The crises? We all have them, some seasons fuller of them than others. A mixed bag of life offers up
circumstances that make our hair stand up on end, or fall out-- news where we either kick up our heels, or dig them in.
Personally, I am facing the second anniversary of my son's death, feeling loss of long-time neighbors moving on, and watching my husband and son embrace new adventures in their lives. If I have a new adventure --
I DON'T SEE IT.
I am adrift. My begonias, sit on the front stoop, drooping, crying out to be watered, (or even better, PLANTED!) My dog smiles up at me, coaxing a walk -- he prances along as I shuffle. Days drag on endlessly -- (where was all this time when I needed it?!)
Feels like God is saying, "You can now move freely about the cabin."
My answer: "Am I even in a cabin?"
Truth to tell, I AM learning. My opine is not always divine. So listening is up front and center.
Lazy summer sounds are high on my easy listening list. Lawnmowers humming, (not mine unfortunately), trees rustling in a gentle breeze. Fighter jets crashing through the sound barrier DO NOT make the list, but the midnight train peeling down the tracks at midnight as I drift to sleep DOES.
Listening to myself is high on my list. As I pour through WAITING ON GOD by Andrew Murray, I once again learn that this process is not cut and dried, short, or predictable. Courage to sit in my own silence, gently sorting through emotions which pour in without bolting takes some discipline, strength, and a measure of focus.
I just didn't count the cost.
But I will. With Him, I will.
And in the process I hope to understand more of myself, of new friends and old, and of the One Who Knows. Methinks that the pen of my heart is being sharpened. Much is finding its way to paper, some of which is surprising to me. The new adventure? I suspect much more to follow.
Hope you come along.
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Friday, June 5, 2015
Can I just say? Listening? I've worked on this blog for two months now. I've strained my ear, stretched my focus, used plenty of Q-tips, reviewed my CD's, reminisced about my childhood favorites, stiffened as I recall sounds which signify fear, death, and destruction, and those that go bump in the night. You get the idea.
I've racked my brain about how to describe sounds in a bright and brilliant way. Birds that go chirp? C'mon! For years now, I've searched for the word about how I felt when a gang member stuck a gun into the small of my back, and cocked it. Not much else sticks in my mind but that sound.
Obviously I lived to tell about it.
The reason for this exercise you may ask?
A crisis of conundrums. A map too frayed and worn to give me any direction. A mind fraught with overload. A life, too quickly changing. Once again, I had to pull up camp, go higher, clear off the calendar, pick up my journal and my Bible, and,
Watch, wait, and listen.
I've racked my brain about how to describe sounds in a bright and brilliant way. Birds that go chirp? C'mon! For years now, I've searched for the word about how I felt when a gang member stuck a gun into the small of my back, and cocked it. Not much else sticks in my mind but that sound.
Obviously I lived to tell about it.
The reason for this exercise you may ask?
A crisis of conundrums. A map too frayed and worn to give me any direction. A mind fraught with overload. A life, too quickly changing. Once again, I had to pull up camp, go higher, clear off the calendar, pick up my journal and my Bible, and,
Watch, wait, and listen.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Miss P
Inspirational moments? Tears well up in my eyes, my heart pounds or I get goose bumps.
When sentiment flags me down during normal events, I am ready to take it all in! Often, however, there are "other" little sparks of inspiration that hit me. Like little foxes, they spring up, and I am almost shocked at how connected I am to them. Those moments.
Such was the moment when I tuned in to the finals of the Westminster Kennel Club Show last week. I love dogs mind you, have always had a canine companion for most of my life, can tell dog stories until my cohort's eyes glaze over, but this was no ordinary evening. There was a "sweet spot" moment coming.
I settled down to take it all in on the last night, the big finals. It seemed pretty pro forma, as the judge took center stage to run the six finalists through their drills. The regal line-up included a Portuguese water dog named Matisse, a big standard poodle with an audacious poof, a high-brow shih Tzu, an elegant springer spaniel, and a little 5-inch beagle named Miss P. The suspense built as the judge took a full 20-minutes to survey the line-up, the commentators whispered low, and the audience applauded their favorite, an English sheepdog named Swagger.
I felt the goose bumps. God only knows why I was riveted, but I was. The judge took his time to build the suspense, and the audience audibly gasped when he announced the winner, obviously to most a surprise, Miss P the little 5-inch beagle.
I LOVED IT, BECAUSE MISS P WAS MY FAVORITE TOO! Why? I asked myself? Because this
little beagle was spunky. SPUNKY.
She was surrounded by high fashion, grooming that didn't quit, and mounds of experience she didn't have. She looked plain in comparison, and she had no hair to cover her short legs. She only had what she had, and she went for it. She held her head high, and every time the judge asked her to trot around the ring (which was more than usual), she pranced at a tricky gait--not too fast, but at a pace that said, "I'm going for it!"
Maybe that's why I loved her. I could see her spunk and I respected her for it. I suppose you can see where I COULD go with this, i.e., "just be who you are, and don't compare yourself to the other show-stoppers around you," or, "just because you are plain doesn't mean you are not special, or " you don't need hair to cover your short legs."
Nope. I am not going there, though those things are true. A few months ago, I noted that I was, in 2015 going to write about the connections in our lives. Miss P, a little beagle spoke to me as I sat down wearily to watch something "fun." As I regrouped last week and reflected that I need three of me to walk through my calendar these days, I think I needed to stop and smell the roses. God always uses what endears me in this life to speak when I need to hear, or relax, or relish.
I think it was her spunk that did it, the head held high, the "I'm going for it!" gait, the pure joy of doing what she loved to do; she knew she did well, you could see it in her posture, in her spirit. The judge saw it, and I think I needed to see it too. God always has a way of speaking to you in the way that you need, in the very time that you need.
Thank you Miss P. Thank you.
When sentiment flags me down during normal events, I am ready to take it all in! Often, however, there are "other" little sparks of inspiration that hit me. Like little foxes, they spring up, and I am almost shocked at how connected I am to them. Those moments.
Such was the moment when I tuned in to the finals of the Westminster Kennel Club Show last week. I love dogs mind you, have always had a canine companion for most of my life, can tell dog stories until my cohort's eyes glaze over, but this was no ordinary evening. There was a "sweet spot" moment coming.
I settled down to take it all in on the last night, the big finals. It seemed pretty pro forma, as the judge took center stage to run the six finalists through their drills. The regal line-up included a Portuguese water dog named Matisse, a big standard poodle with an audacious poof, a high-brow shih Tzu, an elegant springer spaniel, and a little 5-inch beagle named Miss P. The suspense built as the judge took a full 20-minutes to survey the line-up, the commentators whispered low, and the audience applauded their favorite, an English sheepdog named Swagger.
I felt the goose bumps. God only knows why I was riveted, but I was. The judge took his time to build the suspense, and the audience audibly gasped when he announced the winner, obviously to most a surprise, Miss P the little 5-inch beagle.
I LOVED IT, BECAUSE MISS P WAS MY FAVORITE TOO! Why? I asked myself? Because this
little beagle was spunky. SPUNKY.
She was surrounded by high fashion, grooming that didn't quit, and mounds of experience she didn't have. She looked plain in comparison, and she had no hair to cover her short legs. She only had what she had, and she went for it. She held her head high, and every time the judge asked her to trot around the ring (which was more than usual), she pranced at a tricky gait--not too fast, but at a pace that said, "I'm going for it!"
Maybe that's why I loved her. I could see her spunk and I respected her for it. I suppose you can see where I COULD go with this, i.e., "just be who you are, and don't compare yourself to the other show-stoppers around you," or, "just because you are plain doesn't mean you are not special, or " you don't need hair to cover your short legs."
Nope. I am not going there, though those things are true. A few months ago, I noted that I was, in 2015 going to write about the connections in our lives. Miss P, a little beagle spoke to me as I sat down wearily to watch something "fun." As I regrouped last week and reflected that I need three of me to walk through my calendar these days, I think I needed to stop and smell the roses. God always uses what endears me in this life to speak when I need to hear, or relax, or relish.
I think it was her spunk that did it, the head held high, the "I'm going for it!" gait, the pure joy of doing what she loved to do; she knew she did well, you could see it in her posture, in her spirit. The judge saw it, and I think I needed to see it too. God always has a way of speaking to you in the way that you need, in the very time that you need.
Thank you Miss P. Thank you.
Monday, December 8, 2014
CHRISTMAS ALREADY?
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!
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!
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.
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