Linking up today with Lisa Jo and the others at Five Minute Friday. Today's word is remember.
It's funny what triggers the memory, isn't it?
When I cut a green pepper,
I remember a coworker laughing at me because I didn't know how to do it (fresh out of college).
When I slice celery and get to the inside yellow core,
I remember my friend who prefers that part of the celery bunch, even though I have no use for it.
When my dad listens to the television at blaring levels and refuses to admit he can't hear,
I remember pulling up to his mother's house, parking in the cul-de-sac and hearing Golden Girls blaring from inside the house because she, too, thought she could hear just fine.
When I hear about kids building snow tunnels,
I remember building one with my older brother, coaxing my toddler brother in to the back of the tunnel and my mother coming out of the house crying "My baby, my baby!"
When October 4 rolls around,
I remember my childhood friend Karen who I haven't talked to in nearly 30 years, but I still remember her birthday.
When I hear Brown-Eyed Girl,
I remember Pam and how the band played it at her memorial service.
When I see a big old station wagon from back in the day,
I remember being able to take the "party wagon" to college for a semester. (Note: No parties were held in said wagon.)
When anyone references OJ Simpson,
I remember the infamous car chase that started before I left my home in Pennsylvania and ended when I pulled into my grandpa's driveway in Maryland hours later.
What triggers your memory and what do you remember?
Friday, March 22, 2013
Monday, March 18, 2013
Rest
Linking up today (a few days late!) with Lisa Jo at Five Minute Friday. Today's word prompt is Rest.
This word prompt is especially appropriate as I'm just coming off a week of rest. We had the blessing of going to Grand Cayman on a business trip and extended our stay for a few days. It was a week of no Facebook or blog reading, checking e-mail briefly perhaps only three times (and only in response to a request from family), very little tv watching. The biggest decisions each day were beach or pool and where/when to eat.
The rest was a good thing, a blessed thing, a necessary thing. Rest can't always look like a week in the Carribean (oh, that it could!), but it's necessary and restorative. (Even as I type those words I think about those who don't get a break to rest, who work every day to haul water to their families, who sacrifice and scrimp and take as many hours of overtime at work as they can to meet the basic needs of their families. Perspective.)
Now we're back and even as the plane landed to another gloomy day with cold temperatures and snow on the ground, I found the realities of everyday life seeping right back into my marrow. (My first stop, after all, was the grocery store.) Those realities and demands felt almost toxic after an extended period of rest, and I realized that I must be intentional about rest - physical rest, rest from connectivity, rest from all that is not good for my soul.
This word prompt is especially appropriate as I'm just coming off a week of rest. We had the blessing of going to Grand Cayman on a business trip and extended our stay for a few days. It was a week of no Facebook or blog reading, checking e-mail briefly perhaps only three times (and only in response to a request from family), very little tv watching. The biggest decisions each day were beach or pool and where/when to eat.
The rest was a good thing, a blessed thing, a necessary thing. Rest can't always look like a week in the Carribean (oh, that it could!), but it's necessary and restorative. (Even as I type those words I think about those who don't get a break to rest, who work every day to haul water to their families, who sacrifice and scrimp and take as many hours of overtime at work as they can to meet the basic needs of their families. Perspective.)
Now we're back and even as the plane landed to another gloomy day with cold temperatures and snow on the ground, I found the realities of everyday life seeping right back into my marrow. (My first stop, after all, was the grocery store.) Those realities and demands felt almost toxic after an extended period of rest, and I realized that I must be intentional about rest - physical rest, rest from connectivity, rest from all that is not good for my soul.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Home
Linking up today with Lisa-Jo at Five Minute Friday. This week's word prompt is Home.
Home has been Halleck, Kipling, Sollengberger, Naugle, Fileys, Garden, Ridgeview and William. It's been a small house, a bigger house, a dorm room, a farmhouse, an apartment, a bi-level and a ranch. It's been filled with Nancy Drew, Shawn Cassidy and Donny & Marie; a baby brother and a big brother; roommates; no one but me; children becoming teenagers then adults; my husband and my dogs.
It's been a place of a little girl's dreams, a big girl's broken heart, hope, joy, laughter, pain, fear. It's been the place I came home to after school, after class, after work. It's where I've worked from for 15 years. It's where I'm greeted with tail wags and puppy kisses when I walk in the door.
I don't keep it clean enough or peaceful enough, though I've gotten better at both through the years. It's a place where family and friends are welcome, although hospitality is not a gift that comes naturally. Home is the place I am safest from the cares of this world, where my heart rests with the one I love, where the real me takes a deep breath and looks up.
It's been a place of a little girl's dreams, a big girl's broken heart, hope, joy, laughter, pain, fear. It's been the place I came home to after school, after class, after work. It's where I've worked from for 15 years. It's where I'm greeted with tail wags and puppy kisses when I walk in the door.
I don't keep it clean enough or peaceful enough, though I've gotten better at both through the years. It's a place where family and friends are welcome, although hospitality is not a gift that comes naturally. Home is the place I am safest from the cares of this world, where my heart rests with the one I love, where the real me takes a deep breath and looks up.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Ordinary
Linking up today with Lisa-Jo and the others at Five Minute Friday. Today's word prompt is ordinary.
The little boy waiting for the bus taught me. He stood there patiently on the corner as I drove through tears to the edge of my grandparents' development. The sun was shining, it was a beautiful March morning, the promise of spring in the air. For that little boy, it seemed to be an ordinary day. Maybe he had a math test. Maybe he was wondering what was going to be served for lunch. Just one more day until school was out for the weekend.
Seeing that little boy took my breath away. It was the morning of my grandmother's funeral and when I caught sight of him, I realized that while my family would be mourning the loss and celebrating the life of one very precious lady, for the rest of the world it was just an ordinary day. The dichotomy was striking.
Of course, I always knew that the world didn't stop for everyone when it stopped for one or a few. But this was the first time my pain was so searing that I couldn't step beyond the small circle of my world to realize that most everyone else was going about their ordinary days while I was trying to right my upside-down world.
That lesson has stayed with me through the years. While I go about my own business as usual, others are hurting, aching, suffering ... and at the other end of the spectrum, celebrating, rejoicing, daring to take a chance. An ordinary day for me may be an extraordinary day for my neighbor, my friend, the driver who cut me off, the server who was impatient.
I don't always get it right. There are plenty of days when I'm so consumed with my ordinary that I don't take a breath and think of the journey someone else is on. But my life is better when I do.
I don't know where that little boy is today, 19 years after I saw him on that corner as I was driving to the store in search of black pantyhose. I don't know if today was just another ordinary day for him or if something wonderfully extraordinary rocked his world. I do know that he shifted my world one morning and my life is a little less ordinary because of it.
The little boy waiting for the bus taught me. He stood there patiently on the corner as I drove through tears to the edge of my grandparents' development. The sun was shining, it was a beautiful March morning, the promise of spring in the air. For that little boy, it seemed to be an ordinary day. Maybe he had a math test. Maybe he was wondering what was going to be served for lunch. Just one more day until school was out for the weekend.
Seeing that little boy took my breath away. It was the morning of my grandmother's funeral and when I caught sight of him, I realized that while my family would be mourning the loss and celebrating the life of one very precious lady, for the rest of the world it was just an ordinary day. The dichotomy was striking.
Of course, I always knew that the world didn't stop for everyone when it stopped for one or a few. But this was the first time my pain was so searing that I couldn't step beyond the small circle of my world to realize that most everyone else was going about their ordinary days while I was trying to right my upside-down world.
That lesson has stayed with me through the years. While I go about my own business as usual, others are hurting, aching, suffering ... and at the other end of the spectrum, celebrating, rejoicing, daring to take a chance. An ordinary day for me may be an extraordinary day for my neighbor, my friend, the driver who cut me off, the server who was impatient.
I don't always get it right. There are plenty of days when I'm so consumed with my ordinary that I don't take a breath and think of the journey someone else is on. But my life is better when I do.
I don't know where that little boy is today, 19 years after I saw him on that corner as I was driving to the store in search of black pantyhose. I don't know if today was just another ordinary day for him or if something wonderfully extraordinary rocked his world. I do know that he shifted my world one morning and my life is a little less ordinary because of it.
Friday, February 22, 2013
What Mama Did: The Library
Linking up today with Lisa Jo over at Five Minute Friday.
She took us to the library. It's one of the most consistent memories of my childhood and the one that cemented in me a voracious love of reading everything I could get my hands on.
The first library was the one in a converted house at the far edge of our town. Tiny, cramped, jammed full of books. I can still see the shelf where Judy Blume's Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret lived. Declared off-limits to me, I remember sneaking peeks inside while Mom was otherwise occupied with a brother. I can see the room where the career catalogs were housed and that's where I had the notion that maybe, just maybe, I could be a physical therapist. (Later lack of joy in the sciences nipped that dream quickly.) I can see the dust mites floating from the ceilings as the afternoon sun shone in.
The next library was the one we went to every Friday for seemingly forever. She'd pick us up from school, we piled into the station wagon and later the brown Grand Prix and we'd travel into DC to the doctor so my brother could get his allergy shots. This weekly requirement was only made tolerable by knowing that the library awaited after he was done. Hillcrest Heights library was a little bit of heaven for us. Aisles and aisles of books. We'd seemingly read our way through what the neighborhood library had to offer, but doubted we'd ever run out of choices here. I remember Caddie Woodlawn and thinking she had such a pretty name. Graduating from young adult to the adult section upstairs was a delightful rite of passage.
And then there was the church library, housed in a little musty room, filled with every single Grace Livingston Hill book every written (which I only picked up as a last resort). What a blessing that little library was to minds looking for adventures to take them away from the everyday routine.
During the college years, I spent hours inside the library as a necessity, not for the joy or love of reading. Later I was actively involved in another church library, this time using my love of the library as ministry. The first thing I tried to do when we moved to a new community four years ago was to get a library card, but they made me wait. I was so new in town I couldn't prove I was a resident and eligible for a card. "But I love the library!" I bemoaned. "This is my very first stop." To no avail. Once I received the first electric bill, you bet I went to get my library card!
I still love the library. Yes, I love Amazon -- click, click and books appear on my doorstep or on my Kindle, but there's just something about the library. I think a little bit of my heart lives there, thanks to Mom.
She took us to the library. It's one of the most consistent memories of my childhood and the one that cemented in me a voracious love of reading everything I could get my hands on.
The first library was the one in a converted house at the far edge of our town. Tiny, cramped, jammed full of books. I can still see the shelf where Judy Blume's Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret lived. Declared off-limits to me, I remember sneaking peeks inside while Mom was otherwise occupied with a brother. I can see the room where the career catalogs were housed and that's where I had the notion that maybe, just maybe, I could be a physical therapist. (Later lack of joy in the sciences nipped that dream quickly.) I can see the dust mites floating from the ceilings as the afternoon sun shone in.
The next library was the one we went to every Friday for seemingly forever. She'd pick us up from school, we piled into the station wagon and later the brown Grand Prix and we'd travel into DC to the doctor so my brother could get his allergy shots. This weekly requirement was only made tolerable by knowing that the library awaited after he was done. Hillcrest Heights library was a little bit of heaven for us. Aisles and aisles of books. We'd seemingly read our way through what the neighborhood library had to offer, but doubted we'd ever run out of choices here. I remember Caddie Woodlawn and thinking she had such a pretty name. Graduating from young adult to the adult section upstairs was a delightful rite of passage.
And then there was the church library, housed in a little musty room, filled with every single Grace Livingston Hill book every written (which I only picked up as a last resort). What a blessing that little library was to minds looking for adventures to take them away from the everyday routine.
During the college years, I spent hours inside the library as a necessity, not for the joy or love of reading. Later I was actively involved in another church library, this time using my love of the library as ministry. The first thing I tried to do when we moved to a new community four years ago was to get a library card, but they made me wait. I was so new in town I couldn't prove I was a resident and eligible for a card. "But I love the library!" I bemoaned. "This is my very first stop." To no avail. Once I received the first electric bill, you bet I went to get my library card!
I still love the library. Yes, I love Amazon -- click, click and books appear on my doorstep or on my Kindle, but there's just something about the library. I think a little bit of my heart lives there, thanks to Mom.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Beloved
Linking up today with the ladies at Five Minute Friday.
She was raised in Africa, the daughter of missionary parents. A special part of her heart will always be reserved for Africa.
Sent off to boarding school at age 7, she only saw her parents three months out of the year between school sessions. She hated it, hated being away from her parents.
Her mother died when she was 12. She was, as she says, "left here" in the U.S. at age 17 on her own to make her way. She went to Bible school and resisted a call to return to Africa. She knew she should, but didn't want to go back as a single woman.
With a deep desire for marriage and children, she married a man she knew she shouldn't. He was still in love with a former flame. After two children, two heart surgeries, nearly three decades of marital turmoil and stress, she couldn't do it anymore. They divorced. The divorce was granted on Valentine's Day.
She's trained as a nurse and is now semi-retired, spending as much time as she can volunteering. She's nearly died twice from her heart ailment. She has many regrets, but knows God is gracious, loving and forgiving. She knows that despite her choices and her mistakes, she is His beloved. She shares her story as often as she can with young people in the hopes that they will avoid making the same mistakes she made, that they will listen to the One voice, the Only voice that matters.
I just met her last night as we were volunteering side by side. As I listened, enraptured with her story, all I could think was God is good, God is gracious, we are loved.
She was raised in Africa, the daughter of missionary parents. A special part of her heart will always be reserved for Africa.
Sent off to boarding school at age 7, she only saw her parents three months out of the year between school sessions. She hated it, hated being away from her parents.
Her mother died when she was 12. She was, as she says, "left here" in the U.S. at age 17 on her own to make her way. She went to Bible school and resisted a call to return to Africa. She knew she should, but didn't want to go back as a single woman.
With a deep desire for marriage and children, she married a man she knew she shouldn't. He was still in love with a former flame. After two children, two heart surgeries, nearly three decades of marital turmoil and stress, she couldn't do it anymore. They divorced. The divorce was granted on Valentine's Day.
She's trained as a nurse and is now semi-retired, spending as much time as she can volunteering. She's nearly died twice from her heart ailment. She has many regrets, but knows God is gracious, loving and forgiving. She knows that despite her choices and her mistakes, she is His beloved. She shares her story as often as she can with young people in the hopes that they will avoid making the same mistakes she made, that they will listen to the One voice, the Only voice that matters.
I just met her last night as we were volunteering side by side. As I listened, enraptured with her story, all I could think was God is good, God is gracious, we are loved.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
My Funny Valentine
I warned him. As our first Valentine's Day together approached, I made it clear that I thought Valentine's Day is an overrated, silly holiday. (This coming from a girl who, along with her single lady friends, used to wear black on February 14 in protest.) He and I were still trying to figure out what exactly we were. Friends, for sure, but a couple? Not quite.
So when he showed up at my apartment with a bag of candy, I became suspicious. Then he whipped out a bouquet of flowers. Amid my protests, he proceeded to say we were going out for dinner and then to a movie. Candy, flowers, dinner and a movie ... does a more cliche Valentine's Day exist? What could I do but laugh? The point goes to the romantic. Mission accomplished.
Since that first Valentine's Day, we've gotten married, blended a family, survived the teen years and celebrated children's graduations, engagements and weddings. We've lost a dog and gained two more. We've sat together at the bedsides of dying friends. We've faced family crises and health concerns. We've traveled places we never thought we'd see and celebrated milestone birthdays together. We've sold a house, changed communities and completely renovated a house. We've been through unemployment and watch God bring us to where he intended.
We've journeyed a million miles and I look forward to journeying a million more together.
I'm still not a huge fan of Valentine's Day and all its related expectations, heartbreak and expense. But I no longer wear black in protest and I have come to appreciate the importance of letting a romantic be a romantic. I am a blessed woman in that my valentine shows me he loves me every day by working hard, putting me first, being patient with me, surprising me and making me laugh.
All these Valentine's Days later, we've grown into our love and we laugh more often than ever. Thanks for the laughs, valentine. I'm glad you're mine.
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