Family and Home – Long walks and dark chocolate

Pieces that fit just right

November 4, 2014 1 Comment

The Prompt: What is your favorite holiday memory?

My favorite holidays are definitely Thanksgiving and Christmas, but I have so many glorious memories! As I was trying to remember my favorite holiday memory, I searched the recesses of my brain for that favorite gift or that one special memory, but to place one above another just doesn’t seem right.

The memories all fit together like pieces of one big jigsaw puzzle. One piece brings me to another and without some, others wouldn’t have fit. They are all different, yet together they create a beautiful picture. Some lay the framework so that all the pieces in the middle will have a nice snug border. Some are in muted tones and others share vibrant colors.

I have memories from early childhood of opening that easy bake oven on Christmas and feeling like the whole world had been handed to me on a silver platter. A few years later, that Ultima 2 makeup set would rock my world. Somewhere between teenage years and adulthood, the giving became more fun than the getting and it was about finding that special something. With my own children came teaching them the true meaning of Christmas and baking together and surprising them with that one thing they just had to have.

Thanksgiving always reminds me of cooking with my Mom, with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade playing in the background. After losing her, I had to learn to cook from her recipes and carry on the family traditions. Sharing the food and fellowship at Thanksgiving has always warmed my heart and the season reminds me more than ever of how much I have to be thankful for.

We are truly blessed and I am grateful for each and every memory and looking forward to making more in a few short weeks.

Filed Under: Family and Home Tagged With: Christmas, Gratitude, Holidays, thanks, Thanksgiving

Can I just crawl in a hole now?

October 10, 2014 4 Comments

The Daily Prompt said, Time to confess: tell us about a time when you used a word whose meaning you didn’t actually know (or were very wrong about, in retrospect).

At first glance, I thought, “Hmm, I just don’t do that.” I’m one of those people who is so paranoid about actually misusing a word that I would simply refrain from using it unless I was 100% sure of its meaning.

Since I really want to write today I sat and thought about the prompt for a moment to see if I could come up with something. Lo and behold, I remembered WHY I don’t dare use a word I don’t know.

It happened in middle school, in front of a group of kids, most of them older than me.

Okay, so we all know that middle school is tough anyway. You are going through so many changes, some of which are wreaking havoc with your hormones and your emotions. Your accelerated physical development is surpassing your maturity level, making you feel like a freak of nature. Impressing the male species comes into play, because boys are no longer gross. For me, honestly, they never were, but I digress. Your feelings tend to shift between feeling superior to inferior, depending on who you’re around and life feels like a roller coaster.

In spite of all that, I think I was a pretty confident junior high student, one of the young and the restless, managing to keep most of my fears at bay. I went to a very small school and I knew everyone, making some things easier.

This particular day, if memory serves me correctly, there were approximately 4-5 kids around, and we were talking during lunch break. We were just hanging out, each of us trying our best to be the center of attention, or at least capture the attention of “the one”.

For some reason, there was a discussion of an older person who drank a lot. I don’t remember any details of the conversation or even who we were talking about, but boy do I ever remember my faux pas! I decided to put my ever-growing vocabulary to use and described the poor man as a “slush”. Yes, I said a slush. Have you ever heard of that? It means the same thing as a lush if you are 12 and speaking of something you know not.

In my defense, I have always had a large vocabulary and didn’t often make this type of mistake. Imagine my horror when one of my best friends called me out on it. We couldn’t just pretend that it didn’t happen and forget it, nor could I slither off into a hole somewhere and stay there until summer. No, we had to announce the blunder, repeat it and laugh hysterically until everyone within earshot had begged to be in on the merriment. I was mortified and wanted to run to the office and call my mom and go home (after I choked my friend to death on the sidewalk). Things like this can be very traumatic for a pre-teen.

This wasn’t the only time I wanted to die at school, but it’s definitely one of the most memorable and probably single-handedly responsible for my inability to think of a time that it has happened since.

Filed Under: Family and Home Tagged With: Daily Prompt, embarrassment, faux pas, middle school, mistakes, vocabulary

The Who trumps the What

October 6, 2014 1 Comment

What do you want to be when you grow up? I want to be a policeman, a fireman, a dancer, an astronaut. You might hear any of these if you ask a child this question. Today as I sit here and contemplate on the aforementioned subject, I am reminded that WHO you are is so much more important than WHAT you do.

I firmly believe that everyone has a god-purposed calling and are bent towards it at a very young age. Our role as adults and mentors is to help children discover it, encourage it and feed it well and watch it grow. There is something we are all instinctively good at and naturally have a passion to do.

However, I propose that who we are while we are doing it is what will glean the greater good. I can be the best in the world at whatever I do, but if I can’t influence a life for good, what is it really worth? Yes, there are some cases in which you could be a jerk and what you have done would still bring good to the world around you. You could discover a cure for a disease, for instance, and that would bring good, regardless of your personal impact on society. As a rule though, the who far outshines the what!

Who we are determines how others are impacted. Do we exude kindness, generosity and love as we encounter others? How we treat people has such a lasting effect, for good or bad. There is a quote attributed to Maya Angelou that says, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel”.

Who am I today as I carry on with my work and life, as a mom, wife and friend? That is what will be remembered and leave a potential life-long impression.

Filed Under: Family and Home, Inspirational Tagged With: kindness, love for people, peaceful

When you give up on the white horse, read this

September 30, 2014 7 Comments

When I listen to young women and even read some of their Facebook posts, I realize one way that we have failed them. It seems their ideas of love and what it is or what it should be originates from fairy tales or the latest box office hit. They believe there really is someone out there who will give them chills every time they see them forever. Honey, trust me; if you have chills it usually means you have a fever and I don’t mean some heat induced love coma either.

For those of you desperately waiting for Brad Pitt’s twin to come riding up on a white horse in all his handsomeness and sweep you off your feet and carry you to his castle, well, have you ever heard the term “fantastical wish”?

Yes, when you meet Mr. Right, there are emotions and feelings and I will even go as far as to say butterflies on occasion, but what is love? Is it just a feeling or is it something much more?

Love isn’t even remotely about the size of the ring, the exorbitance of the wedding, or how many ways he charms you on social media for all your friends to see (and be jealous!). It’s certainly not about looks or size because all that will change as time marches on.

True love is an enduring promise; it doesn’t come and go with your moods and selfishness. And as the hot flames die down, they turn into something warm and stable and more comfortable; like glowing embers that can be reignited.

Love is staying when you have every reason to go, its forgiveness whether you think they deserve it or not, it’s being patient when your patience is running out. Love is what you have, when at the end of a long, horrible day, he can walk in and just know and give you a long, hard hug. Love is telling you to lie down and rest and let him take a turn with the baby you were up with last. Love is looking across the room and knowing that person has your back, whatever the situation. Love goes through deaths, crisis and pain and grows stronger.

Love is making a choice to love on the days you just aren’t feeling it. Love is caring enough to figure out someone else’s needs before they even ask you to. Love is a tear in their eye, merely because there is one in yours. Love realizes another’s dreams and helps them achieve them.

Love is not dragging people through their past and it should never glean satisfaction from an “I told you so”. Love is not giving 50%, it is giving your all and then some. Love isn’t easy, it is long-suffering. Love isn’t for cowards. Love has respect and would never ask you to do things that make you uncomfortable.

Love is long conversations, marked with smiles and laughter and him grabbing your hand while driving down the road. Not so anyone can see, but because it’s what he wants. Love is when he never leaves the house without a hug and kiss and an, “I love you”, because he realizes life is precious and sometimes short. Love is a text when he knows you are struggling with something that says, “I love you and I’m here if you need me”.

Love can be messy. It isn’t always dancing through the meadows with a song on your lips and flowers in your hair. There usually aren’t any castles involved at all unless you go to the beach. And the closest you might get to a white horse, is his dirty pickup truck.

Do I still get butterflies? Yes, I do, but more importantly, when they are gone, or fail to appear for a while, I am not discouraged, because I know love is more than that and the longer you fan the flames of love, the stronger and more powerful it gets.

Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy;

love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely,

does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil;

does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth;

bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

I Corinthians 13:4-7

Filed Under: Family and Home, Inspirational Tagged With: love, love for spouse, marriage, Romance

Weekly Writing Challenge: That’s Absurd

September 21, 2014 9 Comments

The Challenge:

Write a fictional piece that incorporates the everyday life we’re familiar with — work, family, errands — and add a surprise twist through an imaginary character, absurd turn of events, or Sci-Fi-esque setting.

As I told my husband about this little story this morning over coffee, he laughed. I’m not sure what we will ever do about the snoring, but I am hoping I just learn to sleep through it 🙂

It was one of those nights where the tiny sliver of moon that existed, stayed nestled behind the clouds. I sat up in bed, surrounded by a blanket of darkness, then stood and groped my way to the bathroom.

As I returned to bed I remember wondering if I should just continue on to the couch or the spare bedroom. My husband’s snoring had awakened me multiple times already and there was no sign of that ceasing. All the frustrated grunts, pillow punching and cover jerking had provided only temporary relief from the incessant noise. My annoyance had reached colossal proportion.

I looked up as a flicker of light from the lampshade on my bedside table caught my attention. We never see lightning bugs here, so what in the world was going on? Did my phone go off? Or worse, was there someone outside with a flashlight, intent on coming in?

Then I saw him. Had he not been so tiny, I am sure fear would have gripped me. He was about an inch tall, standing there as bold as you please on my alarm clock. He was dressed like one of the seven dwarves and sporting a beard as long as his body. He looked very old, but was also very spry.

As I sat down on the bed to have a closer look, he exclaimed in a high pitched voice, “Hello, my name is Snuffer!”

“Where did you come from and why are you here?” I asked in a whisper, trying not to disturb my husband’s sleep, for reasons unknown to me.

He said, “When someone like you reaches a certain level of frustration with a snoring spouse, I come to snuff their breath!”

“Excuse me? Snuff their breath? Do you mean as in stopping their very breathing?”

“Aha, you are a quick study! “Yes, exactly”, he said with a smile.

Now, I began to panic. “Oh no, you can’t do that!” Then we began a dance of sorts, as he tried to get around me to get to my husband. He was much quicker than you would imagine and I finally screamed, “Stop, you horrid little man!”

With this, my husband snorted, sat up and bed and asked me who I was talking to. I looked up from my horizontal position, my head lying on the pillow at the darkness all around me and quietly said, “No one.”

Filed Under: Family and Home Tagged With: dpchallenge, fiction, short story, sleeping, snoring, spouse issues, weekly writing challenge

Missing my girls

September 16, 2014 18 Comments

The girls when they were young

As the holidays loom ever closer, I find myself reminiscing about the simple things I miss. Being an empty nester for almost a year now hasn’t been as bad as I feared. Dad and I have had more time for each other and it’s been peaceful and quiet.

But sometimes a mama just has one of those days.

Today, I miss one hand in mine, while your dad held the other as we propelled you over a puddle or a crack or just for the thrill of hearing you giggle. You would always plea, “do it again”, until our arms were worn out. I miss tiny feet coming down the hall with sleepy eyes that beckoned me to pick you up and hold you for a while until you were fully awake.

I miss play-doh, yes, even play-doh and playdates and parks; climbing up the slide with you in my arms and sliding down while holding on to you for dear life.

The dinner table is much quieter now and there are never any spills or anyone scrunching their nose up at my choice of veggies. It only takes a minute to clean up afterwards and there is no one volunteering to help. Oh wait; there wasn’t when you were here either!

I miss the wide, trusting eyes that believed everything I told them and somehow instinctively knew I had their best interest at heart.

Oh yes, I even miss the makeup encrusted counters, because they remind me of “getting ready” with you to go on one of our outings. I miss a house full of friends, being your taxi and proudly watching you play all your sports. Today, I even miss the smelly tripled amounts of laundry.

I miss the way I rarely had to drag you to church because you always wanted to go. I miss your excitement over mission trips and the way you told stories of the life changing experiences you had upon your return from them.

I am sure I’ll have other days like this, because I have so many wonderful memories with you. You were a pleasure to raise (most of the time). Don’t get so teary and filled with sympathy that you think this means you have to return for good, but a visit in the near future would be nice!

Make sure that you enjoy the “simple” things, as those are the ones you will remember with such fondness.

Love,

Mom

Filed Under: Family and Home Tagged With: daughters, empty nest, girls, kids, parental love

Wish I was eating cake with you

August 18, 2014 6 Comments

After all these years, I can still see you standing there. You, in your blue jeans, with your unruly curls, your lipstick on, nails polished, smelling like Cinnabar.

It is hard for me to imagine that if you were still here, today you would be celebrating your 68th birthday. Time stands still and I remember you forever at 49.

Time hadn’t etched many lines in your face and your eyes were clear and bright. The hand that only ever got to feel Morgan, when she kicked in my 8 month pregnant belly, was steady and bore no signs of age spots. Before sickness took it’s toll, you were energetic and vivacious!

I don’t question why anymore, as I trust God’s timing in all things, but oh, mother, how I still miss you!

My heart still aches with grief sometimes and yes, the tears still fall, but not nearly as often. There are so many things I would love to be able to share with you and I can’t count the times I still desire your wise counsel and advice.

Until heaven, I must be content with memories, so I am eternally grateful and immensely blessed to have a million good ones with you.

Feeling highly favored to have called you mine,

Lisa

Filed Under: Family and Home Tagged With: Family, gone too soon, missing you, Mom, Mother

Bag left behind

July 28, 2014 8 Comments

Yes, travelling is wonderful and it is a privilege, even when it is accompanied by work such as this one. My day began with the requirement to be up and at least moderately alert at 3:45am. Next there was the drive to the airport in the dark and fog, with less than perfect windshield wipers.

Once I get to the airport, park the car, take the shuttle, check the bag, go through security (where I was the lucky recipient of a shoe pass, i.e., I got to leave my flip flops on), I find myself at the gate. This is when I tend to relax a little from my travel anxiety.

This particular work-approved, cost effective itinerary had me going through Chicago, changing airlines and then on to Denver. It crossed my mind that changing airlines mid route might not fare well for my luggage, but I quickly dismissed the thought.

The first flight was uneventful. I even managed to doze off, which is rare for me because I am always mortified when I wake up to find that my mouth is hanging open. All I can think of is some teenager snapping a photo of the middle aged woman looking ridiculous, only to share on some social media site. Am I paranoid?

Of course I arrive in Chicago at the gate farthest from where I need to be, thus another shuttle and lots of walking and finally, we load up for my second flight. Embarrassingly, I sat in the window seat, when my ticket clearly indicated aisle, only to be chided by some man who was way too old for skinny jeans. Fine with me, I prefer the aisle.

Finally, we land in Denver and I go directly to the bathroom and then straight on to baggage claim. I watch all of the mostly black suitcases go around and around until there are only a few stragglers left. When it’s apparent that there is no more luggage to be found, I make my way to the baggage office to consult with the young man in uniform about the fate of my bag. He takes my information and with a few clicks on his keyboard tells me my bag is still in Chicago. Great. He promises he has located it and it will arrive on the next flight and be to my hotel as soon as possible. Knowing how this type of thing can go, I am skeptical and begin to worry if I will be wearing the same clothes tomorrow, riddled with airport germs.

Later, I unpack the bag of toiletry items, nicely provided by the front desk and logon to my computer to check status on my bag, which wasn’t good at the time. By the time I went to bed though, my last check showed that my bag would arrive at 9:30pm and be picked up by delivery truck and brought to my hotel.

I woke up with a start around 4:00am, after a nightmare about a hideous hairy, grey suitcase that uniformed airline employees kept insisting was mine. I screamed, “Nooooooo!!” over and over again to no avail.

When I woke up again around 5, a quick call to the front desk, relieved all of my fears. My bag had been delivered and they would be happy to run it right up. The world was right again. I had clean clothes, makeup and all the other necessities a girl wants.

Filed Under: Family and Home Tagged With: air travel, lost luggage, luggage, suitcase, Travel

Dreading Saturdays

May 23, 2014 4 Comments

My first and last recital

Dreading Saturdays

It was 1975 and I was a mere 10 years old, so forgive me that I don’t recall all of the details. What I do remember is that after a conversation between my mother and grandmother, followed by whole-hearted agreement by my dad, it was settled. I was to begin piano lessons.

I was blessed with a family that showered me with praise and always had high expectations for my success, so I just assumed I would learn all my favorite songs quickly and figured I could count on even more of their attention which I coveted. Undoubtedly, my grandmother believed I could give even Mozart a run for his money. I can just hear her saying, “she’s a natural” and “listen to her play, she is gifted”. My grandmother, like many others, thought her grandchildren were the cutest, brightest most wonderful grandchildren ever born.

My lessons would be given by an elderly lady we shall call Mrs. W. who had taught many others in the community, including my uncle. I didn’t know much about her, but the adults in my family lavished praise on her teaching ability.

As with any “first”, I was both excited and a little nervous as my mother and I pulled up to the Community church where my lessons would be held. We entered using the back entrance and were greeted by Mrs. W. My first impression was that she was old and her perfume made my nose stuffy.

She looked different than my grandmothers as neither of them wore makeup and one never wore jewelry at all. Mrs. W. had carefully applied pink lipstick and I could see the powder dusted on her face. She had lots of brightly colored costume jewelry, which I would have loved to have tried on, but would never have thought of asking, not even after I knew her well.

My mother never stayed in the room with us for lessons. I don’t know if she ran errands or waited in the car, but I know she was always there when I was finished.

The first few lessons were tedious and had more to do with learning to read music than actually playing the piano. I remember drawing the notes on pre-printed pages. When I had a basic understanding, she let me begin to play.

After a while, the lessons were devoted to playing whatever Mrs. W. assigned. This is when I began to find her teaching tactics somewhat nerve-wracking. If I missed a note, she would rap my knuckles with a ruler. She was also a stickler about hand placement and countless times I had my hands pressed down firmly, a little too firmly, onto the correct keys. I don’t want to give the suggestion that I thought her cruel. She was just very strict and stern and wanted my completed undivided attention to detail.

I complained to my parents about Mrs. W’s method for correction but my whining didn’t garner much sympathy . My dad just said I needed to spend more time practicing.

This piano lesson idea was losing its appeal rather quickly. I didn’t want to give up play time or my beloved reading time for more practice. I didn’t enjoy it like everyone thought I should. I was also tired of having my Saturdays interrupted.

I pouted, pleaded and begged to quit, to no avail. Saturday mornings probably became just as tedious for my mom as I faked illness, and made other excuses to get out of going. When those plans failed, I moped around, with a long face, acting as though they were sending me off to some horrible fate.

My dad finally said if I would do my best and give it a fair shot, that if I still hated it after my first recital, I could quit. Ahh, a glimmer of hope. Now I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I was giddy the night of the recital, mostly because it would be my final one, but also because I was prepared and felt I would do well. I did my best and I could tell by their faces that my parents were very proud of me. Mrs. W. told them that I had potential, which served to encourage them in their wishes that I continue playing.

However, a promise is a promise and my dad kept his. I remember him pleading with me not to quit. My dad isn’t very talkative, but he gave it his best. After my decision was made, I felt relieved, yet sad for my dad. I can still remember that so clearly. I hated piano lessons more than I cared about his wishes. It took some of the joy from my release from captivity.

In retrospect, I made a silly, selfish choice; one that I have regretted many times. As I think back on those days, I know it was a sacrifice for them to spend money on lessons, especially when I gave up so easily. I am surprised that they allowed me to quit. After all, what does a 10 year old know?

It always amazes me how clearly I remember the times when I made the wrong decisions, especially when, in doing so, I hurt others. I guess that is a good thing, because if we forgot all the bad, we would just continue to repeat it. I think memories like this one caused me to look back and fully appreciate the opportunities I was given and the love that motivated them and I am thankful.

Filed Under: Family and Home Tagged With: Music, parental love, piano lessons, Saturdays

Weekly Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections

March 29, 2014 3 Comments

Embed from Getty Images

This week the challenge was, “tell us how you fell in love with books and writing”

As for exactly when my love affair with books and writing started, I don’t remember. My earliest memories have me snuggled up in the lap of whatever adult I could cajole into reading to me. Thankfully, I was surrounded by them. I was also the firstborn child and first grandchild, so yes, they were quite willing.

The first thing I remember reading myself were the old “Dick and Jane” primers. One of my other early favorites was Amelia Bedelia which I loved to hear my granny read because she was very dramatic and made me feel like I knew the characters personally. Curious George and the man with the yellow hat took me on many adventures and Dr Seuss always made me smile.

When my brother, my sister and I were still quite young, my mother made what, in my opinion, was a glorious decision. She signed us up to receive Childcraft books! Oh, the thrill! They were to arrive monthly and at the end of our subscription, we would own a full set. We already received Highlights magazine, so the trips to the post office were going to become twice as exciting.

As I grew, it was Charlotte’s Web, all the Judy Blume books, Little Women, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, then Anne of Green Gables, Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. There was Watership Down, The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, Gulliver’s Travels and The Outsiders. Although I wasn’t as enamored with it then as I am now, I read the Bible frequently also. The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom and The Cross and the Switchblade by David Wilkerson were two books that touched my life deeply.

Reading was my favorite pastime and I was often called bookworm by my brother and sister who didn’t share my passion. My love for the written word inspired me to write as well. I still have the first story I remember writing; it was a short story about a family during colonial times and I believe it was an assignment for what was then called Social Studies.

I always kept a diary and keep a journal to this day. As life moved on, I failed to record as much and couldn’t seem to find the time to write, but it was always there, bubbling beneath the surface. I think we are all born with gifts and callings and it is our role as parents to encourage those gifts. As individuals, when they begin to resonate within us, we should introduce them to this world and practice them to perfection.

My writing resumed its former importance when my children arrived and I felt compelled to leave a record of things; something they could refer back to and remember me by. I treasure a book of poetry left to me by my mother. It shares a part of her that most didn’t know and when I read a selection, it is her voice I still hear. It brings me comfort, so I feel I can leave something similar for them.

Blogging began for me a little more than a year ago and originally was born out of a desire to become a better writer with the end goal of published inspirational fiction. As I see how much I have learned and grown in the past year, I am content to continue to stay on the same course until I am ready for bigger things. Maybe it will only serve as a journal of sorts for my children, but if I can occasionally even touch one person with my writing, by either causing them to think or reflect, or maybe feel better than they did before reading it, I will have accomplished something. To touch a life, even in a small way, really is a big thing.

Lastly, writing is just something I have to do. It doesn’t appear to be a choice. Sometimes it may seem buried in the chaos of this life, but there are days that I must write, or I feel like I will burst. I truly feel like reading and writing are both absolutes for me; they have been and will be a part of my life forever.