need for my life in the future. He then had plans for me to attend a public college to learn how to help those around me. You see, at a Christian college, everyone would already have heard what I had to say. They would already have had some instruction in Christianity, but not as much when we're talking about a public college.

We all know how much public speaking goes on in college. Lots. I had an unbelievable opportunity to share my faith through my life and, when necessary, with words.  Many of my classes were huge — over 200 students. Talking to 200 students at one time was right up my alley. I was able to talk about my beliefs, values, and ideas. And due to my age, I automatically had an "In" with my professors. I had the voice of reason among my classmates, and because of my major--well, I was the one to unburden on.
God had a plan — funny how He works.

Through all that--I was taught compassion. I was taught to love, accept, forgive, trust, look to the future, and most of all not to label myself or others. I was taught patience — to wait on God's timing and His plan. And most importantly, I was taught that He made me for a reason, He wanted me to be female, and to Him, gender did not matter. He had a plan for my life. I am thankful for that plan. I have had a fulfilling and fruitful life. I've had a sweet life.

I might not be good enough, but I'm good enough for Him.  And really, that's all that matters in this sweet life of mine.

Risk Taker/Rule Breaker

I once had a saying — I'm not a risk-taker or a rule-breaker.  Funny how one can have a motto and not even know it.  I did, though, especially the risk-taking part.  I don't particularly like taking risks. Some thrive on it. Not me. At least that's what I thought. Risk-taking for me is scary. It's putting myself out there where I might (or might not) get hurt. It's about exposing myself to others and being transparent. It's setting aside fear and stepping off a ledge — free-falling into the unknown. That's my perspective anyway. It's frightening and terrifying, and I just plain do not like taking risks. At least that's what I thought.

And yet the life that I live says something completely different about me. So, if I live life one way, and if I walk out my life in a certain way, and if I do something in a specific way — then it must speak to what is true about me. It was something a friend said to me in passing that gave me pause; she made an innocent statement meant as a compliment. It was one of those declarations that opened my eyes to the truth about who I really am. I am a risk taker. I guess.

She said to me one afternoon--I wish that I were as brave as you. You go anywhere, do anything, move to new places, travel to foreign countries, and you never think about your age, your health, danger, language barriers--nothing. No worries, you just go!

She's wrong, though, in one aspect--I do think about all those things.  Every last one of them. I always have. Those are the things that I pray about. I pray and ask God to show me each step to take. Should I move there, go there, do that, even to the point of should I walk down that street if it looks a little scary? I depend on God's guidance for every little detail of my life. I've been unnecessarily teased for it, too, by those who don't understand what life is like for me and others like me.  In our heart of hearts, we aren't really risk takers, but because we are fully dependent on God's protection and leading, we end up taking huge risks.

I am not brave. Believe me, I'm not. However, I refuse to live a life of fear. When I pray and when I hear — I do and go. It was a big risk for us to move across the nation. We moved from one culture to another. I never realized just how big the US was until I moved away from California. It's huge! And, it's multicultural. It really is. There are so many differing beliefs, attitudes, styles, and accents. It's a fascinating sociological study.

Also, when moving here, I knew that most likely my children would meet their future spouses and settle down out this way. It was a risk that I was willing to take because I had prayed and trusted.

And I know that it is a big risk every time I set foot on an airplane and enter another country, but it brings me excitement and joy. And yes, I think about my health and my age, which is why I take care of myself. I'm not going to stop living due to fear of the unknown. I'll go and see and do. And not worry about the what-ifs.

I'm finding that the older I get, the more risks I'm willing to take in life. I don't want to be lying on my deathbed one day thinking--I wish I'd done this or that. If only I had...
No, I want to be lying there, thanking God for all the wonderful life experiences He has allowed me to have.  For every aspect of my life, from the people He brought into it, to the homes and cities I've lived in, to the countries I've visited--I will always be so very grateful.

And as for rule-breaking, well, I still don't like to break the rules. They are put in place for a reason. I don't speed or cross the street on a red light. And I never J-walk — no way. Rules make me feel safe. And maybe that's the point--I can take a risk if I'm held together by some rules.

Lunch on my Patio

The weather is changing here — it is the first day of fall. And I want to take full advantage of this season. It is my favorite time of year. When we first moved into this house a year ago, we did not have a patio, only a deck. And I wanted a patio. I wanted a place where my dog could romp and play and where I could sit and have lunch or coffee. The deck, in my mind, was for bar-b-queuing and eating dinner. Why? I don't know. It's just how my brain divided the spaces.

I contacted a landscaper, and within a few weeks, phase 1 of my new patio was done. It was just the right size and stair-stepped all the way down to the doors of our walkout basement. He came back a few months later, completed phase 2, and all was well in my world. I now have an upper and lower patio. The upper is to be used for coffee and lunch, the lower is to be used for our new fire pit and making s'mores. Perfect, a place for every venue.

I had lunch on my upper patio yesterday. The leaves were gently blowing; it was about 60 degrees, a little cloudy, a little sunny. I read my book and daydreamed a bit too. I also prayed. I was feeling a little lonely — missing my family. I'm sorry that I seem to write about that all the time. However, it is important for me to be real in my writing — so yes, when I miss them, I will write about it. All in all, though, it was an awesome time out there on my little patio.

I also began thinking about the container gardening project I was going to attempt in the spring. My husband bought me a great book on growing vegetables in pots. I grew lettuce and cherry tomatoes this year. They were a big hit with the raccoons. I'll have to work on that problem later. For now, though, I want to just sit and enjoy my patio.

Today I'll take my Kindle, my laptop, my newest magazine, my lunch, and my dog, and I'll sit out on my upper patio listening to the river and the sounds of fall.  I'll take memory snapshots of the leaves so that I can remember when they changed colors. I'll breathe deeply, as I'm sure someone near will have made a fire. I love the smell of fireplaces. I'll watch the squirrels throw acorns at my dog while chattering away. And then I'll close my eyes and turn my face to the sun and even pray a little. I'll want to be sure to thank God for this moment in time — I am content. It is sweet out here--having lunch on my patio.

Snippet

I wonder if that's a real word. Snippet. Yep, it is. It means a small piece of something. And right now I'm thinking about a small piece of time. A snippet. It seems to me that life is lived in these so-called snippets. Little pieces of time. Tiny little pieces. I seem to get an hour here or an hour there. Maybe sometimes I even get a day here or there. Or even a weekend if I'm super lucky. A snippet can be a good thing or a bad thing. However, since I am not in the best of moods right now, I think snippets are a bad thing today.

It's a funny thing to write about for sure, but I'm feeling aggravated. Maybe I shouldn't write about it, maybe I should keep all this bottled up inside. No, that's not me--I have to get this out, or I'll blow up. I guess that's why I write. I could not write about it, but then I wouldn't be presenting my true self; I would be wearing a hat that said: "I'm OK all the time."  And that isn't necessarily so. Sometimes things don't go my way, sometimes God has other plans. It doesn't mean those plans will always make me happy; I think that's why I'm told to be content in all things. It isn't easy — if it were, He probably wouldn't have wasted His time telling us how to handle the tough times! I am thankful that He is patient with me. When I am sad, feeling blue, or just plain missing my family, He listens and consoles me without getting mad at me or making me feel bad. I know that He is always there for me. He knows my thoughts, so why not tell Him how I really feel? Why play games with God? At least that's what I think.

I'm exasperated today with the way life is right now — especially concerning my children and grandchildren. I do not like that I don't have control over where, when, or how long I can see them. They live too far away for my liking. I am also dealing with bouts of jealousy toward friends and family members who have their little families a stone's throw away and probably don't appreciate it. I'd like to throw a stone at them right now, but I won't. It wouldn't be nice. I'll keep my stones on the ground. For now, anyway. I know that if I pick those stones up and give one a toss--many more stones should and most likely would be tossed right back at me. Let's not judge one another, OK? Let's leave that to God.

Basically, the bottom line is this — being 6 and 12 hours away from my grandkids is hard on me. It sucks. I hate it.  I go to their homes, or they come to mine, and, according to my husband, I am supposed to be thankful for the quality of time with them rather than the quantity.  This is where I make rude noises at him and roll my eyes and wish that I could kick him, but instead end up walking away crying. He doesn't understand. He never will. And yet he indulges me and makes sure that I get enough grandbaby time. Every couple of months, I get to visit some of my grandkids (usually not all at the same time) for a snippet of time. It's way too short a visit. And then I spend the next couple of hours of my time--another snippet--crying for my loss--whatever that is. My heart breaks, I feel bitterness seep in, resentment, anger, emptiness.

I do not believe that unless you are a long-distance grandmother, you can even imagine the pain of driving away, waving at your grandchildren, tears rolling down your face, heartstrings being stretched to their limit--wanting desperately to jump right out of that car and scoop them up in a great big ol' bear hug and say--hey, I'm not leaving you! No, unless you've lived it, you don't know. So don't judge me. Please. Give me my time to brood over the brief snippets of time I have with my kids and their children.  Eventually, I will have a grateful heart — one that says thank you, God, for even having kids and grandkids.  Thank you that they are still living; thank you that we live in the same country — I always have lots of thank-yous after my pity party. Always.

I hope that my grandbabies--all 5 of them--realize the depth of my love for them.  Each one is an individual, and each one deserves more than just a snippet of my time.  I hope that they know that if I had my way, if I were queen of the world--I'd live close by, rock them every day, buy them an ice cream cone, read them a story, and skip through the crunchy fall leaves holding hands with them forever--even if just for a snippet.

I'm not Lost

I am directionally challenged. It's a fact. There isn't anyone who truly knows me who will argue with that little bit of information. I couldn't find my way out of a paper bag or my own backyard.  I do not possess the built-in map-type brain that my husband or our 2 oldest children have. My youngest son and I are lacking in that department, unfortunately. He might argue with that, but we both know the truth: we are 2 peas in a pod when it comes to directions. And yes, we still get our right and left mixed up. We just say "this way" or "that way" while pointing, and it makes complete sense to us.

Once when I was in grade school (ok, more than once), I got lost walking home. I can remember that sense of being lost so vividly because the fear was overwhelmingly great. We had just moved to a new neighborhood, which meant new schools, which meant new streets, which meant I was going to get lost that afternoon — it was going to happen, I just knew it.  And sure enough, just a couple of blocks after leaving the school, I looked around, and nothing was familiar.  I backed up against the building behind me and, through wide eyes, tried to see which direction I should go.  Left or right, straight or backward, I was unsure. I decided to keep going straight, and when I saw the fence separating my house from our neighbors, I all but fell onto the grass and hugged my front yard with happiness. I buried my face in that grass. I was home. I wasn't lost any longer. I was safe.

Can you even imagine my elation when car navigation systems were released? I thought maps were the greatest invention of all time--until navigation! Navigation rocks! I love it. The minute it was new-car time for me, I knew I wanted one with navigation. An entire new world opened up to me the day I drove that car off the lot.  I knew that all I had to do whenever I felt unsure of my whereabouts was to push the home button--and then, like magic, it would safely guide me back to my house.  Home, not lost, safe.

I will never own a car without a navigation system, not ever. It's a crutch for me. I'm not too proud to admit it: I need direction and guidance. I cannot see what is around the next corner in my life.
Sure, once in a while, I still make a wrong turn here or there, but with one flick of a button, I am on the right track again. I can go anywhere, do anything, be anything — with navigation. I can lean on it, depend on it — I am free! It is a miracle. It truly is. It is a guide, a map, and a voice of reason all in one. Mine talks, yours probably does too. Navigation is now a staple in my life. I can't live without it. I don't think anyone in my condition should have to. After all, I am kind of handicapped if you think about it. It's sort of like a disability--to be directionally challenged. I need it. Is it covered by insurance?

I'm not lost. I have navigation.

I also have another type of navigation. One where I'm never lost, always found, always safe, always home, always free. I remember that day too. The day I found my way home. Into His arms, into His safety. I'll never be lost again. He found me. He made life safe for me. It's a miracle, it really is. A whole new world opened up to me. A guide, a map, a voice of reason--in my crazy directionally challenged life.

Thank you, God, for being my navigation system. I need you. I'll never go anywhere without you. I'm home now. I'm safe. As long as I have you.

Picture Taker

I would like to say I am a photographer, but I am not. I've never taken a class. I should. I love taking pictures.  That's why there are over 16,000 pictures on my laptop — don't worry, they are all backed up on an external hard drive.  I know big words now, like "laptop" and "hard drive".  I know others, too, but they really aren't important. I want to talk about pictures and why I take so many. I've been self-analyzing again. It's a horrible habit of mine; my degree in Psychology doesn't help — it just feeds the need.

I think I take so many pictures because there aren't many of me from when I was growing up. My mother keeps a hatbox in her living room full of old photographs. I've looked through them several times, and while the box is full, there just aren't as many of our little family as I'd like. So therein lies the need. I'm not even sure that my parents owned a camera when I was growing up; I don't remember ever seeing them with one. But surely they must have had one, right? Or were their pictures given to them by other relatives? I need to find out. I bought my first camera when I was in high school. Just a cheap one, but it was all mine. I would plop a roll of film in it, and I'd take pictures of every event that I was involved in. Horse shows, being at the lake with friends, dances with boyfriends--but I was always behind the camera. And now I want to know why.

After I got married, picture-taking became almost as important to me as whatever we were doing. I think that taking pictures was actually a part of the event. Whether it be vacationing or just having friends over — I wanted it documented. I wanted to be able to look back over my pictures and remember when. I wanted to be able to say--I was really there, I really existed, I lived a life that was worth something. I used to think a lot (and still do) about my children having more than a hatbox to look through. I began making photo albums like crazy — everything had to be photographed, put in an album, and written about. I want my children and my grandchildren to be able to look through the albums and get a sense of what our lives were really like. I want them to have memories of us, all of us, etched in their minds.

As a child, I wasn't in as many photos as I should have been — no one was behind a camera. I feel huge voids — where are my holiday memories? There aren't really enough pictures of me to piece together my childhood. My children won't be able to say that. Their mother is and always will be a picture-taking freak. I am the first to admit that flaw, and I am the first to say, too bad. I will take pictures of my family until my little fingers can no longer hold the camera and press the shutter button. My grandchildren will be able to look through my photo albums and literally watch their own parents' lives flow past page by page right before their eyes. Yes, pictures are important to me — but why am I always the one taking pictures?

I have a couple of theories — one being that I am self-conscious about my looks — my face is too round (a polite way of saying fat), and I usually don't like the way my hair turns out, especially my bangs. I am being very vulnerable here by admitting how vain I really am. They are just excuses--I know. So why — why am I always behind the camera? Another theory I have come up with is that — if I am behind the camera —I have control over the memories captured in the photo. Only fun and smiles and lots of friends and family, only the most beautiful of scenery, only the most vivid of colors--those are the memories that make it into my albums. The best of the best. So maybe that's it, maybe it all boils down to control. I don't know. Or maybe I just want my children to have the memories that I never had. I do know, however, that I will continue with my picture-taking; I will always keep my camera in my handbag; I will continue to protect my memories because, in the end, they will be all that is left of me and mine for my family--those memories on a page.

I love taking pictures, I love looking at pictures, I love remembering when.
Sweet memories to pass the time — my time, my past...

I'm in Italy

9/11

Where was I?
I was at home, safely tucked
away in my kitchen watching
TV, when I saw it happen
When I saw my country change

What did I see?
I saw a nation call out to you
I saw a nation come together
I saw a nation that prayed
even to a God whom they did
not believe in or trust in

What was I afraid of?
I was afraid that my sons
were of drafting age
I was afraid of war and
violence and suffering
I was afraid for the families
who lost their loved ones that day

What do I see now?
I see a nation that once again
needs to humble itself
that needs to pray
that needs to love
that needs to trust

I think often of this scripture in 2 Chronicles 7:14--


My people, my God-defined people, respond by humbling themselves, praying, seeking my presence, and turning their backs on their wicked lives. I'll be there ready for you: I'll listen from heaven, forgive their sins, and restore their land to health. 

This is my prayer--
for my nation, my family,
my friends, and neighbors.
This is my prayer...

Foodie

I love to eat. And I am a self-proclaimed foodie. I think about food all the time. I love to cook, and I love to eat out — both. And while eating one meal, I am usually thinking about the next. What will it be, how will I cook it, or where will I eat it? These are the things I think about when it comes to food — which it often does. I even enjoy grocery shopping--which most of my friends do not. I love walking down the aisles looking for unusual spices or seasonings. The more exotic and international the store, the better.

I also collect cookbooks and kitchen appliances. It's a sickness for sure. However, it's one that I prefer to call a hobby. By calling it a hobby, it hides the truth that I'm just plain nuts. Maybe I was supposed to be a chef who missed their calling — I love to cook that much! I love entertaining, having people over, and cooking great big meals. But, at the same time, I love going out and being waited on by others for a change of pace. I sit there perusing the menu, trying to decide which culinary delight will wow me the most. And believe me, I am one picky diner.

Eating out can be a little more difficult for me now. I have become addicted to all things Gordon Ramsay- I watch all, and I do mean all, of his cooking/traveling shows.  Even those on BBC. I have my DVR ready to record all things, Gordon. I love the way he can walk into a restaurant and immediately figure out what is wrong with it — from a dirty kitchen to poor food quality to an inferior staff — and whip that place into shape in no time. However, his attitude has infiltrated the way I view things — I now enter a restaurant and see it through his eyes. My critiquing brain goes into high gear, and in my kooky little mind, I become a super chef! Everything needs to be perfect and taste delicious. Or forget about it, I'm ready to move on to another great restaurant.

As far as appliances go, I pretty much have them all, from a huge electric crepe maker to a pasta maker to a panini maker to a semi-commercial espresso maker, and I recently acquired a toaster/convection oven. This was quite a topic of conversation in my home. My husband was set against it. He didn't want one because, in his opinion, only old people had them.  However, my birthday was coming up, and that's what I asked for, so that's what he bought me.  And even though he has nicknamed it my Easy Bake Oven, I am one happy camper and have been cooking away. And yes, I've also bought a couple of cute little cookbooks. I'm having fun with it. And for a cook--that's what matters most.

Having fun, eating, enjoying life, friends, and family--they all seem to go together. Maybe it's the feeling of creating something that's all mine--no one else can recreate the exact same dish--not even me. It's all about the thrill of having something turn out wonderfully.  I think cooking goes hand in hand with those homey smells, the sound of friends laughing, the beautifully set table — it brings all the senses together. That's what food does. And that's why I'm a foodie.

Painted Walls

Have you ever heard the expression "she's got a burr under her saddle"? That pretty much describes my personality. I get something fixed in my head, and all heck breaks out until the task at hand is finished. I'm a Tasmanian devil, and the Energizer Bunny all rolled into one.  And that's how my Labor Day holiday weekend got started. It was all because of paint.

We moved into this house a year ago. Everything had to be done, and I had 4 weeks to do it in. My husband was starting a new position with his company, so the job fell on me. I was the general contractor, and I was responsible for getting the renovations done quickly, as we were now living in a hotel — with our dog! The carpets in our new house had to be replaced, the kitchen and bathrooms remodeled — cabinets painted, floors tiled, granite installed, appliances replaced — every hinge and doorknob, and every light fixture had to be replaced, and the entire interior had to be painted. I decided to have the house painted a very neutral latte color and all the woodwork painted white.  All my contractors came through, and everything was move-in ready in 3 weeks' time.  It was truly a miracle — everyone was fantastic to work with, and when it was all over, I truly missed them; we had become friends. They helped to make our new house a home.

So a year had passed, and I was ready for some changes. This house needed to be livened up a bit. I was looking at my dining room a few days ago when it struck me just how boring and old-fashioned it looked. My furniture was originally bought for a 1928 Tudor, and this house is a 1986 Cape Cod — not even close in looks. I had a dilemma on my hands, and the first step was to get rid of my china cabinet. Down into the basement, it went. The second step was to go buy paint. I painted the walls underneath the chair railing, and it completely changed the look of the room. I like it now. And then I thought — well, I still have tons of leftover paint — maybe I should paint one wall in the living room. It's such a big room — maybe it would help to cozy it up a bit. Yes, that helped — by that evening, it did look cozier. I was on a roll. No pun intended.

My poor husband--although he hates to paint, he knows how to move a mean piece of furniture, and he also does a wonderful job of taping off walls for a cut-in.  It seems we were into this project for the long haul. Because now I was thinking about the wall in the master bedroom behind our king-sized bed. There was just enough paint for that wall, too. And, much to my amazement, he was willing to help me move our 4-poster bed and paint it. It looked beautiful. And that's when the tears came.

As I stood there looking at the painted wall in our bedroom, it dawned on me that our new room looked just like our old room in our old 1928 Tudor. I had lived in the house for 11 years--longer than I had ever lived anywhere. Emotionally, it was tough for me to leave it; I loved that house.  I stood there, tears streaming down my face, and remembered when. I have so many awesome memories of my old house. Kids, grandkids, friends, parties, graduations, weddings--it was so very hard to leave.

And then I smiled. I was going to be OK--I had a piece of my old house back. It almost felt like my new house was giving me a hug with that painted wall, saying-"You'll have good memories of this house, too."  

Life is good again. And we now have a river to look at--with a pretty Sierra Redwood wall behind us.

Paint — it makes life a little more fun.

3 Musketeers

We moved to a new town when my youngest son was 10 years old. Fortunately, we already had friends who lived there, so we felt right at home almost immediately. School started soon after, and within days my son had made two best friends. He was elated. Two!  They both lived just a block or so away, and pretty much every day for the next 8 years, those boys were at our house, or he was at theirs.  We had the house with the pool, and since I was a stay-at-home, overprotective mom, I preferred them to be with me, where I could keep a close eye on them.

I called the boys the 3 Musketeers (maybe I should have called them the 3 Stooges) — they were the type to get into all kinds of trouble and the type to blame anybody and everybody for all their problems. They routinely tormented my 2 older kids and were constantly being scolded. I even gave one of them a nickname behind his back--I called him Eddie Haskell--from the old TV show Leave It To Beaver. And boy, did he ever earn that name! I think he alone was the instigator of their little trio. I would sometimes listen outside my son's bedroom door and hear Eddie concocting some type of shenanigan. And then there was the other little one. He was the one with the innocent little smile and the hot temper. I overheard him one day yelling at his mother on the phone; he was back-talking and being completely disobedient. I think I remember him even using a few swear words in there, and he was probably only 11 or 12 at the time. I sent him right home with a stern warning to apologize to her, and afterward, he could come back over and play.  He did it too. He told her he was sorry, then high-tailed it back to my house to tell me all about it and resume playing with the other kids.

I loved those boys, even in their ornery stage. All 3 of them filled my heart with joy. I was proud of them as I watched them grow up. They each had their own set of difficulties (some big, some small) at home — sometimes I felt like their counselor, but all the time I felt like their mother. I prayed for them every day, and still do.

We moved again when my son was in his junior year of high school. I know that it was tough for him to leave his friends. However, I wonder if his friends ever knew how hard it was for me to leave them, too? Did they know that I began to worry about them the minute we pulled out of our driveway for the very last time? Did they know that I would always pray for them? I wondered — who would hold them accountable? Who would be there for them? Who would listen to them?

Fortunately for my son (and for me, too), they came out to visit us several times. They were just as loud and cantankerous as ever, and I loved them just as much. They came a few years later for my son's wedding, and they've come to visit since. They are all married now and have children. They have turned into loving husbands and fathers. Twenty years have gone by. They have all grown up. And I feel like one proud mama!

I hope they know how proud I am of them. I hope they know that I miss them. And I still pray for them every day. And now I also pray for their families. I hope so. I hope they can feel my prayers.

Those boys, those 3 musketeers. They are my boys--all of them.

Chocolate Cake Nights

When I was younger, we used to call them chocolate cake nights. Those were the evenings when good friends would come over with their children. The kids would play until late, and then we'd lay them all down--ours in their own beds, theirs in our bed. Then the adults would grab a big piece of homemade chocolate cake and a big steaming cup of hot coffee and go sit out on the front porch and talk. We'd talk until the wee hours of the morning — sometimes 2:00 or 3:00 o'clock.  How we did that is beyond me now. I can do it just fine, but my husband falls asleep (wherever he is) by 10:00 pm.   Those were the good old days for me. Chocolate cake night with friends. And even though the friends might have changed over time, as well as the dessert, oh, and as well as the time--the love of conversation has not. We still have friends over, a little something to eat, and maybe some decaf, but we usually end the evening around 11:00 pm. I'll admit it — they are getting old.

On one such evening with friends a couple of years ago, our conversation turned to regrets — more specifically, did we have any?  And I, as usual, opened my big mouth and said very assuredly--no, I have no regrets. That proclamation opened up a can of worms. Right then and there, I should have brought out a great big old chocolate cake. We were going to need one!

I had to back up my statement. I somehow had to justify it. I had to try to make sense of the thought that was rattling around in my brain. How was I to let others know that even though things had not always gone smoothly in my life and even though I had made some dumb choices, I still had no regrets? You see, without those stupid mistakes, without the hiccups of life--I wouldn't be who I am today. And I wouldn't be the person that I believe God has been shaping me into. It's a hard concept to grasp, but in my head it makes sense. I'm not perfect, I make mistakes, and I say and do dumb things all the time. And although I'd like to reach out and grab some of those things back--didn't I learn something in the process? Like--don't ever do that again!


Regrets? No. I don't have any. I appreciate all the good and the bad that have happened in my life. I make the choice to learn, to grow, to embrace each circumstance that happens. Even those that make me look or feel foolish. I think I need them--the mistakes and the foolish things that I've said and done. I've needed them to become a more mature person and to become who God wants me to be. I'm not excusing my failures. I'm acknowledging them. But I do not regret those failings.
How can I regret the life that God has chosen for me? I can't.


I live a life without regrets, without lame excuses, without fear--I look forward to my future and all that God has for me. Regrets? No, none at all. And I'm always ready for chocolate cake.