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 most 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 and went for long drives in 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 also have gone through our winter clothing--boots, coats, sweaters, gloves, 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.  I doubt they could 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.  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 laying 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 story teller than I, however, I will share my story anyway--as 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 and unloaded our kids and the stroller and headed in.

Many times when we went out as a family we would each take charge over one of our kids.  I happened to be holding our daughter's hand and my husband was pushing the stroller in which our 2-year-old son was riding.  Since our son was the size of a 3-year-old and very well behaved, we did not fasten the little straps in 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 the name of our son.  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 brain and then sunk to my heart is an emotion that 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 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 other moms were wiping tears away too.  But, not my husband.  Nope, not him.  When he assured everyone that all was now well, he put our little boy back into that stroller and began to quickly push him right back out to the car.

I can read my husband's expressions and the one on his face wasn't a good one.  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 spanked 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 there in the car, all safe and sound, we tried to explain to both of our children why we do not play hide and seek in the stores.

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

Knocking

I was in Paris on a double-decker tour bus 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.  Being that the words on the banners were in French, I quickly snapped a picture as I knew it would take me a few seconds to process what they said 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 and took me along with it.  Tears were streaming down my face, 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 I am thankful that many years before that day in Paris I opened up the very door that the banners were referring to.  The door of my heart.  In the Biblical metaphor, Jesus is standing at the door of our hearts, and He is 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 who 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 the game 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 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 am finding that it isn't challenging enough for me.  And yet--I keep playing--but I am wondering where is the fun?  

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 do 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, let alone 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 the complex issues in my life and I am 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 that it referred to itself as Chicagoland--I didn't know the area.  I kept using the website citydata.com and trying hard to figure out which little suburb was going to 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 beaver, raccoon (yes, we have our own now) and rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, ducks and one evening even a deer.  Again remember we live within a short little walk into 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, 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 by 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 and drive to my aunt's house and spend the weekend.  We would all hang out by her pool and swim, we would bar-b-que and 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 back yard.  Sometime around midnight when the adults were all talked out we'd carry them into bed.  They always wondered the next morning 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.  Me, 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 girls 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 nephew 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 that have passed away, and of those that 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 real well.

One interesting thing that took place 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 that I am especially prone to buy is a mug 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 shared 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 one dog and she worked the other as I trained and gave instruction.  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 then were able to really sit and 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 I knew, that He had sent me there, and that she had found me via 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.  Devine appointment?  I think so!  


I don't know what the future holds, 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 open to new experiences.  And I know that I don't believe in coincidences.  I just don't.

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 criticisms.  They'll come, they have before.

At some point in high school, I had decided that I wanted to go to 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 the desire to go back to college returned and with the encouragement of my awesome husband I decided to go back to school and follow my passion.  I wanted to learn all that I could about the Bible and God, and how I could have an affect on the world around me.  Long story short--I wanted to be a preacher/pastor/teacher, only 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 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 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 the following year 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 resumed backed 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 talking 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 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 life long 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 becoming ordained by a church and that I had moved on and was pursuing other interests.  I didn't want him to know that I needed to hang up quickly--my emotions were beginning to get the best of me.  Tears were starting to roll down my face, 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 and 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 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, in a Christian college, everyone would have already heard what I had to say.  They already would have had some teaching on Christianity, but not so 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 using my life and even using words when necessary.  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 for 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 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 exposing myself to others and it's 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 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 was 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 and 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 someones 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 step foot on an airplane and onto 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'm going to risk it, and go and see and do.  And not worry about the what ifs.

I'm finding that the older I get the more risks in life I'm willing to take.  I don't want to be laying on my deathbed one day thinking--I wish I'd done this or that.  If only I had...
No, I want to be laying there thanking God for all the wonderful life experiences that He allowed in my life.  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 as 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 and completed phase 2 and all was now well in my world.  I now had an upper and lower patio.  The upper to be used for coffee and lunch, the lower 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 to think about the container gardening project that I was going to attempt in the spring.  My husband bought me a great book for 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 and thank God that 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.  I guess 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--smiley face.  And that isn't necessarily so.  Sometimes things don't go my way, sometimes God has other plans.  It doesn't mean that those plans are always going to make me happy, I think that's why I'm told to be content in all things.  It isn't easy--if it was, 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, without getting mad at me and 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--concerning my children and grandchildren.  I do not like the fact that I don't have control over where, when and how long I can see them.  They live too far away for my liking.  I am dealing also with bouts of jealousy over friends and family members of mine 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 of time with them.  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 (usually not all at the same time) of my grandkids--for a snippet of time.  It's way too short of a visit.  And then I spend the next couple 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 unless you are a long distance grandmother that you can even imagine the pain of driving away, waving at your grandchildren, tears rolling down your face, heart strings 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 small little snippet of time that I have with my kids and their children.  Eventually, I will have a grateful heart--one that says thank you God that I even have 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 you's after my pity party.  Always.

I hope that my grandbabies--all 5 of them--realize the depth of my love for them.  Each one an individual and each one deserving 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 back yard.  I do not possess the built-in map type of 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, 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 that separated my house from our neighbors I all but fell on the grass and hugged my front yard with happiness.  I buried my face in the grass.  I was home.  I wasn't lost any longer.  I was safe.

Can you even imagine my elation when navigation systems in cars were released?  I thought maps were the greatest invention of all times--until navigation!  Navigation rocks!  I love it.  The minute it was new car time for me--I knew that 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 of my life.
Sure, once in awhile 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 too.  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.  I wonder if it's 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 be able to say that 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 that I take so many pictures because there aren't many of me as a child 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 as I'd like of our little family.  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 doing 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 are no longer able to hold the camera and push the 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 picture taker?

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 letting you know how vain I really am.  They are just excuses--I know.  So why--why am I always behind the camera?  Another theory that 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 there 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....

Me 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 Ramsey-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--he can whip that place into shape in no time.  However, his attitude has infiltrated the way I view things--I now enter a restaurant and I 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 now I've 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 still 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 wonderful.  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 3 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 had the responsibility to get 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 to be made.  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 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 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 remembering 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 over protective 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 also 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 stiff warning to apologize to her and then afterward he could come back over and play.  He did it too.  He told her he was sorry and then he high-tailed it back to my house to tell me all about it, and to 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 that it was also hard for me to leave them?  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 they all 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 that I still pray for them every day.  And that 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, we still have a little something to eat, and maybe some decaf, but we end the evening usually 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 have 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, 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 has 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, not at all.  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.

My Metaphor

I need one--a metaphor.  I need said metaphor to explain to me, to show me what my life is like.  How it moves, flows and grows.  So, I've chosen one--a metaphor just for me.  It's all mine.  I'll call it my River Metaphor.

Since I've decided to liken my life to a river, I'll use that analogy to explain the ebb and flow of life as I know it.  You see, I now live on a river and I've had the opportunity to live on it for one year--through all four seasons.  I've watched it swell and shrink, freeze and thaw--and I've watched that happen in my life as well.

I started out with a small river in my life, one where I lightly rode a raft through my childhood, I had no control, but was carefree and cared for.  I went to school, hung out with friends and grew up--steady, surely, safely--flowing.

After marrying, my river began to swell a little, and by the time I had children it was raging--sometimes out of control.  I still loved it though--that river life of mine.  It was a sweet ride.  I didn't really have time to notice the seasons of river life back then, it was a fast-paced time for me.  In fact, there wasn't much of me at all during that time.  Life was about family--my kids and my husband.  Maybe they were there as a life preserver without me knowing it--yes, I think they were my life preserver.  I'd like to believe so anyway.   And although it seemed back then that that time in my life lasted forever, I realize now that it didn't.  It was just a season--too short for me.

My river isn't racing any longer.  It has slowed down to a steady pace.  And much like the seasons in my own life during this last year, there have been times when my river has frozen over.  It's frozen over enough for the ducks to walk across in winter, it has flowed mightily with the spring thaw and it has swelled during the summer rains.  But, it has been steady and predictable, almost normal.

We're gearing up for Autumn around here now.  I'm getting out my fall decorations, and I'm thinking about apple crisp and pumpkin pie.  I'm wondering what these next few months will hold.  Will they be overflowing or sure and steady?  What changes will there be?  I don't mind the small changes, it's the big floods that worry me.  Whether they be in my life or happening on my river--flooding scares me a little.

I guess it scares others too.  We all watch the river to see what will happen with the change of seasons, and really it's all pretty much the same.   Year after year, season after season there are changes on my river and yet they have been foreseeable and yes, even predictable.

In my metaphor I feel that I flow along with my river, knowing that change is inevitable but hoping that it happens slowly--please slow down my river, you are moving a little too quickly now.