Wow! Christmas AGAIN?! My thought as I peered at my December calendar. Instead of my usual Yuletide fervor, dread reared its ugly head. I comforted myself. Surely it is because I worked so hard on the turkey! This apathy will pass.
Still no enthusiasm for me, but my husband bucked up with good cheer, and endured the cold to mount the roof against all odds to string Christmas lights. The outside of our house now looks so much like a Christmas wonderland that I even suggested that on Christmas morning, we open our gifts in our driveway.
My husband, un-amused, tried to spur me on by stringing some lights around our French doors, and when he finished, lit them up with glee. Still in my curmudgeon state, I peered at them above my specs while lounging in my easy chair and reading a delicious novel set in the summer months in Cornwall England.
"Oh nice," I mused, "very nice."
He looked wistfully at the little strand of lights and asked hopefully, "So, have you changed your mind about getting a tree?"
I looked up again, this time with a look that suggested he ask this again at some other time, perhaps next year.
"No," was my short and to-the-point answer.
Not understanding where else to go with such directness, he left me to my summer in Cornwall. Later in the evening, warmed by the breezes wafting over Cornwall into my heart in Portland, Oregon, where the east wind howled, I admitted that perhaps, whether I felt like it or not (I am an adult, right?) I should arise and take the challenge that faces every woman this time of the year.
Decorate! Bake! Shop! Wrap! Give! Entertain! Visit orphans armed with gifts! Visit the sick and elderly singing carols! Write on glittering cards a year's events distilled to three sentences to friends scattered all over the world! Let the aroma of spiced cider waft through the house, and ribbons adorn Fluffy and Fido! Let the music of ye old Christmas carols fill hearts of all who visit!
Aha! No wonder escape into Cornwall looked so good. I had forgotten! That Jesus is the reason for the season. That my gifts are because of my Savior, my king! That my efforts are not in my flesh, but in my Spirit, and that because of Him, this season can be full! Truly full.
That spicy cider, gifts to the poor and lonely, connections with friends far and near, carols reminding us of Jesus' birth, the gift of giving and receiving--It's all because of my dear Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
Hmmm, I am smelling the sweet scent of hot spiced cider and the real love of the season. Thank you Jesus. Let the celebration begin!
Monday, December 8, 2014
Friday, October 31, 2014
CONNECTIONS OF THE HEART
Connections, whether human or technological, can cause conflict, delight, pause or excitement. We, like sheep, herd together to rejoice or rant about life or death, and everything in between.
Starbucks, or the office coffee bar? Both "watering holes for the soul." We do tend to gravitate toward gathering places -- could it be, in fact, that we need each other?
Since the death of our oldest son a year and a half ago, I have been forced to pull back from my normal activity because grief has its own demands; sometimes you remain on top of it, other times, not so much. I see that, as I stop, rest, cry, wait, I am reflecting more. Aha! I find clear thoughts amidst the emotional fog! New glimpses of reflection, and questions emerge. I ask myself, "Am I really connecting with the ones I love, remaining true to the ideals I hold dear, and pressing in to the God I serve?" I had unsettling answers. For example, I am shocked at my inhospitality, my overwhelm in political issues (well, come on, really!), my stubbornness in writing!
Hence, this blog. Hence, Over the Coffee.
I don't have a plan per se. All or nothing does not work here-guess I won't run for office or write the definitive American novel this week. But, I can gently re-emerge into those places of heart connections which are familiar and not so familiar.
So, armed with well meaning, and a full heart, I wrote handwritten notes to people rejoicing and mourning. I delivered flowers to a community leader who works hard! I made homemade soup, and cleaned my house (whew) for a renewed acquaintance who came to lunch. And, dear friends, I wrote to you all. Over the next few months, I am going to focus on connections, with myself, with my family, friends and community, with my country, and with my God. Hope you can join me.
Over the Coffee.
Starbucks, or the office coffee bar? Both "watering holes for the soul." We do tend to gravitate toward gathering places -- could it be, in fact, that we need each other?
Since the death of our oldest son a year and a half ago, I have been forced to pull back from my normal activity because grief has its own demands; sometimes you remain on top of it, other times, not so much. I see that, as I stop, rest, cry, wait, I am reflecting more. Aha! I find clear thoughts amidst the emotional fog! New glimpses of reflection, and questions emerge. I ask myself, "Am I really connecting with the ones I love, remaining true to the ideals I hold dear, and pressing in to the God I serve?" I had unsettling answers. For example, I am shocked at my inhospitality, my overwhelm in political issues (well, come on, really!), my stubbornness in writing!
Hence, this blog. Hence, Over the Coffee.
I don't have a plan per se. All or nothing does not work here-guess I won't run for office or write the definitive American novel this week. But, I can gently re-emerge into those places of heart connections which are familiar and not so familiar.
So, armed with well meaning, and a full heart, I wrote handwritten notes to people rejoicing and mourning. I delivered flowers to a community leader who works hard! I made homemade soup, and cleaned my house (whew) for a renewed acquaintance who came to lunch. And, dear friends, I wrote to you all. Over the next few months, I am going to focus on connections, with myself, with my family, friends and community, with my country, and with my God. Hope you can join me.
Over the Coffee.
Monday, September 15, 2014
Happy Birthday Tony Jenkin!
Happy Birthday Anthony Scott Jenkin! (Designer of "Over the Coffee")
My dear son, who goes by Tony, is 34 years old today. Can it be?! Before I celebrate the "good stuff", let me cleanse my system of all of the clichés we evidently must endure as our children age.
----Oh, the time goes by so quickly! (Am I really this old?)
----Oh, he was such a good baby! (Except when he was teething).
----Oh, I remember when he first walked! (At nine months; so excited he never napped again).
----Oh, I remember when he lost his first tooth!(Literally, I dropped it down the kitchen drain).
----Oh I remember his first day in kindergarten! (I cried the whole morning).
----Oh, I remember his high school graduation!(I cried for joy).
----Oh, I remember when he left for college!(I cried for months).
Those are memories, milestones of every mother (well maybe not the baby tooth down the drain). And yes, for the record, motherhood yields LOTS of tears. Thankfully, those tears yield to LOTS of joy.
Today, there are no tears---just a grateful heart at celebrating not with a child, but with a young man. I am thankful that I not only love Tony, but I really LIKE Tony! I love that he is a thinker, a connector, a truth-finder, and a creator. I love that he is a giver and encourager and teacher. I love his humor, his zeal for the outdoors, his physical and emotional fitness. I love that he is curious, and that he loves to learn.
I watch with admiration as he makes his way through a tough world, faces daunting challenges emotionally and physically for being only 34, and lands on his feet with grace, truth and humor. I am cheered as he presses in to find answers for himself, and for the world around him that are not so easy to find in this day and age. I wonder at his courage, but I am happy to be with him in his journey. So I say " Happy Birthday Tony!" Love you dear son, Mom
My dear son, who goes by Tony, is 34 years old today. Can it be?! Before I celebrate the "good stuff", let me cleanse my system of all of the clichés we evidently must endure as our children age.
----Oh, the time goes by so quickly! (Am I really this old?)
----Oh, he was such a good baby! (Except when he was teething).
----Oh, I remember when he first walked! (At nine months; so excited he never napped again).
----Oh, I remember when he lost his first tooth!(Literally, I dropped it down the kitchen drain).
----Oh I remember his first day in kindergarten! (I cried the whole morning).
----Oh, I remember his high school graduation!(I cried for joy).
----Oh, I remember when he left for college!(I cried for months).
Those are memories, milestones of every mother (well maybe not the baby tooth down the drain). And yes, for the record, motherhood yields LOTS of tears. Thankfully, those tears yield to LOTS of joy.
Today, there are no tears---just a grateful heart at celebrating not with a child, but with a young man. I am thankful that I not only love Tony, but I really LIKE Tony! I love that he is a thinker, a connector, a truth-finder, and a creator. I love that he is a giver and encourager and teacher. I love his humor, his zeal for the outdoors, his physical and emotional fitness. I love that he is curious, and that he loves to learn.
I watch with admiration as he makes his way through a tough world, faces daunting challenges emotionally and physically for being only 34, and lands on his feet with grace, truth and humor. I am cheered as he presses in to find answers for himself, and for the world around him that are not so easy to find in this day and age. I wonder at his courage, but I am happy to be with him in his journey. So I say " Happy Birthday Tony!" Love you dear son, Mom
Friday, March 21, 2014
About Yesterday.............
Dear readers,
Yesterday, I posted two entries which were so different in their emotional content that when I read them on the blog, I felt as if I had put my finger into an electrical plug.
Am I that changeable I asked myself? Is this as jarring to my readers as it is to me?
I am suspecting so. It is out of respect for you the reader then, that I explain how the two came to be posted on the same day and what I have learned as a result.
As I sat at my desk yesterday, I revisited the post I had started on Chris' birthday, December 6, 2013, which was in my draft folder. I had not planned on writing anything additional at all, but my feelings gushed out. There was no stopping them, so I wrote them down. I wanted to attach this post to a brief entry I had written on December 6th, but alas, my inability (see CUT AND PASTE, last February) prohibited that, and thus, the piece posted yesterday.
I intended on posting the exercise piece because it is current with my dilemma of flab. Eating comfort food and watching old movies has to go, says my doctor. So, as I edited that piece, I howled with laughter as I recalled my first experience with Silver Sneakers. Surprised at the drastic swing of my own emotion between tears and laughter, I thought, "Am I really this schizophrenic?"
A day later when I reread my blog, I had to answer that, at the very least, the segue was just not there between the two columns. Years ago, when I began my journey as a writer, one of my "Bibles of writing" was ON WRITING WELL by William Zinsser (fourth edition). One of the things that sticks with me, is his respect for his craft, and for those who want to read what he writes.
This blog was started, not as much for you, the reader, but for me, the writer. It is a new venture for me--far from my journalistic roots. Balance and focus in blogging was a challenge even before our life was turned upside down with a death in our family.
I learned something new yesterday. A balance in this venue is not only words, but emotion and it is my responsibility to carry you as the writer. Hopefully, as we travel, I will earn that respect---
Over the Coffee.
Yesterday, I posted two entries which were so different in their emotional content that when I read them on the blog, I felt as if I had put my finger into an electrical plug.
Am I that changeable I asked myself? Is this as jarring to my readers as it is to me?
I am suspecting so. It is out of respect for you the reader then, that I explain how the two came to be posted on the same day and what I have learned as a result.
As I sat at my desk yesterday, I revisited the post I had started on Chris' birthday, December 6, 2013, which was in my draft folder. I had not planned on writing anything additional at all, but my feelings gushed out. There was no stopping them, so I wrote them down. I wanted to attach this post to a brief entry I had written on December 6th, but alas, my inability (see CUT AND PASTE, last February) prohibited that, and thus, the piece posted yesterday.
I intended on posting the exercise piece because it is current with my dilemma of flab. Eating comfort food and watching old movies has to go, says my doctor. So, as I edited that piece, I howled with laughter as I recalled my first experience with Silver Sneakers. Surprised at the drastic swing of my own emotion between tears and laughter, I thought, "Am I really this schizophrenic?"
A day later when I reread my blog, I had to answer that, at the very least, the segue was just not there between the two columns. Years ago, when I began my journey as a writer, one of my "Bibles of writing" was ON WRITING WELL by William Zinsser (fourth edition). One of the things that sticks with me, is his respect for his craft, and for those who want to read what he writes.
This blog was started, not as much for you, the reader, but for me, the writer. It is a new venture for me--far from my journalistic roots. Balance and focus in blogging was a challenge even before our life was turned upside down with a death in our family.
I learned something new yesterday. A balance in this venue is not only words, but emotion and it is my responsibility to carry you as the writer. Hopefully, as we travel, I will earn that respect---
Over the Coffee.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Chris' Birthday
December 9, 2013 Another level of good-bye to my son Christopher.
December 6, 2013 would have been his 39th birthday. There are waves, depths, seasons of feeling the pain of losing a child. There are waves, depths, and explosions of grief relating to the act of suicide.
Thoughts of "what if's" seize me, and shake me like a wild animal rips its prey. My body, and my mind are either frozen, or fired with the hot emotions of shock and pain, or both. I can't believe it, and yet, I can.
Today, it is a pile of ashes, when I want desperately to remember life.
I try to read to comfort myself, but my eyes cannot focus, and my heart is full of expressions I cannot possibly identify.
People ask "what can I do?" I have no idea. I want the life around me to go away-- I want people to go away-- and yet, I want them to come in.
I grapple with trying to lift myself up every morning under a terrifying oppression, a restlessness I can't satisfy, and a hope I can't find. Tears fill my body, but they won't come--they stand poised in ice, waiting for me to melt.
But I'm angry instead. It's not an anger I have experienced before--it is a quiet, smoldering anger, ready to lash out, but burning deep in my soul, and there is no focus. I'm feeling unsteady, uncertain, unready to relate to any circumstance, or to any person. Mostly, I just want to protect myself and stay in bed.
This is not the way it was supposed to be. This is not where I want to be. I can only know that, with God's help, somehow, some way,
I can move on.
December 6, 2013 would have been his 39th birthday. There are waves, depths, seasons of feeling the pain of losing a child. There are waves, depths, and explosions of grief relating to the act of suicide.
Thoughts of "what if's" seize me, and shake me like a wild animal rips its prey. My body, and my mind are either frozen, or fired with the hot emotions of shock and pain, or both. I can't believe it, and yet, I can.
Today, it is a pile of ashes, when I want desperately to remember life.
I try to read to comfort myself, but my eyes cannot focus, and my heart is full of expressions I cannot possibly identify.
People ask "what can I do?" I have no idea. I want the life around me to go away-- I want people to go away-- and yet, I want them to come in.
I grapple with trying to lift myself up every morning under a terrifying oppression, a restlessness I can't satisfy, and a hope I can't find. Tears fill my body, but they won't come--they stand poised in ice, waiting for me to melt.
But I'm angry instead. It's not an anger I have experienced before--it is a quiet, smoldering anger, ready to lash out, but burning deep in my soul, and there is no focus. I'm feeling unsteady, uncertain, unready to relate to any circumstance, or to any person. Mostly, I just want to protect myself and stay in bed.
This is not the way it was supposed to be. This is not where I want to be. I can only know that, with God's help, somehow, some way,
I can move on.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Today, I want to pay tribute to my dear friend, Elsie Larson, who three years ago today, went home to be with the Lord. I miss her tremendously because she was my writing mentor, prayer partner, and FRIEND. Upon her retirement from the dental field, she decided to write.
And write she did. An extraordinarily intelligent, grounded woman, she chose to grasp the techniques of writing--went to conferences, workshops, critique groups, read favorite authors, books on writing, and encouraged everyone along the way, that they had a story to tell, and that--
they needed to tell it.
I was one of the fortunate ones along the way. She moved into my area of town, so I joined a critique group she had formed. By then, she had published two books, and was well into her third. By this time, I had written as a public relations professional, free-lanced as a journalist, and had edited for various writers along the way. But our friendship bound us together as well as being writers. Toward the end of her life, she had laid writing aside and embarked upon art. Her greatest joy was journaling, then adding a "prophetic" art touch; indeed it sprang to life and she bequeathed it to her children when she knew death was at hand.
My biggest disappointment was not writing a book-she always said she didn't want to go home to be with the Lord until "you have written the book I know is in you, Katy!" Instead we partnered much on articles for Guideposts Magazine for which we both wrote. I helped critique and edit (along with others) that which she wrote.
We sequestered ourselves at the beach, writing days, eating and laughing and watching old movies at nights. We walked our dogs, talked about life, disappointments, joys, what God was doing! and in the end, we were kitchen table friends, enjoying each other, knowing our weaknesses and our strengths, and treasured "being" and sharing our creative endeavors.
My first book will be dedicated to her. What she didn't understand--and she knew me well, is that God had much to do with me before His book--that is, the book within me--would come forth.
Today, my heart says, "It is time for that book." For the journey and the book to come, I thank you Elsie Larson.
And write she did. An extraordinarily intelligent, grounded woman, she chose to grasp the techniques of writing--went to conferences, workshops, critique groups, read favorite authors, books on writing, and encouraged everyone along the way, that they had a story to tell, and that--
they needed to tell it.
I was one of the fortunate ones along the way. She moved into my area of town, so I joined a critique group she had formed. By then, she had published two books, and was well into her third. By this time, I had written as a public relations professional, free-lanced as a journalist, and had edited for various writers along the way. But our friendship bound us together as well as being writers. Toward the end of her life, she had laid writing aside and embarked upon art. Her greatest joy was journaling, then adding a "prophetic" art touch; indeed it sprang to life and she bequeathed it to her children when she knew death was at hand.
My biggest disappointment was not writing a book-she always said she didn't want to go home to be with the Lord until "you have written the book I know is in you, Katy!" Instead we partnered much on articles for Guideposts Magazine for which we both wrote. I helped critique and edit (along with others) that which she wrote.
We sequestered ourselves at the beach, writing days, eating and laughing and watching old movies at nights. We walked our dogs, talked about life, disappointments, joys, what God was doing! and in the end, we were kitchen table friends, enjoying each other, knowing our weaknesses and our strengths, and treasured "being" and sharing our creative endeavors.
My first book will be dedicated to her. What she didn't understand--and she knew me well, is that God had much to do with me before His book--that is, the book within me--would come forth.
Today, my heart says, "It is time for that book." For the journey and the book to come, I thank you Elsie Larson.
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