Cherished

Gentle readers....

Most writers are not short winded and I am not an exception to that rule.  I am coaching myself on trying to quell the tidal wave of words that pour out, but meeting with limited success at this time. When I am able to rein it in, I allow myself a Reese cup. Although I would really like a sweet snack, today is not that day.

I have ever so many thoughts rolling around and I have to be honest, I have had very little rest the last few weeks. My family dynamic is significantly and rapidly changing in these recent weeks; one can imagine their whole parenting journey what it will be like when the end comes, but, it is simply not possible to understand in advance the complexity of emotion that lies within a mother's scope.  

Once upon a time, when my blue eyes had seen much less of the world and I lived in a place far away from where I'm sitting, I birthed a heavy baby son.  In fact, those words were the first I spoke when he was placed in my arms.  It was possibly due to the fact I had to wrestle my legs to my neck for two hours to facilitate his arrival; nonetheless, he was over eight pounds of heavy softness in my aching arms and all the mothering days I have spent with him and his little brother have been my dearest joy. 

Both of my sons are working and taking on other responsibilities now; often, it might be a day or two between physical sightings despite that they still rest their heads at night just down the hall from me.   Still on the first day of the 10th and 12th grades, they each came to see their mama, separately, to talk about their day. It is so near to the end, yet for just a few more minute of this life, their heart looks for rest with me. It is almost too holy and fleeting and beautiful to desecrate with words.   

So much of the next years are the letting go of a wonderful life. Simply put, it is painful. It is a very painful transition in the life of most mothers, but it is perhaps a little harder with sons because you really do lose them for good.  They will go off with their friends, and then their wives, and that will be that. (Daughters tend to stick close to their own families)  In my case, even more worrisome is the fact that I took them all over this great country so who knows where they will settle. It likely will not be near to me, dear ones, and I am preparing for that reality. 

My sons are tall (They've sprouted up some more so they aren't as irritated with me; it's tough to have a dad that's 6 1/2 ft tall and a mom who is only 5 ft.) with wavy, lived-in blonde hair, and blue eyes.  They are both tender hearted and have a good humor. Given the chance one might retreat to privacy and the other would go with the crowd, but both can handle themselves in a tight spot.  I have such pride and joy in who they are, but understand that life will continue to change them. I pray daily they will invite One along for the journey ahead. 

It's been a long and quick blip in time; a deeply, deeply cherished life.   

Rest your head close to my heart...very, very soon to part.....sweet baby of mine.... 

Thank you, Jesus, for loaning these two sweet souls to me.  Give me strength to see the journey through, tissues to ease the transition, and establish a place I can invest my heart for the next phase. 

Staying the Course

 Gentle readers...

I have been reflecting on this title for several days. It is the summarized platitude of perseverance, and when we hear it, we feel inclined to continue with a spirit of forbearance.

Sometimes, though, it doesn't feel like we can continue.  Sometimes we are at the end of our strength.  

I have been here for weeks. Camped out at the end of my capability.  I am fully in all my human emotions and reaching out for the strength that only God gives. The strength it requires to love our enemies.  Is there anything more ludicrous to the human heart than the call to love our enemies? It's not feasible, certainly not desirable, and yet, it is the single thing that sets those whom God calls His own apart from the others.  No one else but God would demand we love and forgive, continuously, as He does.  Oh, dear readers, I long to be like Jesus, I long to be welcomed home by Him one day, but it is on this matter that I'm certain I am incredibly lacking.  

How does one love someone who spreads words that are not true, someone whose sole desire is to build themselves up at the cost of others? 

I want nothing more than vindication. I want to prove who this person truly is and what this person is doing to myself and others. 

I don't get to call the shots on that one though.  Scripture is clear that anyone can love the lovable and there is little reward there.  It is the unlovable we are called to pray for and for those hands we must reach. 

I can't tell you how that is done, honestly, because it is not in my own strength. I do not know how to stay the course and love in this situation.  I would very much like to throw in the towel and retire to Tennessee immediately.  But what I do know - God hears the prayers of this worn out child.  The best course of action is prayer. I can't humanly love that person, nor can I change the situation; however, God's power can change me and my heart. 

For weeks this has been a daily plea, "Please, God, help me do this. Help me do what is right. Help me see this person and my surroundings through Your eyes. Help me." Ten minutes later, the blood is raging in my veins and deep anger and resentment seeps out to cloak the Texas midday sun.   You know why? It feels good. It feels good to know that I am owed something.  I have been wronged and I have a right to any and all feelings associated with retribution and disdain. Have you ever been there, dear reader? Have you ever held onto something so tightly because you deserve it? I'm sure you have. It's so easy and it's so human.

In reflection I see that this path started with an "I can't" love this person or deal with this situation....and it is now..."I don't want" which signifies a problem with my heart.  The good news here....I know the Mender of broken and bitter pieces and so together we are going about the business of resolution. The battle for submission has been fierce and I won't say it is entirely over, but I had a moment today, a moment that took me back to 1997, Mr. Ken Chapman, and these verses.

"But I trust in the Lord Jesus to send Timotheus shortly unto you, that I also may be of good comfort, when I know your state. For I have no man like-minded, who will naturally care for your state. For all seek their own, not the things which are Jesus Christ's. But ye know the proof of him, that, as a son with the father, he hath served with me in the gospel. Him therefore I hope to send presently..."

It felt like a quick, physical blow, tears came to my eyes, and for a moment I had the eyes of the Father.  I could see this one troublesome person, and these surroundings that bind me so tightly, and hear these words..."In a sea of people, I have no one like-minded that is going to care. I love this person and the others around him and around you. This isn't about what is happening to you, this is about them. You are strategically called and placed...to care and shine. (and you're killing me Smalls..or something like that.)"

One thing that I can attest to over and over in my life is this: God changes hearts, mine in specific. I can't do the hard things like love and forgive in my own strength but He gives me His. He lends me the privilege of His worldview from time to time.

May His kingdom be what wakes me up and lays me down for the time I am here.  

Lovingly Wrapped

Gentle Readers...

I ache for a simple life. I ache for my grandparents; I ache to sit on the front porch snapping green beans; I ache for wisdom freely dispensed; I ache to be wrapped in love.

So often these days I'm thinking about my parents and grandparents and realizing they were about my age when "x" happened. It feels so strange because I don't feel that it is time to be that related to the generations ahead of me, and yet, here we are. 

If I close my eyes, though, this is what I see.

It's a warm, late spring evening.  It is time to visit the nursery in Clinton which was always one of my favorite things to do.  I loved browsing through the beautiful flowers and feeling/seeing all the bulk seeds.  We would pick out what we wanted and the shopkeeper would put the seeds into brown bags, weigh them, and we would take them to Grandma's for planting. Planting the annual garden was a family affair and no child was left to their devices, each had a task to complete.  The soil would have been tilled earlier in the day so soft, cool earth bid me take off my socks and shoes and dig in my toes. Promptly I would have done so, at one end of the garden, and then later in the dark, would have had to return to try to find what I had so quickly discarded.  

In the same way that I cannot throw a ball, I cannot make a straight line, so marking the hallowed rows with the stick and string was a task that would not be delegated to me. I might be required to hoe; but, often, I got to drop the seeds into the ground, up and down the rows.  I can almost feel those big white lima bean seeds and smell the paper brown bag.  What a joy to be a planter; to know that what you are putting into the ground is going to yield a living thing! Mosquitoes and fireflies would be close companions as the moon began to smile on the family project. A young child cannot resist the draw of cupping a firefly in small hands and it could be easy to be distracted, but Grandma is near and helps  encourage me to stay on task.  If we kids were lucky, we were allowed to have a snack from the sacred drawer before heading home, but it's just as likely that we had to find our socks and shoes and get on home.  

It feels like a simple life, wrapped in security, dirt, and a field of fireflies.

Just yesterday, but a lifetime ago.

I ache for that simple life, but on a deeper level, I am aching for security. The older one gets, the less security is offered and the more it is required to be given.  I am someone else's security.  Someone else will look back in their mind's eye one day and tell a story of the simplicity of childhood and the comfort of love.  I could daydream about what moments would be chosen, but it likely will not be the grand events that would stick out to me.  Our lives are made up of subtle moments that etch, unbeknownst to us, into precious memories. What a treasure!

I think while I was soaking up the comfort of my parents and grandparents during childhood, they were leaning into Jesus for security.  With their parents aging and passing they were left to stand in the gap, but not alone, for the One who keeps the stars, also bows low to the earth and enters our space.  He's in the everyday if we look. I saw Him just the other day in a canceled meeting that I really didn't have the heart to join. I hear Him in the song of the birds that put me down and wake me up each day. (so many birds at our house!)  I see Him in others and I hope that you can see Him in me.  There are many ways our senses can be assaulted with the idea that we should not feel secure.  Our work places, media, schools, sometimes our family, colleagues and even "friends," may promote these feelings.  It crowds the still, small voice and we have to be mindful to look.  

Our God is with us. And those loved ones that left us to stand in the gap..... joined in the cloud of witnesses to cheer us on to the finish line.

I close my eyes and I am lovingly wrapped....in security.

March or Midlife

We are moving through the calendar at a rapid pace.  I knew that life would hit an acceleration period, but I truly did not realize how fast it would seem to dissipate as I moved through my forties.  I also didn't realize I would wake up every morning or mid-night wondering what that new ache means and if my sleep will ever feel restful again.  Will I ever wake up not feeling tired? Someone phone a friend, dial the operator, something....someone help, that's all I can ask. I seriously am considering fixing my deviated septum because maybe that means I can breathe, and maybe breathing is conducive for living a good life. Ya think? 

I think we well established quite some time ago that I don't have a lot of  outlets right now, so this puts me in a constant state of self coaching. In theory, this should be a good thing. In execution, it's quite the opposite.  I'm rather in a perpetual state of self loathing while I try to coach myself on all these improvements I should make. 

Have you ever been here? 

It's not my favorite place to be. 

Work is stressful. Not having a church home is stressful. Not having a local gang is stressful. Parenting is stressful. Trying to count points is stressful & pitiful. I'm not sure why this $50 Fitbit knockoff says I'm not stressed, because it's stressful that in trying to save money I bought something that lies. 

All the while. The days of my life slip away. Quietly. With exhaustion. With stress. With coaching.  I don't want to greet the days that are here, I want to visit the days that I'm sure are around the next several turns of this road.  The "some days" and the "one days" that we often speak of when maybe our "forced" labors will ease, the kids will be grown and we can focus on the life we want now that our life is nearing its end. 

Like a vapor. Life is slipping away. 

Maybe you are with me, here, on the side of the road with heads in hands; here, in a very stress filled life.... 

Let's connect to the reality that all the days we are given have value.  We, as the image bearers of God, have deep and eternal value. (Those counting points and those climbing mountains. Good on both of ya.)  I'll stop thinking about retirement, if you reach out your hand to me, and tell me what you will forgo.  Then let's focus on the positives in front of us. 

I, Angela, am stressed, exhausted & sad. I'm dreaming of the day when I will quit corporate life and have the opportunity for learning how to garden, and then writing in the garden I create with my hands. 

My life today has so much value amidst the chaos. God is weaving together these fractured minutes and hours to create something beautiful. He promises rest for my soul. He promises He is the way to abundant life. 

I don't want to foolishly squander the gift of time, even if it looks less like writing and more like office space.  I will pick up my pack and journey forward from here. 

I have a feeling I will spot some daffodils... God's best creation indicating life amidst chaos. 

Does Your Soul Need A Lift?

 January is the intended month of change; I think most would agree on that.  Now, intended, is really the operative word, but I believe action does also have some follow through. 

For example, we almost all, remove some types of seasonal decor, cycle through some "old" clothes or toys, to make room for some newer options that may have filtered in through the holiday season. We try to find a place for a new book and pass along an old favorite to a friend. "Have you read this one? It's a must," we say, and so change is inevitably occuring. 

I think it is apropos that I was born in January, early and tiny though I was, at first appearance.  While I do not enjoy major change at my core, tiny changes are an indelible part of my nature.  My dearest friends, you might know what I am about to say...  Wait for it. 

 I absolutely, positively MUST move furniture and things. Like a bear hibernates or lions roar or any other analogy you might want to toss in there, I have a compulsory need to do it every so often, and January is one of the times it feels best. 

So this weekend, I swapped my dining tables, moved some other furniture, and finished up some other projects.  And, dear ones, my heart feels soothed.  I walk in the front door of my house and it feels, "right." Both my sons, when they saw the changes, said, "Why?" But both said it looks better. I think here is where we note that not everyone innately understands that change is needed, but can agree that change, is good. It sets a tone for a new direction. Also, we can note that in small ways, I am helping to prepare them for a future of how to cope when they don't understand the "why" of how a couch moving from point A to point B revitalizes the scope of a women's life. 

Among the interior design, laundry, and leaf raking, of the weekend, I embarked on another year of life in the forties and I realized something about myself.  

I don't know how to be celebrated. 

I have no fear of public speaking, speaking my mind, being in front of people, interacting with people, doing all the extroverted things that fill up every part of my love bucket. 

But I do not know what to do or how to function when I am put on the spot and celebrated. 

Isn't that the oddest thing you've ever heard?   Who wouldn't want to hear positive and affirming things, right? 

I thought this was only relegated to surprise incidents and parties, but, alas, no, I find it is the every day, run of the mill experience. I am open to all thoughts on why this might be...

It doesn't mean that I am not appreciative of kind words, because as a writer, words are very important to me.  Say on, I guess, but don't put me on the spot in a sombrero and order me a slice of pie that's on fire. 

January is almost over. Inevitable change is hinted with every sunrise and sunset in the big Texas sky. While I don't know what the year holds, aside from a few significant milestones, I like to imagine the chapter being penned will be filled with memories that will be linked across time. I am not so naive as to think it will all be pleasant and rose scented, but I do know that the underlying theme will be hope. God is always doing a new thing.  With each new day I see, may hope be the spark in my lantern. 

Gentle reminder: swap some furniture. Put a smile in your soul. 

It's Wednesday

Thanksgiving week is my favorite week of the calendar year.  While beginnings, in general, are not my favorite; think, new job, new school, new church, new neighborhood, this beginning is overflowing with cherished treasure.  Thanksgiving marks the start of the holiday season and we do a bang up job for the next 6 weeks, but in its own right, this holiday filled with tantalizing aromas and all day work, is at the top of my list.

Wednesday is the day we get into full swing. As every established cook knows, this is the day devoted to the baking and the prep work of the meal itself. You know, those highly sought after in-law gigs, (like the putting away of the leftovers),  it's chopping veggies and peeling potatoes.  Wednesday is cheerfully leaving the office behind knowing much of the country is doing the same.  Goodwill is in the air despite our best efforts to smother it with ill tidings.

Wednesday.  

I fussed in my kitchen for several hours this evening. I cranked out two pies (which is a lot for 4 people, but I believe in us) set the table, made the sweet potato casserole, and made dinner before the dinner. (This is the only downside to Wednesday...we need to eat before we eat.). Yes, I make my own crust and you can too - get a food processor.  As I rolled out dough, chopped veggies, and peeled potatoes, these holiday tasks handed down from generation to generation that are preserved by some even in this day, I felt a strong connection to those I have loved. 

I thought about things my Grandmas or Great- Grandmas would have had on the menu when I was a child.  I thought about what my mother or step-mother would be making today. I thought about my siblings and aunties and cousins.  So many people all gathering in the center of the home to produce a meal that is forever remembered and celebrated through memory. My grandkids might one day be doing this very thing the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.  "This is what Grandma Angela would make," they will say, and it will be as if I am there with them, measuring flour and humming a seasonal tune. 

Traditions are important to the fabric of our lives, it helps us to know who we are, and it helps to define who we become.  We get to pick and choose what we will keep from our heritage and what we will create for the future, all the while knowing that at some point it becomes someone else's heritage. I am a true traditionalist, and that is something I kept from my heritage. I make no apologies for appreciating being a wife and mother, for wanting a house full of people at the holidays, for making my own pie crust, and for knowing turkey should be roasted in an oven the way God intended.  Yet, while in my heart, I feel traditions strongly, I have, surprisingly, learned to yield.  I don't get a house full of people. I don't always cook my turkey in an oven. I don't, gasp, always cook my own Thanksgiving meal.  That's right - on some occasions - I've let Cracker Barrel do it for me. I would drive to the restaurant, load up the goodies, and heat it in the oven, in order to spend more time with my earthly treasures. 

If I can be so frank, the aging of my children is hitting me so hard in recent months. The other day, those two guys took the car to get a safety inspection and ate dinner at Chick Fil A.  I made dinner and no one was eating, and it felt so surreal. It's a new phase and these earthly treasures of mine are almost adult men, which means I will eat at McDonalds for Thanksgiving if it means I get to spend precious minutes soaking up their humor (these guys are funny), their crazy 20's hair, their opinions, and the way..."love you, Mom," rolls so easily off their tongue.   

I have spent many Thanksgiving weeks as a married woman and homemaker, yet they seem to have passed like a vapor.  I made a heritage for my kids without realizing in the day to day it was happening.  They will not be traditionalists in the way that I am because our life as a family was created differently.  But, they will know what love is; they will know who God is (what they decide to do with Him will be their own choice); they will know the value of family, no matter the size of the gathering; and they will know the importance of the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. 

On Wednesday, we take out our rolling pin, the flour, the spices and we open a window to yesterday.  

Traditionalist or not, I hope Wednesday finds you with good memories; and, if not, I hope that today you have the courage to create new ones. Create something new and then it can become tradition, and then...heritage.

This is the magic of Thanksgiving week - full of promise and possibility.  

Heaven and Nature

Gentle Readers....

I see that I have written in this blog only a few times this year.  I would have to say that it is because I have been lost.  Tolkien said, "not all who wander are lost," and that is true; but, sometimes, we wander because we are.  In my case, the latter applies.  I gave up writing because it does not behoove anyone to beat a dead horse and my heart was not able to find excitement, nor peace, in the humdrum of mere existence.  I hope Jesus understands when we are merely existing.  I hope He knows that we still hold this life in a tight clutch even when we wonder if, or when, the sun will warm our face once again.  Now. Let me clear that the sun in Texas is eternal, so this is rather a metaphorical reference.  

If we're the oldest of friends or the newest of acquaintances,  I welcome you back to this space where I share stories, my life, and my love of God and family.  In this space, I like to imagine we are raising a mug of tea and pouring ourselves out as only good friends can. 

On that note, my big Texas life is starting its third year.  Two full years have come and gone on Harvey Penick....  Dear ones, I don't want to be melodramatic, but it has been a trial of the soul.  You might remember how I shut myself in the water closet a time or two, and let all the life force drain from me.  A person can only take so much, and change is not for me.   In fact, I've said it more than once, and I might still be saying it as of today, "The third time is the last; I will not survive another uprooting and relocation." Well, I'm sure I will physically survive but my heart will not go on and on, and what is a life without a heart? I ask.  

I lost a good chunk of myself in this move. When I say I was lost, I really mean that. It has been two years of going through the motions of life with no heart.  I work at the same company as my husband and my job has overwhelmed my life. It's always present and I have not particularly liked it, but there seemed to be no escape hatch. We talk about work at work. We talk about work in the evening.  We talk about work on the weekends. Mostly we talk about how I can process being miserable. I have no person.  I have no outlet. I have no other resource but my husband.  18 years ago, when we made vows to each other, I think God was thinking of this dark age and He sprinkled extra measures of mercy and grace in Ryan, and in me, He affirmed a foundation of faith.  No matter how many times I have murmured, Ryan has unwaveringly met me in that arena, without complaint.  No matter how my soul has chafed and wept bitterly, of loss and loneliness, or, more frankly, bone dry and resoundingly empty, God has met me in that arena.  I keep coming back, lifting my empty cup, and my husband and God pour back into my heart.  

And then....as it always does...as I know it always will...signs of new life spring from the dry, parched ground. 

I might finally feel a little more at home at work, like maybe I can belong here. I planned a potluck next week and it's bringing people together. (My favorite thing. )

I did the hard thing of becoming a volunteer in a place where I knew no one, and it didn't go well, but I am going back next month, because life is out there in the uncomfortable places. 

I have been inviting people for dinner recently, and it's been well received. One person told me this was their first invitation to someone's home in 24 years. I can't even comprehend that statement, but the joy I felt in being part of changing that, was immeasurable. 

People. It's what I do.  It is my first and true passion...be with people and connect them to each other, and hopefully, to Jesus. It isn't easy and quick, it takes so much more time than you might think to put down roots.  It's painstaking. Sometimes we start to root in an unsafe place and we have to try again in a new spot. It's agonizing. Two to three years is really the tested timeline.

What I know and trust is that God who is full of mercy, looks down from heaven on Angela muddling through and He says, "This one is headstrong, and she is sometimes misguided, but I have a place for her to bloom and I will plant her just so and water the ground beneath her feet. Purpose will I give her and strength to see it done." And, wouldn't you know it, Angela steps back and looks on in wonder at what is unfolding. Heaven. And nature. 

 It's indeed how it happens...  Just like....once upon a time...

I am always humbled when I stop and think of how the Lord orders my steps.  How patient He is with  my shortsightedness. I fail often to see the big picture.  The big picture is this....God is writing a story through all of human history and He has a couple paragraphs in which I am included. In joy or in sorrow, heaven and nature come together to pen God's love letter to the world. 

Rejoice. Rejoice. Glory to God, hallelujah.

Heaven and nature singing together. 

Forever and ever. Gloria.