Autumn

As I sit looking out my bay window, the one in the living room, I see that almost all of the leaves have fallen. Maybe 30% are left, and it is only the end of October. Fall is my favorite of all seasons. I also love Winter.  To me, Winter is the icing on my cupcake of Autumn. As a child, I used to remove the top of my chocolate Hostess cupcake. I'd set it aside while I ceremoniously ate the cake part, trying hard to get a tiny bit of the white filling with every bite.  I had to save the top — for it was saving the best for last. However, it's important to have the cupcake too; otherwise, the 2 would seem incomplete at least to me.
Crazy thoughts--comparing the two. I'm in a crazy, thought-type of mood.  Who knows what will end up on the pages of my blog today?

Most people I know love the fall, but some complain that after fall comes Winter and they hate Winter. They are the ones that I find so hard to understand. The Winter haters. But why dread fall just because Winter follows? That doesn't make a lot of sense to me.

Last weekend and the weekend before, my husband and I took our cameras and our convertible for long drives through the nearby countryside in search of autumn colors. Every time we'd see some colorful tree, we'd shout stop! and get our cameras out. We took so many beautiful pictures and even managed to snap a few of a red-tailed hawk. He was just sitting there watching the crazy humans with their telephoto lenses--whispering to each other, tiptoeing through the crunchy leaves, just to get a closer look. He was spectacular.

It was also cold enough a couple of weeks ago to put the flannel sheets and the down comforter on our bed. We turned our heater on — finally giving in. We lit our gas fireplace so that now whenever the mood strikes, we can, with 1 click, have an instant fire going. Yes, it feels like Autumn here. It smells like Autumn here. And it looks like Autumn here.

We have also gone through our Winter clothing — boots, coats, sweaters, gloves, and vests. Everything is ready for the soon-to-come cold snap.  The first freeze. We are waiting--it feels like Autumn here.

When I was a kid, we would walk along the sidewalk, making the leaves crunch beneath our feet. Sometimes we'd kick them up, or sometimes stop and make huge piles to fall into.
I can remember trying hard to find the perfect leaf to take home with me — I always looked for the red ones. I wonder if that's the reason I love red trees even to this day. Also, sometimes we could smell neighbors burning leaf piles. I loved that smell. They can't do it now with all the different regulations. But I'm glad they did it then. I can still close my eyes and remember that awesome smell.

It's kind of funny for me to think about this, but here goes--I was born in the fall, and fall colors are the colors that look best on me with my skin tone. I love the cooler weather and shorter days. Food for thought. And speaking of food, apple crisp? My favorite fall food. Maybe that's why I love fall so much. I don't know, just thinking...maybe it's because it sure feels like Autumn around here.

So now, as I sit here all wrapped up in a warm, comfy throw, my book lying by my side, typing away on my laptop, drinking my coffee, and looking out my window--I am reminded of how much I love the colors of Autumn--they are my favorite.

Lost Little Boy

I was listening to a woman yesterday describe the ordeal of losing her son in Disney World. She was a much better storyteller than I was; however, I will share my story anyway — it was just as traumatic for me.

When I was great big pregnant with my third child, we decided to go and get some Christmas shopping done. We left the house with our 5 1/2-year-old daughter and our 2-year-old son. Now, remember, I was huge. Big. Pregnant. We pulled up in front of a small local department store, unloaded our kids and the stroller, and headed in.

Many times when we went out as a family, we would each take charge of one of our kids.  I happened to be holding our daughter's hand, and my husband was pushing the stroller our 2-year-old son was riding in. Since our son was the size of a 3-year-old and very well-behaved, we did not fasten the little straps on the stroller. So there we were, looking at toys and clothes and meandering through the store, when, all of a sudden, a few aisles over, I heard my husband begin to call our son's name. His voice with each shout-out became a little more frantic-sounding.  I waddled as fast as my swollen feet would carry me--trying to get to the area where I could hear my husband's voice.

When I reached him, he said--he's crawled out of the stroller, and I can't find him anywhere. The panic that filled my mind and then sank into my heart is almost indescribable. My mouth could not work fast enough as I tried to scream (without sounding like a nut job) my son's name. Still--no little boy.

The store, upon hearing the commotion, locked down its doors, and the staff, along with us, began combing the dressing rooms.

I can't begin to describe the thoughts that were going through my head. Kidnapping, killing, mutilation, torture--my mind went crazy, and those were just a few of the crazy notions careening through my head. I could hear someone screaming and calling out his name, but I didn't even recognize it as my own voice.  Desperate. That's how I felt. And helpless. Completely helpless. I was the mom! Where was my son?

I began to pray. I began to beg. I began to plead. Help me find my baby. We were all shouting his name. Where was he?

And then I heard it. A little giggle. I slowly walked back to where I thought the sound was coming from. And I looked inside the round rack of clothing, and there snuggled down right in the middle of that rack was my 2-year-old son. He smiled at me and said Boo. I began to cry, I pulled him out of that rack, and hugged him. I think the other moms standing nearby were wiping tears away, too. But not my husband. Nope, not him. When he assured everyone that all was well now, he put our little boy back into that stroller and quickly pushed him right back out to the car.

I can read my husband's expressions, and the one on his face wasn't good. I walked as fast as I could behind him, holding tight to my daughter's hand, saying — he was playing; he didn't know what he was doing; it's not his fault.  I had to somehow get through to my husband that what our son did was not willful disobedience. He was just mimicking the games we played at home. I asked my husband to just sit in the car and cool down. I did not want my 2-year-old to be disciplined for something that really wasn't even his fault.

I sat there in the car next to my husband and noticed that his hands were shaking. He had been just as afraid as I had been. It had affected him, too; he just had a different way of expressing his emotions.  As my little family sat in the car, all safe and sound, we tried to explain to both our children why we do not play hide-and-seek in stores.

Later that night, as we tucked them into bed, we were so thankful for the day's outcome.  Yes, he was lost for a few horrific minutes. But then he found us.

Knocking

I was on a double-decker tour bus in Paris when I saw them. And even though it was February and cold, I wanted to be outside and riding up high. I didn't want to miss a thing. I had my camera ready and set on action. When we rounded a corner, there they were--two big, huge banners hanging on either side of great big wooden doors. of a church. Since the words on the banners were in French, I quickly snapped a picture, knowing it would take me a few seconds to process them into English.

I felt my eyes fill with tears. I didn't want to think about the words, not right then, not with my husband's coworker sitting next to us, not with a bus full of tourists. I wanted to be all alone. However, sometimes I have little control over where I am and when my emotions get the best of me. Maybe it was jet lag, but I don't think so. I think it was what those banners said that brought the tears.

The first banner said this--Where is Jesus?
The banner hanging on the other side of the doors said this--He is standing at the door and knocking.

Why the tears? Why was I so affected at that time? I think it was because of where those banners were hanging. They were on the outside of an old cathedral. A beautiful old church, somewhere on the route that the tour bus was taking. The first question hit me hard. Where is Jesus? I thought to myself--well, people should be able to open those great big old doors and find out. However, the doors were closed and most likely locked. The second question, though, is really what brought the tears. It told you where He was. He's standing at the door! Couldn't they hear Him knocking? Couldn't they see Him? Why were the doors closed? He's right there, outside the doors. Let Him in!

I wanted to jump off the bus; I wanted to bang on the doors of the church and yell, "Open up."  But the bus drove on, taking me along with it. Tears were streaming down my face, and people looked away. I turned my head out towards the street, and we went in search of our next tourist destination.

I had a lot to think about after that day. I am thankful that I was able to snap a quick picture before moving on, and that many years before that day in Paris, I opened the very door the banners referred to. The door of my heart. In the Biblical metaphor, Jesus stands at the door of our hearts, knocking. All we have to do is open that door and let Him in. I did that. Years ago, I did that. So, you see, when I saw those banners, I thought of 2 things--those that had not yet opened the doors of their hearts to Jesus, and that thought made me sad. And, I also thought of the many churches in the world that claim to have Jesus in the midst of their congregations, and yet, we know that, really, they have not even opened their church doors to Him. And try as I might, I could never get the picture of those banners out of my head.

It has been several years now, and I have been to Paris many more times. I have looked for the cathedral but haven't found it. I wanted to see if the banners were still there. I wanted to ask — has anyone knocked?
It's such a simple thing — knocking. And yet so many are afraid to open their doors. I wasn't afraid; I was only 6 years old. He said, "I'm knocking," and I said, "Ok," and I threw open the doors of my heart and said, "Come on in." Child-like faith-- super small, super trusting, super innocent--and I hope that when it comes to Jesus, I'm always like that. I hope I never change.

Where is Jesus? He is standing at the door of your heart and knocking--can you hear Him?

Lemonade

I have an iPhone. And yes, I am bragging. I love my iPhone; I think of it as my external brain. I never leave home, or for that matter, leave a room without it.  It's my to-go baby computer.

I was addicted to Solitaire for several years. And yes, I am bragging again — I was one of the original iPhone users. I had my original iPhone until the iPhone 4 came out; in fact, I still have it. Sometimes I think about selling it, but then I get a little nostalgic and put it back in the drawer — maybe someday.

So, games. I am now totally addicted to playing Gin Rummy on my phone. However, today I discovered something — hence the need to write about it. I keep winning. I'm not kidding, I win 99% of the time. OK, I'll admit it's the free app, which I'm sure is easy sneezy, but still.  And after several months of playing this game, I find it isn't challenging enough for me. And yet — I keep playing — but I am wondering where the fun is.  

That's the thought I am pondering at this time. Where is the fun in life without a challenge? We hate it when we are going through them —those tough times in life — we call them trials and tribulations. We blame everyone and their brother--but never ourselves, and we whine and cry and wonder how we get ourselves out of the mess we are in? And yet, if life had no challenges and we always won--what fun would there be in that? That's what I am asking myself today.

I've grown up hearing the saying--if life gives you lemons, make lemonade. I've always thought of it as trite and thought that the people using the saying were a little foolish at best. I thought that they themselves hadn't yet gone through many trials, or they wouldn't be using that silly saying. And yet, here I am now wondering if they aren't on to something.

Maybe we need those trials, those challenging times, to strengthen us. Maybe we need to know that if life were as simple as winning every hand at Gin Rummy, we'd soon be bored out of our minds. We certainly wouldn't be learning anything, let alone helping others or pleasing God. Maybe if life were that simple--it would be all about us! And not about Him at all.

So, this is what I am pondering today — I am looking at and reevaluating the simple and complex issues in my life, and putting them into categories. Bored--challenging. Dying--growing. Selfish--pleasing.
Do I have to win every game? Or would I rather have some challenges along the way?

Which category do I want my life to fall into? I'm pretty sure I know.

New in the Ville

That's what they call it here--the Ville. I love it; it's a fitting name for this vibrant little city — really named Naperville. We moved here a little over a year ago. So in some respect, I am still a newbie--still finding my way around and still loving this small city of mine. We looked forever for a home, our poor realtor. I'm sure that after showing me 1 million houses (at least I'm sure it seemed like that many to her), she was ready to wring my neck. But honestly, I just couldn't find a good fit for us. I kept telling her, I'll know it when I see it.

Not being from Chicagoland — not even knowing it referred to itself as Chicagoland — I didn't know the area. I kept using the website citydata.com, trying hard to figure out which little suburb would be our new place of residence. We initially thought it might be right downtown Chicago, but soon realized that we'd get more bang for our buck in the burbs.

We looked through every little burg — trying to find just the right house. We were shown 4 square homes, but the rooms were too small. We were shown older family-style homes, but the houses looked sad, as if to say, " Don't buy me, I want a house filled with kids. We were shown townhomes, but there was no yard for the dog. I bet in total our realtor showed us 80 to 90 houses. Poor thing, I bet she hates me now.

After looking through the many little towns of Chicagoland, we settled upon Naperville--the Ville, as they call it. It had everything going for it--a cute little downtown with a river running through it, and lots and lots of restaurants. We knew it was our kind of place. It seemed that great detail had gone into the layout of this small city. From the river walk to the covered bridges to the quaint little shops--it was love at first sight. I fought it a little at first; it was too far from all the action of the big city. However, over time, and after looking at many different neighborhoods, I began to see the beauty of this little gem.

And then I found it--just as I knew I would--the perfect little home for us. It needed tons of work, but that was OK with us; we lived in a hotel for a few weeks and got it all done. We now have the most awesome neighbors who have become good friends — I am very thankful for them.

We moved here in the summer--the home we settled on was right on the river, close to downtown. We could walk right in for dinner while strolling along the river. Also, we learned all about the local critters. Yep, I said critters. We met them by accident. One evening, while walking our dog, we noticed that we were being followed by 2 coyotes.  We were more than a little unnerved; we'd stomp our feet, wave our arms, and yell, and they would just pause, look, and continue to follow.  We started walking with pepper spray — just in case. We have also seen beavers, raccoons (yes, we have our own now), rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, ducks, and, one evening, even a deer.  Again, remember we live within a short walk to downtown.  I guess the little critters don't mind being so close to people, after all, we are all just part of the Ville.

Life in our new home and the new town is exciting, to say the least. I love the little critters, the river walk, the shops, the fountains, the covered bridges, the paddle-boats, and the beach--yes, I said beach. It's a huge man-made swimming pool that looks like a beach. It's pretty awesome! But I think most of all (because I am a foodie), I love all the many choices for dining out. There is seriously something for everyone. From fast food to bistros with live music, to upscale dining with white tablecloths, to outdoor patio dining--the Ville has something for everyone. Casual or fancy, we've got it covered.

So, in a nutshell, if I had to describe my little town, I think I'd say it this way--upscale casual, resort living in a relaxed, picturesque setting, with some old world charm thrown in, close to a huge city, with all its conveniences, and yet quintessentially midwest.

The people here are amazing — kind, friendly, and helpful. The food is great, and the atmosphere is wonderful. Is it any wonder why we are thoroughly enjoying our sweet new life in the Ville?

Grandfathers

Grandpa
When I think of you
I remember goats and roosters
I remember your old truck
and buying milk in giant cans

I remember sitting on your lap
and wanting to drink your coffee
I remember your little sayings
It'll make your feet turn black

I remember walking to the backfield
and picking berries for a cobbler
I remember gathering eggs
from the barn

I remember the knotty pine
living room and the big kitchen
especially the old stove
where grandma cooked for us

I remember you falling
asleep on the sofa and snoring
I remember the vases of feathers
from the pheasants, you used to hunt

Don't worry grandpa
even though I was only
6 years old when you died
I remember you

Paw Paw
When I think of you
I remember watermelon
and cantaloupe
fried chicken and okra

I remember small
little houses
with Venetian blinds
and little-fenced yards

I remember you teaching me
to play cards
Rummy and Dominos
and also Monopoly

I remember you sitting
in your chair with the ottoman
peeling potatoes
and shucking corn

I remember you taking
me fishing for perch
along the riverbanks
and getting to bait my own hook

And I will be forever
thankful that you were able
to meet all of my children
before leaving this earth

Scrambled Eggs

I had a favorite aunt; I have made no secret about that. She lived a couple of hours away from our house in the same small town as my grandparents and several other relatives. I loved going to visit her. As I have mentioned before, she made me feel special, and every little girl needs to feel special — especially from an aunt.

When I was a kid, my cousins and I had a blast at her house chasing those silly little tree frogs. Sometimes we would play tag late into the night, other times we would just hang out and talk. Kid talk. It was the best. Cousins forever--right?

After I married and had children of my own, it was important for me to let them experience a little bit of my life with my aunt and cousins. My husband and I would load them up in our car, drive to my aunt's house, and spend the weekend. We would all hang out by her pool and swim, barbecue, eat, and have the best time.  My kids loved it, and once in a while, they would even get to camp out in tents in her big backyard.  Sometime around midnight, when the adults were all talked out, we'd carry them into bed. The next morning, they always wondered how they had gotten there.

This morning, while scrambling eggs, I was reminded of one of those times with my aunt.  She and I were in the kitchen making breakfast--there were a ton of us there that weekend. Maybe it was even a holiday weekend--the 4th of July or something--I was in charge of the eggs, which sparked a debate among the aunts--how to scramble an egg the correct way. I, being a wannabe chef, had the right way all figured out, but the aunts, having had some experience with eggs tucked under their belts, all had a different way--many different ways.  All of us had a great time that morning discussing eggs and the many differing ways to cook them. I don't think we ever came to a conclusion, but we sure had fun.

Memory queues — I have them often — the more so as I age. I can be doing something as simple as scrambling an egg and think of my aunt. I can see a little girl's pair of tennis shoes and think of my niece, I can see a young man's smile and think of my nephew, or I can look in the mirror and think of my grandmother.   I am thankful for the ability to remember the past. It's very important to me. However, I wonder, what will be remembered about me? What will my niece and nephews remember, or my own children and grandchildren?  What will their memory queues be? What will spark a memory for them?

It seems that my greatest memories are of those who have passed away and of those who have meant the most to me.  My memories seem to consist of the ones I have loved deeply and miss greatly. I guess that's how it's supposed to be. Maybe that's why God allows us to keep those memories. Especially the memories that are so sweet, pure, and simple--like scrambled eggs.

Coffee Mug

I don't believe in coincidences, never have, never will. I do believe, however, in divine appointments. One happened a few weeks ago, and it started with a coffee mug.

A neighbor invited me to go with her to a Bible study. I was surprised when I got there, here we were way out in the boonies of Chicagoland when this huge church appeared out of nowhere. And at that Bible study? Almost 150 women! I was stunned. They had us sit at large round tables for 12, and there were at least 12 tables. Lots of tables, lots of women. We will be sitting with the same 12 women for the next year. I'm sure that we will get to know each other really well.

One interesting thing that happened was this — the main leader asked us all to bring a coffee mug to Bible study the next week. OK — now I needed to think about which coffee mug I'd part with. I have a thing — I love mugs. I buy them as souvenirs to remind me of the places I've been. I buy them to look at and remember when, I buy them if they are cute, or have interesting things on them. OK, I just buy them--it's an addiction that I can't control. One type of mug I am especially prone to buy is one with my particular dog breed on it. I can't pass them up; those little brown doggie eyes beckon to me as I walk by. And it eventually ends up at my coffee bar--as my new favorite mug of the week.

So, in thinking about which mug to bring to the study, I went down to my basement (where I store my extra mugs) and looked through them. Which one can I part with, I wondered? I could grab a spiritual one — I'd look super good then! Maybe one with a verse on it, or one that says--I'm praying for you! My eyes kept drifting towards the dog breed mugs--I kept tearing them away--no, no dog breed mugs, those are mine! But I knew in the end, I'd have to give in; she was going to get one of my favorite mugs. It represented a part of who I was — a dog lover.

The next week, we all filed into our great big room and were given a number. We were then told to find the other person in the room with the same number. She would be my prayer partner for the entire year. I began to call out 32, 32, 32 in a Farris Buhler-type voice. I thought it was funny. I found her right away. We had fun exchanging mugs and sharing a little about each other. I found out that she had spent about 4 years living in my hometown. We swapped names and numbers and then went back to our tables.

Now on to the coincidence. The next week, I received a phone call from a fellow Bible study gal who just so happened to sit at the same table as my new coffee mug friend. She noticed the dog-breed mug and got all excited — it seems we share the same breed. She asked my new mug buddy if she could possibly have my number. She called me and invited me over to play dog whisperer with her 2 dogs. So, of course, I obliged — anything to see her dogs. We had a great time. I worked with one dog, and she worked with the other as I trained and gave instructions.  Her little pup was walking on a lead and shaping up in no time--what sweet dogs they were. We went to lunch afterward and were able to really sit, talk, and get to know each other.

I won't share our conversation — but have you ever been sitting somewhere and had the definite impression that you were right where God wanted you to be?  I knew that He had sent me there, and that she had found me through my coffee mug buddy. We've got lots in common, but more than that, God set us up. A new neighbor, to Bible study, to dog mug, to mug buddy, to dog whispering, to lunch--it was a setup. He placed 2 women together from different walks of life, different towns, different Bible study tables, and He drew them together via a coffee mug. Who woulda thought?  

Coincidence? I think not. Divine appointment? I think so!  

I don't know what the future holds, but I only know that life is exciting when I let God be God. When I let Him set up these divine appointments for me — when I am open to meeting new people and to new experiences. And I know that I don't believe in coincidences. I just don't.