fish cheeks

Guess what? I remembered what I wanted to say about fish cheeks.

Did you even know fish had cheeks? I'd never even thought about whether fish had cheeks or not (nor did I care) until the spring of 1982. That's when I discovered fish:

had cheeks

those cheeks are cute

and tender

and romantic

and they can talk. Yes, fish cheeks can talk. You didn't know that? They say a whole lot if you'll but look and listen to them.

The guy I married is a quiet guy. His words are few and getting to know him was a challenge. I think that's why he let his fish cheeks do a lot of the talking for him. They told me things about him he would never have told me himself.

The spring of 1982 found us living in the boonies of Wisconsin, at a small private school that sat nestled on a large lake that was, you guessed it, full of fish. And, the guy I married loves fishing. As a matter of fact, if he could make a living at it, and support a family by it, he'd fish day and night to bring home the bacon. (Or cheeks, if you will.)

So anyway. The school was very picky about the meals served and who prepared them, and who was allowed in the kitchen and when. The only time they relaxed about all that was on Saturday mornings. We were allowed to prepare our own breakfasts then.

Every Saturday morning, while the rest of us were sleeping in, my not-yet husband was out there reeling in...blue gill? I can't remember what kind of fish they were....

Anyhoo, every Saturday morning he'd catch a fish, fry it with an egg, and toast a piece of toast. He wouldn't eat that breakfast though. He'd watch for me and when I walked into the dining room he'd be standing there, smiling, that plate of food warm and ready, waiting for me. He'd motion me to a table, put the plate in front of me, and we'd sit together while I ate.

The first time Mike made breakfast for me I discovered fish had cheeks. I sat down, starving, and looked at my plate. There was the egg, the toast, and the fish. But there also, off by themselves, in a little spot all their own on the plate, sat two tiny, round pieces of fish.

"Um Mike? What are those?" I pointed.

"Those are the fish's cheeks. They are the tastiest part of the fish!" he grinned.

I picked up my fork and stabbed a little cheek with one prong. I put it in my mouth and smiled.

"Oh, you're right. That is amazing!" I couldn't taste the difference between the cheek or any other part of the fish but there was something different about that small piece of meat. It talked to me.

It told me: here is a guy who wants to serve. He is thoughtful, caring, and patient. (You have to be patient to cut around a tiny fish cheek and lift it from the fish's face. You have to be gentle with it so you don't demolish it while you're cutting and lifting and frying it.) It told me this guy thinks about others, not just himself. It told me he had a sense of humor but he knew where to draw the line. (He never once served a fish with the head still attached to its body. He knew I couldn't eat anything that sat there watching me while I ingested it.)

Those two little cheeks were the best part of the fish-they said so much even though they (in all honesty) never said a word.

an interesting day

Yesterday I learned:

-when Italian girls get married they keep their maiden name but when the newlyweds have children their children take on their daddy's last name. ( wish I would've known that 27 years ago. ) (just kidding honey. :-) )

-my son and daughter-in-law are willing to go to great lengths and make many sacrifices for our family and keeping the "ties that bind us" strong.

-The boy I was in this picture with died of cancer about a month ago. (A very sad, sobering thought.)

-I can now sit for about 4 hours without my body protesting. ( a year ago I could only sit for about 19 minutes a day.)

And late last night we were blessed to have a really good, heart-to-heart conversation with our 3rd son. We talked about some of the struggles and misunderstandings we had while we were raising him and what the Lord has been doing in his life and teaching him...the cherry on top was when he told us how much he'd enjoyed talking with us! (for those of you who don't know us, he is "the strong-willed child" in my Living With A Strong Willed Child posts)

stuck between a rock and a sickle

Do you remember the chicken I'm stuck with til death do us part? Well, I'm also stuck with a rock and a sickle. (They may not live with us that long, but for now? For now I'll keep them. They make me smile and shake my head nearly every time I see them.)

I'm not sure if dad was trying to say he loved us and didn't know how, or if he just wanted to de-clutter his yard a bit, but like the chicken, the sickle and the rock were "gifts" he gave us a long time ago.

The rock isn't a rock, now that I think about it. It's actually a large, lumpy ball of cement with smaller blobs of colorful who-knows-what mixed in. It's bigger than a bowling ball and weighs more than a Volkswagen and, just so you can get a very clear picture of what it looks like, we call it The Barf Rock. It lives in the flower bed in front of our house.

The sickle is just an ordinary, antique sickle; wood, metal, dull blade. (is that what you call the part of a sickle that cuts the weeds or harvests the crop? A blade?) Whatever. You get the idea and you now know I have one. Unlike the rock, we've never named the sickle. It has given us permission to hang a wreath on it during the Holidays, but otherwise the sickle just sits there, next to the front door, unadorned and un-named, quietly minding its own business.

I truly don't understand why my dad gave them to us. Even the way he gave them to us puzzles me.

He lived about 6 hours away so we didn't see him very often. One weekend we drove up to his house, spent a couple days visiting and then got ready to head home. My dad waited until we were almost pulling out of the driveway to give us each of those strange gifts.

We had 2 little boys, one still in diapers, when he gave us the rock. The boys were in their car seats, squirming, giggling, yelling, fighting, crying and already asking for drinks of water; the diaper bag was stuffed in the back seat between our sons, along with toys, snacks, and our suitcases. We stood in the driveway hugging dad and discussing when we'd see each other again when suddenly he looked away. Dad pointed down at the rock and said, "There. Take that home with you."

Oooookay. One small hernia later, it too was loaded into the car.

He did the same thing when he gave us the sickle after another weekend visit. He waited til the boys and all our junk were stuffed into the backseat, pointed at it, and said, "There. Take that home with you." My dad wasn't the type of man you could argue with, (especially if you wanted to win) so we didn't try. We shoved the sickle in the trunk and brought it home.

I'm not sure what other dads give their daughters when they want to say, "I love you." And maybe dad wasn't trying to say that at all? Maybe he waited til we were gone, went into his house, poured a glass of lemonade, sat down, put his feet up and said to my step-mother, (with a huge grin) "Well... I just got rid of the rock and the sickle! Feels good, doesn't it?"

The sickle is something I enjoy. I love antiques and that certainly is one. I'm not at all embarrassed by its presence on our front porch. But that rock? The Barf Rock? It's ugly. And it looks like barf. Sometimes I want to hide it, because it does embarrass me, but I just can't. I don't want to forget about it. It was a gift from my dad, no matter how strange.

Maybe, like the chicken, I should make a little sign and put it near the rock:

I am a cement rock that looks like barf. I know that and you know that. Judy wants you to know that while hideous blobs of cement are not her thing, I am. Her dad, for some unknown reason, wanted us to be together. He knew Judy would take good care of me and never let me go. Her dad is gone; he is safely Home, waiting for her to join him someday. In the meantime, she has me to enjoy: a large, ugly ball of cement. I make her smile and shake her head in amused confusion every time she sees me and, I remind her of her dad. I am both a mystery and a hug. She is happy to be stuck with me.

December 22

My dad died today. Oh, not literally. It was literally 9 years ago today.

I was thinking about him when I wrote yesterday's post. Do you know I still miss him? There will always be a hole in my heart that longs for his voice and his hugs and his big, warm, rough hand wrapped around mine. I guess there will always be a little girl hiding inside, needing her daddy.

I could focus on all that. I could really get into it and have a whopper of a pity party. Did you ever see the Lord of the Rings trilogy? For three years after dad died I had an Orc screaming in my heart. Not only was the adult me mourning his leaving, the little girl inside suddenly realized there was no hope of ever, ever having a daddy.

Death and grieving are strange things to me. The hurt is still there and I still miss him. The Orc has finally shut up though, which is nice. I don't miss him one bit. What's strange about death and grief is that for me, in this case, I have so much joy inside and so much to be thankful for even though...

I learned so much from my dad. He was practical, he was wise, he knew how to balance his time and used it wisely, and his faith...his faith was true and deep and everything I want mine to be. How did he get there??

When he found out he had lung cancer he calmly told us about it and calmly asked for prayer. He said, "If the Lord wants to heal me, that'd be great. If not, that's ok. It's up to Him and I'm ready to go home if that's what He wants."

I watched dad as he lived out the next two years. He never seemed to focus on the cancer or the fact that he was probably going to die. He still served, he still encouraged, he still laughed and carved and prayed for people and played games. He found joy in his days and would not allow fear or sorrow to overshadow here and now.

The timing of his death could be called untimely by some. Three days before Christmas; really? I could focus on that and have another wonderful little pity party every. single. year.

I don't though. The timing was sweet to me. His visitation and memorial were surrounded by Christ and Christmas, evergreen wreaths and bright, happy Christmas trees. It's a time of rejoicing and that's what I do when December 22 pops up each year. It is a sad sort-of rejoicing, but it is rejoicing. My dad is safely Home. He spends his days with Jesus now where there is no sorrow, no more tears, no more sin. He finished his race well.

I hope I do.

a tumbleweed

Do you remember the Christmas trees your family had when you were little? Were you allowed to help decorate the tree or was that something that was done after you'd gone to bed?

The Christmas trees we had when I was small were huge, and not just because I wasn't. Our living room was large and mom wanted a tree worthy of the room. She had the most beautiful vintage ornaments to put on the tree, and there were a lot of them. Oh, and bubble lights! Remember those? And tinsel and another string of lights that didn't twinkle-the bulbs were so large they shot bright, happy color out into the room.

I wasn't allowed to touch the ornaments or help put them on the tree. They were too expensive and too delicate for my chubby little fingers to handle. I just remember waking up some December morning, coming down the stairs and there it was: The Tree, sparkling, shiny and smiling; happy to be a part of our family even if only for a few weeks.

The first Christmas mom and I shared after my parents' divorce found us in a completely different circumstance. We were poor, we were living in a tiny "cabin" in the mountains of Colorado, and there was no money or room for a tree of any size at all.

We had found a smallish tumbleweed during one of our drives and had fallen in love with it. Since we were from the Midwest we'd never seen one before, so for us, that tumbleweed was a treasure. We kept it and brought it home as one of our first Colorado souvenirs.

Well, as December rolled around I started thinking about Christmas and presents, all the baking mom used to do and of course, The Tree. We just didn't have room for one. Finally one evening, as mom sat in a chair she spotted our tumbleweed.

"Jude, why don't we use the tumbleweed for a tree?! I'll betcha no one else in the world has ever had a tumbleweed tree!"

So, that's what we did. Mom helped me prop the tumbleweed inside a coffee can. We took rocks and piled them up inside the can so the thing wouldn't fall over and then, much to my joy, mom let me decorate our "tree" all by myself. I found some red yarn and braided it together to make a garland; I carefully draped that over the delicate little twigs of the tumbleweed. Then I took toothpicks and made tiny god's eyes with more yarn and hung those from the branches.

Our little tree didn't have vintage ornaments or bubble lights. It didn't have any lights at all. But that tumbleweed is a tree I still remember and that memory is one I still treasure. My Mom could turn the most dreary circumstance into a happy moment with a cheerful word or two and her optimistic attitude and that's what she did that Christmas. She took what could've been a lonely, depressing moment in time and turned into something special. She made me feel like we were the lucky ones and gave me an irreplaceable memory.

The Day Santa Died

How old were you when you stopped believing in Santa Claus? 7? 9? I wanted to believe in him. I wanted to believe there was someone out there who could make my little girl dreams come true and give me all that my selfish heart desired.

I had good old Santa up there on a pedestal all right. I knew that I knew that I knew he was sweet and kind and good as gold. He never did anything naughty. How could he expect me to live that way if he didn't? That wouldn't be fair.

Unfortunately, I was only 5 when I sadly learned the truth. Santa wasn't magical and he certainly wasn't good as gold. He was our neighbor.

My parents were really good friends with a couple in our neighborhood and like all good friends, they had fun together and sometimes did crazy things for each other.

One Christmas, (the year I was 5) my dad and our neighbor decided to help each other out and have some fun in the process. They rented a Santa suit and took turns using it. My dad put the suit on, hoisted a bag of presents over his shoulder and went to our neighbor's house. He sat in their livingroom ho ho ho-ing and being jolly as he passed out presents to the kids in the family.

Then my dad and our neighbor made the switch. Our neighbor put on the suit and came to our house with a bag of goodies just for me. I remember the moment our doorbell rang. (it never occurred to me that Santa hadn't used the chimney.) My mom and I opened the door together and surprise! Santa was standing there in all his jolly goodness! I was breathless with excitement.

Mom invited him in and told him to sit in our best chair. He plunked his bag of presents down at his feet and invited me to come sit on his lap. Oh how excited I was! I ran over to him, speechless...I was going to sit in Santa's lap? What a wonderful, wonderful day!

I gingerly climbed up onto the chair and sat down on Santa's knee. "Well Judy," he said. "Have you been a good girl?" and then I knew. This wasn't Santa. I didn't know who he was, but I knew he wasn't Santa. It was his breath that gave him away. Santa's breath would smell like cookies and pine trees, snow and crisp new wrapping paper. This guy smelled like he'd spent the earlier part of the evening in the local tavern.

I turned my face away from his so I wouldn't have to smell his boozy breath one second longer than I had to. In sadness I went through the motions; I accepted the presents he gave me and, at my mother's urging I shyly thanked him for each one.

I was sad to see Santa leave that evening-he took my broken dreams with him. However, the sadness didn't last long. I had a pile of new toys to play with and I knew my nose was safe. I would never again have to sit in Santa's lap inhaling the scent of whisky again.

Christmas in Barcelona

As you know, my mom and I didn't always see eye to eye. I'm afraid I've maybe mislead you into thinking that the uglies in our relationship were all her fault. (typical child)

This morning I need to admit that maybe, possibly, I was the cause of some of the squabbles we had. I am sometimes very stubborn about things and now, looking back at my younger self, I'm not sure I was always that teachable. I had life figured out and I knew almost everything. Didn't you?

OK, so now I have a question for you. When you were 3 did you know what you wanted to be when you grew up? I did. I wanted to be a wife and mother. I knew that when I was 10 and I knew that when I was 17. My greatest fear at that point in my life was, what if that dream never comes true? What if Prince Charming takes one look at me at thinks, whoa, my horse is better looking than this girl. I think I'll ride around a few more years....and then he rides off into the sunset, leaving me behind....

My mother knew I wanted to be a wife and mother, but she was also practical. She often warned me, "Judy, marriage is for a very long time. It will come, and you'll be tied down to a house, bills, and responsibilities for the rest of your life. Once you take that step your life will never be the same again. Right now you are free. Take advantage of it. Travel, have adventures, see the world, try new things, meet people and make friends with all of them! Have fun! For now, just enjoy being single."

For some strange reason I actually listened to my mother. A year after I graduated from high school I found myself on a mission trip with Youth With A Mission. There I was, 19 years old, traveling, having the adventure of a lifetime, living in a campground on the Mediterranean Sea. We were just outside Barcelona Spain, but, oh, did I mention it was December? And our temporary home was an unheated trailer? And it was cold? I bet when you think of the Mediterranean you think of balmy beaches, hot sand between your toes, and warm spicy winds gently whispering through your hair.

Well, the only wind we had was an icy one; and, if it happened to be a west wind it was also smelly. The Barcelona sewage system sat right outside the campground. Need I say more?

We spent an entire month living in that campground. I have so, so many memories from that trip... I think I'll save those for another day. This was supposed to be a little Christmas story.

The missionary team I was with was from England, but there were missionary teams from all over Europe staying in the campground-Dutch, German, Sweden.... we would smile at each other in passing, and I saw people I instantly liked, but the language barrier prevented our making friends with each other.

The language barrier didn't stop the Swedes from being friendly though. They managed to give everyone in the entire campground a Christmas gift; for me it was one of the sweetest gifts I've ever been given and one I will never forget.

One morning, while it was still too early to even think about getting up, we were all suddenly awakened by the sound of singing; lovely singing...sweet voices singing beautiful Swedish Christmas carols. We stumbled out of our sleeping bags and opened the trailer door. The whole campground was surrounded in darkness but there, winding their way through the campground, were the girls from the Swedish YWAM team. They were dressed for St. Lucia Day. (come to think of it, maybe it was?) Each girl had a long white dress on, and a bright red sash tied around her waist. And, each one of those girls had an evergreen wreath circling her lovely blond hair. The most stunning part of the whole scene were the lit candles in those wreaths. We stood there, in the darkness, watching those beautiful girls wander through the campground, giving us a gift that required no common language.

It was a moment like no other in my life and one I would've missed if I hadn't listened to my mother.

a picture that's worth a thousand words and fills my heart with a thousand things

I want to show you a picture. It's one of my favorite pictures of our first two sons. (Please, please ignore the outfit #1 is wearing. There is no excuse for it. All I can say is....hm....just ignore it, ok?)

What I want you to notice, and what I want to remember until I'm not around to remember anymore, are their faces. And my oldest son's death grip on his little brother's arm...

Those things are priceless to me. This picture alone, all by itself, fills my heart with so much...never mind. I'm not going to go into all that. I'll be nice and spare you the ponderings of this momma's heart.

What was going on in this picture?

Oh, well, they are just being normal first and second born brothers.

Momma said it's time to come in and eat lunch. Now!! And James, we ARE going to obey her!

(typical first born-wanting to stick to the rules and do what needs doing because it's the right thing to do.)

Listen big brother of mine-YOU can obey momma if that's what you'd like to do. As for me? I'm not budging.

That about sums up their relationship to this day.

I will say this and then I'll let you go: I love where my sons are at and I love who they've become. But there are times where I wish with all, all, all my heart I could go back and kiss those fat little cheeks one more time...

a very expensive shelf

There is no eternal purpose to the story I'm about to tell. It's just a story; a story that stares at me every single day. It's about a bookshelf that fills my heart with laughter, contentment, deep sadness, and a shake of its head. (that is, if a heart had a head to shake)

One day, about 11 years ago, I asked my dad to make a shelf for my cookbooks. I had an ulterior motive for this request-not only did I want a place to stuff my cookbooks, I wanted something from my dad. Something he had made specifically with me in mind. Something I could look at every day and picture his large, warm, rough hands creating.

Well, I got my wish, but it came with a price.

When I asked dad for the shelf he asked for something in return. He wanted a pair of slippers crocheted by his one and only daughter. Okay, thought I. No problem. It's a deal.

So, we set to work; dad went to his workshop, found a beautiful piece of oak, and carefully put together my shelf.

I went to my yarn, found some, and carefully crocheted his slippers. There was only one problem. Dad wore a size 13 shoe. I had no idea how large to make those slippers, but I knew they had to big. As I crocheted, I kept holding them up to my husband's size 10 foot for comparison. I finally decided to make them a couple inches longer than a size 10 and hope for the best. I'd like to tell you now, guestamation isn't a wise idea when you're making slippers for someone. They were not slippers. They ended up looking like small canoes. Dad was sweet enough to say he loved them and he actually wore them.

Okay-so, now fast forward about a year. My dad has lung cancer and is in a literal battle for his life-it was a losing battle.

Early in December of that year I got an email from my dad. He just wanted to say hi and give me an update on how everything was going. He felt fine, had a lot of energy, was still active and busy except for one minor problem-that stupid cast on his foot. I whipped out a reply: Cast on your foot? Dad, what happened to your foot??

Oh, it's not a big deal. Those slippers you made are just a bit too big and I tripped over one, fell, and broke my foot.

Great. Not only is my dad dying of lung cancer, he has to do it with a cast on his foot? Because of me??

Now fast forward to December 21 of that year. I was having a normal, busy day with 4 boys in the house. We were doing school, baking Christmas goodies, crafting and doing all the other normal things a family does as the holidays approach. Suddenly the phone rang. It was one of my brothers.

"Judy, I just wanted to let you know I think...I think dad's dying. He's going fast. If you want to see him before he goes, you better get up here soon."

About 8 hours later my husband and I were at my dad's side. I'm not going to tell you everything about those last few hours with my dad. They were precious, but obviously it was one of the most heart-breaking times in my life. What lightened it up for me was that cast; that silly, stupid cast.

Dad was laying on the bed, not really coherant, but not completely gone yet either. He was literally, carefully balanced between two worlds. Sometimes it seemed as if he was leaving-fluttering away from me....then suddenly that heavy cast would pull his whole leg off the bed and dad would return, growling and grumbling, completely ticked off by the fact that that cast was there, pulling him back, causing pain.

All through that night I sat by dad's side, in the dark, crying, talking to him, praying for him....waiting, watching....and, occasionally soothing his ruffled feathers when that cast would pull his leg off the bed. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get that leg far enough from the edge of the bed to prevent the whole falling thing from happening. Dad was just too heavy for me to move.

I don't know how to tell you this, but each time that cast did its thing, I laughed inside. It wasn't a wicked laugh, or a huge laugh. I just knew that was dad's last little thing he had to go through and it was amazing how annoyed he got each time it happened. He liked to be in control, and no one likes pain...and I know each time it happened it hurt. But his face...he looked like an annoyed little boy and I kept thinking, dad, you're about to be ushered into the prescence of God...eternity is literally here, now, in this room with you, just moments from taking you away....life and all it's everything, including that stupid cast, are almost over for you....

Do you understand why I find the whole cast thing amusing? Or am I warped? I wasn't the one dealing with the pain or the dying. I had a bird's eye view of the situation and, along with the heart break, I had incredible peace about it.

There was one bible verse that came to mind that night:

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. (2 Timothy 4:7)

I just kept thinking wow, my dad is going to be with Jesus any second. He's going to see Jesus, finally and face to face....

Thinking about that put the cast and the pain of a broken bone in perspective for me and I was able to be amused.

So, the story is over but never forgotten. I still have that shelf, and every time I go into the kitchen I see it. I see large, safe, rough, warm hands; I see a man I loved with all my heart going Home; I see a cast on a leg annoying the daylights out of someone, and I see a silly pair of slippers and I laugh, but only inside...along with a few tears...

oh those phone calls....

My daddy was the most important thing in my world when I was small; he was my anchor, my hero, my comforter...I trusted and loved him more than anyone else I knew.

I know I've told you that before, but I love saying it because I love/d him.

All that changed when I was 7 or 8 and my parents divorced. Dad moved to Michigan and I moved to Colorado. From that point on our relationship was sporadic and required actual work to maintain. I was only able to see my dad twice a year-the rest of the time we communicated via letters or his phone calls.

Those phone calls...they were intensely bittersweet and always left me feeling lonely, hungry for more of him. On the other hand, I always felt treasured and missed; I knew he was lonely and hungry for more of me too.

The worst part of each phone call was saying goodbye. At first, when I'd hear his voice on the other end of the line, I was thrilled. My daddy had called me! He'd ask me about school, my friends, what I was doing for fun, and then he'd tell me about his life and what he was up to. After a bit we'd come to the end of the conversation and dad would say, "Well sweetheart, I love you. I miss you. I'll call again soon, but for now let's hang up."

"OK daddy. I love you too. Bye..."

Silence. Neither one of us hanging up.

"Judy, are you still there?"

"Yes daddy."

"Sweetheart, we need to hang up now, so hang up the phone."

"OK daddy. I love you..."

Silence. Neither one of us wanting to end the delicate connection we had.

"Judy, why don't you hang up?"

"Because I miss you daddy...."

"OK sweetie. Let's hang up together. I'll count. 1, 2, 3..."

and then I'd hang up. I wouldn't leave the phone for a long time though. I'd sit there, staring at it, waiting, wondering if he had actually hung up. Was he still there, on the other end of the line, hoping to hear my voice telling him I love him? Telling him more than I already had? Was he longing for those tiny phone wires to keep me there, in the room with him, as close as we could be under the circumstances? Sometimes I'd doubt his love, and would wonder, did his heart hurt like mine did, or was he off and running, on to the next thing?

I'd sit there, staring at the phone, aching to hear his deep, comforting voice cradling me, making me feel loved and safe....so thankful he'd called, relieved to know he still loved me, regardless of our circumstances.

There are so many spiritual parallels here...so many. A Father's love, a deep connection, sin severing that, work that brings it back, work that maintains it, doubt, time spent together that heals it....

I think, if this were my last blog post...if I never put my fingers on a keyboard again, my last words to you would be Romans 8: 38-39. Unlike my dad's availability, God is always, always, always available. We can talk to Him and pour out our hearts to Him incessantly. (I think He'd actually enjoy that.) His love is constant and there's no reason to ever doubt it.

I used those 2 verses yesterday when I wrote, but they are perfect for today as well and I pray you would get it. I pray I would get it...

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all of creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

(not even severed phone lines...)

A Bit of Blue Yarn

Have you ever heard the question: Why is it old people remember all kinds of stories but they can never remember how many times they've told them?

That's one reason I blog. My family has heard the same stories spilled out of my heart so often they can finish telling them before I do. Whereas here? I could write the same tale every day and no one could do a thing about it. (Well, you could walk away from your computer, but I wouldn't know that, would I?)

So now I have what could be the grandmommy (as opposed to granddaddy) of all sob stories and you get to hear it for (what I think) will be the first time.

When I was very small I had a toy box. It was filled with typical little girl belongings: baby dolls, baby doll paraphernalia, a little iron that actually plugged in and warmed up... I loved the toys inside, but the box was a treasure as well. It was white and big and had a padded lid so you could sit on it without getting an achy bum. Not only that, but Cinderella and her pumpkinny coach decorated the front of the box; I could tell by looking at her face that Prince Charming wasn't too far away.

As you probably know by now, when I was 7 or 8 my parents divorced and sold our home. Mom decided she and I would move to Colorado to be near my oldest brother. She sent me ahead so I could start school out there while she stayed behind to pack up the house.

It was months and months later when we finally found a little place to call home. When we did unpack our belongings I discovered most of my toys and books were gone. I had 2 books and 1 baby doll left to call my own. Okay...I don't remember asking my mom about the toy box or the toys. They just weren't there.

About a year later we went back to Illinois to visit my aunt. While she and my mom were chatting over coffee I explored her home. I walked into the door of her guest room and there, in all her glittery beauty, sat Cinderella, smiling at me from the front of my toy box. Not only that, but all my toys and books were still inside.

I stormed into the kitchen feeling quite hurt and angry. Why are my toys here?! I want them back! They are mine and they are coming back to Colorado with me!

For some strange reason, mom remained silent. It was my aunt who did the talking. She told me mom had given her the toy box and toys so my cousins would have something to play with whenever they came to visit her. Auntie said the toys belonged to her now and I couldn't have them. I looked at her face and knew she meant business. But oh how I wanted my toys. They represented so much more than mere entertainment to me. They were from a time when life was happy and safe and my family was whole. I wanted them back as a reminder of those times.

For the next two days a battle of wills ensued. Aunt Birdie and I went round and round, back and forth and up and down over those toys. I finally realized she had years of experience in being mule headed-I was a novice by comparison. At last I settled on one doll. A light blue yarn doll with a sweet face and yellow suspenders. I spent nearly every waking moment begging, pleading and trying to manipulate my aunt into letting me have her. She had originally been mine after all. This. Was. Not. Fair.

Just as we were loading up the car to head west, my aunt relented. She had a strange gleam in her eye, but she finally gave in. She let me take that doll. I knew in my heart I had won a battle, but she'd won the war. I didn't care. I had a tiny piece of home to carry with me; I still have that doll and I still treasure her.

When I look at her I see so very many things. I see my aunt and her childish desire for victory over a little girl she was supposed to love. I often wonder what hurts hardened her heart and closed it off to compassion and affection...I wish now I could hug her and let her know it's ok to be soft. We aren't wounded every time we're vulnerable.

I see my childhood and all those sweet, happy little girl dreams and memories; that's all they are now-sweet memories. God has taught me that it's only in my friendship with Him that my heart will truly be filled. I don't need things to feel whole.

I see a mom, broken, hurt, filled with despair. I know why she gave away so much. I've been there too.

Finally I see triumph. I duked it out with an adult and won a skirmish. Maybe that's why I'm tenacious to this day? I tasted victory and it was sweet.

just reflecting....

A year ago my back blew up. No, not the whole thing-just one tiny piece. But that was enough for me. If my life has a check list of things for me to go through before I'm called home, "horrible" has now been checked off... I hope.

While the pain I felt was the scariest, worst experience I could ever imagine happening to me, things that have happened since then have made that time almost worth it.

In the first place, I saw just how deeply and truly my husband and sons love me. They went above and beyond the call of duty to take care of me and let me know they'd actually lay down their lives for me. It's been a humbling year in that regard and I feel as if I don't deserve them.

Because I was pretty much an invalid for 10 months the computer has become a blessing and a curse. I'm now addicted to it, but also incredibly thankful for it. The best part has been finding old friends on facebook and getting reacquainted with them and making new friends there as well.

I've done a lot of whining and fretting in the last year...wondering if I'll ever be as normal as I ever was before. (whatever that means) I was literally forced to S.T.O.P. for 10 months and that's not something I do easily. I like to function and when I couldn't I felt like, " Just dump me overboard. I'm no longer a productive member of society." On the other hand, I've been strangely thankful for this time. How many people are given the gift of being able to step out of the picture and just laze around for almost a year? The stresses that normally invade my head were invisible because I was so focused on pain and healing-nothing else mattered. So, depending on how you look at it, this was a deeply refreshing year.

I learned that I'm not as important as I thought I was. The earth went on spinning and the seasons came and went, people went about their business and life went on as usual-all without my help. This is a good thing to discover. Really, it is. God is God and He can manage things perfectly whether I'm up and running or not. My faith has deepened because of this experience. That alone does make it worth it.

I'm sure there are other things I've learned and more blessings I'll discover as I slowly creep away from this year. Sometimes we need a bird's eye view of an experience to see what God was up to. Sometimes, unfortunately, He never tells us. Even if this is all I ever see, it's enough.

I do have one more thing to add, just to keep it real. Over the last year I've often felt like I had a big target on my head. I wanted to borrow Frodo's elven cloak and hide under it until God "forgot" all about me. The only thing is, God didn't forget about me. He crawled right in there under the cloak with me, put His arms around me and held me through it. Sometimes it didn't feel that way but it's true. I can see it now.

A Moment in Time

As I sit here in my tiny house in the middle of the midwest, I sometimes think about the history of the world. Wouldn't it be great to have a bird's eye view of history? I'd love to see a slide show of all the wonderful, horrible, amazing events that have rocked the planet; you know, things like:

the signing of the declaration
watching Lewis and Clark reach the Pacific
seeing people's faces as the Berlin Wall came down
or the second all those soldiers toppled out of the Trojan Horse

It would've been heart-breaking to see the Jews finally freed from Hitler's concentration camps, but I think a part of me would've liked to have been there.

However, there is another moment in history I'd like to have seen. This one maybe more than most.

My dad was a soldier in WWll. Sometimes, during our family reunions, my dad would sit and talk about the war. He'd talk about the near misses he'd had, the challenges he faced, the heart break, the fear, and the things he'd done. I only know this because others in the family have hinted at those stories. I missed every single one of those talks. Not because I wasn't at the family reunions. No, I was there. I was just busy with 3 little boys; bathing them, brushing their teeth, nursing them, changing their diapers, wrestling them to bed. I was having my own private little battles so I missed out on the big one.

There was one time, and only one time, in the whole of my life that my dad talked to me about WWll. It was one hour I will never forget because it was just me and my dad, walking alone through the countryside- he opened up his heart and let me see some of it. He talked about shell shock, and again, those near misses and the fear. But the one moment I would've loved to have seen was when he and friends walked through France at the close of the war. As they walked through all the little towns and villages women and children were there, waiting for them. Those people were so happy to see the Allies...so thankful. They wept, they hugged the soldiers as they passed by; they threw flowers at their feet and pressed candy into their hands.

Wouldn't you have loved to have seen your dad, a young man who'd gone through hell, at that moment? Knowing that what he'd gone through and suffered had meant the world to so many people? Wouldn't you have loved to have seen the look on his face? Can you imagine what must have been going on in his mind?

Of course, if I would've been there I wouldn't be his daughter. I would've missed out on so many other moments in time I did experience with him. Moments that I will never forget and wouldn't give up for anything, not even WWll.

11 Things I Will Never Forget

1. Crawling in bed with my parents when I was little and laying my head on my daddy's chest. I could hear the steady rhythm of his heart beating and feel the warmth of him being there, alive and protecting me.

2. Finding a huge, dead, petrified toad in the corner of our closet behind my shoes. Thanks guys.

3. The day my husband burglarized something for me.

4. The last words my dad ever spoke to me.

5. The way our sons treated me on their wedding days.

6. The first time my husband kissed me.

7. Seeing my husband take an antique weed whacker to lop off a chicken's head, thus freeing our sons to play outside again without fear. :-)

8. Discovering I can be gut wrenchingly honest with God and He still loves me.

9. My 3rd son's incredible, amazing, whacky sense of humor. Sometimes he makes me laugh until I can hardly stand up.

10. Coffee dates with my best friend.

11. The moment our 4th son was born. He was born at home in a kiddie swimming pool in the middle of our livingroom. Quite the experience!

Sometimes Something Little Can Be Quite Big

After my parents' divorce was final my dad had visitation rights-2 weeks at Christmas and 2 weeks every summer. So, every Christmas, and every summer my mom would put me on a plane and I'd fly from Denver to Michigan to see him. At Christmas time there was too much going on for dad and I to have any time alone. It seemed like there was too much going on in the summer as well, but he did manage to squeeze a little time out for the 2 of us during those summer visits.
At some point during my 2 week stay dad would say, "Come on, Jude, let's go for a boat ride."
We'd climb into his row boat and he'd row around the lake for a little while. Then he'd stop rowing and look at me. "How are you?" he'd ask.
"Fine."
"Is there anything you need or want to talk to me about?"
"No."
He'd looked slightly relieved and we'd row home.
Well, way back in 2002 we had a family reunion at my dad's house and guess what? Early in the afternoon he strolls up to me and says, "Come on Jude, let's go for a boat ride." I was 41 years old and really didn't think I needed a boat ride in order to talk to him. But, apparently he did.
We climbed into the boat and he rowed around and then out to the middle of the lake. He stopped, looked down, sighed, then said sadly,
"I have floaters."

It took me so off guard I nearly spluttered. Well that isn't what I was expecting....

"I'm sorry dad....."
"That's ok. I just wanted to tell you...."

and we rowed home. It was such a sweet, vulnerable thing for him to do and it meant so much to me that he took the time to tell me. Of course, I can think of hundreds of things I would've rather heard, but I knew what he wasn't telling me. I love you. I trust you. I need you....
At least that's how I took it. :-)

A Teacher From the Git-Go

When I was a very little girl one of my favorite things to do was go dumpster diving. But, I didn't want to just dive into any old dumpster. Nope. It had to be our school dumpsters. Every year, after classes had been dismissed for the final time, the teachers would clean out their classrooms, their desks, their bookshelves and their closets. And that's when my fun would begin.

I'd wait until they were done with their spring cleaning then I'd climb into each school dumpster and oh the joy! Math books no longer needed. Crayons that smelled like colorful winter days when the playground was too cold to enjoy. Half empty bottles of glue. Wide lined paper we'd used to practice writing Aa Aa Aa Bb Bb... beautiful, shiny little scissors still alive, ready and willing to be put to work. Reading books full of wonderful stories...

I'd lug as many of those school supplies as I could carry home to our basement and put them on a little table we had set up down there. Then I'd go round up my friends and ask them if they wanted to play. Since it was summer time, and hot, we'd naturally gravitate to the coolest places we could find-quite often our basement was the place. I'd be so excited to have my friends over. So excited that they wanted to play! We'd sit there and talk, trying to decide what to do.

"Let's play school!" I'd enthusiastically suggest.

Is it any wonder we'd end up back outside in the heat? They were such a boring lot of kids. What was wrong with them? Why oh why didn't they want to do more math or practice their handwriting? Why didn't they want to read outloud to the rest of us?

I think that's what clinched my decision to be a momma. If I had babies of my own, they'd have to stay in the cool, quiet basement and do school if I said so.

I Love You

Jimmy turned 12 just a few days before I made my entrance into the world. He was a wonderful big brother. Patient, sweet, quiet, gentle, a good listener. I felt safe with him. So unconditionally accepted. He would cheerfully give up other things to stay home and babysit his little sister.

I have very few concrete memories of him. I know he had curly hair and I think he had green eyes. He wasn't a very big person, at least on the outside. His heart and mind were of the deep and pondering sort. He loved to read and think and reflect. Even as a small girl those qualities made Jimmy huge to me.

My parents divorced when I was 7. I lost a lot of things when that happened. Our "family" was gone. Our traditions. Our closeness. Our laughter....
My dad remarried and started a new family.
In some ways my mom was gone too. She seemed to crawl inside herself to find safety.
We moved to Colorado shortly after The Divorce. So, there went my home, my friends, my school, the familiar neighborhood.
I was a "freak", (not the hippy-kind, just strange) when we settled out west. I was the only child whose parents were divorced. I actually had things called "half-brothers" and "step-brothers". I was the first one around to be a latch-key child. The kids in school had no clue what to do with me.

For a brief time, around this time, Jimmy was in the navy. When it was over, he too joined the ranks of lost people, searching for hope and purpose in LSD, marijuana and I-don't-know-what-all-else because I was thankfully too young to follow that trail.

Sometimes Jimmy would show up for a visit. Every time he came he would bring me a present. One time he brought a chess set and then sat with me every evening trying to teach me how to play. During another visit he brought a huge handful of plastic bead necklaces he'd picked up at a mardi gras parade in New Orleans. Once he arrived with a beautiful music box that made me feel grown-up and pretty.
I think the gift I really liked, more than all the others, was a book called The Phantom Tollbooth.

I still remember the moment he gave it to me. He had just arrived home and as he walked in the door he grinned and said, "Hey Jude! Here. I brought you a book. Where's Ma?" And that was that. It was said very casually, but the look and the book said, "I love you. There's more to life than what you're experiencing right now. Some of it is in the world of books..." That story, and the fact that Jimmy gave it to me, somehow made me feel like "Life does go on. It will be OK."

I was such a mess at the time. My heart was full of confusion, anger, bitterness, loneliness, and rejection. Jimmy didn't know Jesus. He was confused, lonely and angry too. But he never projected those things onto me. He loved me unconditionally and like I said before, I felt safe with him. I was not a "freak" to Jimmy. I was his little sister and he accepted me for where I was at and who I was.

Jimmy came for one of his fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants visits when I was 12. He stayed with my mom and me for a week or two and then left. I don't remember saying goodbye. I don't remember our final hug or watching him ride off on his Harley. I just remember a few months later the phone rang. The police in Florida were calling my mom to tell her Jimmy was dead. He'd been in an accident with a drunk driver.

That moment obviously changed my life once again. I learned that not only do people divorce, move away, run away, start new lives...sometimes they just Go Away and Never. Come. Back.

For years and years I wished I could remember my final words to Jimmy. Did I ever thank him for the gifts He'd brought me? The little presents that had told me his heart had carried his little sister with him wherever he'd gone? Did he know how much I adored him? Did he die knowing I felt safe when he was with me? As he'd walked out the door that final time, had I shouted, " I love you Jimmy!"?

I have no idea whether my brother came to know and love Jesus before he died. My heart hurts whenever I think about it. Just because he was a "good" person, and a wonderful big brother does not mean his salvation was secure.

One thing I do know is that I have a different perspective on scripture than others might. Is it any wonder God tells us to make things right with people immediately?
To forgive an offense this minute? It's not strange that He tells us to love others from the heart because love covers a multitude of sins.

I think He tells us those things because He is a Holy God. He is pure, and perfect and just.

However, I also think He tells us those things because He alone knows how many more minutes our friends and loved ones are going to walk the earth. He knows our hearts and He knows the regret we would feel if someone should walk out the door, never to return, carrying our anger. Carrying our resentment or perhaps a wound we inflicted. He knows the heartache we would feel if the words, "I love you" went unsaid and we had to carry that memory to our own End.


The Lord is gracious and righteous; our God is full of compassion...
Psalm 116:5

24 Years and Counting

On August 4, 1984 two kids got married. Here's their story to date:

We are from New Mexico and Chicago
meeting in the middle;
from a girl afraid of marriage
and a very patient boy.

We’re from “I am afraid to trust.”
and “I. Won’t. Leave. You.”
From "Don't trust men." and
"When your husband buys new underwear it means he's having an affair."

We are from years of pulling hard to make ends meet
and at least 2 babies waiting for us in heaven.
(Are they our daughters?)
From a girl who couldn’t cook,
furniture lovingly built by a patient man,
and whisker-roughened kisses on my not-so-whiskered cheeks.

We’re from a house full of boys, camo, dirt, sweat, and noise;
from gallons of Tide Laundry Soap,
mountains of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,
and Haines socks X 5.
We've lived through financial stresses,
a concussion, car problems,
emergency surgery, stitches, strange and numerous pets,
and 4 pregnancies.

We’re from fishing trips on hot, sweaty days,
camping trips where we thought we’d freeze to death
and hiking nearly every weekend every fall.

There are few traditions in our household
but love and laughter
still bounce around the rooms.

We are from
wrestling with daddy and hugging mom;
from a man who taught his sons to be gentle with
the only female in the house
and to treat her with respect.

We're from wondering if we've put too much into "them"
and not enough into "us".
By God's grace we've survived and our marriage has thrived.
I've had to learn how to respect him and he's learned to listen:
She doesn't always want things fixed?

We are from mistakes, bumbling along, prayer,
forgiveness, and determination.
The road has been filled with all the usual stuff:
joys, heartaches, stress, weariness, surprises, and
blessings beyond count.

Even though at times we drive each other crazy,
we're happy to be stuck with each other.

(This is my 3rd or 4th "Where I'm From" poem. See the December 10,2007 post if you're interested in trying one for yourself. For some reason I cannot remember how to "link" tonight and I'm too tired to try and figure it out.:-) )

The Good of A Mother

My mother was an interesting person, and that's putting it mildly. Complex, funny, simple, wise, foolish, intense, giving, needful, controlling, and whatever the opposite of "controlling" would be....those are all words that come to mind when I think about her. Having a child-mother raise me has complicated my own mothering; everything I say and do and think as a mother has to be sifted and sorted to weed out anything unhealthy that might stem from hurts or bad example or.....
However, I don't want to focus on those things tonight, on Mother's Day Eve. (Hey! Did I just create a new holiday for mothers around the world? If we were smart we could really stretch this holiday out! Ladies, we'll have to work on that one. We have Christmas Eve, New Year's Eve, and now, Ta Da! Mother's Day Eve. Hmmmm...)
Anyway, I digress. There were many things my mom did right. One year for Mother's Day I made a list of everything I could possibly think of that I loved or appreciated about her. I cut the list up into tiny strips and rolled each thing up into a tiny "scroll". I then stuffed a quart size canning jar with those little scrolls and told my mom they were her "One-A-Days". She could only read one a day for however long they lasted.
Just in case you're wondering, I thought I'd share some of those things with you.

-She always told me, "Say yes to your kids whenever you can. Life is long and hard and will be full of "no's". Give them yeses every chance you get."
-She was a great cook! I've posted her spaghetti sauce recipe, but she also made the best chocolate chip cookies and bread I've ever had.
-She was adventurous. Always willing to try something new, or go somewhere new or even discuss something she knew nothing about just so she could learn something new.
-She set me free to try my wings. She encouraged me to "go for it" and not be afraid of trying new things. She encouraged me to make life rich with experiences and memories.
-She didn't try to pit me against my dad or be bitter toward him after my parents divorced.
-She never let go of her dreams. I think it took her 3 tries before she was able to pass the test that would give her a Real Estate License. She just kept plugging away at it until she did it.
-She taught me to slow down and appreciate the beauty of the mountains, a sunset, a bug on a leaf, or the way trees grew twisted and curled by the constant mountain winds.
-She was spontaneous and always up for a walk, a ride, or a Hot-Fudge Sundae at McDonald's.
-She was willing to love and accept everyone she met, no matter what they believed or what their lifestyle was.
-She taught me to appreciate and love music.
-She could make anyplace feel like home.
-She was an optimist.
-She was willing to laugh at herself and not take life so seriously.
-She had a never ending sense of humor and laughed often.
-She continually tried to learn new things.
-On my 16th birthday she took me to get my driver's license, then handed me her check book and a credit card. She showed me what they were for and how to use them and never looked back. In other words, she treated me like a responsible young adult and expected me to live up to her expectations. She trusted me.

Like I said, my mother was complex, hard to understand, and sometimes hard to live with. I do wish I could sit with her tonight and hug her. I would like to thank her once again for doing her best. In many ways she was more a friend than a parent, but I did learn a lot from that "friendship" and I'm thankful for it.

Now You Know Why I Yam the Way I Yam

My dad was born in 1924. He grew up an only child. He had a very event-filled life that included divorced parents, going to live with his grandmother when he was a young boy, serving in the military in WWII, being shot in the foot in a hunting accident, and raising 6 sons.
One day when he was in his 50's his dad called him.
"Frank, are you busy?"

"Not particularly. What do you need Dad?"

" I need you to go to a funeral with me this afternoon."

"Sure thing, Dad. Whose funeral is it?"

"Well, uh, that's the thing. It's your brother's."

"My brother's? I don't have a brother."

"Yes, actually you do. He's been living in an institution all his life because he was crazy and he died. Will you go with me to his funeral?"


True story. I didn't tell Mike about this until after we were married.