Casting, Christmas & The Art of Fly Fishing

Cast your cares on the LORD and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous fall. (Psalm 55:22)

So I can’t seem to get this verse out of my head this week. Humor me as I relive an afternoon from my childhood.I’ll get to the point, as Ellen DeGeneres says, “And I do have one…”
When my brother and I were young, we’d explore the world on our bicycles. The most exciting adventures began when Dad hopped on his bike and let us follow along like ducklings. Much to my mother’s chagrin, we’d first cruise the heavily trafficked thoroughfares until we reached a quieter country road. This particular road was paved, and lined with trees and fields and leaves and butterflies and pebbles. Toward the end of our journey we’d come across a creek. At this point, we’d pull our bikes off the road, rest them in the grass, yank off socks and sneakers. The water before us was an unknown treasure trove of creatures.
I’d set out in search of a stick, something straight and sturdy. Something that resembled Opey Taylor’s fishing rod from the intro to The Andy Griffith Show. My brother would dig in his pockets for string. We’d fashion our own fishing pole from the rudimentary elements available. It was no trouble finding worms, -- and once Dad informed me worms have no nervous system, and therefore feel no pain when being attached to a hook – it was no trouble fixing bait. (Although I’m not quite sure why this information was comforting to me, as the worm’s destiny included being eaten alive.) Nevertheless, the three of us would spend an afternoon wading in the creek, trying to catch fish with our fishing rod. When our handcrafted pole proved futile, we’d catch tiny fish by cupping our hands together. The water was fairly murky, but sometimes we’d feel a craw fish skitter over our feet. If we were lucky, we’d snatch the critter before it scurried off under the bridge. Of course the fun was in the catching, we’d always release the creatures back to their habitat. (Much to our mother’s joy and happiness…) Then back to our bikes, the trek home, and a nice loooooong sudsy bath.
During college, my brother traded sticks and string for rods and reels. He’s become quite the fisherman, and quite the artist creating masterful fly ties. (Who knew bait hooks could be so intricately ornate?) There is something awe inspiring about fly-fishing. (I feel I must insert a shameless plug for the film A River Runs Through It…the cinematic photography captures the intrinsic, almost musical, beauty of casting the fly…) My brother has tried to teach me the art of fishing, to no avail. I’m not what you would call a “natural.” Sure, I can bait a hook with an earthworm…I’m a bit squeamish with other creepy crawlers. But I’m beyond horrible when it comes to casting. I try to wave the fishing pole in a graceful circle above my head and release the line to sail toward the waters. It just doesn’t happen. Either a few inches of the line releases, and the worm dangles from the top of my pole. Or twenty feet of the line releases, wraps around my body, and the worm hooks firmly to my clothing.
So, getting to my point…and I promise I have one. I was pondering this verse about casting. And thinking that the act of casting involves throwing the object away from you, not keeping it close, not wrapping it tighter around you so that you are enmeshed. But hurling it far away. I think that’s what God wants us to do with our fear, our worries, the stuff that keeps us awake at night. I think He wants us to take that anxiety, and hurl it from our backs –as far away as possible-- on to His capable hands. And then we wait. (I’m reminded of a verse in I Samuel 22:3 where David is fleeing from Saul and he asked the king of Moab, “Would you let my father and mother come and stay with you until I learn what God will do for me?” – David knew God would sustain him.) And He will sustain us. He will keep us going.
This bit about casting isn’t only in the Old Testament, but also in the New Testament. In 1 Peter 5:7 – Cast all your anxiety on God because he cares for you. What a powerful message, over the course of thousands of years. And while we’re in I Peter, one more verse in closing: Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. (I Peter 3:15)
And that reason, that answer, that hope is Jesus Christ.
Merry Christmas.

Ornery Kiddos, Big Plans & Snow...

The more I ponder the story of Christmas, the more I am in awe of the brilliance and majesty of God. Ok, that sounded really “Sunday School Teacher’s Pet-ish,” but SERIOUSLY, how exceedingly brilliant is the part of the plan unfolded thus far? For the sake of discussion, let’s start toward the beginning of the Bible and consider the Exodus story (you know, Moses, the Hebrew people escaping the bondage of Egypt, wandering in the desert, searching for the Promised Land) from the role of a parent and extrapolate the concept out a billion-fold as we seek to understand an inkling of God.
You have these kids. You love them unconditionally, but…let’s face it, they’re ornery. They kind of know right from wrong, but they aren’t ones to tow the line. You give them everything they need. You give them everything they want. They aren’t happy. They get into a heap of trouble. They make some atrociously bad choices. You try to rescue them, to lead them to a safe place. They still aren’t happy. So you set up 10 hard and fast rules. All about love. Loving you, loving their neighbors. But no dice, still ornery, still getting into a heap of trouble, still choosing to face the consequences of their actions. And no matter what you do, you can’t force them to love you. They have to choose to love you.
It all comes back to love, and you have a plan, a fabulously perfect plan that you can’t wait to reveal, but the kids would go completely bonkers if they understood the extent of your plan. I mean, let’s face it: if they knew too many details of the future, their world would be ROCKED. Big time. But you want them to see the light at the end of the tunnel. To realize they can turn around, ask forgiveness, and cling to a relationship with you. After all, you’ve never stopped loving them, regardless of what they’ve done.
Thousands of years ago, folks listened to prophets and heard scripture, even if they couldn’t read. So you start to tell them what to expect:
“For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end. He will reign on David’s throne and over his kingdom establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever.” Isaiah 9:6-7But even this, if they understood correctly, would have freaked them out. Because God’s people, well, they begin to look for a King. Not just a regular ruler, but a Mighty God kind of King. And what would that look like? Well, clearly a muscular commander, powerful because of his physical strength, not afraid to slaughter enemies, a super-hero who dresses the part, dependent on no one, possibly riding in on a stately horse to save the day.
But God’s way (“as for God, his way is perfect.” II Samuel 22:31) is certainly (thankfully) different from our way. Turns out the prophecy is fulfilled when He actually sends himself, in the form of a human: His Son to earth. I’d be willing to wager that not too many folks saw that coming. I mean, if you were to think of the exact polar opposite of King…would it not be an infant? Tiny, fragile, vulnerable. Perhaps THE most vulnerable, needy creature of all.
I’ve been listening to this beautiful collection of Christmas music on Chris Tomlin’s “Glory In The Highest” album. One of the songs struck me as particularly powerful as I was pondering this brilliant plan of redemption through love. These lyrics to Winter Snow are written by Audrey Assad:
Could’ve come like a mighty storm
With all the strength of a hurricane
You could’ve come like a forest fire
With the power of Heaven in Your flame
But You came like a winter snow
Quiet and soft and slow
Falling from the sky in the night
To the Earth below
Could’ve swept in like a tidal wave
Or an ocean to ravish our hearts
You could have come through like a roaring flood
To wipe away the things we’ve scarred
No, Your voice wasn’t in a bush burning
No, Your voice wasn’t in a rushing wind
It was still, it was small, it was hiddenGod loves us, but never forces us to love Him back. For Christmas, He gave us the greatest gift of all, Himself in the form of a human infant. As I explained last night to the Bug and the Pea, the biggest gifts of all come in the tiniest packages.

Panic! Patience. Peace

This morning I came across scripture I’ve read a billion times before, in fact, I committed to memory as a child: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:6-7)
But it is the perfect verse to describe this week. Well, this month. Even the past few months. I found myself explaining to a friend, “I honestly feel I couldn’t possibly BE anxious, even if I tried. It’s as if my mind can’t even possibly GO THERE. To that place of worry”.
“So let me get this straight,” she said, “You haven’t sold your home, you haven’t bought a new home, you’re not sure where you are going to live, you haven’t made Christmas plans because you don’t know where you’ll be, you’re not positive where your kids will go to school next month…and you’re ‘at peace’ with all of this?”
And as crazy as it sounds, because believe me, I am the Queen of Anxiety, it’s the truth.
We’ve had a great week. And yet as I was writing an e-mail recapping the past few days, I actually used phrases like, “Fortunately, Tuesday’s CT scans ruled out appendicitis…” and “The repairman was able to fix the heat in our temporary place, we won’t need to sleep in coats tonight!” And honestly, it never even occurred to me to be anything but truly grateful that God was watching over us. So very un-Leigh like. Usually I would have put my own plan in action, considered some serious complaining, contemplated a pity party. Yet, strangely enough, I haven’t been able to relate stories of our topsy-turvy week without laughter.
As I’m working through a Bible Study on the book of Isaiah, I’m reminded to keep my eyes focused on God, and his ultimate, perfect plan. My Bible Study leader really gave me something to think about when she said, “When we take our eyes off God and focus on circumstances….fear results. We can either choose to look at God through our circumstances or choose to look at circumstances through God.” Now THAT is powerful stuff. Do I live by faith or by fear?
A few nights ago, I began to feel overwhelmed with this process of transitioning from one state to another over the holidays. The instant, I mean…the very instant…that fear began to creep into my heart, I heard the angelic voice of The Bug, wafting down the hall, singing a hymn I didn’t even realize she knew: “What have I to fear? Leaning on the everlasting arms!” I immediately shifted my focus back to God, who has always been faithful to provide, and my peace was restored.
“Mama,” said the Bug as I was tucking her in bed beneath a mountain of blankets. “For whatever reason I just can’t get that song out of my head tonight! Sing with me…”
And I did.

“You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in you. Trust in the LORD forever, for the LORD, the LORD, is the Rock eternal.” (Isaiah 26:3-4)

Papaw, Potatoes & Piano Playing...

I've had 3 Thanksgiving meals already, and it's not Thanksgiving yet. No complaints, I'm just saying I've never been one to turn down mashed potatoes.
My first Thanksgiving meal was last Thursday with the Pea at the Pond. A "shout-out" goes to the cafeteria ladies - I love their food. (My Mother is reading this and saying, "Seriously? I packed a sack lunch every day for you for years and NOW you decide to love school lunches?") Anyhooooooo, I helped myself to salad (both kinds) mashed potatoes AND stuffing, turkey and green beans, sweet potatoes, a roll and banana pudding. Once I reached the sweet tea, it occurred to me I was probably supposed to choose a meat and 2 sides instead of the self-proclaimed Sampler Platter I piled on my tray. Nevertheless, nothing but a smile from the lunchroom ladies. LOVE THEM! So the Pea and I sat down and I mostly listened and nodded while inhaling the meal. Partially because I was hungry, but partially because of strategy. One can learn a lot from the conversations of second graders.
Last Friday I had lunch at school with the Bug for her grade's Thanksgiving. Again I piled on the fixin's. Again the sweet cafeteria ladies smiled. Again I inhaled the meal. Again I listened to the wild and wonderful conversations, this time of fourth graders.
But Saturday's Thanksgiving meal took the cake (well, apple pie). My Aunt J graciously invited our family to her lovely home on a lovely farm in Kentucky. You won't find a more Rockwell-ian (yes, I did just coin that word...) Thanksgiving anywhere. Mounds of mashed potatoes, green beans, made from scratch butter rolls, turkey, corn, homemade macaroni (or mac-a-noodles, as I used to request when I was a kiddo). China on the table, crystal, big pitchers of sweet tea and lemonade. Family everywhere. Ages ranging from my cousin's newborn twins to my 94 year old grandfather.
I sat next to my Papaw during the meal and caught up on all the goings-on. He just had cataract surgery on both eyes and he hopes to be able to read by Christmas. I mentally set aside some books to loan him. (Like me, he's a sucker for Yancey and Strobel.)He chatted about the new gadgets my Dad helped install...an intercom system, hospital bed, medical-alert bracelet ("Look, all I have to do is press this button." "No Papaw! Don't really press it NOW!!")He told me all about Brooklyn, one of his home health nurses. The Meals-On-Wheels delivered to his door, the doctors appointments. And then something happened that I don't remember ever happening during our family Thanksgiving meal...
My Aunt P, who is an accomplished pianist, gathered everyone close to the piano in Uncle B's den. Papaw grabbed his walker and strolled over to an armchair, and settled himself next to the piano bench. Aunt P began to play hymns, by heart, and my Papaw....my 94 year old grandfather...began to sing. Loud and beautiful and clear. I have never heard him sing before, ever. I've seen pictures of him with guitars, I knew he was musically gifted, I'd just never heard him.
A few hymns later, the Bug and the Pea scrambled up beside Aunt P and began to sing as well. They tried to teach Papaw, "Peace Like A River...", that was a new one for him! Then they dove into Christmas carols, as my cousin's newborn twins drifted off to sleep in their pumpkin seat carriers.
Thursday we've been graciously invited to spend Thanksgiving with a sweet neighbor...who also happens to be a fabulous cook, I'm just sayin'... And the food will be amazing. But more than the food, I'm thankful beyond measure for the amazing blessings God has bestowed on me. Blessings that include time spent with chatty second graders, lunchroom ladies, feisty fourth graders, next door neighbors, infant second cousins, old friends, and new friends, and Papaws singing about the birth of baby Jesus...

What Is This Cocktail Fork You Speak Of?

I’m happy to report the more time I spend in New Orleans, the more I learn what I ought to do or say. (Unfortunately, this is a process of elimination that usually begins with me sticking my foot in my mouth. At which point I realize, too late, what NOT to do or say.) My biggest fear is to inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings, so please allow me to apologize…in advance…to the entire city of New Orleans, as my family transitions from the Bluegrass State. Although the proverbial road is long before me, I have high hopes that one day…I, too, will proudly bear the moniker of a NOLA “local.”
In the meantime, it appears you can take this girl out of Kentucky, but you can’t take the Kentucky out of this girl. Thankfully, I’ve recently made the acquaintance of three lovely locals. Little do they know, they are my new BFFs, a trio I refer to as The Super Heroes. These gals are sharp, funny and beautiful. Sweet BB, LG, and JC continue to gently and diplomatically share nuggets of wisdom, for which I will be eternally grateful. Bless their hearts, the poor things have had to start at the absolute, very beginning with me. But to their credit, even in a matter of weekends, I’ve learned several crucial lessons regarding the metamorphosis from “tourist” to “local”. The early fundamentals include phonetics, and food.

TOP TEN WAYS TO REMOVE ALL DOUBT YOU’RE NOT A NEW ORLEANS LOCAL…YET10. Sit down in front of a shrimp & crab platter and announce your seafood experience, thus far in life, consists of tuna salad sandwiches
9. Wear a sweater and winter coat in mid-November, instead of shorts and a blouse
8. Appear bewildered at the drive-thru window of a store serving Take Out Daiquiris
7. Get lost on the way to Bourbon Street for dinner
6. Ask your realtor to suggest homes north of Espionage (instead of Esplanade - Es-plah-nade)
5. Forget the French culture and ask the concierge where nationally known Gala-‘tor-ees is located, instead of Galatoires (Gal-uh-twah-z)
4. Remember the French culture and ask for museum suggestions in ‘Or-lay-own-z Parish instead of Orleans (Or’leeens) Parish
3. Mention you’d love to try a pound of crayfish instead of three pounds of crawfish
2. Show up for the Po’Boy Festival, expecting only seafood sandwiches, not realizing the distinguishing feature is the bread…and there’s such a thing as a Po’Boy Hamburger
1. Keep referring to the city as New Or-‘leeeens. Apparently rule number one is: pronounce the name as New ‘Or-Lenz. End of story.

Of course, I’m still a novice. Perhaps the best advice was given by my new Super Hero BFF JC: “Leigh, just think about what you WANT to say, and then say the opposite.”
Watch out New Orleans, here we come!

Code Black: My Morning In Intimate Apparel

So I was in Men’s Underwear when the alarm sounded. To clarify, I wasn’t wearing briefs/boxers, but rather pushing my shopping cart past racks of underpants en route to the groceries.
“Attention Associates And Customers…” boomed a voice over the loud speaker.
“Code Black! Cease shopping! Move immediately to the center of the store!”
Nonplussed, I wandered from my cart back toward Intimate Apparel, a.k.a. the very center of the store. The World’s Largest Retailer was my first stop of the morning. I had nothing but time on my hands. No appointments scheduled, no critters in tow calling me “Mamma!”
Standing near some Associates with glowing I-Phones, I discovered we were in the midst of a tornado warning. Which, I must say, is a glorious time to People Watch. I grabbed the tiny notebook I keep in my purse, but couldn’t find a pen. Drat. These are the moments Novels are Born.
Nevertheless, I sauntered in and out of the silky-polka-dot bra and matching panties sets. I tried to gather a little piece of Americana from the crowd around me.
There were decidedly different reactions from the motley crew of folks. The store lights flickered on and off and back on again. One Associate commenced to hyperventilating between sobs. Fellow employees gathered around her. One offered to bring a chair, one commented not to worry, he’d happily step over her body and on to safety should the need arise. She was not encouraged.
An older lady wove in and out of the racks toward me. I would have claimed I’d never seen her before in my life, but she seemed to know me. She mentioned mutual friends, so we must have met at some point.
“I’ve lived through hurricanes and I’ve lived through tornadoes. It’s getting to be where any place you live there’s always some kind of disaster lurking. Lord, I wish I could get through to Aunt Jane, she’s probably at home worrying right now. Hope this rain doesn’t flood my art studio….again.” And she wandered off.
Head full of curlers, a lady chatted with an associate. “Figures, TODAY is the day I scheduled my hair.”
Some of the boys in charge of gathering shopping carts from the parking lot paced back and forth. Bored. Thinking it would be much more fun to be outside in the tornadic winds, than here in Apparel.
Beep. Beep. Beep. An elderly man put his wheel-chair cart in reverse and almost ran me over. I scooted to the front of the crowd and squinted toward the book racks. I could almost make out some of the titles. I debated a quick sprint to grab some literature, and then dash back to Intimate Apparel. I quickly realized my taste in books was slightly different from the collection before me. With a sigh, I tiptoed past Wheel-chair-cart man and toward a group of employees.
“Not even a tornado gonna keep me from my coffee break.”
“Wonder if I should call someone at the Park and check on my home?”
“Man, you have to check out Best Buy. They can match that price!”
I took out my cell phone to call The Husband. Might as well let him know where to look for me, should the tornado indeed strike. No answer. I left a message that in case of emergency, I could be found between the lacy negligee display and the control top girdles.
The lights flickered off and on again. I counted my blessings that I didn’t happen to have four children jumping in and out of my shopping cart as did the grandmother to my left.
I browsed Women’s Apparel. There is actually a clothing line called, “America’s Next Top Model.” And I debated whether to try on the imitation leather vest jacket and stretch pants from the Miley Cyrus Collection. (Who knew?) Apparently I’ve been missing out on current fashion fads. However, in my defense, my clothes are so out of style they’ve actually started to come back in-style again.
A Manager with a ginormous walkie-talkie came bursting through the store’s front door. “Code Black Lifted!” He cried triumphantly.
And the beleaguered crowd meandered back to their abandoned shopping carts and Grocery Lists. I finished my shopping. Twenty four rolls of toilet paper for the Mummy Wrap game, two boxes of Halloween sprinkle cookies, Orange Crush ¬2¬ Liters for the Ring Toss at Fall Festival, potato chips, bottles of water, a pie pumpkin. I headed for the Check Out Registers.
Good thing I wore my jogging shoes. Because one thing is always for certain: if my shopping cart is brimming with groceries….so much so that I have to actually use one hand to balance the mound of bags piled on top of one another…then the torrential downpour will commence as soon as I reach the storefront.
I look out the glass doors to get my bearings. Of course, I am parked in the very farthest point of the lot. I can’t actually SEE my car, since the rain is forming a zero visibility shield. But I remember the general location of the vehicle.
I tie together the tops of the grocery bags, place one hand on the handlebar and one hand on top of the pile o’ groceries. I burst forth into the parking lot with Chariots of Fire speed and agility. I sail through puddles, between cars, past a gentleman flipping off a van that inadvertently (I hope) splashed him. I load my soggy items into the trunk, and dive behind the wheel. (Quite literally, I mean there was water everywhere.)
Home again, home again, jiggety-jig. Not quite as exciting as huddling with strangers in Intimate Apparel. But warm, and dry. Now to unpack. I just hope my new Miley Cyrus wardrobe looks as good on me as it did on the rack…

All The World's A Stage...a.k.a. Waiting For The Bus

In “As You Like It,” Shakespeare’s melancholy Jaques ponders, “All the world’s a stage…” I’m quite sure he was referring to my front porch, specifically 15 minutes before the school bus pulls up each morning.
The Bug is a “morning person” through and through. (My husband and I question how this is even genetically possible for our offspring?) The Pea, like AJ, prefers to ease into her morning.
As we wait for what my friend MHR terms, “that yellow bus of mercy,” the Pea and I are treated to a vast array of performances. I sit on the top step holding my hot tea. The little one snuggles beside me, backpack already slung over one shoulder.
The Bug takes center stage. (A note to my children's teachers: I promise the kids are semi-presentable in clean clothes and brushed hair at one point. However, I’m reticent to make any promises once they pass the threshold commonly known as my front door.)
The Bug is a whirligig of activity. Sometimes confined to the porch, but most often not. First on her “to-do” list is a look at the empty nest within the Bradford Pear tree. Of course, the nest is buried within the top branches, so even a glimpse involves a climb. High climbs are usually reserved for the days the Bug has donned a dress or skirt. (Apparently pants are too binding for a good climb…)
Next she checks on Mr. Hoppy (a.k.a. any cricket unlucky enough to cross her path.) She likes to think Mr. Hoppy is most comfortable in his own nest of soil and grass. A nest she fashions as Mr. Hoppy bounces up her arm, into her hair – and one time into my tea cup.
Yesterday, she demonstrated side to side, shuffle, back pedal, and blitz across our driveway. “What dance are we learning?” I asked.
“MOM! It’s not a dance! It’s football!” replied the Bug. Good to know.
Often there is a morning harvest. One day the Bug delivered 62 cherry tomatoes to my step on the porch. I know because she counted them. Out loud. Twice.
Sometimes performance art segues to visual art. She’ll drop to her knees on the asphalt, sidewalk chalk in hand. (This task is particularly suited for days when white or cream colored tights are worn in lieu of socks.) She scoots around creating a masterpiece. Sometimes using her fingers to smudge a solid line into an image.
Often the Pea and I are treated to a gymnastics extravaganza. Cartwheels, handstands, head first dives into a somersault race across our muddy front yard. Sometimes I pick grass and twigs out of her hair, mulch out of her socks, dirt off her knees.
And when the bus rolls by, the two girls scamper aboard. (This week the Pea got to sit in the very back because of her “good behavior.” God love our bus driver!) And I head inside, until it’s time to cross the threshold once more in anticipation of the afternoon bus.
At which point, all bets are off, as they say. And the entire residence…front yard and back, porch and patio, garden and swing set, guest room and den, transform into the World’s Most Glorious Stage.
At least until the sun sets and the kids trudge their (cute but muddy) selves upstairs for a bubble bath…

In Which I Ponder: Love vs. Need...

“Nothing can separate us from God’s love.” Romans 8:39

My sophomore year of college, I took a course entitled, “Marriage & Family.” One particular Tuesday morning the floor was open to discussion on Love vs. Need. An interesting premise I had never considered in terms of relationships. The main question was: Do you love me because you need me? Or Do you need me because you love me?

What seemed very obvious to me, did NOT seem obvious to many of my classmates. In my way of thinking, love that is pure –especially in a life-long partnership—would be the latter. I NEED AJ because my love for him is so deep. Sure he picks up groceries, cooks meals…and technically I need those things too. But that’s not why I love him. What if everything we owned was swept away in a hurricane and we were left clinging to each other? Yes, that would be an unimaginable horror, but I would still have what I need, because AJ is what I need, because of my love for him. The love is enough.

Let’s expand that premise down one generation to the Bug and the Pea. I will always love them. From the moment they were born, the instant each of them came into this world, my love was so deep I knew there was nothing they can do to separate themselves from my love. Right now, they love me deeply, I know that. They tell me they love me. But a lot of that love is tied up in the fact that they need me for survival. They need me to feed, clothe, and take care of them when they are sick. They need me to teach them how to be productive, God-fearing members of the human race. My goal as a parent: to raise them such that, eventually, they will NOT need me for survival. I will know my work is done once the Bug & the Pea reach a point where they need me solely because they love me.

Now, from my viewpoint, let’s expand that premise up one generation. Do I love my parents because I need them? Or Do I need my parents because I love them? Again, I’d announce the latter. My parents poured their very souls into the raising of me and my brother. We rested in the knowledge that there was nothing so horrible we could possibly do that would keep us from our parents’ unconditional love. We were (and still are) spoiled rotten with love while being taught essential lessons. As children, we needed our parents for survival. But we learned. How to read and write and ride a bike. How to fold clothes and shop for groceries and mow the lawn. How to change oil, and change a tire, and (sweet merciful heavens) how to drive a stick-shift station wagon. How to plant seeds and grow gardens and run a mile. How to be kind, and serve others¸ and give selflessly because that’s what God wants us to do. How to accept grace, and look to Jesus for guidance, no matter what.

With a family of my own, I still adore being with my parents. I call them weekly with questions about cooking or car maintenance, broken lawn mower frustrations and gardening woes. When visiting, I race alongside my kids to get “hello” hugs and a kiss. I love sitting down to one of Mom’s meals, I value Dad’s perspective on big (and small) decisions. I still need them very much. Not because of what they can do for me, or how often they can “watch” the girls, or for Christmas or birthday gifts. I need them because I love them.

Now let’s take that premise to a supernatural realm. Do I love Jesus because I need Him? Or Do I need Jesus because I love Him? Last night’s episode of Glee posed the question: Is God just a Santa Claus for Grown Ups? That really hit “home” for me. How often do I treat God as a Santa Claus who will deliver my Grown Up Wish List? The answer is: all the time. I’ve felt convicted lately of my unhealthy, inverse relationship with the Lord. The bottom line is: I am on earth to serve Him, and not the opposite. He is the Master of Me, I am not the one calling the shots. I am called to love Him because of who He is, not because of what He can do for me. And not only that, but God desires this love relationship to be so very deep that if everything else, EVERYTHING, was swept away…all would be well with my soul. I would still have the love.
And His love is enough.
In His very words: “My grace is sufficient for you.” 2 Corinthians 12:9

In Which I Examine Selective Hearing...

And behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind tore the mountains and broke in pieces the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. And after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire the sound of a low whisper. (I Kings 19:11-12)The Bug and the Pea have undergone three separate bilateral “ear tube” surgeries...each. Like many parents, I‘ve became quite an expert regarding the onset and early treatment of ear infections. I am certain, after years of tests/appointments with audiologists and ear/nose/throat specialists the girls both hear as well as they ought to hear. However, I would often swear to the fact that they maintain selective hearing. Especially my oldest, whom I fondly refer to as The Bug.
For instance, I can be looking straight at her, standing one foot away, repeating the clearest of instructions in a firm voice and the Bug will ask, “What Mama? What?” We can be the only two in the house, her upstairs and me downstairs. I can holler repeatedly, up into the silence, “Time to go!” And five minutes later, the Bug will wander slowly down the steps and ask if it’s time to leave yet? Clearly unaware I’ve been screaming at the top of my lungs.
For reasons beyond my understanding, the children deem it necessary to speak loudly in, well, most all situations. I can be driving along in our car, both kids in the backseat, music playing softly. Suddenly, the Bug decides she needs my attention. Despite the fact that I am literally inches away from her, she will project her voice such that the entire highway may hear her message. Or perhaps we’re at the kitchen table eating dinner. The Pea is particularly fond of her “outside voice.” We’ll be quietly eating our meal, and the Pea – who sits right beside me- will recount her day as if her words must rise above the very roar of a pep rally crowd.
Which brings me to today’s conundrum: The Whisper Principle. When I am in close proximity to my children, we are the only ones in a room, and I speak clearly and loudly, there is often no response. Almost as if I’m not even there. However, if my husband and I sneak away from a multitude of people, to a back room and whisper (in a voice barely audible to the whisper-ee) some serious information, both children materialize beside us in a matter of seconds, asking pertinent questions. Why is that?
I haven’t figured it out. Is it because they instinctively tune out voices that go against their immediate focus (generally “self”)? So if I’m telling the Bug it’s time to get on her shoes so that we can leave, she maintains contemplation of the page in her book with the butterfly illustrations. Why? Because that’s what she wants to do and her brain is not voluntarily open to other options?
Do they speak louder than necessary to ensure that I hear their concerns and wishes, even if it means drowning out those of others in the room? Because natural instinct is to put “self” first, and to put those needs above the needs of the other group members? I’m not sure.
This scripture in 1 Kings refers to the Lord’s instructive voice as a “whisper,” or a “still small voice.” How very different from a movie portrayal. Cinematographers liken the booming voice of James Earl Jones to the true voice of God. Implying, we may only be certain the Master Designer has spoken if Darth Vader’s speech echoes from above. Unfortunately, (or fortunately, as the case may be!) the closest I’ve come to Darth Vader was two Halloween’s ago when I took the kids trick-or-treating.
God doesn’t seem to be in the business of frightening us with terrifying shrieks of instruction. He is forever warning His loved ones, “Do not be afraid…” when He sends Messengers. (In fact, and this will be another topic to explore-- God chose the least frightening of all imaginable methods to convey His love and salvation to a fallen world: a tiny infant, born of an unwed teenage girl).
So, how is it that the children are so perceptive when it comes to hearing a whisper, but not an announcement? What makes them, in the midst of distractions, become aware their parents are elsewhere quietly conveying an important message? Are they constantly aware of the presence of their father, and thus the “absence” of him and so they seek him out?
How like the Bug and the Pea am I on a daily basis with my heavenly Father? Talking loudly to God in prayers, telling Him what I would like for Him to do for me, completely disregarding obedience to the instructions He has repeated over and over again in scripture. Acting as if God is not worthy of my constant respect, ignoring His very presence in the normal everyday circumstances around me. Always thinking about “self” and what I want and not being open or expectant to receive direction of how to join Him in His work according to His plan and not mine.
Lots of information to ponder. But I think I will start by making a conscious choice to be aware that God does still speak. Perhaps if I focus so intensely on obeying Him, and listening for His voice, I will surely recognize His whisper.

Are You Ready For Some FOOTBALL!!??

It’s sharpened pencils and a newly opened box of crayons. It’s a trip to the orchard for cider and caramel dipped apples. Cool breezes, crispy leaves, zipping up a well worn pair of Levi’s and grabbing a sweatshirt on your way out the door. Autumn: the most wonderful time of the year.
And along with autumn, comes football. A sport that continues to baffle me, as it has since I was a child. You’d think after all the games I’ve attended or watched on television or listened to on the radio, I’d be an expert. Alas, to my husband’s chagrin, I am not. Lord knows he’s tried to teach me. To indoctrinate me in the ways of Ye Great American sport, to no avail. The husband and my first official date, 19 years ago, was to a football game. When the night air turned cool, I snuggled up in his jacket. A cup of hot cocoa warmed my chilly fingers. I’m pretty sure two college teams were throwing a ball back and forth, but I couldn’t swear to it. Pure bliss.
I quickly learned this whole “football” gig was quite a big deal in the WHH’s (World’s Hottest Husband’s) family. This family that would one day become a part of my own. And if football was important to them, then by golly, it was important to me. The first rite of passage involved allegiance to the greatness that is: The Pittsburgh Steelers. (Moment of silence.) Even though we weren’t married at the time, the WHH warned me any mention, verbally or written, of the D_ll_s C_wb_ys in a positive light would be grounds for D-I-V-O-R-C-E. (However, variations on the sentence: “The Pittsburg Steelers slaughtered the Cowboys” proves acceptable.)
This loyalty has been passed down a generation to the Bug and the Pea. The girls think all kids wear Steeler jerseys for professional portrait sessions. They each own Terribly Towels, and have wardrobes dotted with black and yellow apparel. (If I remember correctly, the Bug could spell “Steeler” before she could spell her own name.)
Last year, the kids played flag football on a co-ed Upward Team. I was perpetually amazed at their understanding of the elements of the game, the plays, the positions, the downs, the yardage. It’s still like a foreign language to me, so I stick to cheering. Whether the home team scores or not. The bottom line is, they’re all just kids doing their best. And I applaud their zeal.
This week marks the first Flag Football game of 2010. The Bug is ready to rumble and me? Well, I’m ready to dive head first into autumn. I’ll be the one snuggled up in a sweatshirt on the metal bleachers, hot cocoa in hands. Waving, clapping, and hollering, “Home Run!”

It's Good To Be Leigh on September 13th...

Off the top of my head, here are 10 favorite birthday memories…
1. Blowing out the candle which was large and triangular with a clown face given to my folks when I was born. Each year it was lit and a part of our annual “birthday” photo.
2. Angel food cake with a pink glaze of icing dripping over the sides.
3. A cake brought over each year, iced with candles on top, from our next door neighbor, Pauline on Leyton. What an amazingly special kid I was to get 2 cakes every year!
4. Walking into our dining room which was filled to the brim with helium balloons of all different colors and long ribbon strings.
5. Opening up a scrapbook Mom made for me where she had secretly mailed index cards and a metallic Happy Birthday banner to dozens of friends I missed terribly. They returned the index cards and a photo of themselves holding the banner, and she pasted them all into a book. (Hands down, my favorite gift ever…)
6. Thanking Mom and Dad for the brand new keychain they wrapped up for my birthday. Assuming the attached keys went to our family’s stick shift station wagon (a.k.a. The Copper Ace). Never once occurring to me that it contained the keys to my very own car, parked in the garage with a ginormous bow on top.
7. Surprise birthday party where my entire youth group from LBC traveled to O’boro following my family’s move the month before.
8. Surprise visit from Daddy via a business trip to Lexington during college and a special date to Bravo Pitinos for fettucini and calamari.
9. Walking into my dorm room, freshman year, to angel food cake (with chocolate chips) and a metallic Happy Birthday banner hanging in the space between my Cow Crazy Roomie and my bunk beds at Kirwan IV.
10. Waking up to a rainbow of balloons tied to kitchen chairs, homemade watercolor cards, globs of glitter pasted to paper banners scotch-taped to the wall and great big hugs from The Bug and The Pea.

My cup runneth over, I am blessed beyond measure….

Hands for Harvesting

"Look, I tell you, lift up your eyes, and see that the fields are white for harvest." John 4:35
As I’ve mentioned earlier: Green thumb, have I not. I am perpetually astonished each and every year when the scraggly seedlings grow exponentially. Gourd vines stretch beyond the stone walls, out across the yard. Watermelon vines wrap around the runt pepper plant, hiding it from sight. Tomato vines rocket between the wiry tee pee barrier. Sweet potato vines snake up the wooden fence boards and spy into our neighbor’s yard. I find myself pruning the garden every few weeks. Not so much pulling weeds, as untangling the knotted vines.
Our garden is not the product of a landscape architect. It is, rather, the product of joyful souls lugging a cart through the Lowe’s Garden Center. The girls always pick their crops. No thought is given to rhyme or reason. To spacing and timing, water and sunlight needs. The seedlings are chosen individually based on little more than proximity to the shopping cart. This year’s crop: Thai pepper, blueberry bush, petunia, watermelon, pumpkin, cherry tomatoes, sweet potatoes, thyme, mint, basil, bell pepper. One lone sunflower seed grew to enormous proportions and presided over the eclectic entanglement below.
The kids have harvested watermelons, pumpkins and gourds galore. The Bug picks fresh mint before dinner to flavor our iced tea. The spices have found their way into spaghetti sauces, and the tomatoes into lovely salads. Not everything survived the constant brutal heat of the Kentucky summer. Sporadic rain alternating with flood water.
This afternoon is sweet potato harvest. I’m sure there’s a simple way to tell the proper time to dig up potatoes. But as some potatoes are actually poking through the ground, I think this afternoon will suffice. The Bug and the Pea will fill the Red Ryder wagon full of shovels. They pull the wagon out to the garden. They immediately abandon the trowels in lieu of ungloved hands. They dive into the soil, with gleaming eyes, seeking buried treasures…

Garnering Mortification Points

I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I have perfected the process of mortifying my children before they even set foot on the school bus. You, too, can be an “EMBARASSING!” parent, without too much effort. Here are some of the tools in my mortification arsenal, feel free to borrow as you please:
1. No need to put on your contacts the moment you wake up. Don your ginormous plastic coke-bottle-lens eye glasses from 1989. Combined with spiky bed-head hair, it’s just the look your children will be proud of when the neighbors come over to wait with you for the bus.
2. Don’t worry about dressing up for the occasion. Pajamas are more than appropriate, especially if you’re wearing the cozy pink fuzzy socks that look like little piglets with the felt face on the front where your toes are and the curly tail behind your heel. If I’m feeling in a particularly Vogue mood, I go with a patriotic tie-dye oversized T-shirt, red/white polka dot PJ pants. Combined with the pink socks – trend setting.
3. Don’t forget those last minute reminders: did you pack your homework? Did you remember your snack? Did you go tinky-wink so you won’t need to go potty as soon as you walk in the school doors? (I find it’s more effective to wait until the neighbor kiddos are on the porch with you, this way, you have an audience and can make sure that EVERYONE is ready for a productive school day.)
4. Drag the brush, assorted head bands and bows out on the porch with you and brush the girls’ hair while you wait. Then when the neighbors hear the screaming, moaning and gnashing of teeth, they may simply peer out their window and realize you’re merely detangling hair and not actually beating your children mercilessly.
5. When you notice a crumb of Cheerios, or a dab of milk on your child’s chin, make sure to wipe it off. No need to be quick, lick your finger to get enough moisture and really rub their little face clean. It’s also comforting to say things like, “Mama’s takin’ care of her little baby!”
6. Often, the children will decide to use the few minutes prior to the bus arrival to tend your hedges. Make sure the proper clipper tools are available so that even at 7 in the morning, you, too can shout, “No running with scissors!” (I find the best motivation for before-school yard work is to dress your children in clean, fairly new clothes. Yearbook “picture day” is always nice for muddy escapades).
7. Always bring a cup of tea on the porch with you. This can double as a miniature wading pool for those treasures your children discover in the grass. “MOM! Look at this cool bug, it’s perched on my finger, I think it can fly, Oops. MOM it CAN’T swim! Mom get it out of your drink, it’s gonna die! Oh look, there’s a snail on that rock…”
8. Make sure you get your last minute good-bye kisses and hugs. I like to insist on the European style of one peck on each cheek. Keep insisting until the children beg you to stop. And then tackle them with a bear hug. I find it effective to actually pick each child up and swirl them around in a circle until they are giggling and shouting for mercy. (Again, the larger your audience of neighbors, the better.)
9. Insist on speaking “their language.” Use hip words/phrases like: “way cool,” “OMG,” “whatever,” “BTW”, “IDK,” “Is that one of the RARE silly bands?” They appreciate the fact that you can hang tough with their friends. Any references to the Jo Bros, Hannah Montana, Camp Rock are a definite plus. Bursting out into spontaneous song will garner huge mortification points.
10. Stand up, alternate between waving and blowing giant kisses as the children board the bus and walk down the aisle to their seats. You’ll know it’s time to stop when you can visibly see the kids (yours, the neighbors’, et.al) rolling their eyes through the rectangular window panes on the side of the bus.
At this point, your work here is done.
It’s time to head inside, shower and prepare for a day of volunteer work in the classrooms.

Plans Vs. Faith

From 1 to 2, Wilbur planned to sleep. From 2 to 3, he planned to scratch itchy places by rubbing against the fence. From 3 to 4, he planned to stand perfectly still and think of what it was like to be alive, and to wait for Fern. At four would come supper. Wilbur had gone to sleep thinking about these plans. He awoke at six and saw the rain, and it seemed as though he couldn’t bear it. “I get everything all beautifully planned out and it has to go and rain,” he said. (Charlotte’s Web, E.B. White)I know you’ve been waiting with bated breath to hear more spiritual ramblings. I won’t keep you in suspense. Lately, I’ve been pondering PLANS. I’m quite skilled at making plans, ask me, I’ll tell ya. I have always had a plan for my life. ALWAYS. For as long as I can remember, I’ve known what needed to be done that particular day, week, month, year. And that’s not all, the far future was mapped out too. Let’s just say I could always knock ‘em dead at interviews during the dreaded, “Where do you see yourself in 5 years? 10 years?” questions. Why? Because I had the answer. I mean, I KNEW where I would be, it was all in my plan.
Certainly, I’ve always believed God has a master plan. I just figured I was lucky that MY PLAN matched so well with HIS plan for my life. In fact, how wonderful (extra crown jewel for me!) I was making things so easy on God! You know, already having everything mapped out in advance. Then He wouldn’t have to spend so much time orchestrating the events of my life. Because, HELLO, I’d already done such a nice job figuring out what ought to happen… God just needed to bless my plans!
I’m administratively gifted. (Read into this: obsessive, neurotic, anal.) I am the type of person who has lists of her lists, typed out on Excel spreadsheets, backed up on external hard-drives. It’s how I’m wired. I suppose, sub-consciously, if I write down things in a systematic manner, and keep my surroundings orderly, that some sense of control is maintained in the midst of the unknown. In my mind, plans = control.
Along with plans, I’ve been pondering FAITH. Why the two? The other day a thought hit me like a ton of bricks: faith is the polar opposite of plans. I have been so busy making plans that I’ve kicked faith completely out of the picture. Upon realization, I begged forgiveness for my arrogance and hypocrisy. Seriously, how much vanity does it take to tell God I’m not interested in His plans? To assure Him my plans will work just fine, ask for His blessing, and think no more about the matter. And to top it all off, I’m very good at acting as if I have it “all together” spiritually. I know a lot of the right answers, I’m sure it appears I rely solely on faith for guidance. But this hasn’t been the case. At all. And the sad part is that I have been blissfully unaware of my lack of faith.
(Now, let me digress a bit, don’t confuse plans and preparations. I’m envisioning a reader showing up to class, without having done a bit of homework, claiming, “But Leigh said I should have faith! That having my own plans was wrong. That my homework will magically appear complete and correct!” I believe God calls us to prepare, and always work as if for God and not for man.)
Anyhow, God and I are working on this whole living by faith gig. And the crazy part (well, not so crazy…) is that it’s a WHOLE lot easier than trying to work everything out for myself. My responsibility is to immerse myself in scripture, and in prayer, and then to WAIT (and oh, I’m so bad at waiting, I want everything done yesterday!) for Him to point me in the right direction. But, you know what? I’ve gotta tell you I’ve never been filled with such peace.
I will ponder more later….

Shameless Love Story in Waffle House Paradise

The joint was decidedly not jumping, but that’s the way I wanted. All to ourselves on a Saturday night. The sky was a slate gray, threatening rain like a carrot in front of a donkey. The kids slid up onto chrome bar stools with bright red seats and looked down the laminated menus. We grabbed several sections of newspaper and the two seats beside the girls. Pretty rough looking customers, the four of us. Literally just having changed out of pajamas into shorts, shirt and flip flops. Bed head hair after a glorious afternoon of napping and reading. Hot chocolate, hot tea, Hi-C, sweet tea. Scrambled eggs, hash browns, everything on ‘em.
Our very pregnant waitress waddled toward the short order cook hollering: “I’m gonna need these scattered, smothered, capped, peppered….” The Bug and the Pea’s attention drifts to the Kids’ Page word search and heads bent together, they began to work.
“Honey, you gonna need some whipped cream on that chocolate?”
“Yeah” says the Pea as she circles a word, acting like she owns the joint.
“Yes MA'AM,” I correct, with an apologetic look in my eye.
The waitress grins, “Don’t worry, got three of my own at home.”
Despite the fact we’ve done nothing productive on this Saturday, the food we devoured would have satisfied an army of hungry soldiers.
The quiet is broken, the jukebox pipes in with a song. Startled, the Bug’s head pops up from her plate, in time to see a teenage boy stroll back to his booth.
“Just the jukebox, sweetie,” I say, mouth full of salsa covered hash browns.
“The what?” she asks.
I see the blank look in her eyes and I set down the fork. I. Am. Unfit. There are no other words that fit this moment. I look over at the husband who looks as stunned as me. How, in the name of all that is good, do our children NOT know what a jukebox is? Clearly, our parenting skills are slipping. I mean, seriously.
I slide off the bar stool, toting the kids along with me by the scruff of their little necks. I stood them in front of the jukebox and did some explaining...long overdue apparently. They gazed in bedazzled wonderment. I pressed the white buttons to scroll through the selection of choices. The Pea’s forehead leaned against the glass and the Bug’s jaw dropped near the floor.
See? You can pick from any of these songs! Oh look, they have Jimmy Buffet, “Cheeseburger in Paradise! I like mine with lettuce and tomatoes, Heinz 57 and French Fried Potatoes…” I grooved to the imaginary beat.
The Bug put her hand on my elbow, “Mama, please do not sing.”
Undeterred, I pointed to the Beach Boys, “Let’s go surfin’ now, everybody’s surfin’ now…” I added a little pizazz to the demonstration while balancing on an invisible surfboard. The Pea rolled her eyes.
I said, “You put in a quarter, choose the song you’d like, and then the whole restaurant hears it.”
The two 49 inch tall creatures shot like bullets over to their Daddy, a.k.a. The Keeper of The Money. Returning with quarters, the quest began for the Perfect Song. The Bug scrolled through the lists forward, then backward, then forward. The Pea shoved her out of the way and scrolled through the lists forward, then backward, then forward. This process repeated itself for several minutes while I drank my second cup of hot tea.
I walked back over to the jukebox, put in a quarter and typed in 3-0-0-6. I sauntered back to the husband and in true Milli Vanilli fashion, pantomimed Garth Brooks’ rendition of Shameless. The kids were not impressed. (Our waitress was…)
However, we knew the girls had struck gold when they shouted, “THEY HAVE TAYLOR SWIFT!” The two looked at each other in a moment of reverence for the singer “whose name shall be spoken a lot” at our house. The quarter clinked in, the buttons were pushed, Love Story blared. The Bug and the Pea sang like Rock Stars complete with air guitars. (There was even a bit of head-banging, which I thought a little peculiar for this particular occasion, but anyhoooooo.)
An older gentleman sitting alone, squelched a laugh and made a stellar effort NOT to shoot coffee out his nose as he absorbed the scene.
The cook headed for a well deserved smoke break.
Our waitress shared some mango flavored bubble gum, grabbed a menu, and danced over to the lone customer.
“Now, what can I get ya to eat?” she asked between chomps.
He replied: “I believe I’ll have what they’re having….”

Blue Bikes & Bumblebees

There’s something about a bike.
Your very own get-away vehicle even when getting away means pedaling faster than your little brother down the Avenue you call home.
To the end of the road where they are building a tiny new street with 3 houses.
No one lives there yet. The houses aren’t ready. One arrived on the back of a truck.
No one is ever home on this end of the street.
Or maybe they are and they just never come outside. Maybe they watch from inside.
One time someone walked down the Avenue and said, “Good afternoon young man!” to me.
But I am not a boy. Mama cut my hair, while I sat on a folding chair, under the acorn tree out back.
My secret hide out is behind the evergreen hedge.
(The pretty flowery bushes have huge fuzzy bumblebees, I’ve been stung before).
This blue bike looks like my first bike. It makes me smile.
The girls ride in front and lead the way, pedaling like pony-tailed Olympians.
CAR! I shout so they can hear with their helmets strapped on tight. Stay close to the side!
There is no real end to this street. It cuts through to the main bypass.
Construction workers zoom past on huge dump trucks and usually don’t stop at the stop sign.
I wonder who can buy all these new houses. Going up beside the deserted one. With papers taped on the door and waist high grass.
I wish they could bike down the Avenue. Right down the middle, arms in the air, safe and sound.
But this will have to suffice. I’m not taking this freedom away.
There’s something about a bike…

In Which I Tackle The Hedges & The House...

A few years ago, on a weekend when my family was out of town, my Dad surprised us with an astonishing gift. He drove down from Lexington, truck bed full of stones and rocks and landscaping cloth. Unbeknownst to us, he created lovely gardens stemming out from our patio. Flat, rectangular shaped stones form a serpentine border that leads from the back corner edge of the house to one edge of the patio, and then from the opposite edge of the patio to the other corresponding edge of the house. A layer of landscape cloth slows the growth of grass and weeds. Different colored rocks – lava rock, pebbles, white quartz-y gravel, round black stones, creek rock – adorn the gardens in patterns. The garden is pieced together rather like a stained glass window, but in a loose mosaic of color and texture. And it is stunning. The work of a master landscape designer.
What makes this particular garden extra special, in a “perfect for me” kind of way, is the fact I cannot possibly destroy the contents. Unfortunately, I did not inherit my father’s green thumb. To his dismay and bewilderment, I have more of a “black thumb of death” when it comes to plants. (Let’s just say, if I had a dime for every time someone whispered under their breath: “But I didn’t even think it was POSSIBLE to kill – insert name of plant said person is staring at in disbelief, shriveled and brown and crispy” then I would be a wealthy woman).
While the botanical gardens surrounding my parents’ house have been aptly described as ‘The Eighth Wonder of The World’, plants under my care wither and die. Nevertheless, the rock garden was particularly touching as the rocks are indestructible. And therefore, completely safe in the hands of a black thumb gardener, like myself. Daddy created the masterpiece, and entrusted me with maintenance. I can do that.
You see, despite the landscape cloth, there are indefatigable (which is really the only appropriate description…and a word I love to say three times fast) weeds, grasses and ground covers that take root -on top of the cloth- and weave among the stones. In the blink of an eye, the mosaic masterpiece is hidden by unruly leaves and vines.
Today was a self-proclaimed “rock garden maintenance” day. I donned my dollar store gloves, a hand-held three pronged rake thing-y (I believe that’s the technical agricultural term), grabbed a thermos of water and headed out to the jungle. The fact that it was a billion degrees outside just prodded me to increase my weeding efficiency.
I pulled weeds, both full grown and merely sprouting. I tackled ants, several types of beetles, a fledgling yellow jacket’s nest (Ewwwwwwww…), spiders of several sizes. I dug under stones to make sure roots were destroyed. I sweated, and grunted, and gripped, and pushed until the metal end of my three pronged rake-y thing broke in two. (I’m telling you, INDEFATIGABLE weeds…) I believe I frightened my daughters when I burst through the door and collapsed into a chair while sweat gathered in a pool at my feet. “W…a…t…e…r,” I gasped and held out my empty thermos. The Bug and the Pea flew to the rescue and then followed me outside to help. They gathered up the piles of leaves, grasses, weeds, and bound them up in giant garbage bags.
Next I tackled the hedges. Quite literally. Me, garden gloves, electric hedge clippers. In front of our porch is a small garden, a few holly bushes, a lilac bush, an evergreen, some burning bushes, fountains of monkey grass. (“Mama,” asks the Bug, “Is it OK if I cut back these monkeys?”) Quite recently this little plot of space beside the sidewalk up to our porch steps has morphed into a bit of a jungle. (Fine, fine, it’s been that way for awhile, there’s no ‘quite recently’ about it…) My husband quite dutifully mowed the lawn. So the grass is well manicured, but the hedges are taking over.
Why? You are undoubtedly asking. What could possibly possess a person to do hours of yard work on a blisteringly hot Kentucky day in the middle of the summer? Is she crazy? Does she not realize the pool is open? Well, there is a method to my madness, I must say. You see, my father and mother are coming here to visit. I know they are, because the visit is another of my parents’ gifts to me. They are coming to take care of my family so I may head to a writer’s workshop.
Now I know it would not matter to my parents if they had to scythe a trail through the messiness that is generally my den. But first on my list was a thorough house cleaning. For those of you who know my mother, you realize her home is the warmest, most inviting home you’ve ever seen. You want to curl up on a window seat with a book and a blanket and a cup of hot tea and stay forever. The pantry is overflowing, as are the bookshelves, and everything is neat and tidy. But not in a museum, ‘don’t touch!’ kind of way. In a “I thought you might be in the mood to watercolor, so I went ahead and got some supplies and put them in a storage box with some fresh sketch paper. Here, have a homemade chocolate chip cookie while you paint…”
She could care less if the pantry is stocked, or the clothes already washed when she arrives. Dad, as I’ve mentioned, is well aware of my (how shall we say?) lack of landscaping genius. Even though they wouldn’t mind a bit if I leave the place in shambles on my rush out the door, I want everything to be ready. As a matter of respect, and honor, I want them to stay in a clean house, with a presentable yard, with food in the pantry. I want the kids’ clothes to be washed and laid out for school so that Mom and Dad can enjoy their return visit.
Dad would not think twice about setting down his suitcase and then immediately mowing the lawn, if that’s what I needed. Mom would set down her bags and run to the grocery to fill my refrigerator with fresh fruits and vegetables. They are continually in the mode of servanthood with love. It wouldn’t matter to them if the home was NOT ready for their return. However, it matters to me. It matters to me that when Daddy arrives, the yard is mowed and the hedges trimmed. It matters to me that the house is spotless, sheets washed, fresh towels laid out. It matters to me that the rock garden is weeded. If the garden were not properly taken care of, then it would appear that I had rejected the gift. That I didn’t care enough to maintain the masterpiece, to continue the good work, whether or not he was right there over my shoulder.
A neighbor and friend from college noticed my fierce garage cleaning out activity after dark the other night as she was driving by. She rolled down her window and commented jokingly: “So, I’m guessing your Dad is coming for a visit? Wouldn’t it be easier if you were always ready? Instead of this gung-ho craziness right before the arrival?”
And the parallel hit me like a ton of bricks. She’s absolutely right. I should ALWAYS be in a state of readiness. Not only for my earthly father, but my Heavenly Father for the return of Jesus. I know when my parents are arriving, I know how much time I have to prepare. But I do NOT know when Jesus will return, so the thought of His return must constantly be on my mind.
“Watch therefore, for you do not know what hour your Lord is coming. But know this, that if the master of the house had known what hour the thief would come, he would have watched and not allowed his house to be broken into. Therefore you also be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect. “ Matthew 24:44I must continue always in my service – my servanthood in love -
“Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.” 1 Corinthians 15:58So that I will be ready to meet Christ at any moment: “Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour in which the Son of Man is coming.” Matthew 25:13As has become the recent norm, my spiritual epiphanies have come as I scrub the shower floor with a toothbrush. And it may sound crazy, but I look forward to the work because when I am quiet, and it is just me listening as I scrub, my mind begins to make connections not easily made when chauffeuring the kids to and from activities. So I am quite content to know that a day of straightening is ahead of me. Because this will be a day when God speaks to me again, as I get ready, for the return….

Hide and Seek and Find

Yesterday, the Pea decided we absolutely had to play ‘hide and go seek’ before I left to run errands. She’s a very literal child, and I knew that one game of hide and go seek, in her mind, would equal an hour’s worth of the game. I was meeting someone, and in a bit of a hurry. I told the Pea to go ahead and start counting and I would hide. I chose the wall (car keys in hand, beside the back door, no less) to be my secret spot. She found me in no time, was happy as a clam, and I went on my merry way.
Despite the fact that I know intellectually that God desires to have a close connection with me, for whatever reason, I often picture our relationship as a “hide and seek” arrangement. But this makes no sense at all! God wants to be found. He tells us – many times with those very words -- over and over again in the Bible that He wants to be found.
Those who seek me diligently find me. Proverbs 8:17As I mentioned previously, I’ve been in a “prophets” kind of reading kick lately:
For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will hear you. You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you, declares the LORD. Jeremiah 29: 11-14I’m not sure why I turn our bond into an Indiana Jones movie. I often act as though I need to scale the pyramid walls to find the clue that will lead me to the next clue where I will use my double secret rose colored glasses to decipher which direction to turn. For whatever reason, my lesson this week from God has been (resoundingly): “I want to be found. I am not hiding from you. I’m in control. I have a plan – and you play a big part in it. So quit creating your own role, and listen to me explain this first section of my great and mighty blueprints – because, honestly, that’s all you can handle right now. If you saw the whole blueprint, it would blow your mind.”Look among the nations! Observe! Be astonished! Wonder! Because I am doing something I your days—You would not believe if you were told. Habakkuk 1:5Which reminds me of a week in the life of a parent. I know our family’s calendar. I can orchestrate the symphony of meals, homework, meetings, appointments, practices that comprise that time period. The kiddos rely on me to guide them from one day to the next. Pick ups, drop offs, bus stops…we concentrate on the present. Things go smoothly when they follow my instructions, things tend to get a little rocky when they go off in their own direction.
A few years ago, at a conference, I heard a speaker talk about how he would begin each morning…and then continue throughout the day, saying, “Lord, reveal yourself to me.” My initial instinct was that this was a surefire way of testing God, and I didn’t want to be a part of that action! Wasn’t that like daring God to show himself? (And in my mind, if we were playing “hide and seek”, why in the world would I want to taunt God?) But recently, it has occurred to me that asking God to reveal himself makes complete and utter sense. Saying – praying- this phrase, IS the very act of seeking God. And, as I’ve discovered, He WANTS to be found. So I’ve begun asking God to reveal Himself to me, every morning, every hour, every moment.
In the morning, O LORD, You will hear my voice; In the morning I will order my prayer to You and eagerly watch. Psalm 5:3And if you’ve been in contact with me, I’ve probably encouraged you to do the same. Because, the crazy – yet completely rational – truth is: God replies. When you ask God to reveal Himself, and then EXPECT to hear from Him, you begin to FIND Him, well…everywhere. And you begin to realize that what you formerly explained away as coincidences, maybe aren’t coincidences at all. But divine interventions, from God revealing Himself to you – the object of His love – because you began to seek Him, and discovered that He isn’t hiding after all.

Ask and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. Matthew 7:7

Highways, Hymns, and Him...

While most folks’ kiddos are listening to the Jonas Brothers (whom I personally adore), The Bug and the Pea prefer John Denver. Also great. Love me some John Denver. But EVERY single time we’re in the car is becoming a bit much as we head into the second year of our adoration. The other day, the Pea pondered, “Mama, Daddy must be a ‘country boy’ because he’s got himself ‘a fine wife’ too, huh?” (Love that child.)
The other day I purchased a new CD. Which is not something I do often. (Let’s just say that I’m still playing Amy Grant cassettes in my 1998 Nissan’s tape player). The newly purchased album includes 30 different contemporary Christian artists singing hymns... a bit jazzed up. And I have fallen head over heels in love with it. I’ve always loved hymns, playing them on the piano (well, hunting for the keys and playing slowly), singing to the girls as lullabies, listening to the stories behind the songs, what the lyricists were personally experiencing when they wrote the haunting words.
I was changing the sheets on our bed Saturday morning, and Take My Life, and Let It Be (Frances R. Havergal 1836-1879) was playing in the background. It’s a fine song, but I’ve never been particularly partial to it. But I gotta tell ya, as I was singing along, the phrases came alive in a way I had never known. In my minds eye the words were written as if a sparkler was tracing the letters in front of me. And they were burning on to my heart in a new way, each phrase a confirmation of things I had experienced/felt/wondered about the week before. “Take my hands and let them move at the IMPULSE of Thy love…” “Take my MOMENTS and my DAYS, Let them flow in CEASELESS praise…” “Take my will and make it Thine, It shall be NO LONGER MINE…” “Take my heart it is THINE OWN, It shall be Thy royal THRONE…” Had never taken too much time to think about the word ‘consecrated.’ But of course! Holy, sacred, sanctified, hallowed, set apart, blessed, revered. (As the villain Gru says in Despicable Me: “Light bulb”!)
I’ve also been struck recently that this journey is not a sprinting process. Much to my chagrin, as I’ve mentioned I’m a “let’s get everything done yesterday!” kind of gal. Let’s just say the word WALK and DAILY appear a lot in the scripture and in hymns. You never hear a verse instructing you to “construct your own plans and then make them happen immediately and then ask God to bless them because you’ve already taken care of everything in your own way…”
I’m learning that it’s a ‘little bit at a time’ kind of instruction. Follow in His leading each moment and then the next instructions will be revealed for the next moment. We have to be dependent on Him DAILY which is why we need to WALK with Him, FOLLOW Him. Two hymns immediately come to mind as I’m pondering this ‘little bit at a time’ direction.
“When we WALK with the Lord, in the LIGHT of His Word, what a glory He sheds on our way!” Trust and Obey (John H. Sammis 1846-1919)
“ALL to Jesus I surrender, ALL to Him I freely give; I will ever love and trust Him, In His presence DAILY live.” I Surrender All (Judson W. Van DeVenter 1855-1939)
I’ve heard an example given of a car traveling down the road on a foggy night. And I must say, I was traveling one evening from Lexington to Owensboro in fog so deep I could barely see my hand in front of my face. I was driving only a few miles per hour as visibility was zero. The car would inch forward and the headlights would only provide enough guidance to see a foot ahead. So I would inch along that foot, and then the lights would reveal the next foot, and I would inch along. I couldn’t see what was ½ mile down the road, I could only see what I absolutely needed to see at that very moment to move forward on the path I needed to travel, without running off the road into a ditch. I had to go slowly, follow the light, a little bit at a time, to stay on the road. Which is a practical metaphor for how I need to trust in the Light (Jesus) as He reveals to me the next few moments of the Road (His Plan for Me) I need to follow in order to reach the intended destination (My Purpose, My Part in His Perfect Plan, My Role in His Glorification).
Or, in the immortal words of John Denver, “Country Road, Take Me Home, To The Place, I Belong…”

Porch-Step-Sitting-Stance

I will take my stand at my watch post and station myself on the tower, and look out to see what He will say to me. Habakkuk 2:1So if you’ve been anywhere near me within the past few weeks, you know I’ve been crazy about Habakkuk. In fact, I’ve probably shared this verse with you via Facebook or e-mail or “snail-mail” letter. It has been so encouraging to me. Generally, I avoid the prophecy books of the Bible like the plague. I skip over them as if they are much too difficult for simple me to understand. The word itself, prophecy, conjures up images (in my mind) of fortune-tellers who lived a long time ago, and what does that have to do with me and two kids and a stack of loaded laundry baskets cascading down my washer? So, as I said, I usually flip past those books and head for something I can sink my teeth into…a meaty chapter of Romans, for example.
My Bible study girls know that this verse stuck out to me. The image of this man, literally standing watch, listening to hear God’s response to his complaint. (Which was, by the way: “God, if you’re so fair… then why are you letting this horribly wicked nation punish this kind-of wicked nation?) The part that I find compelling is not that he is spilling out his accusations and anguish… because my God is big enough to handle all questions and feelings. But the part that gets me, is that there is no doubt in Habakkuk’s mind that God will respond. Habakkuk is so very sure, that he has stationed himself at the town’s guard post so that as soon as God speaks, he will be there to receive the message. He knows instructions are coming, it’s just a matter of God’s time, so Habakkuk is going to wait, to make himself completely available to hear. I LOVE that!
I’ve felt very convicted about my prayer life lately. Oh, I’m great about spilling out my heart’s wishes and others’ needs and my desire to be a servant. But I’m not so great about discerning God’s response as to how He would like me to proceed. I usually pour out my worries, doubts, thanks, praises, confessions, supplications, and then immediately make my own plans. (I’m decidedly a people-pleaser and a fixer and an “I want everything to be done yesterday” kind of gal.) God and I are working on that, on this whole “surrender” gig of placing everything in His very capable hands and then waiting…. listening… praying… immersing myself in the Bible… and then proceeding once I discern His voice.
So, the Bug and the Pea love guests. LOVE them. Few days go by where kiddos from the neighborhood, or school aren’t playing in our house or yard. But it’s not just children my girls love, they love visitors of all kinds. The mail carrier, the paper delivery guy, the pizza delivery boy, grown ups stopping by, relatives passing through town. The Bug and the Pea are porch sitters. When they have advanced notice that someone will be popping over, they station themselves on the porch steps and wait.
It doesn’t matter if we know that Grandma and Granddad just left their house and it will take them a few hours to get here, the Bug and the Pea are stationed and waiting. They don’t want to miss out. They want to be there the very moment the car pulls in the driveway. No doubt in the kids’ minds that Grandma and Granddad will arrive, it’s just a question of when. (Of course this gets a little trickier in the winter time when the girls want to wait on the ice covered porch and I must coerce them into sitting beside the window and only making periodic checks outside in the blistery wind to see if guests are in sight.) And heaven help Grandma and Granddad when the car door opens and they are tackled with hugs and kisses by two very cute, but ornery little girls.
Nevertheless, I’ve decided I want to adopt a porch-step-sitting-stance as I wait upon God to speak. I want to be so certain that He will respond, to me personally, that I will station myself as if on the porch awaiting a guest I know – with certainty- will arrive, it’s just a question of when. And I want to have such a sense of urgency to hear God’s voice, that not even one moment will slip past unaware. And the bit about tackling with hugs? Somehow I think genuine praise and worship equates…

Bug In A Box a.k.a. The Pea's Pit Crew

The doorbell rang and the kids thought for certain a neighbor had stopped by to play. I opened the door in time to see a delivery truck drive away. And, yes…joy of all joys…sitting right there on our doorstep was a package. And not just any package, a perfectly rectangular, brand-spankin’ new box. The Bug and the Pea jumped up and down and reached out to grab the package. (Seriously, when did this pack of wolves invade our home?) When I saw the box was addressed to me, I assumed it was sent “in care of” me…as I am house-sitting. It’s not my birthday, so I opened the box sensing instructions would be inside. Maybe I was to wrap and send as a wedding gift, or deliver a baby gift or something of the sort.
The Bug helped me peel back the packing tape and the Pea took out a huge strip of bubble wrap. Which, thankfully, held the wolves at bay while I investigated further. (And I found a card, and it was a sweet gift just for me from a dear, dear friend, who TOTALLY shouldn’t have gone to the trouble she did and I am absolutely treating the next time we savor Pad Kee Mao.)
The kids plead for immediate ownership of the box. And I pondered. I love saving boxes that will end up housing the world’s most perfect Christmas present. And this was, quite a box, as I’ve mentioned. Nevertheless, the stars in their eyes told me I mustn’t mess with fate and I gave in to their request. The Pea scampered upstairs and brought down her doll baby carriage. The Bug followed behind with a box of Tinker-Toys.
My mind raced back to the days of refrigerator box rocket ships. My brother and I and 8 magic markers. Coloring control panels and monitors and ejector seat buttons on the inside of a giant cardboard tunnel. By the time I turned around, the kids had disassembled the carriage and created a kind of Soap Box Derby Car upholstered with bubble wrap. The Pea was wheeling herself around the dining room table, and the Bug was hunched down ready for a Pit Stop.
And I had to smile.
Because, as some folks say, The More Times Change, The More They Stay The Same…

Window Seat for The Fourth...

Usually we join the crowds and
Set a place between the widest trees.
The card tables overflow with fried chicken and green bean casserole
And brownies and homemade peach ice cream.
Most times it rains,
We always bring umbrellas and folding chairs
In the Red Ryder wagon we pull from our
Parking spot blocks away.
Music that makes me proud to be American
Beside the most ginormous Star Spangled Banner
I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Today the usual music didn’t play,
But I still heard music.
All snuggled up in cotton jammies,
Criss Cross Applesauce on the
Hope Chest beneath the picture window
That became our front row seats for the
Neighborhood’s colorful explosion
Celebrating our baby country.

In Which I Plan To Quell Disputes...

Today I came across a scripture verse I’m committing to memory: “Pursue the things which make peace and the building up of one another.” Romans 14:19. In fact, I taught the verse to the Bug and the Pea who subsequently choreographed hand motions as a way to memorize it. (I plan on having them repeat the verse aloud, in unison, when they’re at each other’s throats, sorely tempted to utter ugly things.)
I’ve decided this shall be my new mantra. If my mind is pursuing things which make peace – then I’m not apt to stir up trouble for the sake of argument. When I concentrate on edifying others, I look for chances to encourage and not tear down with words. When Paul wrote this verse in the Bible, he was speaking to the fellowships of Christian believers in Rome – some with a Gentile heritage and some with a Jewish heritage. He was concerned that the early church – this eclectic bunch of people with extremely different religious backgrounds – become a community of believers so united that the Church itself acted as one fluid body.
He must have sensed potential red flags: if one segment were to become legalistic, this judgment would in essence place the other members in legalistic bondage. Quite the opposite of the gospel’s freedom. Thus the body of Christ could not work fluidly toward the purpose of glorifying God. So Paul stressed acceptance…far above the disputes over what the individuals considered personal convictions regarding non-gospel issues.
Two thousand years later, I can picture this scenario:
Sunday School Member #1: “I brought a casserole to her house after the funeral…and I was looking for foil in the pantry…and I came across a bottle of Chardonay!”
Sunday School Member #2: “What?? White wine? And I thought she was a Christian!” (eye roll)
Sunday School Member #1: “I know! Such a disappointment. We need to put her on our prayer list.”

Perhaps disputes arise (or should I say, especially arise?) concerning the ceremonial practice of sacraments. Take the Lord’s Supper for example. When Jesus broke the bread representing His body broken for us, I don’t recall Him listing an inventory number for the purchase of denomination-specific wafers. Nor do I recollect the brand name of grape juice to be used when remembering His blood shed for us. If discussions occur where we are arguing over the type of “bread” or “wine” that would be most appropriate, I think we’re missing the entire point.
I just can’t believe it was ever His intent for fellowships of believers to divide themselves over interpretations of issues that have little to do with the gospel – the Good News. And just to clarify, the way I interpret the Good News is:
• Jesus loves us and wants us to live abundantly in Him on earth and eternally with God in heaven.
• God is too holy to be near sin.
• Which becomes the ultimate problem for humans: we are all sinners who need to be forgiven.
• God solves this problem by giving us Jesus, who becomes the perfect sacrifice providing us access to forgiveness of sins…and thus access to the Holy Spirit, the Son and God.
• Those who believe in God’s Son, confess their sinfulness/ask for forgiveness and surrender their “old” ways in exchange for Jesus as Master - accept the gift of grace.
All faith, no strings attached. Free gift. We don’t deserve to be forgiven. (Think about it, we don’t.) It’s a gift and you can’t earn a gift, you must accept it. And once you accept it, you can’t help but be changed as a result of the grace. As you become transformed, your old self (the “before Jesus came into your life to lead you” self) doesn’t seem so wondrous after all. Your new self longs to be more like your new Savior. And the Savior is all about LOVE. For everyone. (Yes, even the annoying coworker who shares a cubicle with you and drives you insane. Even the guy who swerved in front of you during rush hour.)
Love and grace define Jesus, the revolutionary, who was and is and is to come. Every move Jesus made was clothed in love. Even when he was shooing the money changers from the temple, Jesus’ anger was motivated by His love for the people of Jerusalem and God, the Father. (John 2:13)
He tells us over and over again to love, share His grace with everyone – friends, family, enemies in our own backyard and beyond, to the lands far from home. Somehow, we find a way to ignore the greatest commands (commands we are told completely sum up the law…) Mark 12:30: You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength…You shall love your neighbor as yourself. We then go directly to a minute detail we have personally felt convicted about, and, as such, have personally appointed ourselves as Lord and judge over our fellow neighbors (often our fellow Christian neighbors.) What would happen if, instead of focusing on judgment, we focused solely on glorifying God? (With every dispute, ask yourself, does this bickering glorify God and work toward His goal of bringing others into the Kingdom of Heaven? Or not?)
For what it’s worth, I believe in acceptance, fellowship, and love of other humans. I am accountable to God. Other Christians are accountable to God, they don’t answer to me. It is certainly not my job to be everyone’s Lord. (Thank goodness.) “So then each of us shall give account of himself to God. Therefore let us not judge one another anymore, but rather resolve this, not to put a stumbling block or a cause to fall in our brother’s way.” Romans 14:12-13 (As a side note, I picture this accountability as God sitting beside a film projector while a film of my life unfolds in front of me…kind of like a “game tape” following an athletic match).
Call me crazy, but it seems as if Jesus talked a whole lot more about love and grace and not so much about hate and judgment. I wonder if He must throw His arms up in frustration after watching Sunday worship services around the world. (I choose this example, thinking most folks at least attempt the appearance of Christ-like behavior when they’re in a church building.) I wonder if He ever confides to His Father, “Daddy, you know I love them, but your children are missing the forest for the trees!”

Ode To A Summer Day

Bowl of cheerios, splash of milk
Spoonful of sugar on top.
Sunday paper, World Cup soccer,
Barefoot trip out back to check the garden
Buzzing flies, and fans and
Is the air cranked high enough?
Shower, sundress, sandals.
Let me brush your hair.
Fine, fine, you do it.
Earrings, Bibles, White car! Load ‘em up!
Country roads past corn and cows and beans
Gravel parking lot, smiling faces
Warm embraces
I love you Lord with all my heart
With all my soul
With all my mind
And with all my strength.
I believe in warm hearts and active hands.
Leftover Thai lunch, downtown library trip
Letter to Lemony Snicket
Sunday rest and a Cormac McCarthy afternoon.
Painting masterpieces with Uncle Dave’s homemade wooden palette.
Chicken on the grill,
Broccoli rice casserole with EXTRA cheese.
American Girl Board Game
Washing clothes, an eternity of dirty dishes.
Sudsy bath, watermelon shampoo hair charades
Giraffe!? Triceratops! No I’m Elvis!
Snuggly blankets, shiny teeth Bible story,
Bedtime.

The Magnetism of Imagination

Kris Kringle: You know what the imagination is?
Susan Walker: Oh, sure. That's when you see things, but they're not really there.
Kris Kringle: Well, that can be caused by other things, too.

There’s a lovely scene in Miracle on 34th Street where Kris Kringle is teaching little Susie Walker the power of the imagination. He describes traveling to a fabulous nation…the Imagi-Nation. For whatever reason, my mind replays that particular grainy black & white film sequence often. Perhaps my subconscious sends this visual reminder constantly because I so constantly become imprisoned by reality. Imprisoned is a harsh word, maybe bound is more appropriate. My reality is wonderful…I’m speaking more about the trivial items that overlap to become the Great Busyness that is the life of wife and mother. The laundry, the dishes, the meals, the bills, the homework, the appointments, the practices and games. When do we lose sight of imagination? That great place where reality blurs and anything is possible. When/why does it begin to fade from a flame to a flicker? In correlation to age perhaps. Does one’s imagination decrease in direct proportion to one’s increase in years?
I propose the age correlation, because many children dwell happily within the great nation of Imagi-Nation. I marvel at the creativity of the Bug and the Pea. Most every moment of every day is not as it appears to the naked eye. What may seem as two little girls sorting seashells may actually be an underwater tea party for mermaids. What may look like a torn shoebox may actually be the habitat for an obscure desert creature. I’m constantly picking up stray washcloths from the kids’ rooms – or should I say baby doll blankets, birds’ nests, Barbie dresses? Pipe cleaners molded in the shape of doll clothes hangers, stuffed animal collars, fishing pole hooks.
During a recent layover, the girls entertained themselves with a single sheet of paper. The Bug discovered a wadded up flier in the bottom of her backpack. The Pea helped her tear apart pieces until they had (they claimed) a kingdom of paper dolls. When it was time to board the flight, the Bug stashed the royalty and subjects into her pocket. Once the kids found their seats, the kingdom magically reappeared on a mountaintop (a.k.a. airline pillow). Dreaming during the daytime – where you can manipulate the outcome.
“Help! I’m hanging upside down from the claws of a dragon in the tippy top room of the castle tower!”
“I’ll save you with my Popsicle stick sword and double secret flying power juice box potion!”
In the Imagi-Nation, you are always right, no matter what. Naysayers scoff: Giraffes DON’T live on clouds! (Well, they do in the Imagi-Nation) You’re NOT the President! (Well, you are in the Imagi-Nation) That’s NOT hot lava seeping in through the ceiling tiles! (Well, you get the picture.)
Perhaps when you’re around children a great deal, parts of a dormant creative mind begin to awaken. In the midst of a play date, you can’t help but be pulled toward the magnetism of the Imagi-Nation. Even as I type, the Court Jester (well, elf) rehearses for the Royal Cat while the Pirate Ballerina challenges Superhero Ladybug to a Dance-Off.
A giant dose of imagination is good for the soul.