Archive for September, 2006

September 13, 2006 @ 5:05 am | Filed under: School Stuff

History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. —James Joyce

___________________________

"I’m convinced our culture is trying to kill you. Either that, or help you develop a drug habit."

Hmm…

Considering these were the opening words of Dr. J, my history professor, I have to say she immediately received my full attention.

"You’re expected to perform 100% at school, 100% at work, 100% in your family unit, and I know you perform 100% in your extra-curricular activities." She shrugged and held out her hands. "How else can you do 400% in all of this and still find time to sleep?"

I immediately resisted the urge, but I’ve gotta say that I was really tempted to slip my hand high into the air. I glanced to my right at the girl with her head down on the desk, eyes closed in quiet slumber.

I thought for sure I knew the answer to her question.

"Okay," Dr. J continued, enthusiasm lacing her voice. "So how many of you are history majors?"

Poor woman. I think she really thought she’d see a show of hands. I was tempted again, as only one lone girl in the back of the class lifted her hand. I think I was reverting back twenty years, to the days when I was almost always the "teacher’s pet", the one who could always be counted on to give the right responses at just the right times.

"Does it count if your dad is a history teacher?" I wanted to ask the question, but somehow refrained. "And hey, what if your son is the biggest history buff on the planet?"

I bound and gagged the teacher’s pet inside of me. I couldn’t help this teacher, not this time. I think maybe the history gene skips a generation. I’ll have to look that one up…

Dr. J, a tiny woman in her early sixties, moved through the classrom toward the slide projector in the back. I cast an anxious glance at the girl next to me as Dr. J moved down the aisle beside us. But she was able to sleep on, undisturbed, as the professor launched a slide show of a recent trip to the ancient ruins in Mexico.

"This. is. so. bor-ing." The boy sitting behind me breathed the syllables as though the very effort was taking the last little bit of strength he had left.

I have to say I wasn’t so surprised when, just a few minutes later, I heard the sound of gentle snoring and realized that he, too, had figured out how to squeeze sleep into his very busy schedule.

September 12, 2006 @ 1:09 pm | Filed under: Uncategorized

It’s not too late to grab a ticket for the Saving Grace blog tour, coming soon to a stop near YOU!

Check out the exciting stops we’ve made so far:

Truly Living – Hostess: Dawn

Sunny Days at the Beach – Hostess: Carey

What the…? – Hostess: Denise

Dream Bigger – Hostess: Rochelle

Tess Talks – Hostess: Tess

And coming soon…

A Prairie View – Carolyn

I’m sending a great big thank-you out to all of you wonderful hostesses for welcoming me into your blog and introducing me to your readers!

Thank you, from my heart to yours…

September 12, 2006 @ 3:56 am | Filed under: Uncategorized

If you weep, I will weep with you.
If you sing for joy the rest of us
Will lift our voices too.
But no matter what you feel inside there’s no need to pretend.
That’s the way it is in this circle of friends.

— Point of Grace

We packed lightly and loaded the van. Still not quite believing that we’d managed to clear six calendars on the same Friday of the same month, we set off for the weekend get-away that we’d been planning for the past six months.

Between us we were leaving behind five children (they are all seventeen or older so the guilt was minimal), six jobs, two pets, one Sunday school class, two school papers that were yet unwritten (and due on Tuesday), and a whole host of laundry and yardwork.

Feeling more like excited children on the last day of school instead of the mature, responsible adults that we are, we drove out of town and straight into a weekend that promised long talks, even longer laughs, and – longest of all – precious moments with friends that seem to come all too seldom in this crazy life we lead.

Over the next three days we women shopped the downtown antique and gift shops like the troupers we are and our men did what they do best: they opened their wallets and gave generously to the cause.

We lunched at local diners, we searched for crackle candles, we ate ice cream at an honest-to-goodness old fashioned parlor, we celebrated a birthday, we enjoyed a true German dinner at an out-of-the-way table in a quaint restaurant in the center of town, we sat in rocking chairs on the front porch of our cottages and watched the rain fall, we grilled steaks and then sat for hours just chatting, we got a jump on Christmas shopping, we luxuriated in unbelievably delicious early morning outdoor breakfasts prepared by our wonderful innkeeper, Molly –

and we laughed, and sometimes we cried, and sometimes we were just quiet, we nodded, we celebrated, we shared, we joked, we told stories, we shared memories of days gone by, we talked of anticipating the wonderful years to come, we talked about our kids, and then we promised to not talk of them anymore, we shared work stories, church stories, family stories, and then – of course – we talked about our kids some more.

It was a weekend to remember.

Molly (our gracious Innkeeper) and the girls.

September 11, 2006 @ 9:55 am | Filed under: Uncategorized

As the soot and dirt and ash rained down,
We became one color.
As we carried each other down the stairs of the burning building,
We became one class.
As we lit candles of waiting and hope
We became one generation.
As the firefighters and police officers fought their way into the inferno
We became one gender.
As we fell to our knees in prayer for strength,
We became one faith.
As we whispered or shouted words of encouragement,
We spoke one language.
As we gave our blood in lines a mile long,
We became one body.
As we mourned together the great loss
We became one family.
As we cried tears of grief and loss
We became one soul.
As we retell with pride of the sacrifice of heros
We become one people.

We are
One color
One class
One generation
One gender
One faith
One language
One body
One family
One soul
One people

We are The Power of One.
We are United.
We are America.

September 8, 2006 @ 5:31 am | Filed under: School Stuff

The professor – sixtiesh, with gray thinning hair, and cobalt blue eyes (think Paul Newman) – walked into the room and strode to the desk.

Dressed in stone-colored Dockers that had been starched to within an inch of their life, brown leather loafers, and a blue polo shirt that almost exactly matched his eyes, he took a seat behind the desk, slowly picked up a stainless-steel coffee mug, proceeded to take a sip, and…

…just quietly stared at us.

For l-o-n-g minutes.

"G’morning." Finally, something. "My name is Dr. Kirk. Yes, like the Starship Enterprise. So if I levitate out of here, you’ll know what happened."

And that, folks, was the introduction to my first college class last week. Comparative Religion, the course I had chosen to satisfy the 3 hour humanities credit I need for my degree plan.

I pulled out my notebook, jotted down his name, office hours, and phone numbers as he began to rattle them off.

"And here is my email address," he walked to the whiteboard and hastily scrawled, "gypsyprof@…"

Oh, boy…I knew I’d better buckle up. My religion teacher’s screen name is…gypsy?

I glanced to my right where three boys and one girl seem nonplussed by the professor’s opening statements. The guys were easily young enough to be my own sons and, judging by the way they slouched in their chairs, I have no doubt they thought this class would be an easy A.

Or a good laugh.

Or maybe both.

The girl, tall with dark, dyed hair and multiple tatoos, stared with rapt attention at Gypsyprof. I tried to look casual as I perused her assortment of body art. I thought I was a fairly hip mom who’d seen quite a lot, but judging by the dress and expressions of some of the kids seated around me, I had a feeling I was about to learn a whole lot more.

"Okay," Dr. K walked to the front of the classroom and leaned against his desk, crossing one finely starched leg in front of the other. "Let’s go around the room. Tell us your name, your religious affiliation, and what role religion has played in your life."

And….we’re off.

Row by row, we went down the line. Four Baptist, two of no particular religious belief, two Catholic, one Atheist, three non-denominational, one Mormon, one Hindu, one Methodist, one Muslim, one Pentecostal (um…that’d be me).

I was hastily jotting down these stats in my blogging notebook (told ya I had one!) when Tatoo Girl startled me.

"My name is "A". My parents named me after a character in a Sci-Fi story."

I stared at the Panda bear tatoo on her left arm and wondered if there was any particular meaning that just below it rested a sun. Shouldn’t the sun be above…

I digress…

"As far as my religious background," she paused and I waited to hear. I was thinking, I don’t know…Scientology, Buddahism…

"I’m Quaker."

Say what????

She was serious and takes her religion very seriously. That taught me something I should have learned well many years ago. Never, ever judge a book by its cover. Because the words inside just might surprise you.

I had no sooner recovered from A’s revelation before we moved on to meeting the next person. Then the next, then the next.

"Uh, yeah." A guy in the rear of the class spoke up, his voice deep and his words s-l-o-w. "I never really had a religious upbringing. Uh, in the past few years I’ve been, uh, kind of, uh, checking things out for myself."

I have to say that at this point my heart truly went out to all the kids that surrounded me. These were impressionable eighteen and nineteen year olds, the very same ages as my own sons, that were obviously interested enough in all the possibilities that religion affords us to be sitting in a classroom looking for answers.

I felt myself so torn. On the one hand so moved by their longing that they’ve begun a search and, on the other hand, afraid that they might not find those needed answers inside the confines of this classroom.

"So, uh, anyway," the boy with the deep, slow drawl continued, "I baptised myself, uh, in a waterfall in Hawaii, uh, last year."

And that was my introduction to Comparative Religion, my eight-thirty class.

I’m thinking that with a full cup of coffee in front of me and these kids surrounding me I’ll be on the edge of my seat for this one!

September 7, 2006 @ 4:24 pm | Filed under: Thursday Thirteen

I just found out from Tess that Denise is challenging Thirteeners today:

"I would like to challenge all Thirteeners to come up with 13 things they like about themselves. I feel like we, as women, spend so much time scrutinizing ourselves that we sometimes forget the good stuff."

I think this is a very true statement! I’m not sure where along the journey from girlhood to womanhood we lose the joy of sharing our victories and our triumphs, but grown women are generally afraid to share the "good stuff."

Having said that, this is tough for me! But if you’ll agree to try, then I’ll give it a go, ‘kay?

1. I like that I cry easily. Testimonies in church, Hallmark movies, sappy commercials…what can I say?
2. I like that I make friends easily. I really am more of an introvert, but I’m finding that as I age I am able to reach out to others more readily. Not quite sure what’s up with that, but I’m enjoying it, Denise!
3. I like that I’m fairly intelligent. Okay, yeah, I’m smart.
4. I like that I can also be a true BLONDE. That kind of balances the smartness in me, don’t you think?
5. I like that my husband enjoys talking to me. About everything, and about nothing. Maybe that’s more about him, but seeing me through his eyes kind of makes me like ME more. Make sense?
6. I like that I try to be a loving, kind, and fair mom. I know I don’t always succeed. But it is always in the forefront of my mind.
7. I like that I’m a girly girl. No excuses. No apologies. I like it.
8. I like that I can be independent if I have to be. I have had to be in the past and I was.
9. I like it even more that I have a husband who is crazy in love with me and lets me be dependent on him. Again, maybe that’s more about him…
10. I like that my writing is slowly but surely finding an audience.
11. I like that I finally found the confidence and the willpower to go back to school! I’m loving it!
12. I like that I smile a lot. And can laugh really hard, just ask my friends. Milk, Rochelle!
13. I like that I love like crazy. If you’re loved by me, then you KNOW it!

Making a list like this is tough. But my key Bible verse is Psalm 139:14: "I will praise thee for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well."

If I really, truly believe that – and I do – then there is no need to feel shy about praising Him for what He’s created in me. I am fearfully and wonderfully made…

…and so are YOU!

September 5, 2006 @ 2:39 pm | Filed under: Family

Making the decision to have a child – it’s momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around on the outside of your body."  —- Elizabeth Stone (writer)

I’ll never forget it.

It was a Saturday night in the late winter of 1988. I was a brand-new mother, practically a kid myself, and I had gone to bed tired. The kind of tired that only parents of newborns know and recognize.

Learning to rearrange all facets of your life around the whims and needs of a small wiggly bundle of human being is not a job for the fainthearted, to be sure. Trips to the grocery store for even the simplest list of bread, milk, and Huggies had an uncanny way of turning into hour-long ventures that almost always ended with crying.

Sometimes they were my baby’s tears.

But mostly they were mine.

Being a new mom was everything I had hoped it would be, and yet nothing like I had thought it would be. Cuddling him close during those first few months, when it was just he and I up during the night…well, those were priceless and precious moments…

until they weren’t anymore.

Until some of the "new" wore off and all of a sudden those moments didn’t feel quite as precious – or priceless – as they had before. I wouldn’t trade those sleepless nights for all the spa treatment packages in Silicon Valley.

See, I can say that now, and really mean it.

But eighteen years ago, I was just plain ‘ol tired. I’d fall into bed at night and pray for the three to four hours until the next feeding to somehow miraculously s-t-r-e-t-c-h into five or six, or TEN! But, of course, this was real life I was living and that kind of dream wasn’t about to come true…

until one night it did.

It was a chilly Texas night in late February when I crawled into bed and – exhausted – promptly fell into a deep sleep. I don’t recall what it was that awoke me, exactly, but I do remember waking up in a panic.

Without even glancing at the bedside clock yet, I knew that much more than the normal three hours had passed since I’d tucked Nathan into his crib. My ears strained to hear any stirring or whimpering from the next room. Had his cries awakened me?

Guilt plagued me as I eased from the warm comfort of my own bed and moved with quick steps to the nursery. Still rubbing my sleepy eyes, I gathered my nerve and took a peek at the clock. Five-thirty. I quickened my steps even more. Nathan had slept for…could it even be?…six hours?

I chastised myself for falling into such a deep sleep. What kind of mother was I, anyway? To sleep through my own child’s feeding?

The room was dim, one lone nightlight putting off a tiny shard of light on one end of the room. There was no visible or audible movement in the crib and I tiptoed close, peering over the rails at my sleeping child.

With one tiny fist tucked beneath his chin, I could now hear his soft, steady breathing, and could faintly make out the light fluttering of his eyelids as he dreamed a baby dream.

I don’t know how long I stood there, but I do remember standing there until he woke up. My arms ached to reach and pick him up. Remarkably rested by my unexpected night’s sleep I now only wanted to gather him close. It took all of my willpower – and a little common sense, I suppose – to leave well enough alone and let the little guy sleep.

My little man slept for six straight hours that night. When at last he awoke, I gathered him in my arms and snuggled him close. My maternal instincts – so stretched and weary just hours earlier – now felt rejuvenated and whole.

Fast forward eighteen years. To this past weekend, the first week of September. This same son, Nathan, is home from college for his first weekend visit. After dinner with us and then a chat with his brother, he leaves on Friday night to go hang out with his friends.

I go to bed around ten-ish, tired again but feeling so happy and somehow "complete" having all my crew at home together again. I settle into the bed and relax, knowing that I will not go to sleep until Nate returns home. That’s just a mom thing, I think. Sleep is always deeper and better when all members of the household are beneath one roof, safe and sound in their own beds, duly accounted for.

So imagine my surprise when I jerk wide-awake sometime later, my heart racing and my mind spinning as I take in the fuzzy knowledge that I fell asleep before my last chick was tucked in for the night. I don’t recall what it was that awoke me, exactly, but I do remember waking up in a panic.

Guilt plagued me as I eased from the cool comfort of my own bed and moved with quick steps to the living room. Still rubbing my sleepy eyes, I gathered my nerve and took a peek at the clock. Two-thirty. I quickened my steps even more. Nathan should have been home…could it even be?…two hours ago?

I chastised myself for falling into such a deep sleep. What kind of mother was I, anyway? To sleep through my own child’s curfew?

The living room was dim except for the soft light of one lone nightlight going into the hallway. I took in small details like the fact that the lamp I’d left on was now switched off and the dead bolt on the front door was securely fastened. I glanced down the hallway and saw Nate’s closed bedroom door and knew that he was safe and sound inside.

Somehow I knew I’d crossed yet another of those intangible motherhood hurdles. I stood in my living room, and my arms ached to hug my now-almost-grown son. It took all of my willpower – and a lot of common sense, I suppose – to leave well enough alone and let my boy sleep.

My maternal instincts – so stretched and weary just hours earlier – now felt rejuvenated and whole.

I’ll never forget it.

September 5, 2006 @ 2:05 pm | Filed under: Family

I’ve been interviewed over at "5 Minutes for Mom."

5 Minutes for Mom was set up by identical twin sisters, Janice and Susan, who run a couple of children’s toy stores. With their blog they’re helping moms like me find interesting blogs and quality mom-owned stores.

I’m thrilled that more and more mothers are able to care for their children AND find fulfillment in the workplace, especially when that workplace revolves around – or is centered – in the home.

When you have a minute, drop my 5 Minutes for Mom and see what they’ve put together for busy moms like you and me!

September 2, 2006 @ 9:21 am | Filed under: Uncategorized

Annie Mae Jones is on my mind today.

I know you may not know her, so to describe her to you would be to say: Picture the most gentle, Southern-sounding lady your mind can conjure up. Let her words be like honey and her mannerisms like a warm blanket.

Women like Annie Mae just make you feel good.

About yourself. About the world around you.

And about the fact that there are just some REAL GOOD PEOPLE out there.

Annie Mae moved away a few months ago to live closer to her family in Louisiana after the death of her precious husband. We all miss her, and in her honor, today’s post is a repeat from May 2004.

_________________________________

We’d just pulled into the hotel parking lot in Little Rock and were scratching around the Suburban, picking up all the trash and Coke and coffee cups we’d accumulated during the drive.

Mike picked up a now-empty Kleenex box that had Rice Krispie treat wrappers and chip bags stuffed inside it.

As the box passed my peripheral vision two things happened very quickly: 1.) my brain recognized that the Kleenex box was filled with trash and was about to be dumped along with all the other junk we’d gathered up. 2.) my heart lunged at the sight of the box and then my hands reached out and snatched it from certain demise.

You see, it wasn’t just another ordinary Kleenex box. It had a history, a purpose, a story to tell. It had been intrusted to me months ago and – while the tissues themselves had been used up during prayer times, then through a winter cold, and now finally on this road trip – the box itself represented a "soul anchor."

Who’d of ever thought a Kleenex box would bear such an important role?

Certainly not me.

It began one hot and humid Monday night last August. Our Daughters of Zion group gathered at the church, each lady bringing along a brand-new Kleenex box with her name, numbers, and address printed on the bottom. We lined the boxes up along the front and then began our regular prayer time. Before we left, though, we stopped and picked up a different box and carried it home with us.

The plan was simple.

Take the box home and then read the name printed on the bottom. With this person in mind, decorate the box of tissues. Then keep the box in sight – on a kitchen counter, on a nightstand, in a foyer by the front door – anywhere we’d be sure to notice it as we went about our daily lives. And then each day for six weeks, we committed ourselves to this individual – through prayer, cards, emails, and phone calls.

As the weeks passed it was amazing to hear the stories of these Kleenex boxes. Hushed whispers interspersed with excited giggles before Monday night prayer as one by one we shared the "adventures" of the boxes. One lady laughed while telling us that she couldn’t keep her son out of them. Prone to allergies, it was always her box he’d grab when he needed a tissue.

But see, the point was that the box was in a place she’d see it.

And it really wasn’t about the tissues at all.

Finally the night arrived when we brought our decorated boxes back and – again – lined them up. As we formed a circle around them, smiles split our faces and tears filled our eyes as we took in the wide array of design "styles" and the love and effort that had obviously gone into this project.

Barbie had decorated the box for Bonnie in a leopard print with a beautiful fringe. Now anyone who knows Bonnie, knows this was right on. Nancy Brigger had starched gorgeous doilies and ribbons, lining the outside of the box in beautiful femininity for the name on her box.

One by one we reached down and scooped up the box we’d decorated and then spoke a few words about what this time had meant to us before handing the Kleenex box back to their original owners.

It was a bonding time like none we’d ever known.

Through laughter and tears, we shared how this simple object – a 99 cent box of Kleenex – had injected a spark of care and a dose of compassion into each of our hearts. In those six weeks, we’d taken on one anothers burdens, shared joys, tears, and needs. One of women’s greatest needs is also her greatest fear: vulnerability.

But we were all safe that night. Six weeks of prayer for one another had guaranteed that. We were a changed group of women and, when we walked away that night, it was with the knowledge that something mighty had transpired, something that would imbed itself into the lining of our souls.

It would become one of our soul anchors.

Annie Mae Jones had my name. She’d had her husband, O.L., to print out prayer scriptures for her and then she pasted them all over the box. "And they departed, and went through the towns, preaching and healing everywhere." "Heal me, O Lord, and I shall be healed. Save me and I shall be saved."

For weeks this box sat on my nightstand and these verses greeted me each morning as I opened my eyes and soothed me at night as I closed them in sleep. "Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea, and there was a great calm."

So last week, a good five months after the last Kleenex had finally been used and discarded, I see the box being lifted, about to be thrown out. It was just paper, material to be broken down, recycled, and put to use again.

But this was my box and the hands of the elderly lady who created it for me had left an imprint on my heart. I know I rescued the box this time, but I also know I won’t be able to hold onto it forever.

But I’ll always have the anchor it created inside of me.

O.L. Jones, Sis. Annie Mae’s dear husband, is braving a fight with cancer now. Please remember him in your prayers. And to Annie Mae, I echo back her words of faith to me:

"The Lord is my rock and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength in whom I will trust; my buckler and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower."

Be strong, dear lady, your faith has forever changed my life.