Here is a portion of a devotional from my book, Heaven Help Mom.
In the story, Ed is a preschooler and has just lost his dog. Enjoy the
story fragment.
"Together, we went to church in our grieving mood without the Merry in Christmas. After sharing his grief with others and appearing as a sad angel, Ed found enough peace to involuntarily fall asleep. I viewed his peaceful and sad portrayal of an angel much the same as our lives. Sometimes it is sad, sometimes merry, but through it all God is there to provide us some peace. That little angel asleep in the pew reminded me of the gift that we were given with the birth and death of the Prince of Peace.
Ed woke up early Christmas morning and was particularly thrilled with receiving a calculator that looked like a brown dog. I hesitated including it under the tree because I feared it would start the tears flowing and the sadness would resurface. Ed said, "I was given this so that I can play with it and remember all the fun times I played with Brownie." It seems Ed was given peace by receiving a gift that reminded him of love. Peace and love; the message for any Christmas to become Merry."
Monday, December 17, 2007
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
A Picture Tells a Thousand Words
Our family is planning a wedding for December. Stacks of family photos are being reviewed for possible inclusion in a video for the reception. The photos tell the story of life without the use of words. Most could fall into the category of a “Kodak Moment.” One photo that has been selected seems to be one of those moments captured on film that falls into the category, “oops, why did you take that photo of me looking like that?”
It is photo of Dad in a worn green terry cloth holey bathrobe while his young daughter
anticipates his opening her gift.
The robe was a regular part of his every morning and evening wear, including his attire for every Christmas morning. I’m not sure that if Dad were still alive he’d be thrilled to appear on screen in his less- than- luxurious robe to be viewed by the fancy dressed wedding attendees. Still, it is a chosen photo. This attire was as dependable as the love he gave his family. It was as comfortable and reassuring as the hugs he gave. The holes were mostly overlooked. They were mended and reappeared, much like family member flaws. Sometimes they were joked about, just as we used laughter to patch up complex moments. Perhaps the photos will bring additional laughs at the reception. Most likely it will be viewed with the understanding of the comforts of family.
It is photo of Dad in a worn green terry cloth holey bathrobe while his young daughter
anticipates his opening her gift.
The robe was a regular part of his every morning and evening wear, including his attire for every Christmas morning. I’m not sure that if Dad were still alive he’d be thrilled to appear on screen in his less- than- luxurious robe to be viewed by the fancy dressed wedding attendees. Still, it is a chosen photo. This attire was as dependable as the love he gave his family. It was as comfortable and reassuring as the hugs he gave. The holes were mostly overlooked. They were mended and reappeared, much like family member flaws. Sometimes they were joked about, just as we used laughter to patch up complex moments. Perhaps the photos will bring additional laughs at the reception. Most likely it will be viewed with the understanding of the comforts of family.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Color My World
I'd like to share an excerpt from my new book, Heaven Help Mom and Maybe the Kids Will Help. Previous to this excerpt, the story recounts my son's first day of kindergarten. All the children were given a page with the outline of a bear and were told to color it as they wished. Here is the ending to that story:
To my surprise, he handed me a picture of a bear that was colored every available color from the crayon box. I wasn't sure what to say other than it was beautiful. To myself I was thinking, "What was he thinking? Bears are not rainbows."
Before I could get too deep into analyzing his or my thought processes he came close to me and whispered in my ear, "Isn't it beautiful? All the other kids colored theirs a boring brown or black. No creativity! Mine was the most beautiful. It's a patchwork bear!"
As I sat staring at the bear and tossing glances at his proud face, I could only think that God had some creative future in store for this little person.
What some could perceive as unusual, he perceived as beautiful. Imagine if God made only one beautiful creation. Roses and violets would look the same and DaVinci and Picasso would paint the same bear the same way. It is a gift to see beauty in differing ways.
To my surprise, he handed me a picture of a bear that was colored every available color from the crayon box. I wasn't sure what to say other than it was beautiful. To myself I was thinking, "What was he thinking? Bears are not rainbows."
Before I could get too deep into analyzing his or my thought processes he came close to me and whispered in my ear, "Isn't it beautiful? All the other kids colored theirs a boring brown or black. No creativity! Mine was the most beautiful. It's a patchwork bear!"
As I sat staring at the bear and tossing glances at his proud face, I could only think that God had some creative future in store for this little person.
What some could perceive as unusual, he perceived as beautiful. Imagine if God made only one beautiful creation. Roses and violets would look the same and DaVinci and Picasso would paint the same bear the same way. It is a gift to see beauty in differing ways.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Taking Care of Business
The phone company and I have always had an adversarial relationship. For years, if it rained, the chances that I would be without a phone were the odds that any betting person would like. When I called to report the outage it was always the same. They would tell me that they would send someone out to check the inside lines and if there wasn’t a problem someone would come out to check the outside lines. The problem was that it was always the outside lines and always when it rained. Sending someone out to explore the inside lines, just delayed resolving the problem. This repetitive, unproductive exchange and resolution to the problem always left me frustrated. Just thinking about calling the phone company made my blood pressure rise.
When we moved, I left the problem behind, but I have always carried with the frustrations of dealing with company policies regardless of whether they make sense or not. I have carried with me the memories of dealing with people who sound like they are reading from a script.
After years of not having to deal with the phone company, I again found myself dreading the call I needed to make to address my cell phone problem. I anticipated similar unpleasant experiences of the past. Instead, I found myself talking to someone who genuinely wanted to help me solve my phone issues. He even went beyond what I called about, to make sure that a similar problem wouldn’t happen in the future. I commented on his helpfulness and he said he was raised in a small town where everyone new everyone and no one could get away with actions without the whole town knowing. It left him with the philosophy that you should treat others the way you want to be treated. If you don’t, you’ll know it, but there’s a good likelihood others will as well. Life just is a lot simpler if you treat others with kindness and respect. There are many commercials that enhance the “stay connected” aspect of phone and internet services. It seems this representative has a more effective motto. “Courtesy is the shortest distance between two people.”
When we moved, I left the problem behind, but I have always carried with the frustrations of dealing with company policies regardless of whether they make sense or not. I have carried with me the memories of dealing with people who sound like they are reading from a script.
After years of not having to deal with the phone company, I again found myself dreading the call I needed to make to address my cell phone problem. I anticipated similar unpleasant experiences of the past. Instead, I found myself talking to someone who genuinely wanted to help me solve my phone issues. He even went beyond what I called about, to make sure that a similar problem wouldn’t happen in the future. I commented on his helpfulness and he said he was raised in a small town where everyone new everyone and no one could get away with actions without the whole town knowing. It left him with the philosophy that you should treat others the way you want to be treated. If you don’t, you’ll know it, but there’s a good likelihood others will as well. Life just is a lot simpler if you treat others with kindness and respect. There are many commercials that enhance the “stay connected” aspect of phone and internet services. It seems this representative has a more effective motto. “Courtesy is the shortest distance between two people.”
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Superstitions
If this Friday the Thirteenth lived up to its dreaded reputation, here are some hints to impove your day the next time this calendar date appears.
- Don't sing before breakfast, or you will cry before the night.
- Don't kill any spiders; it brings bad luck
- Carry a rabbit's foot with you.
- Find a four-leaf clover
- Make a wish while crossing a bridge
- Cross your fingers and wish for a good day. It should come true.
- Find a pin or a penny and pick it up.
- Find bubbles in your coffee for needed luck. To insure success, drink a lot of coffee.
If, after all these suggestions, you are still fearful of the next Friday the Thirteenth, my advise is to relax. I got married on the Thirteenth. It's true that my husband-to-be got out of the hospital two hours before the wedding and the honeymoon hotel over booked leaving us without a room, but our marriage lasted thirty-two years. I call that luck.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
His Hands were Huge
I remember looking at my Dad when I was young and thinking how big he was. I remember the warm and vast secure grip of his hand in mine as we walked to the town park. He towered above me and his strong arms and hands soon pushed me on the swing to heights I’d never experienced. Those same hands later balanced me on my two wheel bike and guided me down the sidewalk, releasing me to perfect balance and success on the path. His strong arms guided me down the aisle on my wedding day. Just as he released me on the swing to new heights, he released me to new choices and new experiences as a married woman.
Now, when I see a dad and his child walking together, I wonder if the child thinks of Dad as one of the biggest people he or she knows. In reality, my dad wasn’t all that big, but I will always think of him as bigger than life-size. It was his loving grip on my life that made him seem like a warm loving giant in a fairytale that cared and protected. I hope the children, I see, will be as fortunate as I and experience a warm, large, and secure grip on their life as they grow.
Now, when I see a dad and his child walking together, I wonder if the child thinks of Dad as one of the biggest people he or she knows. In reality, my dad wasn’t all that big, but I will always think of him as bigger than life-size. It was his loving grip on my life that made him seem like a warm loving giant in a fairytale that cared and protected. I hope the children, I see, will be as fortunate as I and experience a warm, large, and secure grip on their life as they grow.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Define Beauty
Having a baby girl was no less or more of a blessing than having a son eight years prior. It was just different. How much fun it would be to dress a little girl in pink and frills. Having a delicate little girl would be different.
I suppose the kicking, while carrying her, should have been the first indication that a lack of delicacy existed. This girl could be a place kicker for a major football team. A fact further confirmed when at two months old she kicked so hard that a stray string in her sleeper wound so tight around her toe that only a doctor could remove it. It was one of those times when, as a mother, one feels totally inadequate for the job. In my defense, I did all the appropriate things when her not so tiny and not so delicate crying persisted. I tried feeding her, checked her diaper, and a myriad of other tactics. Who would think that her crying had to do with the pains of fashion. It was the last time she wore a sleeper, but not the last time that she dictated what she would wear.
At two years old her favorite shoes were cowboy boots. Her favorite top; a sweatshirt. Daily I chose a feminine outfit for her to wear. Daily, she would raid the laundry basket for yesterday’s sweatshirt. I left her in frills, only to have her appear moments later in a comfortable not so feminine shirt that needed washing. Already suffering from motherhood inadequacy, I determined that it was better to have the world know that I occasionally did laundry and I soon gave up on frills, lace and flowers. Pink? Forget it. Pink wasn’t a color according to her. It seems that I had a preconceived idea of what a little girl should be that didn’t exist.
Today we went shopping. By now, I know her adversity to lace, ribbons, and flourishings and yet I still have visions of delicacy and beauty in today’s purchase. Some ideas seem to persist despite all logical reasoning. I still have that preconceived idea of the delicate, soft, feminine look in girls’ fashion. As she walks out of the dressing room, I am happy that I never gave up hope. Until today I never noticed how much her white sweatshirts complimented her dark complexion and hair. While she isn’t wearing a lot of lace and embellishments, she is feminine and dazzling. The bagginess of the sweatshirt is gone, revealing simple curves. The dress is sleek, plain and eloquent. I guess, sometimes a mother just has to hang tight to see her visions materialize. What a stunning bride she will make. Sometimes a mother just knows.
I suppose the kicking, while carrying her, should have been the first indication that a lack of delicacy existed. This girl could be a place kicker for a major football team. A fact further confirmed when at two months old she kicked so hard that a stray string in her sleeper wound so tight around her toe that only a doctor could remove it. It was one of those times when, as a mother, one feels totally inadequate for the job. In my defense, I did all the appropriate things when her not so tiny and not so delicate crying persisted. I tried feeding her, checked her diaper, and a myriad of other tactics. Who would think that her crying had to do with the pains of fashion. It was the last time she wore a sleeper, but not the last time that she dictated what she would wear.
At two years old her favorite shoes were cowboy boots. Her favorite top; a sweatshirt. Daily I chose a feminine outfit for her to wear. Daily, she would raid the laundry basket for yesterday’s sweatshirt. I left her in frills, only to have her appear moments later in a comfortable not so feminine shirt that needed washing. Already suffering from motherhood inadequacy, I determined that it was better to have the world know that I occasionally did laundry and I soon gave up on frills, lace and flowers. Pink? Forget it. Pink wasn’t a color according to her. It seems that I had a preconceived idea of what a little girl should be that didn’t exist.
Today we went shopping. By now, I know her adversity to lace, ribbons, and flourishings and yet I still have visions of delicacy and beauty in today’s purchase. Some ideas seem to persist despite all logical reasoning. I still have that preconceived idea of the delicate, soft, feminine look in girls’ fashion. As she walks out of the dressing room, I am happy that I never gave up hope. Until today I never noticed how much her white sweatshirts complimented her dark complexion and hair. While she isn’t wearing a lot of lace and embellishments, she is feminine and dazzling. The bagginess of the sweatshirt is gone, revealing simple curves. The dress is sleek, plain and eloquent. I guess, sometimes a mother just has to hang tight to see her visions materialize. What a stunning bride she will make. Sometimes a mother just knows.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Mother's Day
Say It With Weeds
It's the time of year when little yellow flowers start to overtake the lawn. Perhaps you're not partial to this plant and refuse to call it anything but a weed. "Dandelions, that blooming weed." It seems appropriate that Mother's Day and dandelion season should occur at the same time of the year. When I see adandelion, I usually think of mom.
Remember when you were a child? Probably one of your first gifts to your mom was a bouquet of dandelions. It's likely that they were carefully picked to yield a handful of flowers on stems that ranged from 1/8" to 2" long. Before presenting them to Mom, the smaller stemmed flowers melted in your hand leaving a yellow stain as a memento of your thoughtfulness. The tightly held bouquet was a simple gift, which made the message attached to it very evident. Only a mother could love something so small, simple and unruly. (The reference is to the dandelions, not the child, although an argument for either could be made.) Regardless of type, flowers seem to be synonymous with mothers and Mother's Day.
Anna Jarvis is usually given credit for the modern-day Mother's Day observance. Two years after her mother died, on the second Sunday of May, she invited friends to her home and told them of her plans to start a Mother's Day. She began a campaign for the national observance. On May 10, 1908, three years after her mother's death, a service in her WestVirginia church, as well as a Philadelphia church service, honored mothers. Miss Jarvis furnished carnations, her mother's favorite flower, to all who attended the service. In 1910, the governor of West Virginia issued a Mother's Day proclamation and soon many states followed suit. On May 7, 1940, a resolution was introduced in Congress to make the second Sunday in May a national holiday: Mother's Day. Two days later, President Wilson ordered the Stars and Stripes to be flown on this holiday. Churches initially carried out the celebration, but later the holiday expanded to include sending various gifts to Mom. Miss Jarvis disliked the commercialism that had become part of the Mother's Day observance. She felt so strongly about the business-type promotion of Mother's Day that she pursued litigation. Despite her attempts to restore the original means of celebrating, the buying of gifts for Mom continued. It persisted and expanded in an effort to show Mom that she is loved.
Perhaps this year's gift of jewelry might effectively show your affection to Mom. Maybe a phone call or a card could convey the message. A hybrid plant could succeed in showing Mom that she is cherished. A dandelion bouquet with a kiss…well, she knew she was special to your when she received it when you were young.
It's the time of year when little yellow flowers start to overtake the lawn. Perhaps you're not partial to this plant and refuse to call it anything but a weed. "Dandelions, that blooming weed." It seems appropriate that Mother's Day and dandelion season should occur at the same time of the year. When I see adandelion, I usually think of mom.
Remember when you were a child? Probably one of your first gifts to your mom was a bouquet of dandelions. It's likely that they were carefully picked to yield a handful of flowers on stems that ranged from 1/8" to 2" long. Before presenting them to Mom, the smaller stemmed flowers melted in your hand leaving a yellow stain as a memento of your thoughtfulness. The tightly held bouquet was a simple gift, which made the message attached to it very evident. Only a mother could love something so small, simple and unruly. (The reference is to the dandelions, not the child, although an argument for either could be made.) Regardless of type, flowers seem to be synonymous with mothers and Mother's Day.
Anna Jarvis is usually given credit for the modern-day Mother's Day observance. Two years after her mother died, on the second Sunday of May, she invited friends to her home and told them of her plans to start a Mother's Day. She began a campaign for the national observance. On May 10, 1908, three years after her mother's death, a service in her WestVirginia church, as well as a Philadelphia church service, honored mothers. Miss Jarvis furnished carnations, her mother's favorite flower, to all who attended the service. In 1910, the governor of West Virginia issued a Mother's Day proclamation and soon many states followed suit. On May 7, 1940, a resolution was introduced in Congress to make the second Sunday in May a national holiday: Mother's Day. Two days later, President Wilson ordered the Stars and Stripes to be flown on this holiday. Churches initially carried out the celebration, but later the holiday expanded to include sending various gifts to Mom. Miss Jarvis disliked the commercialism that had become part of the Mother's Day observance. She felt so strongly about the business-type promotion of Mother's Day that she pursued litigation. Despite her attempts to restore the original means of celebrating, the buying of gifts for Mom continued. It persisted and expanded in an effort to show Mom that she is loved.
Perhaps this year's gift of jewelry might effectively show your affection to Mom. Maybe a phone call or a card could convey the message. A hybrid plant could succeed in showing Mom that she is cherished. A dandelion bouquet with a kiss…well, she knew she was special to your when she received it when you were young.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
He was a collector. If it wasn't maps, books or political buttons, it was stamps. He started collecting stamps as a young boy, fascinated by the stamps that came from his parents' homeland and with domestic stamps, on his parents' mail. His love of history and creativity of design made stamp collecting a perfect hobby. The other collections followed the same criteria. It took me awhile to discover his collecting fever. When we first married, the collecting fever wasn't apparent. However, I began to notice National Geographics piling up. He refused to throw them away, because of the maps that were valuable tohim. I would throw an envelope in the trash and later see it on his dresser, because he had saved it for the stamp.
Later in our marriage, he would spend an occasional lunch hour visiting an auction house, where he would bid on stamp lots. When he would win, it made up for traffic jams getting to and from work or an exceptionally difficult day. As long as his collecting was fruitful, he overlooked all other negatives. One day, he was at the auction house, when a birthday and anniversary postcard lot was listed. He bid on it for mybirthday and won. Again, he was thrilled to win and additionally pleased that he could present me with such aunique gift. It was a special gift, because I have always been impressed with the details of things that were manufactured years ago. He was especially intrigued by the graphics and the history. Both of us loved reading the heartfelt messages on the backs of some of the postcards. After a wonderful 32nd birthday of sharing this gift, the cards were put in a box in the closet to be saved, of course.
A year later, he went into the hospital for outpatientsurgery. He came out six months later with the symptoms similar to Alzheimer's and a stroke. He no longer could concentrate on collecting. He couldn't remember yesterday, let alone what he did five minutes ago. His short term memory was gone. I would tell him it was a special day in the morning, and five minutes later the thought was gone. He often said that someone must be changing the calendar because it no longer made sense to him. Birthdays, Valentines Day and our anniversary on February13th, were all depressing. It was difficult to think that he would not grasp the idea that our years together weregrowing each year. In his mind, our anniversary wouldalways be 13 years, and I would forever be 32. It was difficult to know that I would never again hold some new tangible gift of his love. It wasn't so much the getting of the gift as was the giving of his creative self that I did, and would, miss. The creativity that was such a huge part of him was gone; gone from his drawings, gone from his joke telling; gone from his gift giving. It wasa thing of the past.
The past was exactly the word that hung in my brain and caused me to think of last year's box in the closet . I reminisced, while looking at each card, and with each card I looked at, my mindset began to change. I saw that there were enough cards for each birthday and each anniversary to last my lifetime. Unknowingly, the gift he provided last year would continue, in the years ahead,to provide words and pictures that John picked out for me. For fifteen years, it has been his continuing gift of love and a continuing way for his creative expression of love to continue. Each year I go to the box and pick out one card for celebrations to read from him. His collecting, his sentimental thoughts, his careful selection of a gift that was just perfect in saying, "I love you," were not a thing of the past! It continues to live on even now, after his death. When I need to feel him close, I take out my box. I hold a postcard in my hand, and it makes me feel like I am holding a part of him.
Later in our marriage, he would spend an occasional lunch hour visiting an auction house, where he would bid on stamp lots. When he would win, it made up for traffic jams getting to and from work or an exceptionally difficult day. As long as his collecting was fruitful, he overlooked all other negatives. One day, he was at the auction house, when a birthday and anniversary postcard lot was listed. He bid on it for mybirthday and won. Again, he was thrilled to win and additionally pleased that he could present me with such aunique gift. It was a special gift, because I have always been impressed with the details of things that were manufactured years ago. He was especially intrigued by the graphics and the history. Both of us loved reading the heartfelt messages on the backs of some of the postcards. After a wonderful 32nd birthday of sharing this gift, the cards were put in a box in the closet to be saved, of course.
A year later, he went into the hospital for outpatientsurgery. He came out six months later with the symptoms similar to Alzheimer's and a stroke. He no longer could concentrate on collecting. He couldn't remember yesterday, let alone what he did five minutes ago. His short term memory was gone. I would tell him it was a special day in the morning, and five minutes later the thought was gone. He often said that someone must be changing the calendar because it no longer made sense to him. Birthdays, Valentines Day and our anniversary on February13th, were all depressing. It was difficult to think that he would not grasp the idea that our years together weregrowing each year. In his mind, our anniversary wouldalways be 13 years, and I would forever be 32. It was difficult to know that I would never again hold some new tangible gift of his love. It wasn't so much the getting of the gift as was the giving of his creative self that I did, and would, miss. The creativity that was such a huge part of him was gone; gone from his drawings, gone from his joke telling; gone from his gift giving. It wasa thing of the past.
The past was exactly the word that hung in my brain and caused me to think of last year's box in the closet . I reminisced, while looking at each card, and with each card I looked at, my mindset began to change. I saw that there were enough cards for each birthday and each anniversary to last my lifetime. Unknowingly, the gift he provided last year would continue, in the years ahead,to provide words and pictures that John picked out for me. For fifteen years, it has been his continuing gift of love and a continuing way for his creative expression of love to continue. Each year I go to the box and pick out one card for celebrations to read from him. His collecting, his sentimental thoughts, his careful selection of a gift that was just perfect in saying, "I love you," were not a thing of the past! It continues to live on even now, after his death. When I need to feel him close, I take out my box. I hold a postcard in my hand, and it makes me feel like I am holding a part of him.
Friday, March 30, 2007
April Fools
Grandma always said, “ A day isn’t complete if you haven’t laughed.” While there are a variety of theories of why there is an April Fools Day, the bottom line is that it gives us an opportunity to laugh and have fun. Take advantage of it. No one can look silly on April Fools. If you do, blame it on the day. If you don't, consider yourself a fool.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
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