It's happened again. Awake at 5:00am. Oh well, I'll write. There's much to share right now anyway. Thanksgiving is next week, and my daughter and her family are coming in just a few days. My brain is going 90 miles an hour, thinking of all the things I need to do, buy, and get ready for... so very many things. And yet, this is my favorite time of year. It's beginning. The holidays. The decorations, the food, the family, the friends. shopping, wrapping, eating, laughing. These are the things that make my heart happy.
I woke up with a lot on my mind. Friends and family who've lost loved ones. Thinking about those empty chairs around the table this year, thinking about the sadness and depression that will hit some full force at the holidays. So, I lay there in bed and prayed. And I felt God's heart breaking, as mine did also. I know it's hard for some. Even in my own family, it's hard. Even among my dear friends, this can be a hard time of year. I did the only thing I could do for them — I prayed. Not just a little contrite prayer either. I prayed hard. I cried for them, I wept with them. And in my mind's eye, I held them, told them it would be ok. Told them I loved them and that one day, things might look just a little brighter for them, a little better, a little easier. I hope so anyway. Sadness saddens me. I have one of those bleeding hearts, remember? If you're sad, I'm sad. And that's why I pray.
I also woke up with a feeling of thankfulness and a grateful heart. This will be my 44th holiday season with my husband. Well, married that is--46 if you count dating, and yes, we spent the holidays together even when we dated. We were inseparable, much like today. As I lay in bed, thinking and praying, I thanked God for my relationship with this man of mine. I think it just might be quite unique. You see, we still like each other. We love being together, traveling, exploring, and going on adventures. And, as I watch him working outside in our backyard, or just talking with a neighbor--I can't help but feel those waves of love for him wash over me. He truly is the love of my life. Thankful? Oh yes.
And then, there are my children. The out-of-towners are coming soon, the in-towners are coming over, we'll have a full house for sure, and that's just how I like it. Our house is small but homey. And when they are all here, my heart almost bursts with love and pride. I have the most wonderful children. And they've married the most wonderful spouses. And then, oh, and then--there are all those grandkids. Seven of them. Seven to love on, buy for, cook for, laugh with, and tease. Thankful? Oh yes.
I woke up also thinking about my friends and where God has placed us. This neighborhood and town, this street, and this house. It's actually a miracle. I'm so happy. I'm so thankful. I'm so grateful. I have the most awesome friends. If I wrote about even a little portion of what they've done for me and what they mean to me, I'd be writing a book. I've been blessed beyond measure; my cup really does runneth over. Thankful? Oh yes.
Yes, I have much to be thankful for. And, I am. Very. However, I also realize that some aren't thankful or grateful right now. And that's ok. Because I'm here to hold them up to God in prayer. I'm here if they need me for anything at any time. My home is always open to them. And I believe they know that. At least I hope they do. I have a saying that I constantly repeat — when I make a friend, I make a friend for life. No matter what has ever transpired between us, intentional or not--you are still my friend. If you've hurt me, or I've (unknowingly) hurt you, you're still my friend. I am always here for you 24/7, no questions asked. No apologies necessary, I'm still your friend. I love you, I care about you, and yes, I'm thankful for you.
So there it is in a nutshell. I am grateful, thankful, and full of love for my family and friends--far and wide, near and close. I have enough joy for all of us. I love my God, my family, and my friends. My prayer for you all this Thanksgiving is that something in your life shifts. That something happens in such a miraculous way that you know it's a God thing. That your heart changes into one of gratefulness and thankfulness, and that you know how much God loves you.
Yep, that's my prayer for you this year. If you only realize one thing, if you can only be thankful for one thing--make it be for God. He loves you. He's there for you. He'll hold you. He'll heal you. He'll change your heart.
You might wonder how I know these things to be true. Well, He did it for me. Thankful? Oh yes.
Saturday, November 17, 2018
Monday, August 13, 2018
Just a Kitchen
I've got some great advice to share. Don't go house hunting when you're all drugged up on painkillers. Not a good idea. Or then again...maybe it is.
As I have mentioned before, I was desperate to get into a real home, with a yard and more room. So, we went house hunting. We had looked at several (ok, more than several) open houses and then met a realtor that we clicked with. He then began looking seriously for our future home on our behalf.
Just a mere 2 weeks post-surgery, and in a very drug-induced state, I fell in love with a cute little single-story house. All it needed was a new kitchen! I could do that. I had done it before. And it was such a cute little house, a small, cozy, quaint little place. It fit all my requirements--while on drugs!
I looked up at my husband, hand on my Hawaiian print cane, and batted my eyes. Would you please buy me this house? What's a guy to do? He bought me the house. We hadn't even sold our condo yet, and we now owned a little fixer-upper. It just needed a kitchen, though, right?
So, a couple of days before closing, as all buyers do, we did our walkthrough. I kinda wish we hadn't. The house was empty. I noticed right away that the walls were ugly and dingy, the carpets were dirty, and the bathrooms appalling. What in the world did I get myself into? I felt like crying. The house was so much worse than I had ever anticipated, and needed work in every single room. New paint, flooring, kitchen, bathrooms, everything! And, it was so much smaller than I had remembered. Also, I haven't mentioned the yard yet. Ugg. Front and back, just ugg. I thought they were much more manicured. Nope, overgrown doesn't begin to describe that piece of property. I felt so completely overwhelmed and wondered--just what kind of meds did that doctor give me?
And then came moving day. We met the movers at our new home, and as they unloaded box after box, I walked through the house making lists of all that I needed to do--and thought about how much money I was going to pour into this sad little place. I am always careful not to overbuild for the neighborhood, so I am frugal in that area — not in any other areas, mind you, just that one. So, box by box, and chair by chair, the truck was finally unloaded.
Then the rains began. It rained and rained and rained, and our new basement flooded and flooded and flooded. There we were, standing 4 inches deep in water, unpacking box after box and praying that there was nothing of any value being ruined, namely, pictures. I began to cry, which made my husband feel horrible. What a mess, and it was all because of me! I made us buy this little ugly house, with a flooded basement, and an icky backyard. Let's just say, I wasn't having fun. We quickly unpacked those sopping-wet boxes, looked over our treasures, made sure nothing important was ruined, and finally called it a night. We were exhausted.
As the rains subsided and we began to get some furniture into place, the little house began to take on some character. Over the next few weeks, it slowly began to grow on us. We tore out shrubs and cabinets. We hung pictures and bought new furniture. We made plans for the bathrooms and the backyard. Things were looking up.
It's hard to move. It's stressful and fun all at the same time. Fun and exhausting. Exhausting and exciting. I wondered--was this God's plan? Did I hear Him right? Or was it the drugs talking? I seriously did not know!
It's been a few weeks now. We've settled in. It's looking better in some rooms and worse in others. We don't have a kitchen yet, but it's coming. Cabinets are being delivered today and installed later this week. Floors next Monday and counters a couple of weeks later. Every room still needs to be painted. And we are waiting for the vanities to arrive for the bathrooms. We will then begin painting. We are true do-it-yourselfers. Well, sometimes we are, it depends. On my husband. You know--on what kind of mood he's in. Hire someone or do it myself — these are questions only he can answer.
We are both in love with the neighborhood, the little town, and yes, even our new home. It's beginning to take form. It's beginning to be ours. We're going to take it slow, ok, slower, as we renovate. First the kitchen, then the bathrooms, then the painting, then the years of maintaining all this... and we know this will go on for the next 20 years. And I'm ok with that. Yes, it's true, I only thought it needed a kitchen; however, I was mistaken. And isn't that kind of how life truly is? We think it's one thing and then, lo and behold--gotcha! It's that and a whole lot more!
We'll make this new home our little place--Grandma's cottage. We'll love it. It's the last stop in life for us. Our little retirement cottage. So we'd better make it the best it can be!
As I have mentioned before, I was desperate to get into a real home, with a yard and more room. So, we went house hunting. We had looked at several (ok, more than several) open houses and then met a realtor that we clicked with. He then began looking seriously for our future home on our behalf.
Just a mere 2 weeks post-surgery, and in a very drug-induced state, I fell in love with a cute little single-story house. All it needed was a new kitchen! I could do that. I had done it before. And it was such a cute little house, a small, cozy, quaint little place. It fit all my requirements--while on drugs!
I looked up at my husband, hand on my Hawaiian print cane, and batted my eyes. Would you please buy me this house? What's a guy to do? He bought me the house. We hadn't even sold our condo yet, and we now owned a little fixer-upper. It just needed a kitchen, though, right?
So, a couple of days before closing, as all buyers do, we did our walkthrough. I kinda wish we hadn't. The house was empty. I noticed right away that the walls were ugly and dingy, the carpets were dirty, and the bathrooms appalling. What in the world did I get myself into? I felt like crying. The house was so much worse than I had ever anticipated, and needed work in every single room. New paint, flooring, kitchen, bathrooms, everything! And, it was so much smaller than I had remembered. Also, I haven't mentioned the yard yet. Ugg. Front and back, just ugg. I thought they were much more manicured. Nope, overgrown doesn't begin to describe that piece of property. I felt so completely overwhelmed and wondered--just what kind of meds did that doctor give me?
And then came moving day. We met the movers at our new home, and as they unloaded box after box, I walked through the house making lists of all that I needed to do--and thought about how much money I was going to pour into this sad little place. I am always careful not to overbuild for the neighborhood, so I am frugal in that area — not in any other areas, mind you, just that one. So, box by box, and chair by chair, the truck was finally unloaded.
Then the rains began. It rained and rained and rained, and our new basement flooded and flooded and flooded. There we were, standing 4 inches deep in water, unpacking box after box and praying that there was nothing of any value being ruined, namely, pictures. I began to cry, which made my husband feel horrible. What a mess, and it was all because of me! I made us buy this little ugly house, with a flooded basement, and an icky backyard. Let's just say, I wasn't having fun. We quickly unpacked those sopping-wet boxes, looked over our treasures, made sure nothing important was ruined, and finally called it a night. We were exhausted.
As the rains subsided and we began to get some furniture into place, the little house began to take on some character. Over the next few weeks, it slowly began to grow on us. We tore out shrubs and cabinets. We hung pictures and bought new furniture. We made plans for the bathrooms and the backyard. Things were looking up.
It's hard to move. It's stressful and fun all at the same time. Fun and exhausting. Exhausting and exciting. I wondered--was this God's plan? Did I hear Him right? Or was it the drugs talking? I seriously did not know!
It's been a few weeks now. We've settled in. It's looking better in some rooms and worse in others. We don't have a kitchen yet, but it's coming. Cabinets are being delivered today and installed later this week. Floors next Monday and counters a couple of weeks later. Every room still needs to be painted. And we are waiting for the vanities to arrive for the bathrooms. We will then begin painting. We are true do-it-yourselfers. Well, sometimes we are, it depends. On my husband. You know--on what kind of mood he's in. Hire someone or do it myself — these are questions only he can answer.
We are both in love with the neighborhood, the little town, and yes, even our new home. It's beginning to take form. It's beginning to be ours. We're going to take it slow, ok, slower, as we renovate. First the kitchen, then the bathrooms, then the painting, then the years of maintaining all this... and we know this will go on for the next 20 years. And I'm ok with that. Yes, it's true, I only thought it needed a kitchen; however, I was mistaken. And isn't that kind of how life truly is? We think it's one thing and then, lo and behold--gotcha! It's that and a whole lot more!
We'll make this new home our little place--Grandma's cottage. We'll love it. It's the last stop in life for us. Our little retirement cottage. So we'd better make it the best it can be!
Friday, August 3, 2018
Post Op--4 months
Good news! It's over! It has now been 4 months since my knee replacement surgery. And, as I've mentioned, those first few weeks were horrific. They were worse than I ever could have imagined. I've gone through childbirth, one natural, 2 cesarean sections, and several other surgeries. However, nothing prepared me for this. The pain, the swelling, the crying, the pills. I just didn't know what to expect. Now I do. I can advise, I can help, I can caution others. I am an expert.
The first month is bad, horrible. The 2nd month is a bit better, and so on. As I am 4 months post-op, I am doing much better. I can walk without a limp. And that's a big deal. I actually had to train myself not to limp. It was a learned behavior. After all my years of painful walking, I had developed a true limp. After the knee replacement and the pain subsided, I had to practice not limping. Sounds easy enough, but it's more complicated than you think.
I do still have bad days—some swelling and pain—but Tylenol and an anti-inflammatory seem to do the trick. I try to remember to take those meds on days that I'm going to be walking a lot. I haven't had to take a "big dog pill" in several weeks now. I am so proud of myself!
I am walking well, getting in my 10,000 or more steps daily, and am looking forward to (ok, not really) getting back on my bike. I am very afraid of riding a bike. Although I rode the exercise bike during physical therapy, I have yet to get on a real bike. That's coming soon, though.
One thing I highly advise is physical therapy. Go. Go no matter what. If it's the only thing you do, go! I had therapy for 3 1/2 months. That is why I am progressing so well. More than anything, you want that range of motion back in your knee. I worked long and hard for mine, and I finally got it. 121, pretty darn good!
I've been asked several times if I'm glad I did it. Hmmmm, I guess so. I couldn't walk towards the end. I couldn't walk my dog around the block. I couldn't even walk through the mall. You know it's bad when I can't shop! So, am I glad I did it? Yes, I am glad. I can shop, I mean walk again. I am getting around better than ever, and I now know from experience that it will only get better. Each week is so much better than the last.
We had planned a trip to Europe this Fall; however, we've postponed the trip until Spring. I need just a few more months to recuperate, and then there will be no holding me back. I will be walking and shopping with the best of them!
In the meantime, I am unpacking and having fun with our new home. That's another blog, though. Wait until you hear about that!
The first month is bad, horrible. The 2nd month is a bit better, and so on. As I am 4 months post-op, I am doing much better. I can walk without a limp. And that's a big deal. I actually had to train myself not to limp. It was a learned behavior. After all my years of painful walking, I had developed a true limp. After the knee replacement and the pain subsided, I had to practice not limping. Sounds easy enough, but it's more complicated than you think.
I do still have bad days—some swelling and pain—but Tylenol and an anti-inflammatory seem to do the trick. I try to remember to take those meds on days that I'm going to be walking a lot. I haven't had to take a "big dog pill" in several weeks now. I am so proud of myself!
I am walking well, getting in my 10,000 or more steps daily, and am looking forward to (ok, not really) getting back on my bike. I am very afraid of riding a bike. Although I rode the exercise bike during physical therapy, I have yet to get on a real bike. That's coming soon, though.
One thing I highly advise is physical therapy. Go. Go no matter what. If it's the only thing you do, go! I had therapy for 3 1/2 months. That is why I am progressing so well. More than anything, you want that range of motion back in your knee. I worked long and hard for mine, and I finally got it. 121, pretty darn good!
I've been asked several times if I'm glad I did it. Hmmmm, I guess so. I couldn't walk towards the end. I couldn't walk my dog around the block. I couldn't even walk through the mall. You know it's bad when I can't shop! So, am I glad I did it? Yes, I am glad. I can shop, I mean walk again. I am getting around better than ever, and I now know from experience that it will only get better. Each week is so much better than the last.
We had planned a trip to Europe this Fall; however, we've postponed the trip until Spring. I need just a few more months to recuperate, and then there will be no holding me back. I will be walking and shopping with the best of them!
In the meantime, I am unpacking and having fun with our new home. That's another blog, though. Wait until you hear about that!
Sunday, July 1, 2018
Grandma's Cottage
Oops, I did it again. After 3 years in a small stand-alone condo, I realized that I needed just a little more standing room, just a little more space, just a little more elbow room. The neighborhood, the proximity to hiking and bike trails, national forests, and waterfalls were all wonderful things. All except one. The majority of my friends--they didn't live anywhere near me. They were all between 20 and 45 minutes away. And most days, I would end up driving an hour and a half just to do things and have fun.
It was an easy decision for me. So I started looking for another house that better suited our needs. OK, my needs. I must admit here that this little condo met all my husband's needs. It was the right size, it came with lawn and snow care, and it was close to nature — yep, all his needs were met. And, none of mine were. Fortunately for me, he understood my plight and joined in the search. Actually, he did want a single-story home, so I had that going for me.
I just needed more. I needed some land, a nice yard for my dog to run and play in. She's only 3 years old, and she needs some playtime. A real doggie area. Not just walks with mom and dad. Real live chase the birds, chipmunks, and squirrels time.
I needed a basement, somewhere where my grandkids could congregate during winter. Our winters are long here. It's horrible to feel couped up. There was nowhere for them to play before. Now there will be. They'll have a TV, games, puzzles, books, and a place to have fun.
I needed more rooms-- a reading room, a dining room. This open concept thing just isn't for me. When my kids came to visit and wanted to watch sports (did I mention that I hate sports, all sports, any sports), I wanted to have a separate room to go to and have an intelligent conversation or even sit down with a book or laptop. I needed more rooms!
And then there was the good Ol' knee thing. I wanted a ranch-style home. No more stairs for this old lady. With this knee replacement, stairs are not my favorite thing to do. Not that I don't do them, I do. I just don't prefer them, and I don't want to do them 10 times a day.
So, a hunting we went. And within just a few short weeks, we found her. A small single-story home set on 3/4 of an acre. She's got charm and personality, she's cozy (another term for small), and kinda cute. Some brick and white siding, a big porch, and tons of trees. So many trees (read: leaves here), so I am buying my husband a riding lawn mower — my gift to him. He'll love it. He'll be like a kid with a new toy. The house is in a well-established neighborhood and feels very welcoming. Just my style. It's my little grandma's cottage.
As I sit here this morning, finishing up my blog, I am at my son's house. We are staying here for a few days while we are homeless. Our old house closed a couple of days ago, and the new one won't be in our name for a couple more days. It's like a vacation staying here. He owns a big, beautiful home situated on the most gorgeous lot. It's very peaceful. However, it's the calm before the storm. Because after we move--well, it's gonna get busy! Crazy busy.
Our new place needs a new kitchen and new vanities in the bathrooms. Not a big deal. I have everything picked out. So now we wait — for the cabinets, countertops, and flooring to be installed. We wait for the new furniture to be delivered. We get to know our new home, new neighbors, and new surroundings. I'm not really new to the area, though--our old church is down the street, my friends live close by, and I've been coming out this way for almost 19 years. It's just that I'll be living here now. And that makes me so happy.
I'm looking forward to this move. I'm not really giving up anything. My friends are all around me. My kids and grandkids are still here (except for my daughter's family, I'm praying they move here!) I'm getting a cute little house to decorate! The last of many things we'll be doing, as far as house stuff goes. For this will be the last move before the old folks' home. This is the house we will retire in. This is it! We won't be slowing down. That's not our style. We are movers and shakers. At least we like to think so. We just don't want to move homes again. This will be the 10th home we've purchased in 44 years. I'm done. Done. Done. We now just want to sit back and enjoy life. Hang with friends and family. Be part of a community. And settle in for the long haul.
So, if you see me on the street going for a walk with my little sheltie, if you see me riding by on my Townie Go, if you see me sitting on the porch of my little grandma cottage drinking coffee — stop on by and say hi! The coffee's on.
It was an easy decision for me. So I started looking for another house that better suited our needs. OK, my needs. I must admit here that this little condo met all my husband's needs. It was the right size, it came with lawn and snow care, and it was close to nature — yep, all his needs were met. And, none of mine were. Fortunately for me, he understood my plight and joined in the search. Actually, he did want a single-story home, so I had that going for me.
I just needed more. I needed some land, a nice yard for my dog to run and play in. She's only 3 years old, and she needs some playtime. A real doggie area. Not just walks with mom and dad. Real live chase the birds, chipmunks, and squirrels time.
I needed a basement, somewhere where my grandkids could congregate during winter. Our winters are long here. It's horrible to feel couped up. There was nowhere for them to play before. Now there will be. They'll have a TV, games, puzzles, books, and a place to have fun.
I needed more rooms-- a reading room, a dining room. This open concept thing just isn't for me. When my kids came to visit and wanted to watch sports (did I mention that I hate sports, all sports, any sports), I wanted to have a separate room to go to and have an intelligent conversation or even sit down with a book or laptop. I needed more rooms!
And then there was the good Ol' knee thing. I wanted a ranch-style home. No more stairs for this old lady. With this knee replacement, stairs are not my favorite thing to do. Not that I don't do them, I do. I just don't prefer them, and I don't want to do them 10 times a day.
So, a hunting we went. And within just a few short weeks, we found her. A small single-story home set on 3/4 of an acre. She's got charm and personality, she's cozy (another term for small), and kinda cute. Some brick and white siding, a big porch, and tons of trees. So many trees (read: leaves here), so I am buying my husband a riding lawn mower — my gift to him. He'll love it. He'll be like a kid with a new toy. The house is in a well-established neighborhood and feels very welcoming. Just my style. It's my little grandma's cottage.
As I sit here this morning, finishing up my blog, I am at my son's house. We are staying here for a few days while we are homeless. Our old house closed a couple of days ago, and the new one won't be in our name for a couple more days. It's like a vacation staying here. He owns a big, beautiful home situated on the most gorgeous lot. It's very peaceful. However, it's the calm before the storm. Because after we move--well, it's gonna get busy! Crazy busy.
Our new place needs a new kitchen and new vanities in the bathrooms. Not a big deal. I have everything picked out. So now we wait — for the cabinets, countertops, and flooring to be installed. We wait for the new furniture to be delivered. We get to know our new home, new neighbors, and new surroundings. I'm not really new to the area, though--our old church is down the street, my friends live close by, and I've been coming out this way for almost 19 years. It's just that I'll be living here now. And that makes me so happy.
I'm looking forward to this move. I'm not really giving up anything. My friends are all around me. My kids and grandkids are still here (except for my daughter's family, I'm praying they move here!) I'm getting a cute little house to decorate! The last of many things we'll be doing, as far as house stuff goes. For this will be the last move before the old folks' home. This is the house we will retire in. This is it! We won't be slowing down. That's not our style. We are movers and shakers. At least we like to think so. We just don't want to move homes again. This will be the 10th home we've purchased in 44 years. I'm done. Done. Done. We now just want to sit back and enjoy life. Hang with friends and family. Be part of a community. And settle in for the long haul.
So, if you see me on the street going for a walk with my little sheltie, if you see me riding by on my Townie Go, if you see me sitting on the porch of my little grandma cottage drinking coffee — stop on by and say hi! The coffee's on.
Saturday, June 23, 2018
The E Word
It's the "it" word right now. The word that's been bastardized. Hi-jacked. The word that, when it's used the way it is now, breaks my heart. The term is evangelical. Why? Because I am one. I am an evangelical Christian. It means that I follow the teachings of the gospel, more specifically, the 4 gospels of the Bible. Even more specifically, the teachings of Christ. I follow Jesus--with every breath I take. I follow Him. And I always will.
So when I hear or read people using this word wrong, I cringe. My whole being--implodes. I hate it. I can't handle it. I want it to stop, yet this very word that describes my lifestyle is being stolen. It's being bogarted. It's being taken over by people who name the name of Christ, say they follow His teachings, claim to read the Bible, and say they serve God, and yet... that's not what the world sees.
This is what the world should be seeing; this is what should be on display for all to view. The Bible says that Jesus is the almighty one, the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, and that he's our advocate, the author, and the perfecter of our faith. He was given all authority in heaven and earth, and he is the bread of life. He's the Son of God, and he is our deliverer. He is faithful and true; he's our good shepherd and lays down his life for us. He's the great high priest, the head of the church; he is Immanuel, God with us. He is our judge. He is the king of kings. He is the lamb of God, the light of the world. He's the Lord of all; he's our mediator. Our hope and peace, our Redeemer, our risen Lord. Our Savior, the true vine, our counselor, mighty God, everlasting father, prince of peace.
Now, let me ask you a question. Is this what Christians are proclaiming and exemplifying today? Is this what is being preached? Or is there a new gospel being touted? One of hatred, bigotry, and selfishness?
Because I have to tell you — I'm not seeing Jesus being shared any longer. I'm not seeing Christians evangelizing in the truest sense of the word. I do not see that at all. And please, don't think I'm judging. I am not. I am just sharing what I see happening all around me. I'm just sharing what I hear from friends who are not Christians, what I see on TV, and what is shared with me when I travel abroad. I'm also sharing what I hear coming out of the mouths of those claiming to be followers of Christ. It is shocking.
For example. In my own personal life, in just this past year alone, from so-called Christians--I have received death threats, lost established 30-plus year friendships, been called horrible names, and severely judged. I have been told that I am a terrible writer (I never claimed to be a good one, just like to blog) and a lousy communicator. Also, my relationship with Christ has been questioned. Yet, I stand up for the underdog because I care too much. Because I have drawn a line in the sand, and I have said enough is enough. You don't get to tell you to follow Christ's teachings and spew hatred for mankind--their skin color and place of origin notwithstanding. No, you don't.
If you call yourself a Christian and claim to follow Christ's teachings, if you read the Bible and say that you obey its teachings, then you are an evangelist. You are to share the Good News, the Gospel, and the Word of God with others. You are to live it day in and day out with every fiber of your being. So, I am thinking maybe my way of serving God —accepting the words of Christ, living by those very words, and being that good Samaritan — just plain rubs people the wrong way.
Evangelical. It's what I became when I accepted Christ into my heart as my personal Lord and Savior. It's who I am. It's what I do. I tell people about Jesus. I share the Bible with them. I teach them about God's love, acceptance, and forgiveness. And when that E word is stolen from my heart and misused, it does something to my insides. It makes my heart hurt. I scream out with my whole being--where is God's love in all this? Where is the empathy and compassion that Jesus taught about? Are we setting captives free? Are we binding up the brokenhearted? Are we acting like Christ at all? Seriously, when does this craziness stop? When does love your brother as yourself kick in? And how about loving your neighbor? And how about laying your life down for one another? Oh, and giving it all away and following Christ? That's a big one. Could you give it all away? Just to follow Jesus? Or is it more important to keep it all for yourself? To horde it. To ensure that only you, yours, and those like you get a piece of that pie?
Please, God, don't let me be like that. I want to be like Jesus. I want to be like your son. I want to give and give some more. I want to share your heart with others. I want to preach your word. I want to love your people. Not just white people — all people. I want to lay my life down for my friends — even if they still love me. I want to be your hand extended--Oh God. Please. Help me be more like you. Let me evangelize while I still can. Let me show others what it means to be an honest Christian. One who lives by what the Bible teaches and not by the newest false doctrine. Let me be light and salt to this world. Let me be loving and compassionate. Let me show empathy and kindness.
And Father, oh God--if one day, when I stand before you, and you say to me, you were wrong--let it be that I errored on the side of mercy. I cared too much, gave too much, shared too much, and had too much empathy and compassion for my fellow man. Let it be that I erred on the side of grace. I told others you loved them, even when they didn't deserve it. You still loved them. Let me err on the side of love. That I loved too much, cared too much. Gave away too much.
And then God, please forgive me. Because with all this rhetoric of mine, all this self-proclaimed goodness, love, and caring, I see that I fail you miserably every day. I know that I need to catch up. I see that I am just a woman who makes horrendous mistakes in this little life of mine, and I ask you to forgive me. Let your mercy and grace fall upon me, and continue to teach me your ways.
This, my friends, is my prayer. For me, my friends, my family, and my country. For the world around me. Let me be an evangelist. Let me be the E word. Why? Because that is my calling.
To share Jesus with others. And now my word has been stolen from me, and guess what? I'm stealing it back. Let the world see the E word one way. But I know the truth. The E word is my word. The E word is an evangelist. The E word is me.
So when I hear or read people using this word wrong, I cringe. My whole being--implodes. I hate it. I can't handle it. I want it to stop, yet this very word that describes my lifestyle is being stolen. It's being bogarted. It's being taken over by people who name the name of Christ, say they follow His teachings, claim to read the Bible, and say they serve God, and yet... that's not what the world sees.
This is what the world should be seeing; this is what should be on display for all to view. The Bible says that Jesus is the almighty one, the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, and that he's our advocate, the author, and the perfecter of our faith. He was given all authority in heaven and earth, and he is the bread of life. He's the Son of God, and he is our deliverer. He is faithful and true; he's our good shepherd and lays down his life for us. He's the great high priest, the head of the church; he is Immanuel, God with us. He is our judge. He is the king of kings. He is the lamb of God, the light of the world. He's the Lord of all; he's our mediator. Our hope and peace, our Redeemer, our risen Lord. Our Savior, the true vine, our counselor, mighty God, everlasting father, prince of peace.
Now, let me ask you a question. Is this what Christians are proclaiming and exemplifying today? Is this what is being preached? Or is there a new gospel being touted? One of hatred, bigotry, and selfishness?
Because I have to tell you — I'm not seeing Jesus being shared any longer. I'm not seeing Christians evangelizing in the truest sense of the word. I do not see that at all. And please, don't think I'm judging. I am not. I am just sharing what I see happening all around me. I'm just sharing what I hear from friends who are not Christians, what I see on TV, and what is shared with me when I travel abroad. I'm also sharing what I hear coming out of the mouths of those claiming to be followers of Christ. It is shocking.
For example. In my own personal life, in just this past year alone, from so-called Christians--I have received death threats, lost established 30-plus year friendships, been called horrible names, and severely judged. I have been told that I am a terrible writer (I never claimed to be a good one, just like to blog) and a lousy communicator. Also, my relationship with Christ has been questioned. Yet, I stand up for the underdog because I care too much. Because I have drawn a line in the sand, and I have said enough is enough. You don't get to tell you to follow Christ's teachings and spew hatred for mankind--their skin color and place of origin notwithstanding. No, you don't.
If you call yourself a Christian and claim to follow Christ's teachings, if you read the Bible and say that you obey its teachings, then you are an evangelist. You are to share the Good News, the Gospel, and the Word of God with others. You are to live it day in and day out with every fiber of your being. So, I am thinking maybe my way of serving God —accepting the words of Christ, living by those very words, and being that good Samaritan — just plain rubs people the wrong way.
Evangelical. It's what I became when I accepted Christ into my heart as my personal Lord and Savior. It's who I am. It's what I do. I tell people about Jesus. I share the Bible with them. I teach them about God's love, acceptance, and forgiveness. And when that E word is stolen from my heart and misused, it does something to my insides. It makes my heart hurt. I scream out with my whole being--where is God's love in all this? Where is the empathy and compassion that Jesus taught about? Are we setting captives free? Are we binding up the brokenhearted? Are we acting like Christ at all? Seriously, when does this craziness stop? When does love your brother as yourself kick in? And how about loving your neighbor? And how about laying your life down for one another? Oh, and giving it all away and following Christ? That's a big one. Could you give it all away? Just to follow Jesus? Or is it more important to keep it all for yourself? To horde it. To ensure that only you, yours, and those like you get a piece of that pie?
Please, God, don't let me be like that. I want to be like Jesus. I want to be like your son. I want to give and give some more. I want to share your heart with others. I want to preach your word. I want to love your people. Not just white people — all people. I want to lay my life down for my friends — even if they still love me. I want to be your hand extended--Oh God. Please. Help me be more like you. Let me evangelize while I still can. Let me show others what it means to be an honest Christian. One who lives by what the Bible teaches and not by the newest false doctrine. Let me be light and salt to this world. Let me be loving and compassionate. Let me show empathy and kindness.
And Father, oh God--if one day, when I stand before you, and you say to me, you were wrong--let it be that I errored on the side of mercy. I cared too much, gave too much, shared too much, and had too much empathy and compassion for my fellow man. Let it be that I erred on the side of grace. I told others you loved them, even when they didn't deserve it. You still loved them. Let me err on the side of love. That I loved too much, cared too much. Gave away too much.
And then God, please forgive me. Because with all this rhetoric of mine, all this self-proclaimed goodness, love, and caring, I see that I fail you miserably every day. I know that I need to catch up. I see that I am just a woman who makes horrendous mistakes in this little life of mine, and I ask you to forgive me. Let your mercy and grace fall upon me, and continue to teach me your ways.
This, my friends, is my prayer. For me, my friends, my family, and my country. For the world around me. Let me be an evangelist. Let me be the E word. Why? Because that is my calling.
To share Jesus with others. And now my word has been stolen from me, and guess what? I'm stealing it back. Let the world see the E word one way. But I know the truth. The E word is my word. The E word is an evangelist. The E word is me.
Sunday, May 20, 2018
Grandma Newknee
Yep, that's my new name. Grandma Newknee. 6 weeks ago, I had a total knee replacement. My 2 oldest grandchildren thought that my new name fit. And it does. I have a new knee.
Going into this endeavor, I was so afraid. As in scared out of my wits. I had nightmares. I had so many unanswered questions. So much fear of the unknown. How bad would it hurt? How long is the recuperation? Will the painkillers work, as in will they really take my pain away? With so many unanswered questions, my stomach was in knots. I'm sure that my blood pressure spiked with each passing anxiety-ridden day.
I needed the surgery, though, as my knee was bone on bone, and the pain was beginning to become unbearable. I went from hiking 4-5 miles and riding my bike 20 miles at a time to being unable to walk around the block in less than a year. In fact, I didn't walk, I hobbled.
My orthopedic surgeon told me that I would know the time. I would call him one day and say, "I can't take it anymore." And that's exactly what happened. I was scheduled right away, which was good, but not enough time to really change my mind. I went in on a Tuesday morning and was released on a Wednesday evening. They don't want your hospital stay to be prolonged for fear of infection. What is hard about that idea, though, is that you go home with the nerve block still in effect. And when it wears off, you are already home, and the pain that hits is overwhelming.
Yes, let's talk pain. First off, I hate pain, and yet, I've been told I have a high threshold for pain. Lies, all lies. I don't, I really don't. My threshold was not high; it was low, oh so low. My pain was off the charts when that nerve block wore off. I seriously would have used a hacksaw to cut my leg off--that's how bad the pain was. Let me describe it for you. Let's say that someone took a sledgehammer and pounded your knee with it, then took a branding iron and burned your knee inside and out, and then took a long sword and rammed it through your leg from hip to ankle. That's kind of what it felt like. I kid you not.
The pain meds I was sent home with did not work. Nope, not even a little. So, I called and begged to get stronger meds to be prescribed. I was honestly a little (ok, a lot) perturbed about the pushback for stronger meds. I was in pain, a lot of pain, and was promised by my doc that he would keep me comfortable. I wasn't comfortable. I was in misery! They finally agreed, though, and I got something a little stronger — they worked; however, they also made me sleep a lot. That's ok though, I needed the rest. Boy, did I need the rest.
I learned a lot about my knee and myself over the next few weeks. I learned that sheets are heavy, the bathroom is very far from my bed, I hate sleeping on my back, I can read and comprehend while on drugs but I can't knit, cars are bummy and uncomfortable, roads have too many potholes, most of all, And, I learned that without my awesome husband and my wonderful supportive friends, I wouldn't have made it through this ordeal. I needed them more than I ever thought possible. One person, in particular, deserves a shout-out for sure. And that is my cousin's wife. She had a knee replacement a few weeks before mine. She also saved my bacon. Any time, day or night, that I needed her, she was there for me. Even though she's on the other side of the country and in a different time zone, if I messaged her, she would answer back and help me walk through this horrific experience. She answered questions, offered suggestions, and was a great comfort to me. Again, the word thankful doesn't begin to cover it. She was a constant presence during my recovery.
Am I exaggerating a bit? Perhaps, but not really. My recovery was extremely difficult. And yet, I've talked to some who've had it much easier than I. My pain was excruciating. It was hard to get it under control; my physical therapy was and still is hard. I hated that while on narcotics, I couldn't drive. I felt very dependent on my husband and friends for rides and other things.
Each week, things did slowly improve, though. Week one was horrific. I cried a lot, was in constant pain, had to use a walker, and was very sleep-deprived. Week two was a bit better, with my pain a little better controlled. Weeks 3-5 were kind of a blur. I read, prayed, watched TV, and just tried hard to get through each day without too much complaining. By week six, I felt that I had finally turned a corner. I was able to ditch most of my meds, was using a cane, began driving again, and was feeling like I had my life back--for the most part.
Going into this endeavor, I was so afraid. As in scared out of my wits. I had nightmares. I had so many unanswered questions. So much fear of the unknown. How bad would it hurt? How long is the recuperation? Will the painkillers work, as in will they really take my pain away? With so many unanswered questions, my stomach was in knots. I'm sure that my blood pressure spiked with each passing anxiety-ridden day.
I needed the surgery, though, as my knee was bone on bone, and the pain was beginning to become unbearable. I went from hiking 4-5 miles and riding my bike 20 miles at a time to being unable to walk around the block in less than a year. In fact, I didn't walk, I hobbled.
My orthopedic surgeon told me that I would know the time. I would call him one day and say, "I can't take it anymore." And that's exactly what happened. I was scheduled right away, which was good, but not enough time to really change my mind. I went in on a Tuesday morning and was released on a Wednesday evening. They don't want your hospital stay to be prolonged for fear of infection. What is hard about that idea, though, is that you go home with the nerve block still in effect. And when it wears off, you are already home, and the pain that hits is overwhelming.
Yes, let's talk pain. First off, I hate pain, and yet, I've been told I have a high threshold for pain. Lies, all lies. I don't, I really don't. My threshold was not high; it was low, oh so low. My pain was off the charts when that nerve block wore off. I seriously would have used a hacksaw to cut my leg off--that's how bad the pain was. Let me describe it for you. Let's say that someone took a sledgehammer and pounded your knee with it, then took a branding iron and burned your knee inside and out, and then took a long sword and rammed it through your leg from hip to ankle. That's kind of what it felt like. I kid you not.
The pain meds I was sent home with did not work. Nope, not even a little. So, I called and begged to get stronger meds to be prescribed. I was honestly a little (ok, a lot) perturbed about the pushback for stronger meds. I was in pain, a lot of pain, and was promised by my doc that he would keep me comfortable. I wasn't comfortable. I was in misery! They finally agreed, though, and I got something a little stronger — they worked; however, they also made me sleep a lot. That's ok though, I needed the rest. Boy, did I need the rest.
I learned a lot about my knee and myself over the next few weeks. I learned that sheets are heavy, the bathroom is very far from my bed, I hate sleeping on my back, I can read and comprehend while on drugs but I can't knit, cars are bummy and uncomfortable, roads have too many potholes, most of all, And, I learned that without my awesome husband and my wonderful supportive friends, I wouldn't have made it through this ordeal. I needed them more than I ever thought possible. One person, in particular, deserves a shout-out for sure. And that is my cousin's wife. She had a knee replacement a few weeks before mine. She also saved my bacon. Any time, day or night, that I needed her, she was there for me. Even though she's on the other side of the country and in a different time zone, if I messaged her, she would answer back and help me walk through this horrific experience. She answered questions, offered suggestions, and was a great comfort to me. Again, the word thankful doesn't begin to cover it. She was a constant presence during my recovery.
Am I exaggerating a bit? Perhaps, but not really. My recovery was extremely difficult. And yet, I've talked to some who've had it much easier than I. My pain was excruciating. It was hard to get it under control; my physical therapy was and still is hard. I hated that while on narcotics, I couldn't drive. I felt very dependent on my husband and friends for rides and other things.
Each week, things did slowly improve, though. Week one was horrific. I cried a lot, was in constant pain, had to use a walker, and was very sleep-deprived. Week two was a bit better, with my pain a little better controlled. Weeks 3-5 were kind of a blur. I read, prayed, watched TV, and just tried hard to get through each day without too much complaining. By week six, I felt that I had finally turned a corner. I was able to ditch most of my meds, was using a cane, began driving again, and was feeling like I had my life back--for the most part.
Would I go through this ordeal again? I don't know. I guess I would have to, as I wasn't able to walk. However, wow, I would think long and hard about it. I would plan better, now that I know the ropes. I'd have an ice machine ready (my doc didn't send me home with one), I'd ask for the appropriate drugs to be on hand, and I'd have a good many books downloaded to my Kindle.
I also learned a lot about my husband and my friends during this ordeal. First off, my husband is the most amazing person that I have ever known. He was and is so loving and kind. He got up with me multiple times the night — taking me to the bathroom, getting my meds, ice, water, Kindle, iPad — whatever I whined about, he fetched it for me. The fact that he still loves me boggles my mind. He is my hero.
And then there are my friends. Wow, who knew! I'm sorry to tell you this, but I have the best friends on the planet. You don't, I do. They were/are awesome. They brought me dinners, lunches, flowers, gift cards, books, etc. They came over and knitted with me, and then, when I could concentrate a bit better, they came and played canasta with me. Once I was up and about, they became my Uber drivers. Picking me up and driving me all around--lunches, shopping, Bible study, meetings. I can't say enough about them. I was blown away. My heart swells every time I think of them. Words can't express my love and gratitude for my friends.
My kids were also such a huge part of my recovery. Making sure that I was ok, that I had what I needed, they offered to pick up prescriptions, run to the grocery store, just whatever I needed. It just touched my heart. I have been truly blessed.
So, there you have it. The story of my knee replacement surgery. The good, the bad, and the painful. And since I am a blogger, I thought it would be appropriate to share my experiences. I am so thankful that God got me through this ordeal. So many nights I lay awake praying, crying, waiting for the pain to subside. Now I am able to lie in bed and pray and thank Him for getting me through this and for blessing me the way He has. I don't deserve it. But, I am so very grateful for all He has done for me!
Friday, March 16, 2018
Knitting Among Friends
Oh yes, I've taken up a new hobby. It's something that I have always dreamed of mastering. I had tried before, given up, and then tried again — to no avail. This time, however, it's different. Everything about it is so much more fun. It clicked. No pun intended.
I think the key is starting out with a bunch of fun friends. Throw in some coffee, and you've got yourself a little party.
It all began this past summer when I found out that one of my friends knitted. And I mean knitted. As in sweaters, etc. So, I swooped in and begged her to teach me. Really teach me. Fortunately for me, she has the patience of a saint. As I struggled through my knits and purls, she gently guided me, and lo and behold--I learned to knit.
I then, oh-so-sneakily, cajoled her into teaching several others. This is where I would insert a wicked emoji. We began meeting at my house a couple of times a month. We started out by making hats. Lots and lots of hats. I mean lots. Like 20 of them. I think pretty much everyone in my family received one. I then progressed to knitting shawls, scarves, vests, and a few other items. I was on a roll. Get it? A ball of yarn? Pun intended.
Yep, I fell in love with knitting. It's now an addiction. I have to go into every yarn shop I see. I have to have future projects planned. I have to knit every evening while watching TV. And I even take it with me to the strangest places. I just want to knit. It's crazy. I find myself thinking--I could be knitting right now! It doesn't really matter where I am — I could be knitting! Church, friends' homes, playing canasta--I could be knitting. I really want to take my knitting to meetings with me, but don't want to get kicked out or chastised, so I leave it at home. However, I'm thinking about knitting! Addicted? I think so!
We eventually decided to make this obsession of mine into an activity within our club. I mean--why not? We meet at my home, knit, share stories, laugh, drink coffee, and then we all go to lunch at the local Mexican restaurant. It's a great day. What's not to love? Knitting, friends, and lunch?
It's open to everyone interested in knitting. I hope we never get tired of each other. We are having so much fun. We are bonding over a shared interest. And we are becoming closer friends.
Want a hat?
I think the key is starting out with a bunch of fun friends. Throw in some coffee, and you've got yourself a little party.
It all began this past summer when I found out that one of my friends knitted. And I mean knitted. As in sweaters, etc. So, I swooped in and begged her to teach me. Really teach me. Fortunately for me, she has the patience of a saint. As I struggled through my knits and purls, she gently guided me, and lo and behold--I learned to knit.
I then, oh-so-sneakily, cajoled her into teaching several others. This is where I would insert a wicked emoji. We began meeting at my house a couple of times a month. We started out by making hats. Lots and lots of hats. I mean lots. Like 20 of them. I think pretty much everyone in my family received one. I then progressed to knitting shawls, scarves, vests, and a few other items. I was on a roll. Get it? A ball of yarn? Pun intended.
Yep, I fell in love with knitting. It's now an addiction. I have to go into every yarn shop I see. I have to have future projects planned. I have to knit every evening while watching TV. And I even take it with me to the strangest places. I just want to knit. It's crazy. I find myself thinking--I could be knitting right now! It doesn't really matter where I am — I could be knitting! Church, friends' homes, playing canasta--I could be knitting. I really want to take my knitting to meetings with me, but don't want to get kicked out or chastised, so I leave it at home. However, I'm thinking about knitting! Addicted? I think so!
We eventually decided to make this obsession of mine into an activity within our club. I mean--why not? We meet at my home, knit, share stories, laugh, drink coffee, and then we all go to lunch at the local Mexican restaurant. It's a great day. What's not to love? Knitting, friends, and lunch?
It's open to everyone interested in knitting. I hope we never get tired of each other. We are having so much fun. We are bonding over a shared interest. And we are becoming closer friends.
Want a hat?
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
Oh My Aching Knee
I guess there comes a point where you just have to stop whining. You have to be brave, bite the bullet, and do it. That's what I'm going to do. I don't have a choice, really. I can't walk. So there's that.
I first tore my knee up about 10 years ago, had arthroscopic surgery to repair a bunch of junk, and hobbled away, believing that it would get better. Better--is a very subjective word. Better in what sense? I'll have to think about that a bit. I guess it was better. I could walk better, and I didn't have to take too much in the way of pain relief meds.
I blame the ice up here in Northeast Ohio. I think I fell 5 times in the first 5 years of living here. The last time was a doozy. Snap, crackle, and pop went my knee. I knew. I just knew. Surgery would be in my future. I had hoped that my knee would be amazing from then on out. It was not. And now, just a mere 10 years or so later, I am facing a knee replacement.
You see, I hate pain. Hate it. Absolutely hate it. I am a big fat chicken with a capital C. If I could, I would run as far away from this surgery as my short little legs would take me. But, I can't. I can't even walk fast. In fact, I can't even walk around the block any longer. I guess I'll have to hobble. I think they'll catch me, though.
So, in just a couple of weeks, I'll go into the hospital and have a full-blown knee replacement. Ugg
I'll be there for approximately 2-3 days, and then head on home with lots of pain meds, a walker, a cane, and a husband as my nurse. Oh, joy.
As you can tell, I am not up for this little excursion. Not even a little bit.
I am hoping and praying that once the healing has commenced, once the swelling is down, once the fear has subsided, I'll be as good as new. I'll be able to walk, hike, ride my bike, and travel again. The flowers will smell sweeter, the blue skies will be bluer, and life will be as it was before all the knee pain stuff. Is that too much to hope for? I sure hope not.
So, if you think of me, please pray. Pray firstly for peace of mind, and then for zero to no pain as I convalesce. Wouldn't that be awesome? That's what I'm praying for! I need to get rid of this stupid aching knee!
My plans during my recuperation are to pray a lot, watch TV, knit tons of fun stuff, play on my computer, hug my dog, and sleep. I wonder which, if any, will be accomplished. I've heard those pain meds can keep one pretty loopy. I like loopy, though, so I think I just might be OK.
I first tore my knee up about 10 years ago, had arthroscopic surgery to repair a bunch of junk, and hobbled away, believing that it would get better. Better--is a very subjective word. Better in what sense? I'll have to think about that a bit. I guess it was better. I could walk better, and I didn't have to take too much in the way of pain relief meds.
I blame the ice up here in Northeast Ohio. I think I fell 5 times in the first 5 years of living here. The last time was a doozy. Snap, crackle, and pop went my knee. I knew. I just knew. Surgery would be in my future. I had hoped that my knee would be amazing from then on out. It was not. And now, just a mere 10 years or so later, I am facing a knee replacement.
You see, I hate pain. Hate it. Absolutely hate it. I am a big fat chicken with a capital C. If I could, I would run as far away from this surgery as my short little legs would take me. But, I can't. I can't even walk fast. In fact, I can't even walk around the block any longer. I guess I'll have to hobble. I think they'll catch me, though.
So, in just a couple of weeks, I'll go into the hospital and have a full-blown knee replacement. Ugg
I'll be there for approximately 2-3 days, and then head on home with lots of pain meds, a walker, a cane, and a husband as my nurse. Oh, joy.
As you can tell, I am not up for this little excursion. Not even a little bit.
I am hoping and praying that once the healing has commenced, once the swelling is down, once the fear has subsided, I'll be as good as new. I'll be able to walk, hike, ride my bike, and travel again. The flowers will smell sweeter, the blue skies will be bluer, and life will be as it was before all the knee pain stuff. Is that too much to hope for? I sure hope not.
So, if you think of me, please pray. Pray firstly for peace of mind, and then for zero to no pain as I convalesce. Wouldn't that be awesome? That's what I'm praying for! I need to get rid of this stupid aching knee!
My plans during my recuperation are to pray a lot, watch TV, knit tons of fun stuff, play on my computer, hug my dog, and sleep. I wonder which, if any, will be accomplished. I've heard those pain meds can keep one pretty loopy. I like loopy, though, so I think I just might be OK.
Monday, December 18, 2017
More is More
There are a lot of people out there who adhere to the saying--Less is more. I don't. I say--more is more. I say the more the merrier. I say--I want more.
I want more during this Christmas season. I want more of everything. I want more songs, more food, and more fun. I want more lights and decorations. I want more cookies and treats. I want more. Selfish? I don't think so. And this is why.
While sitting here this morning, praying, I was reminded of my deep relationship with Christ. I want more of Him. I want to breathe in His presence. Fully. Deeply. More.
As I sing songs about His birth, I want more of that. I want more worship. I want to sing loudly for all the world to hear. I want more Christmas songs, and I want to freely sing them with all my might. Hands raised high to my God. I want more church. I want to think about Mary. I want to envision her, sitting there holding the little baby that would save her very soul. I want more of that. Love.
As I purchase and wrap gifts for my children and grandchildren, I want more of them. Grandchildren--not gifts. Or maybe both! I want to be surrounded by my family. Laughing, eating, telling funny stories. I want to give them the world. I want to shower them with gifts, money — external material things. Yep, stuff. I want to give them more. It makes me feel good. It makes me smile. It makes my heart happy to bring them joy. I want more of that. Joy.
I want more lights and decorations. More ornaments and candles. I want that feeling of soft and cozy while driving around at night, peering into people's windows. I want to see great big Christmas trees. I love looking at the creations of others. The talent amazes me. It gives me a feeling of peace.
I want more of that. Peace.
And, I want to be with my friends. During this time of year, I think about them non-stop. Are they ok? Are they happy? What if they're not? How can I help them? So, I pray for them. I want more of that. Praying. I want to spend quality time thinking of them, praying for them, and, in some small way, trying to minister to them. I feel their loneliness and sorrow. I want to tell them about a God who heals. A God who cares. A God who loves. A heart that prays, and cares, and loves. And hopes. I want more of that. Hope.
This time of year is about that little baby in a manger. And it is also about gift-giving and prime rib eating. It is about family and friends. It is about church services and singing Christmas songs. It is about all those things, and I do not believe there is anything wrong with any of it. Why? Because more is more.
However, there is that still small voice--the voice of Jesus that whispers to my heart. Don't forget about me. And so I won't. I won't forget about Him. My Jesus. He is who I want more of. More of Him. Because more is more. And I want more.
Yep, for me, more is more. More of Him. More of Jesus. More of acting like Him. More of living like Him. More of loving like Him. More of sharing my life--which is all about God-- with others. More of this. More. Just more. More of God. He is my life. My love. My joy. My peace. My hope. My everything. He is God. And I want more.
I want more during this Christmas season. I want more of everything. I want more songs, more food, and more fun. I want more lights and decorations. I want more cookies and treats. I want more. Selfish? I don't think so. And this is why.
While sitting here this morning, praying, I was reminded of my deep relationship with Christ. I want more of Him. I want to breathe in His presence. Fully. Deeply. More.
As I sing songs about His birth, I want more of that. I want more worship. I want to sing loudly for all the world to hear. I want more Christmas songs, and I want to freely sing them with all my might. Hands raised high to my God. I want more church. I want to think about Mary. I want to envision her, sitting there holding the little baby that would save her very soul. I want more of that. Love.
As I purchase and wrap gifts for my children and grandchildren, I want more of them. Grandchildren--not gifts. Or maybe both! I want to be surrounded by my family. Laughing, eating, telling funny stories. I want to give them the world. I want to shower them with gifts, money — external material things. Yep, stuff. I want to give them more. It makes me feel good. It makes me smile. It makes my heart happy to bring them joy. I want more of that. Joy.
I want more lights and decorations. More ornaments and candles. I want that feeling of soft and cozy while driving around at night, peering into people's windows. I want to see great big Christmas trees. I love looking at the creations of others. The talent amazes me. It gives me a feeling of peace.
I want more of that. Peace.
And, I want to be with my friends. During this time of year, I think about them non-stop. Are they ok? Are they happy? What if they're not? How can I help them? So, I pray for them. I want more of that. Praying. I want to spend quality time thinking of them, praying for them, and, in some small way, trying to minister to them. I feel their loneliness and sorrow. I want to tell them about a God who heals. A God who cares. A God who loves. A heart that prays, and cares, and loves. And hopes. I want more of that. Hope.
This time of year is about that little baby in a manger. And it is also about gift-giving and prime rib eating. It is about family and friends. It is about church services and singing Christmas songs. It is about all those things, and I do not believe there is anything wrong with any of it. Why? Because more is more.
However, there is that still small voice--the voice of Jesus that whispers to my heart. Don't forget about me. And so I won't. I won't forget about Him. My Jesus. He is who I want more of. More of Him. Because more is more. And I want more.
Yep, for me, more is more. More of Him. More of Jesus. More of acting like Him. More of living like Him. More of loving like Him. More of sharing my life--which is all about God-- with others. More of this. More. Just more. More of God. He is my life. My love. My joy. My peace. My hope. My everything. He is God. And I want more.
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Thanksgiving Morning
My turkey is in the oven, my pies are baked, and I've got the sides prepped and in the refrigerator. And all is quiet in my house.
But don't let the quiet fool you. My daughter and her family are still sleeping upstairs. She has teenagers! It's early. Pretty soon, they'll stumble down, one by one, and press the button for the coffee maker. Pretty soon, breakfast will be had. Pretty soon, my house will come to life.
And then, in just a few short hours, our sons and their families will come over. There will be 15 of us for dinner today. I can hardly believe it. 15. 6 adult children, 7 grandchildren. Who would have thought?
When I think about my kids, their spouses, and their children, I get extremely teary-eyed. I love my family. I don't care how loud they get, what gets broken or spilled--I just want them here. I want to be with them. I want to laugh, take pictures, eat, and watch the banter between my grown children as they tell stories about each other — it is childhood tattle-telling at its finest. I yell out "you're grounded", which is, of course, what they want to hear, and they all laugh.
That to me is what family is all about. Loving each other, being together, sharing our past, and planning for our future. Thanksgiving is one of those holidays where you're forced to stay corralled together. First the parade, then the food, then the football, then the pie. If you can walk after that, sometimes that's also on the agenda. A walk. For us, it depends on the weather--snow, most likely, but even that's fun. We take family pictures, which many times end up being our Christmas card photo.
Yes, I am a holiday groupie. I love them. So, while everyone is still sleeping, I'll write this quick blog, drink some coffee, and enjoy the silence. I'll pray for my family, think of those that aren't here, and wait patiently for the house to wake and the others to join us. It's going to be a fantastic day.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
But don't let the quiet fool you. My daughter and her family are still sleeping upstairs. She has teenagers! It's early. Pretty soon, they'll stumble down, one by one, and press the button for the coffee maker. Pretty soon, breakfast will be had. Pretty soon, my house will come to life.
And then, in just a few short hours, our sons and their families will come over. There will be 15 of us for dinner today. I can hardly believe it. 15. 6 adult children, 7 grandchildren. Who would have thought?
When I think about my kids, their spouses, and their children, I get extremely teary-eyed. I love my family. I don't care how loud they get, what gets broken or spilled--I just want them here. I want to be with them. I want to laugh, take pictures, eat, and watch the banter between my grown children as they tell stories about each other — it is childhood tattle-telling at its finest. I yell out "you're grounded", which is, of course, what they want to hear, and they all laugh.
That to me is what family is all about. Loving each other, being together, sharing our past, and planning for our future. Thanksgiving is one of those holidays where you're forced to stay corralled together. First the parade, then the food, then the football, then the pie. If you can walk after that, sometimes that's also on the agenda. A walk. For us, it depends on the weather--snow, most likely, but even that's fun. We take family pictures, which many times end up being our Christmas card photo.
Yes, I am a holiday groupie. I love them. So, while everyone is still sleeping, I'll write this quick blog, drink some coffee, and enjoy the silence. I'll pray for my family, think of those that aren't here, and wait patiently for the house to wake and the others to join us. It's going to be a fantastic day.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Monday, October 16, 2017
Me Too
There is a new movement happening--a movement against sexual harassment, against predators, and against molesters. It's called Me Too. It's a movement to call out those who generally want to make women feel less-than about themselves. It's a movement to say--stop this now!
Some might do an eye roll right about now. Not all, but some. And not all men either. Many of those eye-rolls would come from women. Those who evidently have not been sexually harassed or abused. That's a little hard for me to believe, though. Not ever? You've never had anyone whistle at you or make catcalls as you've walked down the street, minding your own business? Never? You've never felt vulnerable at night--walking your dog, or making a late-night run to a convenience market? Well, I have. To all of the above and then some.
I'll share some of my stories now--after all these years. I'll tell you about some of those creepy uncle/family-friend situations, since most are deceased now. Yep, I'm about to spill the beans. I'll water it down some. However, please know this — it wasn't watered down when it happened. It was as scary as it comes. I'm still afraid. It's hard being female.
The first time it happened to me, I was right around 6 years old. I'm sorry that I don't remember the exact date or time. I was just a little girl, you see. Only 6 years old.
My family was visiting my grandparents for the holidays. Because it was a small house, I slept on the sofa. I remember waking up during the night, and an uncle was sitting on the sofa right by my side--he was just staring down at me. I woke with a start, and what I remember is this--he gave me the scariest smile that I had ever seen. I began yelling for my mom as loudly as I could. My little 6-year-old voice screaming out--MOMMY!
He just sat there leering at me, and then he slowly got up from the sofa and walked back into his bedroom. My mom came in, and when I told her what had happened, she said that it was probably a bad dream. It wasn't. But I'll leave that there. I wish she had believed me.
Over the span of my teenage years, many, and I mean many, rude comments were made about my body, etc. I eventually learned over the years to ignore it. I was smart, though. I always walked with friends (safety in numbers), and I tried to look "tough". I wanted to present as one who could take care of herself. All 5 feet of me. I did not gain another 4 inches in height until I was almost a senior in high school. So, I was small but well-built, which was, sadly, a real detriment. I wore a lot of sweaters to cover my body, even during those hot California summers. I hated my body. Hated it.
When I became an adult, I vividly remember the first few jobs I applied for and the looks from the hiring managers. Uggggg.
As I began working out in the real world, my goal was for them to leave me alone. Let me do my job, and let me enjoy my life without the stupid and unjustified sexual comments. That's all I wanted--to do my job. However, with men being men (great sarcasm here) and oh so much "locker room talk"--you know how that goes. Working in a man's world wasn't as easy as I thought it would be.
There was one set of doctors I worked for in particular. One was absolutely fantastic to work with, a true gentleman, and the other--not so much. He came up behind me one day, asking a question, and when I turned around to answer him, he had a plastic penis sticking out on the end of his pen. He thought my startled look was hilarious and went around the office telling everyone all about his "funny joke". Did he even care about the way he made me feel? Not even a little. I do remember never ever wanting to be left alone in a room with him. He made me feel unsafe. I just instinctively knew that if he could--he would. Fill in the blank. I endured several years of working in that office with him. Always making sure that I was never alone in a room. Always looking over my shoulder, always wondering about my safety.
One situation I will share now truly broke my heart. It happened right after I had my little baby daughter. My father's best friend and business partner, along with his wife, wanted to come over to see the new baby and our new home. I was excited to entertain them and to show off my new house and baby. I had known them for years. In fact, I used to babysit their 4 children when I was a teenager. We had a history, a relationship, one that I should have been able to rely on and trust. It was shattered that day, though. As I went into the kitchen to prepare the coffee, my dad's friend followed me. He came up behind me and began to try to wrap his arms around my waist. He leaned in and started to tell me how I made him feel, and he tried to kiss me. I remember shoving him away and telling him that I would tell my dad if he didn't leave me alone. It was the first thing that popped into my mind. I'll tell my dad. He laughed and said — I was just joking around. Just joking around? Are you kidding me? That's what I wanted to say, but being young and naive, I ran out of the kitchen and acted as though nothing had happened. I never told anyone. Why? Because I was so ashamed and embarrassed. I thought maybe I had done something to provoke him. It had to be me, right? Maybe I was dressed provocatively. Maybe I walked just a little too sexy. Maybe I...you fill in the blank. So many thoughts with me rebuking myself. It had to be my fault, right? Needless to say, I never ever saw him again. I never told my parents what he had done, and I never told my husband. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, and I didn't want to stir up any trouble. I didn't want to ruin relationships that were decades old. However, in keeping that little secret, my heart was damaged. Trust was shattered that day. Memories ruined--and fear and distrust began to grow in my heart.
I think that might just be the key to these feelings of mine regarding sexual harassment. Shame, fear, embarrassment--always assuming that the blame was mine and not wanting to cause problems for anyone. Who would believe me anyway?
I have so many more stories just like these — years and years of them. One happened at my church. A so-called "friend" tried to block me from leaving a room and made advances towards me. At another friend's home. I was trapped in a room with someone who made gross sexual comments to me. I was so embarrassed! There were 2 different times when men exposed themselves to me. Once as a child and once as an adult. So many stories. I put up with so much because I was afraid. I was humiliated. Fear totally crippled me. It really did.
In sharing all these stories, I do realize that I have much to be thankful for. I was never sexually molested or raped. I am so very thankful for that. But, harassed? Oh yes, so many times! And I never told a soul. Why is that? What was I afraid of? Why didn't I shout it from the rooftops right when it happened? What was it that kept me from speaking up? Why was I so afraid?
This is our society even today. This is how it is in America. This is what we let men get away with. So I say, let's do something to change that. Let's teach our daughters and granddaughters to speak up. Let's believe them. Let's stop this allowance of sexual harassment now. Let's tell our stories, get the word out, and start protecting ourselves and our children. Why? Because it's not OK. No one has the right to do or say the things that were done to me. No matter how I looked, no matter what I did. No one had that right. It sickens me now. When I think of what I should have said or done at the time--when I think of the missed opportunities to shut those men down, and put them in their place! I feel like I blew it big time. I should have said something. I should have stood up for myself. There I go again--assuming blame. It wasn't me! It was them! Shame on them!
No more. Let's say Me Too! And let's share our stories and be there for each other. I will believe you. Will you believe me? I will protect you? Will you protect me? I sure hope so.
Some might do an eye roll right about now. Not all, but some. And not all men either. Many of those eye-rolls would come from women. Those who evidently have not been sexually harassed or abused. That's a little hard for me to believe, though. Not ever? You've never had anyone whistle at you or make catcalls as you've walked down the street, minding your own business? Never? You've never felt vulnerable at night--walking your dog, or making a late-night run to a convenience market? Well, I have. To all of the above and then some.
I'll share some of my stories now--after all these years. I'll tell you about some of those creepy uncle/family-friend situations, since most are deceased now. Yep, I'm about to spill the beans. I'll water it down some. However, please know this — it wasn't watered down when it happened. It was as scary as it comes. I'm still afraid. It's hard being female.
The first time it happened to me, I was right around 6 years old. I'm sorry that I don't remember the exact date or time. I was just a little girl, you see. Only 6 years old.
My family was visiting my grandparents for the holidays. Because it was a small house, I slept on the sofa. I remember waking up during the night, and an uncle was sitting on the sofa right by my side--he was just staring down at me. I woke with a start, and what I remember is this--he gave me the scariest smile that I had ever seen. I began yelling for my mom as loudly as I could. My little 6-year-old voice screaming out--MOMMY!
He just sat there leering at me, and then he slowly got up from the sofa and walked back into his bedroom. My mom came in, and when I told her what had happened, she said that it was probably a bad dream. It wasn't. But I'll leave that there. I wish she had believed me.
Over the span of my teenage years, many, and I mean many, rude comments were made about my body, etc. I eventually learned over the years to ignore it. I was smart, though. I always walked with friends (safety in numbers), and I tried to look "tough". I wanted to present as one who could take care of herself. All 5 feet of me. I did not gain another 4 inches in height until I was almost a senior in high school. So, I was small but well-built, which was, sadly, a real detriment. I wore a lot of sweaters to cover my body, even during those hot California summers. I hated my body. Hated it.
When I became an adult, I vividly remember the first few jobs I applied for and the looks from the hiring managers. Uggggg.
As I began working out in the real world, my goal was for them to leave me alone. Let me do my job, and let me enjoy my life without the stupid and unjustified sexual comments. That's all I wanted--to do my job. However, with men being men (great sarcasm here) and oh so much "locker room talk"--you know how that goes. Working in a man's world wasn't as easy as I thought it would be.
There was one set of doctors I worked for in particular. One was absolutely fantastic to work with, a true gentleman, and the other--not so much. He came up behind me one day, asking a question, and when I turned around to answer him, he had a plastic penis sticking out on the end of his pen. He thought my startled look was hilarious and went around the office telling everyone all about his "funny joke". Did he even care about the way he made me feel? Not even a little. I do remember never ever wanting to be left alone in a room with him. He made me feel unsafe. I just instinctively knew that if he could--he would. Fill in the blank. I endured several years of working in that office with him. Always making sure that I was never alone in a room. Always looking over my shoulder, always wondering about my safety.
One situation I will share now truly broke my heart. It happened right after I had my little baby daughter. My father's best friend and business partner, along with his wife, wanted to come over to see the new baby and our new home. I was excited to entertain them and to show off my new house and baby. I had known them for years. In fact, I used to babysit their 4 children when I was a teenager. We had a history, a relationship, one that I should have been able to rely on and trust. It was shattered that day, though. As I went into the kitchen to prepare the coffee, my dad's friend followed me. He came up behind me and began to try to wrap his arms around my waist. He leaned in and started to tell me how I made him feel, and he tried to kiss me. I remember shoving him away and telling him that I would tell my dad if he didn't leave me alone. It was the first thing that popped into my mind. I'll tell my dad. He laughed and said — I was just joking around. Just joking around? Are you kidding me? That's what I wanted to say, but being young and naive, I ran out of the kitchen and acted as though nothing had happened. I never told anyone. Why? Because I was so ashamed and embarrassed. I thought maybe I had done something to provoke him. It had to be me, right? Maybe I was dressed provocatively. Maybe I walked just a little too sexy. Maybe I...you fill in the blank. So many thoughts with me rebuking myself. It had to be my fault, right? Needless to say, I never ever saw him again. I never told my parents what he had done, and I never told my husband. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, and I didn't want to stir up any trouble. I didn't want to ruin relationships that were decades old. However, in keeping that little secret, my heart was damaged. Trust was shattered that day. Memories ruined--and fear and distrust began to grow in my heart.
I think that might just be the key to these feelings of mine regarding sexual harassment. Shame, fear, embarrassment--always assuming that the blame was mine and not wanting to cause problems for anyone. Who would believe me anyway?
I have so many more stories just like these — years and years of them. One happened at my church. A so-called "friend" tried to block me from leaving a room and made advances towards me. At another friend's home. I was trapped in a room with someone who made gross sexual comments to me. I was so embarrassed! There were 2 different times when men exposed themselves to me. Once as a child and once as an adult. So many stories. I put up with so much because I was afraid. I was humiliated. Fear totally crippled me. It really did.
In sharing all these stories, I do realize that I have much to be thankful for. I was never sexually molested or raped. I am so very thankful for that. But, harassed? Oh yes, so many times! And I never told a soul. Why is that? What was I afraid of? Why didn't I shout it from the rooftops right when it happened? What was it that kept me from speaking up? Why was I so afraid?
This is our society even today. This is how it is in America. This is what we let men get away with. So I say, let's do something to change that. Let's teach our daughters and granddaughters to speak up. Let's believe them. Let's stop this allowance of sexual harassment now. Let's tell our stories, get the word out, and start protecting ourselves and our children. Why? Because it's not OK. No one has the right to do or say the things that were done to me. No matter how I looked, no matter what I did. No one had that right. It sickens me now. When I think of what I should have said or done at the time--when I think of the missed opportunities to shut those men down, and put them in their place! I feel like I blew it big time. I should have said something. I should have stood up for myself. There I go again--assuming blame. It wasn't me! It was them! Shame on them!
No more. Let's say Me Too! And let's share our stories and be there for each other. I will believe you. Will you believe me? I will protect you? Will you protect me? I sure hope so.
Tuesday, October 3, 2017
This Doesn't Make Sense
I'm going to get a little preachy here. I can feel it. I can tell. So, if you would rather not read this, don't. But I need to write it. It's how I process. It's how my brain works. Pray. Think. Write.
I woke up Sunday morning, just like the rest of America, to an alarming story unfolding in our nation. A horrific story. And it didn't make sense to me. Why, who, how? Questions we all asked — of ourselves and each other. We had a need, an internal desire to figure it out. To rationalize it, and then somehow, I guess, we thought it would make it all better. At least I did that. It's my nature. It's in my DNA to try to rectify and grapple with the goings-on in the world around me.
The first day, I listened. To the news, to others' opinions, to my own thoughts. I empathized with the hurting--with the parents who lost children, and husbands who lost wives, etc. I had tears in my eyes, and I shook my head in disbelief. How could this happen? We all wanted to know. How did this guy get into a hotel with so many weapons with the purpose of killing so many people? And what was his motivation? My thoughts went to this conclusion--a psychotic break with reality, a mentally disturbed person--something had triggered his decision to do what he did.
On the second day, as I processed the story unfolding, I prayed. I asked God to show me why a person would do such a thing. It just didn't make sense to me! And, as my mind usually does--my thoughts wandered. I thought of all the other things in this world that don't make sense to me. Divorce, cheating, lying, stealing, human trafficking, death, disease, drug use, along with hurricanes, earthquakes, and many other natural disasters--you name it, and most likely I thought about it.
As I mulled over these items--one thing stood out. They did not make sense. I could not reconcile them. They confused me. They brought me distress. I thought of the deaths of my nephews. Why? Why did they have to die? I thought of friends of mine who had been cheated on. Why? Why did they have to go through that? I ended up having so many whys in my prayer that I just had to take a breath, settle down, and then listen. I had to listen to what God was speaking to my heart.
So, this morning, as I was driving to meet my friends for our regular Tuesday morning Bible Study — singing and worshiping God in my car — it came to me. Nothing in this world makes sense. Nothing but God. He makes sense. He alone, He is what I understand. He is the only constant, steady entity in my life. The only sure thing. He's the only person who will never leave me. He'll never divorce me, cheat on me, die on me. He's the only person whom I can trust. With my whole heart. He is it. He makes sense.
There I was, driving, trying not to cry (or crash my car), and trying to act as normal as possible when I met my friends this morning. I was a little quieter than usual. I was still processing the fact that God made sense. I was still "having a moment" with God and probably should have just kept on driving, but I love being with my friends, so I got out of my car and went inside. However, all I could think about was that God made sense. And honestly--how do I convey that? It sounds too simple. And it is. But it's not.
As a human, as a person, I see things through very dim lighting. Every once in a while, though, God turns that light on really bright. Just for me. Just when I need it. Just when I think I'm going down for the count. Just when I'm almost to the point of losing all hope--BAM, there goes the light. He turns it on, and He drops a beautiful nugget of truth right into my heart. He said this to me — I make sense. And that's all I needed. I just needed to hear from Him. To hear His voice. His still small voice brings me comfort and peace.
Just to know that He is God. That he's still there. That's all I need. And that He makes sense.
So, yeah, I'm a little preachy today. I'm a little overwhelmed by the mighty goodness and power of God. As humans continue to do things that don't make a lick of sense to me--God steps in, and God makes sense.
Today, I will continue to pray. I will read my Bible and study. I will get to know God even better. And, I will continue to say--God makes sense. He has this all under control. God is sovereign, and He makes sense. And I am so very thankful.
I woke up Sunday morning, just like the rest of America, to an alarming story unfolding in our nation. A horrific story. And it didn't make sense to me. Why, who, how? Questions we all asked — of ourselves and each other. We had a need, an internal desire to figure it out. To rationalize it, and then somehow, I guess, we thought it would make it all better. At least I did that. It's my nature. It's in my DNA to try to rectify and grapple with the goings-on in the world around me.
The first day, I listened. To the news, to others' opinions, to my own thoughts. I empathized with the hurting--with the parents who lost children, and husbands who lost wives, etc. I had tears in my eyes, and I shook my head in disbelief. How could this happen? We all wanted to know. How did this guy get into a hotel with so many weapons with the purpose of killing so many people? And what was his motivation? My thoughts went to this conclusion--a psychotic break with reality, a mentally disturbed person--something had triggered his decision to do what he did.
On the second day, as I processed the story unfolding, I prayed. I asked God to show me why a person would do such a thing. It just didn't make sense to me! And, as my mind usually does--my thoughts wandered. I thought of all the other things in this world that don't make sense to me. Divorce, cheating, lying, stealing, human trafficking, death, disease, drug use, along with hurricanes, earthquakes, and many other natural disasters--you name it, and most likely I thought about it.
As I mulled over these items--one thing stood out. They did not make sense. I could not reconcile them. They confused me. They brought me distress. I thought of the deaths of my nephews. Why? Why did they have to die? I thought of friends of mine who had been cheated on. Why? Why did they have to go through that? I ended up having so many whys in my prayer that I just had to take a breath, settle down, and then listen. I had to listen to what God was speaking to my heart.
So, this morning, as I was driving to meet my friends for our regular Tuesday morning Bible Study — singing and worshiping God in my car — it came to me. Nothing in this world makes sense. Nothing but God. He makes sense. He alone, He is what I understand. He is the only constant, steady entity in my life. The only sure thing. He's the only person who will never leave me. He'll never divorce me, cheat on me, die on me. He's the only person whom I can trust. With my whole heart. He is it. He makes sense.
There I was, driving, trying not to cry (or crash my car), and trying to act as normal as possible when I met my friends this morning. I was a little quieter than usual. I was still processing the fact that God made sense. I was still "having a moment" with God and probably should have just kept on driving, but I love being with my friends, so I got out of my car and went inside. However, all I could think about was that God made sense. And honestly--how do I convey that? It sounds too simple. And it is. But it's not.
As a human, as a person, I see things through very dim lighting. Every once in a while, though, God turns that light on really bright. Just for me. Just when I need it. Just when I think I'm going down for the count. Just when I'm almost to the point of losing all hope--BAM, there goes the light. He turns it on, and He drops a beautiful nugget of truth right into my heart. He said this to me — I make sense. And that's all I needed. I just needed to hear from Him. To hear His voice. His still small voice brings me comfort and peace.
Just to know that He is God. That he's still there. That's all I need. And that He makes sense.
So, yeah, I'm a little preachy today. I'm a little overwhelmed by the mighty goodness and power of God. As humans continue to do things that don't make a lick of sense to me--God steps in, and God makes sense.
Today, I will continue to pray. I will read my Bible and study. I will get to know God even better. And, I will continue to say--God makes sense. He has this all under control. God is sovereign, and He makes sense. And I am so very thankful.
Thursday, September 14, 2017
A Club of Clubs
I have just returned home from another fun-filled day. A day with new friends, a day of laughing, talking, eating, and oh so much more. A day out with friends.
I can't believe I did it, but I did. I didn't want to at first, but a friend of mine (whom I had been in a book club with years ago) convinced me. Just come to one event, she said. Just a luncheon. And see if you like it. I didn't want to like it. Not really. It wasn't my cup of tea. I had other things I was interested in. And they weren't club-type things. No, no. They were much more serious and important, or so I thought. Churchy things, important. You know. Or maybe you don't.
You see, I've always had a heart for ministry. I loved going to (and still do) Bible studies, being involved in church activities, going for coffee with church friends, and shopping and having lunch with — you guessed it —church friends. So, to go to a club luncheon that was not affiliated with my church, well, that was a little outside of my comfort zone. I'm just being honest here. It's important for you to understand where I'm coming from. However, I did it for her. I do confess that I didn't agree to go with her to be nice; it was more like, I'll go to get her off my back. That sounds harsh, I know. But seriously, she would not let up. Come with me, you'll like it, the people are awesome, they are so nice...OK, OK, I'll go!
And so I went. I didn't know what to expect. The luncheon was at a local country club with a little over 50 women. When I walked in, I really had my doubts — what were they going to be like? I had no idea. I was extremely nervous. A little sweaty. As an extroverted introvert, I find that being placed in a situation like this is not very comfortable for me. I am an INFJ, remember? However, I was determined to see this through — for my friend. I would go to this one lunch, tell her it wasn't for me, and then I'd be off the hook forever! Great plan. Great idea. One and done!
I really didn't plan to like it. I didn't want to like these ladies. I didn't want them to be so nice! Stop talking to me, stop making me feel welcome, stop having so many things in common with me--you're making me want to like you! And while I didn't say these things out loud, I sure thought them. What a great group of women. So friendly, so nice, so inclusive. I fell in love--at first sight.
I had a decision to make. To join or not to join. Honestly, I didn't have to think about it long at all. I wanted to join. See, I told you — my friend said. I told you you'd like it. Shut up!!!!! You're right. Where do I sign up?
So, I joined the club. And it isn't just any old club. It's huge. With over 100 women from all walks of life, all wanting and needing to be with others like them. Some are retired, some are empty nesters, some are expats, some are just plain old needing friends. We have so much in common — whether it's kids, grandkids, or travel — and we come from all over the country and the world. We are friendly, loving, kind, inclusive, and non-judgmental. Kind of like a church group. I'm saying that a little tongue in cheek. A few of the gals are Christians like me, a few are atheists, and a few are quiet about stuff like that. I, on the other hand, well, I am not so quiet about my faith. I live it out (or try to) as best I can. I am not the preachy type; I don't get in their faces, but I don't hide it either; that's for sure. I am hoping that through my deeds, words, and actions, they see me for who I really am. Someone who loves her God, someone who is kind, loving, and caring. Someone they can come to at any time for prayer. A friend. A true friend.
I've been a part of this club for 2 years now. I am extremely involved. I hold a position on the board.
I probably see these women 2-3 times per week. Our club offers around 20 activities to get involved in. I bet I do at least half of them. My faves are--anything to do with food, which means if you're going to lunch, I'm in! I have also mastered the game of canasta, and now I am addicted. And I am once again in a book club, which is great for me since I am an avid reader. I talked one of the gals into teaching a bunch of us to knit--we now have a knitting club. We go to dinners, happy hours, movies, plays, and lunches. We hike, golf, and we play a lot of games, with Canasta being my favorite. I know, I've already said that. It is my favorite!
Honestly, if someone had told me just a few years ago that I would be involved with a club like this, I would have bet against them. I had zero interest. It's funny, though, how God knows just what I need. You see--I need friends. I need a ministry. I need to be needed. And I need to be used by God. I need people. And He put me in just the right place. A great big club, with lots of little clubs, where I meet new and interesting people all the time. He shows me who to pray for. He gives me just the right words to say, at just the right time. And He also helps me keep my mouth shut and just listen. He helps me be a good, authentic, and genuine friend — one who loves, cares for, and empathizes with her friends. He has made me a better person via this club. Do I still attend a Bible study? Yes, I do, and I love those gals also. However, God has opened my eyes to a whole new group of friends. It's a new ministry area for me. He's teaching me so many things about what it is to truly live out my faith, live out my walk, and also enter into entirely new areas of prayer. What an amazing experience this has been for me!
I thank my friend Jean for inviting me. I can say truthfully that these last 2 years have been a Godsend. The ladies are wonderful, I haven't had this much fun in years. And thanks to them, I have put on a ton of weight from all the many lunches we go to. That will have to change, though! Ugh, I can't even fit into my clothes!
All in all, I have learned many things about myself and about life. I've learned that God wants me to be flexible. He wants me to change and to grow. He wants me to be able to be open to new people, new places, and new experiences. And He does not want me to put Him in a box and say--this is how God works. He is teaching me to be a better friend, a better listener, and a better pray-er. He is teaching me. Period. Now it's up to me to be open to Him--to listen, learn, and to be obedient. I am very thankful for His patience with me. For His unfailing love, and for His kindness. I am thankful for the many friends that He has placed in my life. I am thankful for this club. I hope to be a part of it for years to come. I hope to be used by God to minister to others. I hope and pray that I can always be there for my new friends as well as my old friends.
Oh, you club of clubs, you New Clevelanders, you, I want to wrap my arms around you and give you a big ol' hug. I'll see you in a couple of hours for lunch. Oh my goodness! As I try to zip up my jeans...wait for me!
I can't believe I did it, but I did. I didn't want to at first, but a friend of mine (whom I had been in a book club with years ago) convinced me. Just come to one event, she said. Just a luncheon. And see if you like it. I didn't want to like it. Not really. It wasn't my cup of tea. I had other things I was interested in. And they weren't club-type things. No, no. They were much more serious and important, or so I thought. Churchy things, important. You know. Or maybe you don't.
You see, I've always had a heart for ministry. I loved going to (and still do) Bible studies, being involved in church activities, going for coffee with church friends, and shopping and having lunch with — you guessed it —church friends. So, to go to a club luncheon that was not affiliated with my church, well, that was a little outside of my comfort zone. I'm just being honest here. It's important for you to understand where I'm coming from. However, I did it for her. I do confess that I didn't agree to go with her to be nice; it was more like, I'll go to get her off my back. That sounds harsh, I know. But seriously, she would not let up. Come with me, you'll like it, the people are awesome, they are so nice...OK, OK, I'll go!
And so I went. I didn't know what to expect. The luncheon was at a local country club with a little over 50 women. When I walked in, I really had my doubts — what were they going to be like? I had no idea. I was extremely nervous. A little sweaty. As an extroverted introvert, I find that being placed in a situation like this is not very comfortable for me. I am an INFJ, remember? However, I was determined to see this through — for my friend. I would go to this one lunch, tell her it wasn't for me, and then I'd be off the hook forever! Great plan. Great idea. One and done!
I really didn't plan to like it. I didn't want to like these ladies. I didn't want them to be so nice! Stop talking to me, stop making me feel welcome, stop having so many things in common with me--you're making me want to like you! And while I didn't say these things out loud, I sure thought them. What a great group of women. So friendly, so nice, so inclusive. I fell in love--at first sight.
I had a decision to make. To join or not to join. Honestly, I didn't have to think about it long at all. I wanted to join. See, I told you — my friend said. I told you you'd like it. Shut up!!!!! You're right. Where do I sign up?
So, I joined the club. And it isn't just any old club. It's huge. With over 100 women from all walks of life, all wanting and needing to be with others like them. Some are retired, some are empty nesters, some are expats, some are just plain old needing friends. We have so much in common — whether it's kids, grandkids, or travel — and we come from all over the country and the world. We are friendly, loving, kind, inclusive, and non-judgmental. Kind of like a church group. I'm saying that a little tongue in cheek. A few of the gals are Christians like me, a few are atheists, and a few are quiet about stuff like that. I, on the other hand, well, I am not so quiet about my faith. I live it out (or try to) as best I can. I am not the preachy type; I don't get in their faces, but I don't hide it either; that's for sure. I am hoping that through my deeds, words, and actions, they see me for who I really am. Someone who loves her God, someone who is kind, loving, and caring. Someone they can come to at any time for prayer. A friend. A true friend.
I've been a part of this club for 2 years now. I am extremely involved. I hold a position on the board.
I probably see these women 2-3 times per week. Our club offers around 20 activities to get involved in. I bet I do at least half of them. My faves are--anything to do with food, which means if you're going to lunch, I'm in! I have also mastered the game of canasta, and now I am addicted. And I am once again in a book club, which is great for me since I am an avid reader. I talked one of the gals into teaching a bunch of us to knit--we now have a knitting club. We go to dinners, happy hours, movies, plays, and lunches. We hike, golf, and we play a lot of games, with Canasta being my favorite. I know, I've already said that. It is my favorite!
Honestly, if someone had told me just a few years ago that I would be involved with a club like this, I would have bet against them. I had zero interest. It's funny, though, how God knows just what I need. You see--I need friends. I need a ministry. I need to be needed. And I need to be used by God. I need people. And He put me in just the right place. A great big club, with lots of little clubs, where I meet new and interesting people all the time. He shows me who to pray for. He gives me just the right words to say, at just the right time. And He also helps me keep my mouth shut and just listen. He helps me be a good, authentic, and genuine friend — one who loves, cares for, and empathizes with her friends. He has made me a better person via this club. Do I still attend a Bible study? Yes, I do, and I love those gals also. However, God has opened my eyes to a whole new group of friends. It's a new ministry area for me. He's teaching me so many things about what it is to truly live out my faith, live out my walk, and also enter into entirely new areas of prayer. What an amazing experience this has been for me!
I thank my friend Jean for inviting me. I can say truthfully that these last 2 years have been a Godsend. The ladies are wonderful, I haven't had this much fun in years. And thanks to them, I have put on a ton of weight from all the many lunches we go to. That will have to change, though! Ugh, I can't even fit into my clothes!
All in all, I have learned many things about myself and about life. I've learned that God wants me to be flexible. He wants me to change and to grow. He wants me to be able to be open to new people, new places, and new experiences. And He does not want me to put Him in a box and say--this is how God works. He is teaching me to be a better friend, a better listener, and a better pray-er. He is teaching me. Period. Now it's up to me to be open to Him--to listen, learn, and to be obedient. I am very thankful for His patience with me. For His unfailing love, and for His kindness. I am thankful for the many friends that He has placed in my life. I am thankful for this club. I hope to be a part of it for years to come. I hope to be used by God to minister to others. I hope and pray that I can always be there for my new friends as well as my old friends.
Oh, you club of clubs, you New Clevelanders, you, I want to wrap my arms around you and give you a big ol' hug. I'll see you in a couple of hours for lunch. Oh my goodness! As I try to zip up my jeans...wait for me!
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
Sunday School
I grew up going to Sunday school. Since the age of 6, I have gone almost every Sunday morning. I sat in a classroom learning about God, Jesus, the Bible, and all the many characters that were written about in that great big book. I heard glorious stories, and I loved every minute of it. We sang songs about Jesus, colored pictures, played games, and ate graham crackers — it was awesome.
My favorite song as a child was this one--
Jesus loves the little children
all the children of the world
read and yellow, black and white
They are precious in His sight
Jesus loves the children of the world
I believed it too. I believed the words in that song. He did love all the children of the world. And soon, God became my world. All my thoughts, feelings, emotions, and beliefs--were run by Him. Eventually, as I grew older and began to read the Bible on my own, I again learned about His love for me and the whole wide world. He was my everything. And He still is.
My favorite parts of the Bible while growing up were the 10 commandments and the beatitudes. There weren't words written that held more meaning for me. Reading the very words spoken by Christ held such significance. They were and still are the words that I live by, or at least I try my very best to do so.
So, here I was in Sunday School — singing songs about God, reading words inspired by God, and learning what it meant to be a real, true, born-again, saved-by-grace follower of Christ. I had such childlike faith--which is just what Jesus wanted. I was a good little girl.
As an adult in my 60s, I now contemplate the words I sang and read, and I wonder — do others who say they believe really believe? Do they believe that Jesus loves ALL the little children of the world or just the ones that meet certain criteria? I'm just wondering. And the 10 commandments--do they believe those? ALL of them? Don't kill, steal, covet, or commit adultery? Love your enemies, your neighbors, etc.? I wonder. Do they believe what Jesus taught?
I also question myself. Am I a peacemaker? Do I love my neighbor as myself? How about all those little children of the world? What am I doing about that? The older I get, the more I realize that I am not living up to the teachings that I was taught as a child. I believe that I need to do an overhaul in my spiritual life. I need to reread the above-mentioned items and maybe repent — just a little bit. Or maybe even more than that. Yes, that is exactly what I need to do. Especially now. Why now? Because I find myself feeling angry, depressed, despondent, and overwhelmed in the world I now live in. I really don't want to be here anymore.
I want to live in a world where people are kind, tolerant, loving, helpful, caring, and giving — not selfish, hateful, or stingy. I want to live in a world where the Beatitudes and the commandments are real words to live by. I guess I want rainbows and sunshine. Who doesn't?
Right now, I am in a place where I just want to be 6 years old again — singing songs about Jesus, hearing stories about Daniel, and feeling safe. Maybe that's it. I just want to feel safe again. I want to sit on His lap, knowing that no matter what color my skin is, no matter which country I was born in, no matter who my parents are--He loves me anyway. And I love Him for that very reason.
Yep, I miss Sunday School. I miss the good ol' days--the days of my innocence and youth. I miss the days of not understanding discrimination, violence, hatred, and bigotry. I want to be a kid again. And I want to go back to Sunday School.
My favorite song as a child was this one--
Jesus loves the little children
all the children of the world
read and yellow, black and white
They are precious in His sight
Jesus loves the children of the world
I believed it too. I believed the words in that song. He did love all the children of the world. And soon, God became my world. All my thoughts, feelings, emotions, and beliefs--were run by Him. Eventually, as I grew older and began to read the Bible on my own, I again learned about His love for me and the whole wide world. He was my everything. And He still is.
My favorite parts of the Bible while growing up were the 10 commandments and the beatitudes. There weren't words written that held more meaning for me. Reading the very words spoken by Christ held such significance. They were and still are the words that I live by, or at least I try my very best to do so.
So, here I was in Sunday School — singing songs about God, reading words inspired by God, and learning what it meant to be a real, true, born-again, saved-by-grace follower of Christ. I had such childlike faith--which is just what Jesus wanted. I was a good little girl.
As an adult in my 60s, I now contemplate the words I sang and read, and I wonder — do others who say they believe really believe? Do they believe that Jesus loves ALL the little children of the world or just the ones that meet certain criteria? I'm just wondering. And the 10 commandments--do they believe those? ALL of them? Don't kill, steal, covet, or commit adultery? Love your enemies, your neighbors, etc.? I wonder. Do they believe what Jesus taught?
I also question myself. Am I a peacemaker? Do I love my neighbor as myself? How about all those little children of the world? What am I doing about that? The older I get, the more I realize that I am not living up to the teachings that I was taught as a child. I believe that I need to do an overhaul in my spiritual life. I need to reread the above-mentioned items and maybe repent — just a little bit. Or maybe even more than that. Yes, that is exactly what I need to do. Especially now. Why now? Because I find myself feeling angry, depressed, despondent, and overwhelmed in the world I now live in. I really don't want to be here anymore.
I want to live in a world where people are kind, tolerant, loving, helpful, caring, and giving — not selfish, hateful, or stingy. I want to live in a world where the Beatitudes and the commandments are real words to live by. I guess I want rainbows and sunshine. Who doesn't?
Right now, I am in a place where I just want to be 6 years old again — singing songs about Jesus, hearing stories about Daniel, and feeling safe. Maybe that's it. I just want to feel safe again. I want to sit on His lap, knowing that no matter what color my skin is, no matter which country I was born in, no matter who my parents are--He loves me anyway. And I love Him for that very reason.
Yep, I miss Sunday School. I miss the good ol' days--the days of my innocence and youth. I miss the days of not understanding discrimination, violence, hatred, and bigotry. I want to be a kid again. And I want to go back to Sunday School.
Thursday, July 27, 2017
Card Days
I worked to finish this in May. I wrote most of it and then couldn't write any longer. I had to close my laptop, put it away, and think of other things. It was just too hard. I think that grief is like that. It comes in waves--some knocking me down, others letting me get back up, slowly. It's been a weird type of year--for many reasons. However, I do believe that my grief over my father's death has been delayed. I am just now dealing with it.
It was my dad's birthday in May. He would have been 86. That's how old he would have been. 86. He was born on Cinco de Mayo. I always laughed a little at this coincidence because he actually looked as though he could have been of Mexican descent. He wasn't, though. Nope, just part Native American and Irish, with a little Scottish thrown in.
It was too strange for me to think of my father's death on his birthday. He passed away last July; he was 85 years old. And even though it was "for the best," it was still hard. And even though we had a different type of relationship, it was still hard. I am trying to wrap my brain around this. Why was it so hard? Why wasn't I able to write about it? I couldn't finish the blog and post it. We weren't that close, we never talked, we rarely saw each other, and yet, his death has still taken its toll on me.
Even as Father's Day approached, I found that I could not look at the cards without crying, so I would leave the stores and think — I'll do it later, when I'm not so emotional. That day never came. Looking at birthday cards and Father's Day cards is just too hard right now.
My father had 3 daughters, 9 grandchildren, and 8 great-grandchildren at the time of his death. It has always bothered me that he never met 5 of my 7 grandchildren. I guess I could be a little more positive here and say, well, at least he met 2 of them. However, I'm not in the mood to be positive right now. So, I'm going to stick with the fact that he never met the other 5. Yep, I'm going to wallow in a bit of self-pity. Just because I feel like it.
My little family moved away from California almost 18 years ago. It was before my children married and began families of their own. And though my husband and I visit often, as does our daughter and her family, my sons have not. And so, it saddens me that my dad didn't watch my sons become men. That he never met their families, their children, my grandchildren, and his great-grandchildren. I wish that he could have seen my sons all grown up, could have watched them parent their children, could have smiled at the antics of my silly grandchildren, but that was never to be.
Yes, I am a little nostalgic today. Time marched on without him, and he missed out. Which has me thinking — I don't want to miss out. I don't want to have distant relationships with my kids or my grandkids. I want to be and feel close to all of them. I don't want anything (not health or finances) to get in the way. I want them to know how much they are loved. I want them to know how proud I am of them, how much I admire them, and how much they mean to me. I want to shower them with affection, gifts, and time. I want what I didn't get — for them.
Today, I am a little sad. For what could have been, what should have been, and for what never will be. I notice that I am spending a lot of time thinking and pondering relationships and their importance to me. I value them--those relationships of mine. I treasure them. I hold them near to my heart, and I cry for what I missed out on as a child and also as an adult. I would have loved to have had a real relationship with my own father. Parts were missing. Big, huge, empty parts. I don't want that for my own children. I want them to know that I will love them no matter what. Even if they make me mad, hurt my feelings, say mean things, or ignore my advice. I will always be there for them! Listening, praying, loving them. Even on the hard days.
I've tried so hard throughout my adult life to analyze the relationships between a parent and a child and between a parent and an adult child. And, in my opinion, it comes down to this. As the parent, you put in the effort. You start the dialog. You never, ever stop parenting. You'll be there--forever! And I will be. I'll always be there for my kids. I'll listen, I'll advise (when asked), and I'll pray for them. Same with my grandchildren. My love will know no limits. It will be and is unconditional. I will not take these relationships for granted. They are far too precious for that. I'm not saying that there won't be hiccups along the way, I'm just saying don't let them ever get in the way. Big difference! Huge!
I think I am saying all that for this — get involved, stay involved. Love beyond measure. Hug it out. Talk it out. Laugh a lot. Pray a lot. Be there. Do it. Buy it. Go there. Time is of the essence. It really and truly is. Tomorrow might not come.
So, happy birthday, Dad. Happy Cinco de Mayo. Happy Father's Day. I know that you are far happier in heaven with Jesus than you would be here on earth suffering. I am happy that you are pain-free. I am happy that you are with God. I do miss you. I do wish that I could have spent more time with you. I do wish for many things that will never be, but that is in the past. I will see you again one day when it is my time to join you in heaven. Until then — I hope you are being good up there!
It was my dad's birthday in May. He would have been 86. That's how old he would have been. 86. He was born on Cinco de Mayo. I always laughed a little at this coincidence because he actually looked as though he could have been of Mexican descent. He wasn't, though. Nope, just part Native American and Irish, with a little Scottish thrown in.
It was too strange for me to think of my father's death on his birthday. He passed away last July; he was 85 years old. And even though it was "for the best," it was still hard. And even though we had a different type of relationship, it was still hard. I am trying to wrap my brain around this. Why was it so hard? Why wasn't I able to write about it? I couldn't finish the blog and post it. We weren't that close, we never talked, we rarely saw each other, and yet, his death has still taken its toll on me.
Even as Father's Day approached, I found that I could not look at the cards without crying, so I would leave the stores and think — I'll do it later, when I'm not so emotional. That day never came. Looking at birthday cards and Father's Day cards is just too hard right now.
My father had 3 daughters, 9 grandchildren, and 8 great-grandchildren at the time of his death. It has always bothered me that he never met 5 of my 7 grandchildren. I guess I could be a little more positive here and say, well, at least he met 2 of them. However, I'm not in the mood to be positive right now. So, I'm going to stick with the fact that he never met the other 5. Yep, I'm going to wallow in a bit of self-pity. Just because I feel like it.
My little family moved away from California almost 18 years ago. It was before my children married and began families of their own. And though my husband and I visit often, as does our daughter and her family, my sons have not. And so, it saddens me that my dad didn't watch my sons become men. That he never met their families, their children, my grandchildren, and his great-grandchildren. I wish that he could have seen my sons all grown up, could have watched them parent their children, could have smiled at the antics of my silly grandchildren, but that was never to be.
Yes, I am a little nostalgic today. Time marched on without him, and he missed out. Which has me thinking — I don't want to miss out. I don't want to have distant relationships with my kids or my grandkids. I want to be and feel close to all of them. I don't want anything (not health or finances) to get in the way. I want them to know how much they are loved. I want them to know how proud I am of them, how much I admire them, and how much they mean to me. I want to shower them with affection, gifts, and time. I want what I didn't get — for them.
Today, I am a little sad. For what could have been, what should have been, and for what never will be. I notice that I am spending a lot of time thinking and pondering relationships and their importance to me. I value them--those relationships of mine. I treasure them. I hold them near to my heart, and I cry for what I missed out on as a child and also as an adult. I would have loved to have had a real relationship with my own father. Parts were missing. Big, huge, empty parts. I don't want that for my own children. I want them to know that I will love them no matter what. Even if they make me mad, hurt my feelings, say mean things, or ignore my advice. I will always be there for them! Listening, praying, loving them. Even on the hard days.
I've tried so hard throughout my adult life to analyze the relationships between a parent and a child and between a parent and an adult child. And, in my opinion, it comes down to this. As the parent, you put in the effort. You start the dialog. You never, ever stop parenting. You'll be there--forever! And I will be. I'll always be there for my kids. I'll listen, I'll advise (when asked), and I'll pray for them. Same with my grandchildren. My love will know no limits. It will be and is unconditional. I will not take these relationships for granted. They are far too precious for that. I'm not saying that there won't be hiccups along the way, I'm just saying don't let them ever get in the way. Big difference! Huge!
I think I am saying all that for this — get involved, stay involved. Love beyond measure. Hug it out. Talk it out. Laugh a lot. Pray a lot. Be there. Do it. Buy it. Go there. Time is of the essence. It really and truly is. Tomorrow might not come.
So, happy birthday, Dad. Happy Cinco de Mayo. Happy Father's Day. I know that you are far happier in heaven with Jesus than you would be here on earth suffering. I am happy that you are pain-free. I am happy that you are with God. I do miss you. I do wish that I could have spent more time with you. I do wish for many things that will never be, but that is in the past. I will see you again one day when it is my time to join you in heaven. Until then — I hope you are being good up there!
Monday, June 12, 2017
Quebec City
I just found this blog, and I guess I forgot to post it. It's probably 4 years old by now, but you know what? I'm going to post it anyway, just for the heck of it. It was a fun adventure and one worth documenting. Enjoy!
Ahhhh, what can I say? Ou-la-la--Quebec City, it was so much fun. But, before I get to the fun part, would you like to hear the funny part? I thought you would.
OK, let's start with our electricity being off (thanks to the remnants of Hurricane Ike) from 7:00 PM the night before we were to fly out to Quebec. Fortunately, we were all packed, had taken our dog Lacey to the kennel, and were ready to sit down and enjoy an evening of "must-see TV" when, bam, there went the lights. The wind was howling, the trees were blowing junk all over the place—so we got out our trusty flashlights, lit some candles, and thought—this should blow over soon. No pun intended.
After several boring hours of reading by candlelight and wondering when the power would go back on, we went to bed. We had to set our cell phone alarms (no power, remember?) to get up at 3:45 the next morning to get ready to drive to the airport for a 6:30 flight. Ugg!
The next morning —still no power, but that's OK. I set a flashlight in the bathroom and took a shower—umm, now for makeup. OK, still using the flashlight—now for blow-dryer —umm, no power! Ah, but I had a trick up my sleeve! For all of you who used to make fun of me when we went camping for using a 12-volt blow-dryer…guess who's laughing now? Uh? Uh? I was able to plug my little blow-dryer into the cigarette lighter in the car and dry my hair on the way to the airport! Wow, I looked like a million bucks! At least until I saw myself in the bathroom mirror at the airport! Oh well, win some, lose some, right?
On to Quebec, it was awesome. It's not Paris, but it did feel like a quaint little village out in the middle of France. We walked our butts off, and ate until we hurt—the food was so good. We took a bus tour through the countryside, which was really a highlight for us. We were able to see other little villages and learn some history along the way. It was a great vacation and a great birthday for me! Two for one! If you have any questions about Quebec, feel free to email me. We know the city by heart! I think 5 days were a little too long for us to stay in one place without a car. We were way too antsy. Next time we go—we drive!
Our electricity was off for 3 days, so when we got home, we had to throw out everything in the refrigerator. We are now cleaning up the yard. It looks like a tornado hit it! Have a great autumn. The leaves are turning, and it smells so good outside—time to order firewood.
Tuesday, May 23, 2017
Things I Miss
I am waxing nostalgic again this morning. I'm thinking of all the things I miss. As I have entered into my 6th decade, it has hit me a little hard. Only 2 or 3 more to go, you know what I mean? Things to ponder, things to regret, things to long for. It's what's on my mind this morning.
You see, I miss skipping. I miss the smell of sidewalks in the rain. I miss the crunching of small gravel and leaves underneath my feet. I miss hopscotch. I miss my teacher reading to me in school, with my head on my desk, as I was transported to Africa to play with lions. I miss tetherball. And monkey bars. I even miss nap time. I never thought I'd say that. I miss my first crush — 3rd grade, Danny. I miss jumping over sidewalk cracks, hide and seek in the bushes, and playing outside after dark on a hot summer night.
I miss pizza joints, football games, and driving by boys' houses. I miss riding my horse — wind blowing in my hair. I miss the smell of alfalfa hay and manure. I miss dances and parties, giggling and secrets. I miss my best friend, whom I fiercely protected and with whom I shared all my deepest truths.
I miss summers with cousins--chasing tree frogs and polliwogs. I miss picking berries with my grandmother and making cobbler. I miss ice cream sandwiches and public swimming pools. I miss talking on the phone until the wee hours of the morning with my boyfriend of the moment.
I miss being a newlywed. Snuggling and watching movies in the dark. Being so poor, that date night was a burger and fries. I miss being able to have a milkshake without gaining 10 pounds! I miss being pregnant. Feeling that first little flutter of life--mine felt like butterflies let loose inside. I miss rocking, singing, and late-night feedings. Yes, all those firsts. I miss them all.
I even miss this — mom, mom, mom. All day, every day. Yep, I even miss that. Look at me, Mom, watch me! He hit me, she looked at me, and he spat at me. Yes, I miss all that too. I miss folding their clothes, picking up their shoes, and breaking up their many arguments.
Life was happening in my home, and I loved it. It's over too quickly. Life.
My children are all adults now. They have children of their own. And I'm sure they also have many things they either miss now or will miss in the years to come. It seems that when we are living in the moment, we are too busy and caught up in the here and now to realize that these moments are the ones we'll miss later. Little things--memories.
It's just the two of us now, and our furry little dog. I look back on my memories, I try hard to make new ones, I hold on to each day, and I am so very thankful. Not all were good, but most were wonderful. Not all were painful, as most produced growth.
I have found that although I had to move around a lot, it enabled me to make many friends. And even though I've lost touch with some, they made a huge impact on my life. I miss them. As it turns out, friends are extremely important to me. Their value in my life was and is priceless.
I also miss my old houses. Each one held different memories. I miss my sunroom, and swimming pool, my river, and almond trees. I miss my single-story and two-story homes. I miss the orchards and their beautiful blossoms. And I miss hearing the kids playing outside. I miss wallpaper and wicker furniture — each house, yard, and neighborhood held special memories of its own. That ability to remember is like a photo book to me. Perhaps that's why I am so drawn to my camera. I have a need to capture everything.
I have a different perspective on life now. That might come with having time to ponder without noise, without the outside barging in. I liked that, though. I liked the outside world pushing through the walls of my inside world. I liked the noise, the laughter, the arguing, the messes, the mom, mom, mom--I miss those things. I'll miss these things too. This time, this moment with--just the two of us.
Funny thing about memories, as soon as I miss them, new ones pop up. I guess that's a good thing--there is always something to miss. As each day comes to a close, a new memory is formed. As each day begins, new opportunities arise.
You see, I miss skipping. I miss the smell of sidewalks in the rain. I miss the crunching of small gravel and leaves underneath my feet. I miss hopscotch. I miss my teacher reading to me in school, with my head on my desk, as I was transported to Africa to play with lions. I miss tetherball. And monkey bars. I even miss nap time. I never thought I'd say that. I miss my first crush — 3rd grade, Danny. I miss jumping over sidewalk cracks, hide and seek in the bushes, and playing outside after dark on a hot summer night.
I miss pizza joints, football games, and driving by boys' houses. I miss riding my horse — wind blowing in my hair. I miss the smell of alfalfa hay and manure. I miss dances and parties, giggling and secrets. I miss my best friend, whom I fiercely protected and with whom I shared all my deepest truths.
I miss summers with cousins--chasing tree frogs and polliwogs. I miss picking berries with my grandmother and making cobbler. I miss ice cream sandwiches and public swimming pools. I miss talking on the phone until the wee hours of the morning with my boyfriend of the moment.
I miss being a newlywed. Snuggling and watching movies in the dark. Being so poor, that date night was a burger and fries. I miss being able to have a milkshake without gaining 10 pounds! I miss being pregnant. Feeling that first little flutter of life--mine felt like butterflies let loose inside. I miss rocking, singing, and late-night feedings. Yes, all those firsts. I miss them all.
I even miss this — mom, mom, mom. All day, every day. Yep, I even miss that. Look at me, Mom, watch me! He hit me, she looked at me, and he spat at me. Yes, I miss all that too. I miss folding their clothes, picking up their shoes, and breaking up their many arguments.
Life was happening in my home, and I loved it. It's over too quickly. Life.
My children are all adults now. They have children of their own. And I'm sure they also have many things they either miss now or will miss in the years to come. It seems that when we are living in the moment, we are too busy and caught up in the here and now to realize that these moments are the ones we'll miss later. Little things--memories.
It's just the two of us now, and our furry little dog. I look back on my memories, I try hard to make new ones, I hold on to each day, and I am so very thankful. Not all were good, but most were wonderful. Not all were painful, as most produced growth.
I have found that although I had to move around a lot, it enabled me to make many friends. And even though I've lost touch with some, they made a huge impact on my life. I miss them. As it turns out, friends are extremely important to me. Their value in my life was and is priceless.
I also miss my old houses. Each one held different memories. I miss my sunroom, and swimming pool, my river, and almond trees. I miss my single-story and two-story homes. I miss the orchards and their beautiful blossoms. And I miss hearing the kids playing outside. I miss wallpaper and wicker furniture — each house, yard, and neighborhood held special memories of its own. That ability to remember is like a photo book to me. Perhaps that's why I am so drawn to my camera. I have a need to capture everything.
I have a different perspective on life now. That might come with having time to ponder without noise, without the outside barging in. I liked that, though. I liked the outside world pushing through the walls of my inside world. I liked the noise, the laughter, the arguing, the messes, the mom, mom, mom--I miss those things. I'll miss these things too. This time, this moment with--just the two of us.
Funny thing about memories, as soon as I miss them, new ones pop up. I guess that's a good thing--there is always something to miss. As each day comes to a close, a new memory is formed. As each day begins, new opportunities arise.
Tuesday, April 11, 2017
Quick 6
It was quick. A very fast, whirlwind extended visit. I thought we'd have more time. I had no idea that it would abruptly come to an end. Here one day, gone the next.
When my mom moved in with us at the beginning of October, I thought it would be forever. In the sense that she'd live with us as long as she could. Until that unfortunate time when we would have to place her in some type of care facility.
She was doing great. Off the oxygen, knee replaced, plugging into different groups and activities. Running around with me--lunch, shop, friends, repeat. We were having fun. Or so I thought. We were working out the kinks of our living arrangement. She had moved into the master bedroom, and we had moved upstairs. We walked her dog, I did her laundry, cleaned her room, cooked her meals, and also generally helped with anything she needed.
And although it was a long winter, spring was coming. I could not wait for her to see our neck of the woods in full color. Cleveland goes nuts in the spring. I'm not exaggerating. A lot of the nurseries even have traffic control for a while. We all clammer to buy up all the flowers that we can fit into the backs of our SUVs and then plant, plant, plant until our yards are bursting with color. Even the trees in my little neighborhood are in bloom. It's green and lush, and I wanted her to see it.
We only had a very few weeks left to wait for spring. However, it wasn't to be. After 6 months of winter, my mom flew the coup. I went out with a friend one evening, only to find out that she'd been talking with my husband about being homesick. A week later, she was gone. It happened so quickly that I didn't even have time to process the whole thing. I didn't know that she was so unhappy and longing for "home". I felt horrible. It was just too cold for her and her dog. It wasn't California, it wasn't home.
Had I known that my mom had intentions of leaving after just a mere 6 months, I would have done things so differently. So very differently! There was so much left to show her and do with her. I would have packed in so many more excursions and day trips. I wanted her to eat at my favorite outdoor patio restaurants and meet more of my friends and neighbors. I did not know she'd be gone in 6 months.
I also had high hopes of walking her through her first year of grief after losing my father. I wanted to sit with her and let her reminisce. I wanted to be that shoulder to cry on. I thought over time she'd be happy again. After all--she had me!
So many things to show her, places to take her, and now she's gone. She'll never see the other 2 seasons — the real seasons of Cleveland. Some say the best seasons. And that makes me sad. She left 2 weeks ago, and I'm still reeling from how quickly it happened. Back to California, back to her old neighborhood, back to her old life, that she once told me was so lonely and boring. I don't understand what just happened. I don't understand why she left. However, I respect her decision, and I'll always be here to love and support her through prayer and a listening ear. It's all I can do--just be here for her.
Yes, it was a quick 6 months. A very short time. Not enough time. And now I'm sad. In a very weird sense, it was like a death for me--first my dad, and then my mom. They left in different ways. But they both left. And I'm still processing. That's why I write. It's my way.
I'm praying for my mom. I am hoping she finds new friends, happiness, and a new outlook on life. I'm praying that God comforts her in her grief. And that she finds what she is looking for. Home. Security. Love. Peace. Those are the things she needs from God. Just His presence in her life--that is what she needs the most. I could not fill that void. Not that I'd want to, but I did want to help her in some small way.
I can't even begin to imagine what widowhood looks or feels like. It breaks my heart to know that she misses my dad so much. I think in some strange way, she's looking for him--back home. He's not there, though, and she will find that out soon enough. At least she has my sister and me. She can lean on us during this time of grief. We will always be here for her.
I'll fly out to visit her soon. I miss her already. I got used to her being here every day. We became buddies. Shopping and lunching--just fun, silly stuff. And now she's gone. And I am sad. I guess I'm sad that I couldn't do more. I couldn't make her happy. I wasn't "home" for her.
My husband tells me to look on the bright side. It was a very long, extended visit. We never thought she'd ever see the Midwest, and she did! We never thought she'd meet our other grandchildren, and she did! We never thought she'd see our home, meet our friends, go to our church, and just be a part of our lives. But, she did. And for that, I am very thankful. I got her for 6 whole months. I will always be grateful for our time together, for getting to know each other, and for those last moments of life together, which are so precious. So, today I say — thank you, God, for those quick 6 months.
My heart is grateful.
When my mom moved in with us at the beginning of October, I thought it would be forever. In the sense that she'd live with us as long as she could. Until that unfortunate time when we would have to place her in some type of care facility.
She was doing great. Off the oxygen, knee replaced, plugging into different groups and activities. Running around with me--lunch, shop, friends, repeat. We were having fun. Or so I thought. We were working out the kinks of our living arrangement. She had moved into the master bedroom, and we had moved upstairs. We walked her dog, I did her laundry, cleaned her room, cooked her meals, and also generally helped with anything she needed.
And although it was a long winter, spring was coming. I could not wait for her to see our neck of the woods in full color. Cleveland goes nuts in the spring. I'm not exaggerating. A lot of the nurseries even have traffic control for a while. We all clammer to buy up all the flowers that we can fit into the backs of our SUVs and then plant, plant, plant until our yards are bursting with color. Even the trees in my little neighborhood are in bloom. It's green and lush, and I wanted her to see it.
We only had a very few weeks left to wait for spring. However, it wasn't to be. After 6 months of winter, my mom flew the coup. I went out with a friend one evening, only to find out that she'd been talking with my husband about being homesick. A week later, she was gone. It happened so quickly that I didn't even have time to process the whole thing. I didn't know that she was so unhappy and longing for "home". I felt horrible. It was just too cold for her and her dog. It wasn't California, it wasn't home.
Had I known that my mom had intentions of leaving after just a mere 6 months, I would have done things so differently. So very differently! There was so much left to show her and do with her. I would have packed in so many more excursions and day trips. I wanted her to eat at my favorite outdoor patio restaurants and meet more of my friends and neighbors. I did not know she'd be gone in 6 months.
I also had high hopes of walking her through her first year of grief after losing my father. I wanted to sit with her and let her reminisce. I wanted to be that shoulder to cry on. I thought over time she'd be happy again. After all--she had me!
So many things to show her, places to take her, and now she's gone. She'll never see the other 2 seasons — the real seasons of Cleveland. Some say the best seasons. And that makes me sad. She left 2 weeks ago, and I'm still reeling from how quickly it happened. Back to California, back to her old neighborhood, back to her old life, that she once told me was so lonely and boring. I don't understand what just happened. I don't understand why she left. However, I respect her decision, and I'll always be here to love and support her through prayer and a listening ear. It's all I can do--just be here for her.
Yes, it was a quick 6 months. A very short time. Not enough time. And now I'm sad. In a very weird sense, it was like a death for me--first my dad, and then my mom. They left in different ways. But they both left. And I'm still processing. That's why I write. It's my way.
I'm praying for my mom. I am hoping she finds new friends, happiness, and a new outlook on life. I'm praying that God comforts her in her grief. And that she finds what she is looking for. Home. Security. Love. Peace. Those are the things she needs from God. Just His presence in her life--that is what she needs the most. I could not fill that void. Not that I'd want to, but I did want to help her in some small way.
I can't even begin to imagine what widowhood looks or feels like. It breaks my heart to know that she misses my dad so much. I think in some strange way, she's looking for him--back home. He's not there, though, and she will find that out soon enough. At least she has my sister and me. She can lean on us during this time of grief. We will always be here for her.
I'll fly out to visit her soon. I miss her already. I got used to her being here every day. We became buddies. Shopping and lunching--just fun, silly stuff. And now she's gone. And I am sad. I guess I'm sad that I couldn't do more. I couldn't make her happy. I wasn't "home" for her.
My husband tells me to look on the bright side. It was a very long, extended visit. We never thought she'd ever see the Midwest, and she did! We never thought she'd meet our other grandchildren, and she did! We never thought she'd see our home, meet our friends, go to our church, and just be a part of our lives. But, she did. And for that, I am very thankful. I got her for 6 whole months. I will always be grateful for our time together, for getting to know each other, and for those last moments of life together, which are so precious. So, today I say — thank you, God, for those quick 6 months.
My heart is grateful.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
I Tried So Hard
I tried so hard. I did everything I could and then some. Even my husband joined me in trying. My children and grandchildren embraced you with their whole hearts. I changed my entire life so that you would be comfortable. I tried to make you happy.
We gave you our bedroom and bathroom.
We turned up the heat even though we were burning up.
I gave you coats, jackets, scarves, gloves, and vests.
We walked your dog 4 times a day in any weather.
I took your dog to the groomer and vet each time you asked.
I cooked your meals.
I cleaned your room and bathroom.
I washed your sheets and remade your bed every week.
I did all your laundry.
I took you to your doctors' appointments.
I gifted you my older hearing aids because you did not have any.
I invited you to all of my activities.
I introduced you to my friends.
I took you to my church and Bible study.
I took you shopping and out to many restaurants.
I helped you with your knee replacement surgery.
I took you to physical therapy 3 times per week and even more doctor's appointments.
And yet, you still were not happy. You said you were homesick. I get that. You said that your dog did not like the snow. I get that too. However, I worked hard to make this your home. To make you feel safe, loved, and secure. And yet, you were not happy.
I am at a loss. I am out of ideas. You did not like my home, my friends, my husband, my life.
Even though I was having fun — getting to know you all over again, showing you my life, my city, my family, and my friends. I wanted so badly for you to settle in and just love us. However, it was not to be. No matter how hard I tried, nothing made you happy.
So, I guess it was time for you to go back to your home state and build a life for yourself that isn't here with me.
I have so many fears for you, though. That you will not be happy there either. That you will be unsafe, unprotected, uncared for, and unloved. These are my fears. I am worried about you.
I realize I don't have control over this situation, and you make your own choices. When you do, please remember this one thing. That I love you and wish that you had stayed with me.
And that I tried so hard.
We gave you our bedroom and bathroom.
We turned up the heat even though we were burning up.
I gave you coats, jackets, scarves, gloves, and vests.
We walked your dog 4 times a day in any weather.
I took your dog to the groomer and vet each time you asked.
I cooked your meals.
I cleaned your room and bathroom.
I washed your sheets and remade your bed every week.
I did all your laundry.
I took you to your doctors' appointments.
I gifted you my older hearing aids because you did not have any.
I invited you to all of my activities.
I introduced you to my friends.
I took you to my church and Bible study.
I took you shopping and out to many restaurants.
I helped you with your knee replacement surgery.
I took you to physical therapy 3 times per week and even more doctor's appointments.
And yet, you still were not happy. You said you were homesick. I get that. You said that your dog did not like the snow. I get that too. However, I worked hard to make this your home. To make you feel safe, loved, and secure. And yet, you were not happy.
I am at a loss. I am out of ideas. You did not like my home, my friends, my husband, my life.
Even though I was having fun — getting to know you all over again, showing you my life, my city, my family, and my friends. I wanted so badly for you to settle in and just love us. However, it was not to be. No matter how hard I tried, nothing made you happy.
So, I guess it was time for you to go back to your home state and build a life for yourself that isn't here with me.
I have so many fears for you, though. That you will not be happy there either. That you will be unsafe, unprotected, uncared for, and unloved. These are my fears. I am worried about you.
I realize I don't have control over this situation, and you make your own choices. When you do, please remember this one thing. That I love you and wish that you had stayed with me.
And that I tried so hard.
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
My Global Thoughts
I love to travel, that's no secret. I dream about it consistently. Even while on a trip, this weirdo is dreaming and planning her next adventure. And while traveling, my husband and I share a few inside jokes — one being that any and all Starbucks are, in fact, US embassies. I am not ashamed that I secretly (ok, not so secretly) am thrilled to pieces when traipsing through Europe, I spy with my little eye — a Starbucks! A thrill shoots through my body as I run towards my home away from home, yelling, "Dry cappuccino, please!" It really does. And you know why? Because a Starbucks in any language is still a Starbucks. Pretty much.
And that is kind of what I really want to talk about right now. Language. Or lack thereof. I don't know of any way to put this other than bluntly, so please don't take offense. But I want to just say it out loud and then explain my perspective on this issue.
I know that as Americans, we do not like pressing 1 for English. Do you hear what I am saying? A lot of you complain. This is America, why do I have to press 1 to hear my own language? Why don't others just learn English? And on and on. You know who you are. You've said it before. And guess what? I think I have even said it a time or two. Way back in the day, way back before I began to travel the globe. However, I don't feel that way any longer. Not even a little bit. Traveling has changed my life, my perspective, my attitude. And it has made me a kinder, gentler person. At least that's what I'd like to believe about myself.
I remember, on one such trip in Italy, we were in a small town, an airport, or a train station, and there wasn't even one sign in English! How dare they! Just how were we supposed to get around if we couldn't understand the signage? We walked around aimlessly for a bit before hearing someone speak English, and then we asked for help. Fortunately, they were very kind to us and pointed us in the right direction. I couldn't help thinking that our lives would have been so much easier had all their signs been printed up in several languages for travelers. Especially English!
As we become more and more global and travel more, I find myself looking out for others and wanting to help them navigate airports, train stations, large cities, etc. As I sit on trains, as I walk city streets, as I wait for taxis, I listen. I watch. And I wait, and then as I'm needed, I help. One poor French gentleman in Germany could not figure out how to work the ticket machine at the local train station. My husband couldn't help him (he takes over for us while in Germany); however, I was able to help him (as I take over while in France), so I helped this Frenchman buy his train ticket in Germany because nothing on the machine was in French or English--just German. Some might think that it was as it should be. signs in the country of origin. I'm not so sure, though. We've become a global traveling people. We need signs, signs, and more signs, in many languages, not just one.
It isn't just America that has signs in its own language; it's kind of a universal thing, especially in smaller towns. Wouldn't it be nice, though, if that weren't the case? Wouldn't it be great if all signs--toll roads, freeways, ATMs, menus, buses, trains, airports--you get the idea--were in several different languages? I would love that. It would make traveling so much easier. And much more worry-free.
We live in a global society. We, as a people, need to face that reality. The world is getting smaller. People are traveling now more than ever. Let's get with the program. Let's make it easier on each other and stop being so narrow-minded about language. It doesn't really hurt anything or anyone to print stuff up in a few more languages. So you have to press 1 — big deal. Press it. Do it for me. It's for those who travel. Remember, they stimulate our economy. And we theirs. So really, if you have to think of it this way--you're doing it for yourself.
Those are just a few (a very few) of my global thoughts. I'm in the mood, especially lately, for a kinder world. And as I plan my next trip abroad, I am praying, even as I type, that someone, somewhere is taking pity on this American and printing out a simple sign for me--in English.
And that is kind of what I really want to talk about right now. Language. Or lack thereof. I don't know of any way to put this other than bluntly, so please don't take offense. But I want to just say it out loud and then explain my perspective on this issue.
I know that as Americans, we do not like pressing 1 for English. Do you hear what I am saying? A lot of you complain. This is America, why do I have to press 1 to hear my own language? Why don't others just learn English? And on and on. You know who you are. You've said it before. And guess what? I think I have even said it a time or two. Way back in the day, way back before I began to travel the globe. However, I don't feel that way any longer. Not even a little bit. Traveling has changed my life, my perspective, my attitude. And it has made me a kinder, gentler person. At least that's what I'd like to believe about myself.
I remember, on one such trip in Italy, we were in a small town, an airport, or a train station, and there wasn't even one sign in English! How dare they! Just how were we supposed to get around if we couldn't understand the signage? We walked around aimlessly for a bit before hearing someone speak English, and then we asked for help. Fortunately, they were very kind to us and pointed us in the right direction. I couldn't help thinking that our lives would have been so much easier had all their signs been printed up in several languages for travelers. Especially English!
As we become more and more global and travel more, I find myself looking out for others and wanting to help them navigate airports, train stations, large cities, etc. As I sit on trains, as I walk city streets, as I wait for taxis, I listen. I watch. And I wait, and then as I'm needed, I help. One poor French gentleman in Germany could not figure out how to work the ticket machine at the local train station. My husband couldn't help him (he takes over for us while in Germany); however, I was able to help him (as I take over while in France), so I helped this Frenchman buy his train ticket in Germany because nothing on the machine was in French or English--just German. Some might think that it was as it should be. signs in the country of origin. I'm not so sure, though. We've become a global traveling people. We need signs, signs, and more signs, in many languages, not just one.
It isn't just America that has signs in its own language; it's kind of a universal thing, especially in smaller towns. Wouldn't it be nice, though, if that weren't the case? Wouldn't it be great if all signs--toll roads, freeways, ATMs, menus, buses, trains, airports--you get the idea--were in several different languages? I would love that. It would make traveling so much easier. And much more worry-free.
We live in a global society. We, as a people, need to face that reality. The world is getting smaller. People are traveling now more than ever. Let's get with the program. Let's make it easier on each other and stop being so narrow-minded about language. It doesn't really hurt anything or anyone to print stuff up in a few more languages. So you have to press 1 — big deal. Press it. Do it for me. It's for those who travel. Remember, they stimulate our economy. And we theirs. So really, if you have to think of it this way--you're doing it for yourself.
Those are just a few (a very few) of my global thoughts. I'm in the mood, especially lately, for a kinder world. And as I plan my next trip abroad, I am praying, even as I type, that someone, somewhere is taking pity on this American and printing out a simple sign for me--in English.
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