Older-Than-Me

This morning I played Josh a new Brad Paisley song on youtube.  It’s called, “Toothbrush.”  It’s real sweet, and true to the clever, lovey-dovey, uber-creative style that Brad Paisley’s become known for, (which I happen to love…I’m mushy like that).  Anyway, after the song ended I hit the “related” search on the youtube menu and it brought up all of the other songs off Brad’s new album.  So, I scrolled around until I found a title that grabbed me.  (I like words.  Words intrigue me.  Words win me.)  Anyway, I found a title called, “Love Her Like She’s Leaving.”  I know what you’re thinking.  “Wow!  Words win her, huh?  Those are some super complex, deep words.  That’s all it takes?”  I know.  I know.  They’re classic cliché country words, but I knew the message would be sweet, so I hit, play, (and no, that’s not all it takes to win me, by the way).  Well, guess what?  I loved that song too.  The song talks about a man and woman getting married.  At the wedding, her Uncle Bill pulls up a chair and gives the newly wedded husband a little talkin’ to about how to hang onto his wife.  The message is basic, and it’s all in the title, but it’s a good reminder:  “Love her like she’s leaving, like it’s going to end if you don’t, love like she’s leaving, oh and I guarantee she won’t.”  What got me about the song is something that I know for sure about myself.  I love old people.  Strike that.  I love older-than-me people.  In the song there was a man, married for 45 years, giving a young man all of his secrets for keeping a happy wife.  I love that.  It was simple advice, but it worked for him.  Maybe simple really works.  Hmm, there's a thought.  Anyway, I love learning from older people. Thinking about the choices they made; their life picture that appears in my mind when they tell stories; the round-the-mountain lessons they’ve finally learned, that I get to have for free.  I just love them.  I love the legacy and life stored deep within the wells of their eyes.  They fascinate me.  They’re precious to me. 

Quick story, and then to my point. 

A few years back I took my daughters to trick-or-treat at a home for the elderly with their preschool class.  I was strangely excited to go, although I didn’t know why.  I mean, I was definitely hoping there wouldn’t be a stench that would send me over the edge, (classic stereotype, I know), but even still I found myself really looking forward to visiting the elderly, and seeing my ladybug and princess score lots of treats!  Plus, I’m a protective Mom, so I like to go on field trips.  Anyway, when we walked through the doors of the home I wanted to cry, and I mean, boo-hoo sob.  (I'm realizing that my blogs make me seem like such a cry baby.  ...sigh)  Well, anyway, we paraded through the home, room to room, and while I was busy maintaining a straight walking line, shushing loud chatter, and encouraging good behavior, I became very aware of how much I valued each person at the home.  I wanted so badly to know their stories.  To know what they did in life.  To know their triumphs, happiest memories, failures, and lessons learned.  I suppose I just wanted to honor them with a listening ear and a welcoming heart.  It was mostly selfish.  I like getting things for free, especially wisdom, but I wanted to be their friends too.  I wanted to say, thank you, for whatever they were, and whatever they weren’t.  I wanted to say, “Say hi to Jesus for me when you get there.  Are your feet warm?  Can I get you something from your favorite restaurant?  Want a different pillow?  Want my daughter to sing for you?”  You get my drift.  I wanted to be their friend.  I bet only 2 out of the whole bunch would’ve wanted a friend like me.  Someone who talks excessively, and often times, entirely too fast, but that’s okay, I liked them all the same.  I was honored to witness the joy they had as they passed out candy to the raucous preschoolers.  (Except for the man who fell asleep and missed the entire shin-dig.  I actually felt terrible for him.  Poor guy's gonna wake up with a bucket full of candy and no wild kids to give it to.  Or, is he?  Maybe he's a sugar-daddy.  Maybe it was part of his plan!  Haha!)  I plan to go back and volunteer someday.  I will make a new friend there, by golly.  Surely someone will have me.  :-) 

Okay, so here’s what happened this morning.  I listened to the song about the Uncle telling the young man ways to love his wife when that sappy, familiar, I love older-than-me people feeling surfaced again, which made me think of Buck Petty.  (Phew, we’ve arrived at the point.  Clap if you want to.  Or go potty if you need to.  But, definitely keep reading.)

Buck is my neighbor.  He’s married to Elaine.  They’re both precious to my family.  They’re a big part of our adopted family in the south.  I thought since I was thinking about him (and Elaine) this morning, I'd post a poem I wrote about him this past year, when he turned 75, just as a small way to honor him.  Elaine's poem to come...  :-)

We didn't have a lot of money for a gift, but I couldn't show up to his party empty-handed, so Josh and I bought him some coke and peanuts, (a true southern treat), and I wrote him this poem.  (Josh actually read it...I couldn't do it.)

There used to be

a hole in our hearts

Someone missing

Who would play a part

In helping us become

Who we’re supposed to be

And loving us through

Life’s triumphs

and tragedies

If you would’ve asked us

5 years ago

If someone was missing

We would’ve said no

A hero, you say?

No, we’re fine.

Califorina’s our life

This life’s divine

Who would’ve thought

We’d find a hero like you

Who  would hold our hands

And paint our sky’s blue.

You’ve blessed our lives

In countless ways

To name them all

Would take 10 years and 2 days

But a few things come

Right to mind

Times you’ve blessed our hearts

And saved our lives

When Christmas found us

Losing a baby

No money for a tree

Happiness escaped me

Angels from Heaven,

Let’s call them the Petty’s,

Left a Christmas tree outside

And smiles for Claire and Avery

               

And when the snow locked us inside

A red truck came

Like a flash in the sky

We didn’t have to call

No need to ask

You came to rescue us

So that our car could pass

And who could forget

The loud knocks at our door

He comes to check on us

And just like that,

Our hearts soar!

One hundred dollars

And a loving grin,

“Go get you some biscuits

For you and your kids.”

And who could forget

The tires for Josh

You gave them so freely

Like there was no cost

                But we know better

Hugs and hugs

And tears to boot

You’re always there

To help get us through

To some

You’re WL Petty

Dump trucks,

Tractors and rock

To us you’re a hero

To our kids, you’re Pop

We love you, dear Buck

More than you’ll ever know

You make our hearts sing

And you help our faith grow

Knowing you

Is more than an honor

You’ve filled the hole in our hearts

By being a Jesus-shaped father

It’s been 75 years

Here’s to 75 more

We love you forever

Plus forever and four

This is Buck and Elaine with Noelle, just a few days after she was born.

 And here they are again, when we dedicated Noelle to Jesus!  Elaine talked about what a worshiper Noelle is, and Noelle lit up and smiled big. 

 And here's me and Pop, the day he came over to have lunch with Josh and I.  What a treat!

I don't consider Buck and Elaine "old people," but they're older than me and their stories, lives and wisdom are precious to my whole family.  I love them with all my heart, and I hang onto the wisdom in their words like my life depends on it.  Josh and I both do.  They've taught me a lot about true love.  They've laughed and cried with me, pounded their fists with me when things have gone wrong, prayed with me through anything and everything, let me be myself (California-girl-turned-southern), and have treated me like I'm their own...and have loved my babies the way all parents desire for their children to be loved.  Most of all they've shown me the heart of God, and for that I am changed and forever grateful!  I love you, Buck and Elaine Petty (Maw-Maw and Pop)!  I love you forever, plus forever and four.

Summer 2011 List

I found a fellow Mom after my own heart.  She made a Summer Checklist for her family that wasn't overly scheduled, or completely impossible.  I was inspired!  (Summertime is always a stretch for a Mom like me.  How does one find the time to make summer memorable, educational, and fun for the entire family?)  It's a daunting task that takes planning, commitment and ENERGY...it's a year-after-year summertime conundrum for me.  Until now.  I love this list.  It's loose, yet scheduled, simple, yet fun, and most of all, attainable...easy-peasy!  I love it! 

Here's our list. 

What's yours look like?

Inspiration from:  http://megduerksen.typepad.com/whatever/2011/06/the-summer-list.html

PVC Pipe Sprinkler Course:  http://prairiedaze.com/2010/08/08/pvc-pipe-sprinkler/

*  Yes, we have ice cream for dinner one night, every summer.  It's tradition.  I understand your potential concern, but yet, the tradition stands.  *

Dad

Once upon a time there was a family of 8.  James and Dorothy, and their babies, Robert (Bob), James Jr. (Jim), Edna, Betty, William (Bill), and Richard (Rick) Taylor.   I have to be honest.  I don’t know this story very well, but it’s nevertheless part of my story.  My Dad is Rick.  He’s the baby.  He owns a big piece of my heart.

Grandiose doesn’t even begin to describe the size of the stories I heard about our family, growing up.  I remember sitting in Jolon, CA, in a store called, Lake Storage, listening to my Nana (my aunt Edna) tell my sister, my cousin and I stories of our family’s dark, uncertain past.  From running with Jesse James, to having to change our family’s last name to mask being involved with robbers and thieves, I’ve heard it all.  According to my Nana, Taylor isn’t even my maiden name.  No one knows for sure what our family name is, but apparently it’s not Taylor.  (Oh, dear.)  

If you’ve ever been to Jolon on a quiet, ordinary, summer day, you’d understand perfectly how the dry, dusty, hot air of a town, population 250, created the most perfect, stark backdrop for stories like these.  My Nana was a great storyteller, and if she were here, she’d swear her stories were true.  As a young child I believed her, although I still have no idea if there’s any truth in her stories, or rather, to what extent.  I was, at the very least, fascinated.  I’m sure they’re at least partially true, although I’d hate to think of myself as coming from a long line of criminals.  Who knows?  Those were desperate times.  Great Depression times.

I also heard a story of a woman with 5 kids who was told by her doctor that if she were to have a 6^th child it would kill her.  If you’re tracking right along with me, you’ve figured out that I’m referring to my Grandma Dorothy, and her 6^th baby, my Dad.  She disregarded the advice of doctors and became pregnant one more time.  I heard she loved her babies.  I heard she was a good mother.  I believe she was.  Well, the story goes that my Grandma gave birth to my Dad, and then died 2 or 3 short years later.  My Grandpa died 6 years after that.  My Dad was 9 years old, and without his parents. 

A year ago the most random thought occurred to me.  I wondered if anyone ever told my Dad that it wasn’t his fault that his mother died.  I wondered if he knew that his life was worthwhile, and moreover, divinely purposed and absolutely necessary.  My mind swelled with questions.  My heart raced with urgency.  I’m pretty sure it was a God moment.  I remember sitting on Noelle’s bedroom floor when I dialed the phone to call my Dad.  What could I say?  How do you even start a conversation like that?  Well, when you’re me, you just kind of blurt it out.  So, I did.  I think I said something like, “Hey Dad!  How are you?” (Quick pleasantries exchanged.)  And then, “Dad, I’m not sure if you’ve ever felt like you were the reason your mom died, but I wanted to call to say that it’s not your fault.  If it weren’t for you there wouldn’t be me.  I’m so thankful for you.”  I’m pretty sure we both cried, and I know he thanked me.  My Dad is tough.  He’s a crier sometimes, but still very strong.  He’s not inclined to get too deeply emotional over things.  I think it would wreck him if he did.  That’s okay.  I like him just the way he is.  I pray his heart was healed a little that day.  I pray he understood, if even just a little bit, how much he was loved, and how his mother considered her possible death no cost to bring him into this world.  She understood the risk, knew the gamble, and played her cards anyway.  She considered his life more valuable than her own.  As a mother myself, I understand.  I wish I could've known my Grandma Dorothy and Grandpa James, (or maybe it was Grandpa Jim).  I know I would've loved them so much.  I do love them so much.  They gave me my family.   

Okay, hang on.  Time to shift gears.  Ready?  Deep breath.

There's a movie I’ve become slightly obsessed with.  Obsessed is such a strong word.  In love might be better.  There's a movie I’ve fallen in love with.  There.  That’s better.  It’s called, Dreamer.  It’s a movie about a race horse, starring, Kurt Russell, Dakota Fanning and Kris Kristofferson.  If you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend it.  It’s about a dad who fights to keep what’s left of his horse farm.  He’s a horse trainer, but he has no horses of his own, until the day he ends up with Sonador, (spanish for Dreamer).  It’s a story of a father being changed by his daughter, and a daughter being molded by her father, and a horse who puts it all together.  I know it sounds cheesy and chick-flicky, and well, maybe it is to some, but I find it incredibly meaningful.  Without giving away too much of the plot I’ll say that there are constant struggles in the movie, but hope always surfaces to ultimately hush every obstacle the family faces.  The impossible becomes possible.  It’s a movie about real life stress, real life heartache, and how brokenness paves the way to victory and unshakable restoration.  It’s about a little girl who sees through her dad’s tough exterior to see the real hero inside, in spite of his sometimes short temper and, at times, pessimistic point of view.  She understands what this world has made him into, but she’s convinced that present circumstances will not define who her family is.  She brings her dad hope, and her dad saves her heart.  It’s a pushing and pulling movie - she pulls him up when he’s down, and he picks her up right when she’s on the verge of giving up.  You can literally feel life being exchanged throughout the entire movie. 

It reminds me of my Dad.  It reminds me of a man who comes from a difficult past, but who, for the sake of his family, has not, and will not, give up.  Deep down he knows he was created for a purpose.  Deep down he knows that the dreams in his heart will come true.  

If it weren’t for my Dad, this world would be missing 2 strong women and one heck of a young man.  If it weren’t for him I wouldn’t be me.  Julie wouldn’t be Julie, and Eric wouldn’t be Eric.  I don’t know what my real maiden name is for sure, (I rather like the name Taylor though), or who my great-great-grandparents were, but I know where I come from.  I come from unrelenting, stubborn love that has never failed me my entire life. 

(Me and my sister, Julie.)

(That's Eric, in the middle, waving.)

My Dad and step-Mom aren’t big on owning movies, but I decided to send them (him) Dreamer for Father’s Day anyway.  I can never fully express the gratitude I have in my heart for my Dad, (who he is, what he's done, what he means to me), or put into words the picture I have in my heart of a childhood brimming with love and security, never mind the hardships. 

So, maybe in some small way, my Dad will see what I see when he watches the movie.  Maybe he’ll see the way the daughter looks at her dad, and the way she believes in him more than he believes in himself, and maybe, just maybe he’ll think of me, my sister or brother, and the way we think the whole world of him.  My Dad is a builder - a builder of buildings and a builder of people.  He's done a great job.  He's built many strong foundations.  Mine is just one of them, and I'm so grateful.

At one point in the movie the little girl says to the horse, “Run hard tomorrow.  Run hard for my Dad.  He deserves a good run.”  I concur.  I want this life to run hard for my Dad.  He deserves the very best.  He’s the very best dad. 

(I love you, Dad, with my whole heart.  You are a picture of strength and perseverance, and the life lessons you've taught me, and the memories you've made with me, and for me, will never, ever leave me.  Thank you!  Happy Father's Day!)

PS:  There’s a phrase throughout the movie that says, speaking of horses,

“You are a great champion. When you ran, the ground shook, the sky opened and mere mortals parted. Parted the way to victory, where you’ll meet me in the winner’s circle, where I’ll put a blanket of flowers on your back.”

It’s about horses, but don’t you think it could apply to us too?  Like, maybe the Lord says something like this to us.  Think about it.  Horses or not, the ground does shake when we run.  The sentiment is powerful, don't you think? 

Observe.

I think there is power in my Shark mop.  I always seem to become inspired when she (my mop) and I team up to sanitize my floors.  We don’t spend a lot of time together.  There’s only so much floor to mop, but for some reason I tend to seriously mull things over when I mop. 

Today I was thinking about what an observer I've become.  When I was younger, I liked to be front-and-center, doing the stuff, you know, performing, getting a reaction, (hopefully one of approval and acceptance).  And now, I like watching.  I still very much like to do things, but just recently I've discovered that I really enjoy (and value) observing, processing, reacting (mostly in my heart), learning, gleaning, and growing from what I see.  The eye as a gateway is a powerful thing, indeed.  

This past week I watched our girls T Ball coach light up when his son stopped a ball and tagged a runner out at first.  As we walked back to the car I asked Josh if he saw the coach’s face when the boy made the out.  He said, no.  I noticed.  There was power in his reaction.  It was explosive.  His entire countenance lit up.  The son was encouraged, and smiled wide in response to his Dad’s praise, but you know kids, especially in front of a crowd -- NBD (no big deal).  The moment lasted all of 5 seconds, but it was packed full of excitement.  The coach said, “Great job, buddy!” as he scooped up the ball and tossed it to the umpire with a proud look (and a giddy laugh-smile) on his face.  The satisfaction that radiated from him, and spilled onto anyone who cared to notice, was moving to say the least.  It was his moment.  I really liked his reaction.  It was absolute and heartfelt, instinctive and true.  It was the highlight of the game.

And then there’s Mrs. Reeves, my daughter’s Kindergarten teacher.  Here is a portion of a letter that I recently wrote to our school’s Principal, acknowledging what an outstanding teacher Mrs. Reeves is. 

“Mrs. Reeves is a true asset to Moravian Falls Elementary.  I don’t know the backgrounds of all of the students in her class this year, but I can guess that the socioeconomic status varies from one extreme to the other in her classroom.  My husband talks about a day when he arrived at school to find Mrs. Reeves brushing a child’s hair.  Sounds simple enough, but it broke our hearts (in a good way).  Mornings are one of the most busy times in the classroom, but Mrs. Reeves is, and never was, too busy to show a child the heart of a mother, and the love of a teacher.  And then there was the time that she came to our daughter’s (and a few of her other students) T Ball game and cheered them on.  It was a funny thing to watch.  She would say, ‘Go Avery.’  Or, ‘Go Chase,’ and almost every time the child would look into the stands with a quick look of confusion on their faces, followed by an immediate smile.  It was like they weren’t sure if they were in school, or on the T Ball field, but they knew to respond to her voice.  It wasn’t a look of fear; it was the look of honor and respect.  When they saw that she was there cheering for them and showing her support, they were so happy.  It was a look of, ‘Mrs. Reeves is calling me.  No, wait.  She’s here cheering for me.  How cool!’  After that particular game I asked Avery if she had fun.  She said, ‘Yes!  And my favorite part was when Mrs. Reeves came.’  That’s something she won’t soon forget.  And then there was the time that another student gave Mrs. Reeves his trophy for winning his motorcycle race just because she came to cheer him on at his race. 

I have observed Mrs. Reeves during award ceremonies.  She looks each child in the eye and honors them.  There have been times when the audience has laughed at a child for doing something quirky or cute.  And while the audience finds the child’s words or actions funny, the child finds it uncertain.  I have watched many children look to Mrs. Reeves in moments like that, unsure if the laughter is that of acceptance or shame, and she’s never failed to meet their gaze with a sure nod of confidence and reassurance.  And just like that, the child is settled and confident once again.  It’s awe-inspiring to witness.  It’s heartwarming to feel.  The learning, love and wisdom deposits that Mrs. Reeves makes in the hearts and minds of children are precious and priceless.  Teachers like Mrs. Reeves are the hope and prayer of parents like us.” 

I’ve learned a lot from Mrs. Reeves.

And then there are my kids and my husband.  What a privilege I have to get to observe them every day.  I mean, it’s my life’s greatest, purest, most passionate, raw, obscene joy.  I love them madly.

  

I often watch my husband react to things I say.  Sometimes I say things just to see what he’ll say or do.  I know it's rotten to test him.  I shouldn't do it.  Maybe I'll stop.  Anyway, it turns out my husband possesses an integrity that is deeply rooted, and not easily shaken.  He’s rarely ruffled by the things I say, or the bad choices I make.  (Yep, I make bad choices sometimes.  Ha!)  He’s usually much more mature than I am, even if he’s younger than me.  It’s nice to be in a home where the husband really is the cornerstone of what we are building and becoming.  I’m getting off subject here.  What I meant to say is that I love the example of integrity that I watch my husband walk in every day.  Whether it’s with clients, friends, family, strangers, me or our girls, it’s always there.  It’s steady and unswerving.  I want to be more like him.  I like to look at him when our girls talk to him.  I like to see if he will return their affection in a way that only a Daddy can, and he almost never fails.  (I would say, “never fails,” but that would mean he’s perfect, and we all know no one is perfect.)  I take that back.  To me, he's perfect.  Perfect for me, perfect with me.  He’s a dreamboat.  :-)  I admire him so much. 

And my Trask babies.  (Sigh.)

Yesterday Claire showed me a note she wrote to her teacher, Mrs. Bare.  She was extremely affectionate in what she wrote, but what stood out to me most was when she said, referring to Mrs. Bare, “You are such a blessing.”  I appreciated her use of the word.  I like that she could find no other word to clearly articulate her point.  Our girls use the words “blessing” to refer to people or things, and “blessed” to refer to how they feel, but not in a religious, dry kind of way.  They use them in a real, ordinary, no-big-deal sort of way.  They’re blessed by their blessings.  I like that.  It’s honest.  It’s sweet. It's uncoached. 

And Avery.  I have to watch Avery.  She’s quiet and wild all at the same time.  My pretty little paradox, (and I mean that in the most sincere way).  I watch her a lot.  Words and actions hit her deeply, and her face is usually an instant give-away to how she feels.  But there are times when she puts her blatant, in-your-face, pout away for a more subtle, quiet kind of hurt.  Moments like those break my heart.  I've become pretty good at observing when they happen, (if I happen to be in the same room when they happen), or at the very least why they happen, even if it means it's time for 2,000 questions to get to the bottom of something.  But when we arrive at the source of discomfort I find the grace of God rushes in so strong.  I catch myself saying things I didn't know, or things that are way beyond the confines of my seeming wisdom, and with the help of the Lord, I somehow have the ability to save her day.  (Josh often does this for me.)  I don't solve every problem, or fix every  hurt feeling, but the victories definitely outweigh the defeats.  God helps us handle what we can, and then He takes care of the rest.  I'm definitely no superhero, but I am a Mom -- a strong, powerful Mom. 

(That reminds me of the time the girls were running up the stairs after I fixed something for them when I heard Claire say to Avery, “See?  I told you she could fix it.  She fixes everything.”)  I melted.

I like how my girls play on their own.  I give them their space, but am usually not too far away.  I'm always listening to them.  There have been times when questionable subjects come up between them, you know, like boys, and I just listen.  I try to never interject right away.  Instead I like to see where the conversation takes them.  I’ve had so many proud Mom moments during times like these.  I’m normally so encouraged by the stands they take, and the convictions they have.  I pray that stuff sticks forever.  It's good stuff.  :-)

 

And then there’s Noelley Belley Boo.  My one-year-old wonder.  So full of curiosity, and so deep in wisdom.  Her eyes tell stories too complex for me to understand, while her adventure seeking feet and tiny wandering fingers remind me that she’s just a baby, my baby.  I love watching her. 

(Side note:  I have a theory about babies.  Ready?  I believe the reason babies can’t talk when they’re first born is because they’d tell us all the secrets of Heaven, and we either wouldn’t believe them, couldn’t handle it, or we’d never leave them alone.  Naive, I know, but I really believe it.  It’s okay if you don’t agree.)  Wouldn’t you agree, though, that they do arrive with instinctive traits that had to come from somewhere?  How else do babies arrive on earth knowing that their little fingers are the perfect size for picking their noses?   That’s not learned behavior.  They come with that knowledge.  And how do they know to dance in reaction to music?  How do boys know to grunt and growl, and girls know to nurture?  I know I’m generalizing here.  But there are some traits that are pretty standard across the baby spectrum.  I happen to think their perfect knowledge of our Creator is just one of them.  It's just a theory.      

I love this quote:  “Before you were conceived I wanted you.  Before you were born I loved you.  Before you were here an hour I would give my life for you.” – Maureen Hawkins

(That was totally random, but isn't it good?)

I’ve carried on a lot in this one.  Before I end though, I thought I’d leave you with a few other things I’ve learned over this past year.  (My list is incomplete for sure, but some of this is kind of funny, so here you go.)

-  There are lymph nodes behind the ear that swell when a child (or person) is sick.  It's our bodies immune response to sickness, and NOT a tumor.  Phew!  :-)
-  Milk is bad.  (Way long story.)
-  Mediterranean eating is the way to go.
-  Selfishness is ugly, ugly, ugly.  I have given a lot of stuff away this year in attempt to be less selfish. 
-  Boundaries are good.  They help us understand our value.  Think about it. 
-  Creativity cannot be duplicated.  Ideas can be appreciated and expressed by a multitude of people, but the creativity that is produced, based on another person's idea, is never the same as what inspired it.  We are all far too original.
-  Honor is so important.  Think of the word, dishonor.  Eww, ugly! 
-  Some words are entirely too strong to use carelessly.  Words like, "always" and "never."  I try to use these sparingly. 
-  Concrete floors are easy to scratch.
-  Drilling into metal window jambs is generally a bad idea.
-  Hanging pictures without a level is a bummer.
-  Taking time to sand furniture, before painting it, is time well spent. And choosing the right sander is key.  Power sander, good.  Belt sander, bad.
-  Homes with really nice grass are a testament to hard work.  Who knew growing grass isn't as easy as spreading seed and hay, and then hoping for the best.  :-)
-  If flowers can come up on a gravel driveway, what's stopping me from blooming where I'm planted?  Same thing with acorns.  No one planted all of the oak trees growing in my yard, and yet there is an upcoming grove of oak trees right outside my window.  Acorns fall, trees come up.  Isn't that amazing?
-  Kale, garlic greens and onion greens, pea shoots, and boiled fresh beets are all delicious.  (New foods to me. Thanks Harmony Acres.)
-  Peanut butter, banana, and mayo sandwiches aren’t half bad.  Thanks Pop.
-  Movies about horse races are right up there among my all time favorite movies.  (I'm such a Mom.)

And finally, here are a few that I’ve known for a long time, but am constantly reminded of.  There is so much power in what we say and what we do.  Actions do speak louder than words.  The tongue is the keeper of life and death.  I just read something on someone else's Facebook page where a person wrote, and I'm paraphrasing here, "the way you look makes me laugh."  What if she would have said, "the way you look makes me smile"?  See the difference?  What the person wrote was coy, underhanded and downright mean.  Words carry the power to either build up or tear down.  So, I'm reminded to speak carefully.  Act appropriately.  Find and know Love, and behave accordingly.  And better watch out, I might be watching you.  Haha!  More importantly, our kids are watching us.  Lord, help us.

Jenny

My husband said to me the other day, “I want to read your next blog.” 

“I haven’t written a new one yet,” I said. 

Silence. 

So, here I am, avoiding my Monday chores to write.  I was thinking this morning about how much more I like myself lately.  I know what you’re thinking, “Oh no, here comes the narcissism.”  Wait.  Don’t leave yet.  I’m not talking about how much I love the way I look or behave, or about how smart I think I am, because believe me I don’t like to dilly-dally down that path.  It’s way too uncertain, unsettled and undone at best, (nightmare!), but I have come to the place in my life where I'm really starting to enjoy Jenny. 

For example, I have some flowers planted in front of my house in planter boxes.  I was trying to figure out how to best arrange them so they’d look best to visitors when I said, “I like them here because I can see them.  I like to look at them.”  In true Jenny fashion, I ignored how I felt, and continued my futile attempt at landscape design.  Puke.  It's so overwhelming.  I love my land, but, oh the money it would take to whip her into shape. 

Anyway, Josh was out there with me, moving things according to my whims when he said, “Why don’t you just leave them here?  You just said you like them here because you like to see them through the window.” 

Now, let’s be clear here.  He wasn’t trying to help me add value to our house, he was trying to get out of work.  I mean, I can’t blame him.  It was boring, aimless work, with no guarantee of an end in sight.  But, he was right.  (Sometimes a husband’s ploy to get out of work is him being used by the Lord to bring freedom to his wife, even if he's just trying to get out of work.)  So, with that said, I conceded.  I had him leave my flowers, and my most favorite baby tree, right outside my window where they teeter on uneven patches of grass and red North Carolina dirt.  And you know what?  I love them there.  And you know what else?  They make me happy there.  I can see them.  They bring me joy by living there.  They look like a line of yardsale plants, but they make me happy. 

When we get serious about landscaping I’ll become more strategic about placement, but I’ve made up my mind.  I will landscape around my heart.  I’ll put my flowers where I can see them.  They’re here because they caught my eye.  I don’t want them to be hidden from my view.

Something else.  I often wear these shoes with socks.  These aren’t meant to be worn with socks. 

I mostly do it because there's a no-shoe policy in our house so when it’s time to go, these are easy.  It's not right, but when I look down, it doesn't seem so wrong.  I like that.  It's me.  When I was a teacher I purposely wore socks that didn't match my outfit.  I did it to be quirky.  I thought, teachers should be quirky, so mismatched socks were my attempt at being odd.  And it was easy.  It seems that socks being mismatched makes me happy.  They either don't match my outfit, or the shoes I wear.  I'm okay with it.  I think it's funny.  And side note, I don't like stinky shoes from sweaty feet.  Socks with these shoes, problem solved.  :)

Okay, let's pause here.  There are many things I DO care about getting right.  (I'm not totally free yet.)  My house.  I'm particular, especially where cleanliness is concerned.  It's a deep issue of control.  I get that.  But, it also makes me happy.  I like when things are tidy.  I can better relax when things are together.  I grew up in an uncertain environment.  My parents are my heroes, but I've lived my fair share of rough times.  Having things in order is a sense of security for me.  It's predictable and safe.  It's not for everyone, but it works for me.  I could stand to let loose a little, and if you ask Josh, he'd say I have, but maybe a little more would be good.  Maybe soon.  Maybe not.  We'll see.  The trick is finding balance between keeping a clean house, and enjoying my life.  I'm working on it.  I mostly clean while my kids are at school, Noelle is napping, and Josh is at work.  But, I'll be honest, I've missed many fun times with my kids so I could tidy up one more thing.  Bad.  Shameful.  Regretful.  I purpose to miss no more.  I like that about me.  I like that I've given myself permission to let go; permission to make a conscious decision to let go; and permission to hold myself accountable when I choose chores over babies.  I like where I'm headed in this.  

I also like that I have a no-shoe policy in my house.  Whoa!  Whoa!  Whoa!  Now, it's getting crazy in here.  Hahaha!  I know.  It is!  But it's me.  And I like me.  We are surrounded by red dirt/mud, as previously mentioned.  It's my house.  I like clean inside, mud outside.  Period.  I used to feel terribly guilty about asking people to take their shoes off when they come in.  Now I don't.  I learned that it's one of my boundaries, and boundaries are good.  I cherish, honor and value my friends.  I don't ask them to remove their shoes to be bothersome.  I do it because it's my house.  It makes me happy. 

I suppose my point in all of this is that I've come to a place in my life where I actually like seeing the real Jenny come out more and more.  I watch how carefree my girls are, and how their personalities come out in unique, creative, uninhibited, shapeless ways.  That's them in their purest pursuit of joy.  That's what I'd like to bottle up and keep for their whole lives.  That's what this tired old world needs.  It seems we grow out of that, and into a person that the world, (Christians and non-Christians), find acceptable, and better yet, appropriate.  Listen, I'm all about honor, integrity, good character, and living a life pleasing to the Lord.  But I will do it in a way that is expressly, uniquely me.  I will live a life of quirky righteousness.  I will teach my girls to be themselves.  What I overcome, I overcome for generations.  I will be free in the true sense of the word.  I will not be reckless, nor will I be unaccountable or rebellious in my freedom, but I will make an effort to let myself be me.  I will live close to my God and family, and operate honestly from my heart.  I pray my girls will do the same. 

I like being 32, but I like the Grandma-feeling I'm starting to have.  Not the, I'm ready for grandkids, Grandma-feeling, but the, I like who I am and it's starting to show, Grandma-feeling.  The gentle peace in who I am; the strength and security I get from living honestly; and the pure, raw joy that comes from letting myself and my family be who we are, trusting God in everything, and letting Him come out in ways that can only be expressed uniquely through us.  I like this point in my life.  I like this new Jenny.  I like her a lot.  

The End of an Era.

Barren.

Today marks the end of an era for one of my very favorite places in town.  The Wilkes Antique mall is closing shop today.  My heart aches at the thought of it.  In the past week I’ve been 3 times just to savor every last moment of nostalgia I could muster before my days of meandering through the dust and treasures is no longer permitted.  I hate it.  (Hate is such a strong word.  My Mom barred the word “hate” from our house growing up, and I’ve kept her rule as my own my whole life, save times I can find no other word to describe my passionate disdain for something.  In this case it fits.)

I don’t know much about the history of the Antique Mall, other than it was owned by a man named Joe Campbell.  A quiet, strong, fascinating man.  Not terribly friendly, but exceptionally knowledgeable where antiques are concerned, and exhaustive in his research when it came to pricing antiques.  If you’ve ever tried to “talk him down” on a price, you know what I mean.  He knows the value of something and he’s nearly relentless in negotiating.  I like that I suppose.  Being so sure of something that budging on price, even a little, is a no-go.  I like that about God, especially. 

The Antique Mall was 20,000 square feet of stuff.  Old stuff, wobbly stuff, sturdy, bigger than big stuff, dirty, clean, new, weird, smelly, warm, cold, valuable, you get the picture, stuff.  And I loved all 20,000 square feet.  Finding the Antique Mall was a godsend for me.  It was home away from home for me.  I’m not sure, in an absolute sense, why I loved the mall so much, and why it meant so much to me, but it’s been a lifeline for me since I moved to North Carolina.  Maybe in writing this, I’ll figure out why. 

Growing up I spent a lot of time with my Dad’s sister and brother-in-law, my Nana and Uncle Bud.  They were flee-marketers, and yard-salers.  My sister and I spent weekend after weekend at our local flee market with my Nana and Uncle Bud, running around and watching them sell junk.  Their house was filled with all sorts of oddities that they’d buy and sell.  It was neat, mysterious, and sometimes creepy.  They had a stuffed iguana that to this day makes me cringe when I think of it.  Gross.  Anyway, junk, as I used to think of it, was their passion.  My Nana loved milk glass, and had so much of it spread throughout her house.  And she loved glass frogs.  She loved all sorts of different, quirky things.  But most of all, she loved me.  Her hugs were so strong I was sure they’d steal my life if they lingered a second longer.  I remember finding it hard to breathe when she hugged me, but even still, I hated to let go.  Her hugs were a safe place for me.  She used to bite my ear and kiss my face, and grimace when she didn’t approve of something.  She was a fireball to the core.  A picture of strength, perseverance, and love, and a bit of a rebel.  With that said, perhaps now you can imagine what happened to me the day I found the Antique Mall.  It was a moment of translation for me.  It was familiar and strange, warm and uncertain.  One of those, the lights are on but nobody’s home moments, when you seem to be stuck somewhere outside the realm of time, where past and present become seamless, worlds collide, confusion comes, and an instant later, clarity.  Only an uncertain clarity, if that makes any sense.  If I’m being honest, it broke my heart.  I entered with great caution during my first visit, moving with no real direction or intention, but as my feet went forward a part of my spirit began to perk up.  A part of my soul began to cry.  It was very usual.  I found milk glass right away, and bought it.  That was an easy sell.  It reminded me of my Nana.  It was white and clean.  It made my eyes shine brighter.  I fell in love.  I’ve since bought  many things from the Antique Mall.  And every time I bought something I found myself so grateful for the life that used to cherish my new find.  For my stranger friend who was passing his/her treasure down to me.  I know there is a story, good or bad, attached to the things I’ve accumulated, and each story, albeit untold and unknown to me, is precious.  I will value the old.  I am intrigued by its history.  As its new owner, I promise to honor it (in a semi-serious way).  I mean, let’s not get carried away here, I will take care of it and enjoy it for as long as I own it.  I will try hard not to break it, but if I (or my girls do), it’s okay.  We loved it while we had it.  That is honor.

I suppose I should mention that my Nana passed away about a year after we moved to North Carolina.  It was tragic.  The Antique Mall and I found each other during my Nana’s battle with cancer.  I held onto the Antique Mall in a semi-unhealthy way for a time.  For awhile it was a coping mechanism for me.  A place where I could wander for hours on end, looking pleasant on the outside, but kicking and screaming and writhing in pain on the inside.  I’d move through 4 floors of antiques, pounding my spiritual fists in disgust and rebellion, so angry at cancer.  I’d buy a piece of milk glass, finish my fit, and be done with it.  I’m still angry about her death.  I didn’t know I was, but as I sit here writing I am overcome with a bit of indignation.  Death is an ugly, dirty, rotten thief.  Here again, I will use the word, hate.  I hate death.  (I have peace and rest in my heart because I know I will live in Heaven with Jesus (and my Nana) forever -- I had a dream where I saw her in Heaven -- but I am nonetheless disgusted by death.  I will fight forever against death with prayer.  It’s all I can do.)

(Wow, maybe I should take time to write rough drafts for these.  I get so carried away, moving in directions I didn’t intend to go.  Oh well.) 

Anyway, I’ve never experienced a building so jamb-packed with beauty, life and character like the Antique Mall.  It was filled with so many things just waiting to be swept up by someone like me.  It made me an antique lover.  I hope, for my husband’s sake, that I don’t become obsessed.  I mean, my house is only so big, but like my husband likes to say when I bring home something new, “You bought more milk glass…because you can never have too much milk glass.”  He’s right!  (wink, wink.)  I mean, to be fair, I have passed on many a milk glass.  I haven't gone totally milk glass crazy.  As it turns out, I don’t buy it anymore as a way to hang on to my Nana.  It's not a coping mechanism anymore.  My heart has been healed.  I miss my Nana, but I know death is only a short interruption in our time together.  Now I buy it because I honestly love it.  It makes me happy.  It’s beautiful.  Maybe it’s genetic.  Who knows?  I hope my girls have an affinity for milk glass, otherwise there will be a big milk glass estate sale when I’m 100 years old and ready for Heaven. 

Before I go, I want to share something that Joe Campbell, the mall’s owner, told me shortly after we met.  I asked him once why he likes selling antiques.  He said, “I’ve done so many different things in my life.  I’ve had stores and restaurants.  I’ve sold real estate.  I’ve built houses, and now this.”  I asked which, of all the things he’s done, was his favorite and he said, “I don’t know.  None of them.  I guess I’m always the most happy doing whatever it is that I’m doing at the moment.”  I cried.  Isn’t that it?  That we be the most happy doing whatever it is we’re doing at any given moment.  He’s got it figured out.  That’s how my Nana was.  That’s how I’d like to be.  I’m trying my best. 

Thanks, Antique Mall, for being my friend for so long.  I will miss you.  But as it goes, change is inevitable.  This morning I was sad about losing the Antique Mall, and just now I’m content.  In its barrenness, life will come.  Joe will move on to doing something else that makes him happy, even if he has to fight for it.  He’s fit for the fight.  He’ll do great!  I pray the building will be transformed into something new.  It helped me become something new.  It deserves the same.