The Overflow

Memories, reflections, and words flow from my eyes and my heart.

Seasons are what this life is all about.  Think back on your own life and you will be able to see seasons, a span of time dedicated to this person or that thing. You will also notice that they rise and fall and ebb and flow like rivers eroding a path that has become the journey of your life.

One thing I vowed at the age of twenty-six as I stood in the upstairs bedroom of a beautiful home on O' Fallon's Way, I will commit to this path with my heart. My mind currently refuses to acknowledge the events but my heart will own this path.

I made that commitment between God and myself.  I committed to honor my husband and his choices for our family. (God has blessed that commitment - I have gotten to do a lot of cool things.) I committed to creating community in the places I find myself.  I committed to loving the people God would put in my path and make from them,  a family.  I have found that my style, while seemingly commonplace to myself, is a bit unusual to most people.  I have come to believe that it is something that God gifted me with, perhaps born out of our pact
or put there as He knit me in my mother's womb.  Either way, He gave me a good hearty dose of emotional intelligence, I can read people and situations, well.  I can relate on many levels so there are not too many people that fall outside my realm of social competence and I love it.  I love people. I love digging down in there and helping you find that thing you didn't know you needed - God and relationships.

It is my belief that God wrote this into my DNA because He knew, unlike myself, that the river of my life was going to stretch out and wind toward the horizon for miles.  He is so, so good.  Friends, if you don't know Him like I know Him, I encourage you to search, He promises to be found.  Your life will never be the same and you will be blessed to have a companion for the journey.

Seasons end. So quickly and abruptly you could tailspin from the surprise.  The courage to face the ending of  a season comes and goes. It's a process, dear ones, and I am still learning how to be courageous.

I vowed to move my tents. I vowed to love.  I vowed to build community. Wherever I find myself.  I did not vow to go without tears.  I did not vow to go without feeling.

I would not trade, for one moment, the path of my life.  My sense of independence is something I once dreamed to have. My will to survive runs deep. My heart is scattered the world over and still beats within, ready to embrace the next adventure. 

I will raise my children in a tri-fold experience,  through three sets of states, cultures, and people, which is quite interesting to me.  This is the final stage, the one that brings them to manhood.  Then the current might be able to slow... 

God goes before me.

Behind me is joy, sorrow, people, adventures, food, growth, tears and love.

Thank you for being part of my story. The  chapters that have included you filled my heart, and now overflow.

The Next Adventure

I'm going on an adventure.

I am trying to find the time to get the words right, but there is not adequate time.

I'm going on an adventure and I'm running pell mell toward the unknown.

I don't know many people that have oft had the chance to look at the future and have zero ideas about what it will be like.  This scenario is different than: "I don't know if it will rain next week or if I will meet my maker."  It is more like: "I have chosen a different life and I will move my oxen, my cattle and my tents to the mountain region to secure good relationship."  I have never laid eyes on said "mountainous" region. I have never felt the scorching of that sun.  Yet every day I wake and all my efforts are in pursuit of reaching it, and reaching it as quickly as possible.

It is somewhat rare, I believe, this position in which I find myself.  I'm dreaming of home without the knowledge of truly just what it will be. It can be exciting, certainly, and it feels freeing because Angela 2.0 is possible. But we all know, actually, it will just be Angela in a different place.

I love that God writes my story - He has killer plot twists.  He knows how to wring emotion from every scene.  He knows just how to turn the page and close a chapter.  His comedic timing is spotless and His dramatic flair is everything.  The chapters of my life are not very redundant; I am never quite certain what to expect.

I am not spontaneous.  Not really at all. I would settle for the quiet earth and growing things and words.  I would sip tea and bore you for hours every Tuesday afternoon with meaningless and meaningful chatter.  I would sacrifice affluence for a quiet life.  I would choose love and friendship above the pen and paper.   I am not complicated, but am complicatingly simple.

Therefore. I would stay.  I would stay in the quiet and established.  I would not push for the wild and unknown parts of the world. Dragons can come to me if they need vanquishing.  I can dance in this silver forest just as well as any other.

And then, one random Wednesday, the Author amends His story just so at the most unlikely of moments...

I know I can trust Him for He always writes a wonderful ending.  He will give me tears for He knows I need them.  He will give me laughter for such is the medicine of life. He will walk my journey and weave a story, born in His heart and for the purpose of reaching people, until we meet in an yet undisclosed chapter (trust me - it's already written).

I must go on an adventure.  I am taking a small fellowship with me.  I shan't be returning.  But, oh, the sights that are ahead!  I should only embrace the time that is given me for all to soon the book will be dusty.

Goodbye to this season.  It took almost everything I had to give, and then some, but eventually the purpose of the chapter was realized. Good has been done here.  Love has blossomed.  And I leave with a heavier heart than I ever thought possible. 

I hope we meet again for my Tuesdays will always need an ear and tea is always at the ready. 

Middle Roof

Saturday night.  I love quiet Saturday nights.  I like to be in my home, with a good book or movie, a lighted candle, and peace.

Tonight is no exception.  But this week I have definitely earned my respite.  This week I can only lay on this couch with the combined assistance of acetaminophen and ibuprofen. Today I look like Samwise Gamgee at the end of The Return of the King. I have a severe red/brown tan line on both legs about 6 inches up from my ankles. The rest of my legs are pale and full of bruises, deep scratches, and grime. My finger nails are full of tar and grease and I can't get them clean. My face is deeply tanned and sunburned and peeling.  I have had little sleep and I have wandered through the days, sometimes, in a mental fog, but always with sheer determination and stubborn will.

I did not spend this vacation in Middle Earth but instead, I worked toward putting a new roof on my house.

I learned much. I cried a little.

First and foremost I learned: you do not tear off the old roofing wearing shorts.  It is imperative that you follow this rule. I wear shorts one day out of every year; gung ho to not have those attractive tan lines, I decided that day for 2020 was day one of this project. This poor decision yielded what we would go on to loosely term, fiberglass butt. Are you familiar with fiberglass?  I was not too familiar but I find I am now well versed and will add this to my resume.  After 5 hours of digging off shingles and tar paper, I learned a few things.  Fiberglass is slick as snot. Those particles are like marbles under your feet. When your legs are tired and you sit to work, those particles dig into all your pores and scratch your skin as you constantly slide down the roof. The end result of hours of removing shingles and sliding around in fiberglass is this: your thighs are burning, every muscle is aching, as you lower yourself to the toilet to relieve yourself ten thousand knives simultaneously pierce
your skin. That is fiberglass butt. It will remain with you for days. (Do you know how much time you spend on your buns if you are afraid of heights and are roofing?) You will never forget what it feels like.

I wear these tan lines like a badge of honor because I purposely did not put another pair of shorts on for the entire project.

We rented a 35' boom lift which saved our lives. The kids were able to help get the shingles and boards up to the roof without us expending more energy.  We had a lot of water damage and it took a lot of time to replace the boards.  Noah was a pro on the saw and it was such a joy to work with him and see what skills he learned in tech.  When he speaks about how to proceed with the saw, it is with clarity, authority, and logic and I follow his lead. Ryan stayed up on the roof and the boys and I worked together to get the cut boards into the lift and up to the roof.  Our neighbors sat in their pool and stared at us all day. I was never so envious of their pool as I was on this day.

We encountered several days of scorching heat which delayed our project.  On Tuesday about 4:00, I started to feel unwell. We are laying shingles on the backside upper roof at this time. Our home faces east so this means we are now in the the direct sun at the hottest part of the day. I know we only have so many workers and so many days; I try to talk myself out of it.  But within minutes it is all I can do to get the strength to crawl up the roof and throw myself onto the other side and sprawl out. It is a good 15* cooler on that side, and I find all I want to do is throw up about 4 times and go to sleep. Maybe eternally. Aaron is in the boom quick on the drinks but we have run out of water bottles and I am offered a cherry Coke which I take without hesitation and suck down.  (I hate cherry flavored anything.) I hobble to the lift and Aaron takes good care of me for the next 30 minutes.  He puts his arm around my shoulder and tells me all the way to the ground that I am doing a good job. He helps me inside and gives me specific instructions for heat exhaustion.  He is so conscientious and again, like Noah, authoritarian.  I wonder who raised such good kids and when they grew up to tell me what to do.  I made it through and went back up to complete the day.  I prayed multiple times that God would grant us cooler weather on Wednesday so we could get ahead in the project.  The kids and I sat joking that we were the entertainment of the street as our neighbors across the street sat in their front yard watching us. When one guy left, Aaron quipped, "Well, there he goes for the popcorn."  I got Noah to perform a little macarena with me and I think they enjoyed it.

Wednesday was just as hot.  As I sat with Noah on the roof about 4:00, facing the street, I said, "Well, Jesus, I guess it was a hard "no" on the weather shift, huh?" Within moments, I watched two cars pull up in front of my house and three grown men piled out.  God's response, "Daughter, I love you more than a mere weather shift.  I want to give you the better gift. I am providing you with unexpected help."  And I sat on the mountaintop and cried.  Just a few salty, grimy tears but with a heart full of gratitude.

It was just the encouragement I needed to carry on.  We still needed to do the entire lower roof, including replacing boards.  I slept only three hours that night because I kept dreaming I was falling off the roof, but I was at Lowe's at 6am to get supplies and a sweet tea to treat myself. We worked so hard that day. The kids and I did the drip edge, underlayment, snow/ice guard, and the starter shingles while Ryan and a teammate did the boards.  I pushed and pushed and pushed, I did not take a break all day.  My will is very strong, my friends, and I kept repeating this line I read: "A man who is a man goes on until he can go no further - then he goes twice as far."  My body is pretty broken and my mind is going, I started making stupid mistakes because I just can't concentrate.  Aaron was helping me cut and I realized I cut it way too short and I look into his eyes and I'm trying to keep from crying.  He instantly understands and his look of deep pity goes straight to my heart.  He whispers, "I'm sorry, Mom" over and over.  I take a minute to let the exhaustion and stress leak from my eyes.  Noah reaches over from the other side of the roof and pats my arm. I repeat to my kids for the hundredth time this week: "You can do hard things. You keep going even when you want to give up."  I take a deep breath and plunge onward.

Friends...with the help of others, cooler weather, and strong determination...we finished on Thursday night at 9:20. 

I am still recovering.  I might have some PTSD. It was the hardest thing I have ever done. Physically for sure. Maybe also mentally.  But the sweetest memories of working alongside my family live forever. My kids were amazing. My husband taught each of us some skills. We took time to learn, to joke, to have some fun. We only got through this project as a team with all members pulling some weight.  We depended on each other and the other teammate always delivered.

That kind of fulfilled trust, binds.

I am so proud of us.

I have fiberglass butt, burns on my thighs from the hot shingles, dehydration, sunburned skin, parched lips.....and joy.

Because Frodo and Sam had each other at the end of all things.

And I have Ryan, Noah, and Aaron.  ❤️

A Heart Full of Hugs

Does your heart ever feel so full that you wonder how much more will fit?  Does it compress and weigh and sigh and swell and adjust?

My heart is so full of many things that for days now it just runs right out of my eyes and down my face.  Unbidden. Random. Unexpected. Silent.  Sometimes the silent tears hurt the most.

Life just stopped unceremoniously one Friday in March. It just stopped. You know what I mean, the entire country got up, went about their work, came home that evening and stopped.  I remember that day and how it felt. I drove a friend home after work and I was feeling a lot of emotions.  I could tell my life was changing in an instant and I was having difficulty processing what it would all mean.  It was very surreal, somehow I knew it would be permanent or semi-permanent in some ways and my life would not be the same. I didn't know how to face it and I was grateful to not be alone that day.

A main function of being a parent is to celebrate your kids.  It is to champion them, lead them, cheer for them and then push them out of the nest.  So many parents are missing opportunities to celebrate.  Right now, tears stream down my face at the loss.  It is a significant loss and we are allowed to feel it.  Not only are we allowed, but we should take the time to grieve it fully.  Not one word of criticism about "people's lives matter more than your milestone." Not one word of that in this space.  In this space we validate emotion and feelings.  We take time because we know if it is not processed right and well it will be baggage in a hot minute that we will carry with us to the next stage.  Friends, we always want to keep our baggage light, we want to unpack it often.

I only have middle schoolers but they both are struggling in their own ways. My son has chosen not to pursue jazz his Freshman year because he wants to add another course and there are only so many timeslots.  He was going to have a jazz festival, he was going to play in NYC and with those great final memories, he was going to say "goodbye" to jazz which he truly enjoys.  He is mourning that I think, not with tears like me, but a piece of his heart is disappointed and as his mother I want to fix that.   He is supposed to "move up" in a ceremony in which he would have played some jazz, and dressed up. He asked me last night if I was going to play "Pomp and Circumstance" for him and without hesitation I said, "yes," which means I have to dig out the keyboard, find some sheet music, and start practicing.  He gave me a hug.  Which isn't unprecedented. But kinda.  (He feels the teen separation hard right now.) I died a thousand deaths.

Boy scout camp is canceled and I know his career as a boy scout is now over. He's been expressing it for awhile but it's been a forced commitment.  I wanted him to go to camp, have a good last memory because I know next summer he is almost sixteen and a sophomore and I will not force him longer.  One day in March his career was simply over without announcement, without fanfare or one more merit badge.

My friends are postponing long dreamed of weddings.  My heart aches for the bride dying to wear her dress.  I once was dying to wear my dress. I feel that.  My niece should be graduating high school.  I should be in Ohio celebrating her.  I once graduated and was anxious to have my family celebrate me.  I keenly feel that.

Friends, what are we supposed to do with this mountain of unexpected grief and unrealized celebration?

First we are going to allow ourselves to grieve.  My son hugged me hard and when he pulled back I hugged him harder.  We will feel the grief.  We will talk about it.  We will find ways to celebrate.  We will not be silenced by anyone that thinks our priories are misaligned.  My sons, my husband, this time, is my priority.

Second, we will find ways to move forward. There is nothing new under the sun so many people before us, moved on.

We will move on somehow.  But give yourself space to grieve.  You can do that here.  You can pop over to my house.  I am allowing company.   I am allowing tears.

For one day we got up and our whole life changed.

And that needs hugs.

The Voice of Truth

The Sunday night blues are getting worse.

I've always had them. Almost always.

Sunday night. The evening you spend thinking about returning to work and wishing it wasn't a thing.

It's so much worse now.

I have to wear a mask all day.  I have to take my temperature before I begin my shift. I have to take the temperature of visitors entering the building.  Extra duties, extra drama.

It's not that I'm afraid to be out. I'm not afraid. I just cannot put into appropriate words how exhausting it is.  Every task you undertake is an ordeal. It's three extra steps to do one thing. Nothing is simple anymore.

Each day it gets harder to keep your sense of humor. I'm not totally gone because I can share that I'm now thinking about giving up coffee.  When you have to smell your own coffee breath all day it gives you renewed appreciation for your loved ones and helps you consider other beverage options.

I hate losing my sense of humor.  It is the one thing to which you must hold tight, your humor. It is what allows you to make it through, and once it is gone, the only remaining thing to lose is hope.

The opinions are many. Too many.  The dialogue, q and a sessions, "read this from my doctor friend," the theories, the articles...  I've given up trying to process what is accurate.  I don't believe it is within my scope to know it. The world and all its sources have proven untrustworthy time and again. The opinions of anyone are just that.

I know in whom I have believed.  His word.  His voice.  Is the truth.  As I go through the day, if I step back, as if stepping outside my body, I see the noise. Yes, you read it correctly, I "see" the noise. It looks like emotion. It looks like a train. It looks like a storm in which the eye is never quite reached. It looks like barren wasteland. It looks like deprivation.  It looks like tears.  I step back in and, in slow motion, the words I need to hear come toward me. The truth slices deeply through the noise. 

"Angela, beloved daughter, you seek a home to come, here you have no continuing city.  Ask me for wisdom and I will give it freely.  Lean into me. Listen to my voice. This present world is full of trouble, it always will be.  I give you peace to carry with you. Remember my joy. It's here.  I'm walking with you each day.  You never go anywhere alone. I made oceans and trees and stars and I hold your hand. Do not listen to the chaos.  Do not be disheartened by the noise.  You get to walk like a lion today.  I will fulfill a purpose in your day.  As you wear that mask, take your temperature, hear the opinions and politics, roll your eyes, and start to feel discouraged, remember I put you in year 40 in the year 2020 in this New York culture for a specific reason.  You can't see it.  You don't know what good is possibly going to come from clocking into work each day.  But what you do every day bears witness to God.  So do it right. Do it well.  Shine a light in dark places.  The dark will try to overcome you but it can't.  Because you, Angela, beloved daughter, carry the light of the world with you.  You bring hope when all the lights are going out.  Be excited that it's Monday. You get to be an influencer.  I am with you. Even to the end of the age."

Let's roll.

War Stories

Dear readers...

It's Sunday.  It's quite difficult to differentiate the days of the week sometimes.  Sundays traditionally do not look like today has been.  Everyone talks about what they will do "when this is over."  One can only guess and only time will tell just when that will be. Because I live in New York....it might not ever be over.

We have had some fun experiences with friends.  We've participated in video wars, food wars, and camping wars.  In a nutshell, taking and sending videos of dinners/what we're doing/challenges.  We have received gifts of food on our porch and we have given gifts of food.  We put up a tent in the living room and camped out overnight and so did our niece (at her house in Ohio).  For the record, our camping trip was last night and my body isn't recovered. You can do a lot of things to keep purpose and meaning. 

If we are old and dear friends, I probably have already laid out my well intentioned plan.  My best strategy by far was to remove myself from social media.  Just like a brave soul walks directly into what everyone else runs from, I'm doing the same in the opposite, and it doesn't require bravery.  While many have flocked to social media several minutes/hours of the day, pouring over posts/news/gossip/memes, I simply made the decision to remove it from my routine.  What blessed peace.  For now, it is proving to be one of the best strategies I could employ. 

I don't want to wear a face mask everywhere I go, but it's now basically required.  I don't want to battle with my kids about routine and the need to shower every day regardless if you step foot outside the door. I don't want to go to work every day and come home to a house full of people who haven't left and pick up (some) pieces on top of everything else. It's exhausting some days and some days those I have left behind knock it out of the park. We're all just living one day.

It's still life.  It still has purpose and meaning. And I am still required to rise up and meet it.

Today is Sunday.  There is sunshine. And my group text message affirms my life and reminds me I am still very secure at the bottom of the food chain where my farming skills are mocked, and no one can EVER forget that I threw a pickle in 1987. 

Look. I'm not likely to plant only one row of corn in the future, but I honestly can't say I won't throw another vegetable.  These are the days of our life. 

Each day has meaning and we can still enjoy those whom we hold dear.

Embrace today.  Mask or not.  Me? My man is going to take me on a motorcycle ride and we are going to see the world. And eat ice cream.

Walking the Streets

I have had many joyous days.  I can say with confidence that my forty years have been beautiful.  I have loved and had the love of one good man.  I have loved and had the love of two sons.  If today would be the day I meet Jesus, I would leave this beautiful life knowing that the best still waits for me.

Death is walking the streets.  He can be seen more plainly than before, and as he goes he leaves a trail of bodies waiting to be placed in mass graves.  Mass graves.  Two words we don't often place together when we describe life in suburban America.  Still Death walks.  Slowly and surely through our streets.  As he goes he twists and turns, taking this one and that one, and leaving one behind. His methods are ruthless, steady, and final.  Devastation and heartache is all you will find when his work is complete.  You would do well to fear such an opponent, for once you have engaged, there will be no recovery.

But what if.

What if Death walked the streets. Ruthless. Steady. Twisting. Turning. Wreaking havoc and devastation, but the poison of finality was no more.....?

Death is the great enemy because of finality.

There are no more baby snuggles. There are no more fudgesicles on a hot day.  No more bike rides through the park.  No more arms enfolding.  No more hands to hold.  No more smiles reaching to bright eyes. No more juicy apples.  No more snowflakes melting on cheeks.

Final.

But.... Once upon a time....  Death, haughty and fierce, waiting since the garden, brought his top game with all its fury and force. And he surrendered to One.

Death walks the streets.  Our streets. Piling bodies to the left and right.  But we can have hope beyond death.  He will twist and turn and mount sorrow upon sorrow but it is not the end.

Softly, tenderly, Jesus says, "Your sin? It's a big problem.  It separates us and it costs a life. But
I paid for it.  Your heart? I want it for my own. Your life? I laid mine down so you could keep it. Believe in me. Believe in the One that sent me. I am the First and the Last. I am the Beginning and the End. I will make all things new. Come."

Hope beyond death.  The news you will not see on CNN.

The cities on the hill, we are getting tired, shining out in the chaos in few numbers.  Still we hold our one candle high in the hopes that it will start another.  We pray that it will be so.  Hope is here.  Take hold of it.

My one beautiful life has been a gift.  One I don't relish relinquishing.  But I know when I cross from this life to the next, Jesus will be waiting.

Can you say the same?

Food for thought as Death walks our streets.