It's Friday again and I'm linking up with the great writers at Kate Motaung's Five Minute Friday weekly writing party! http://katemotaung.com/2015/07/30/five-minute-friday-try-plus-a-giveaway/ The word for today is Try. Whew!
Go.
One of my childhood memories that even now carries over into adulthood is my Mother's encouragement at mealtimes to get her children to "Try just a little bit of everything served." Even if we didn't think we would like it, or even if we knew we didn't like it, we were told to get a bite-sized portion. To this day, I love almost every food, probably as a direct result of her training.
I remember coming in contact with a wonderful older man when I was in my teens. He was a top maker who sold his toys at a family-friendly museum-like center. There he taught people young and old how to throw his tops just right and make them spin. My family stayed on and on until we finally had it mastered. I was sobered when he pointed out, "So many young people I try to teach quit so easily." His words stuck with me and encourage me even now not to quit too soon. As a college student, I have at times experienced feelings of being overwhelmed at what is required of me, but I know, if I keep on going, keep trying, I can succeed.
I've run out of time, but I have to add something a dear Sunday school teacher told his class once. "It's only the quitters who are failures. Those who make mistakes but get up and try again are the ones who succeed." Those who belong to Christ have His Holy Spirit and the promise of His great strength for those things they attempt to do for His Name's Sake. Whatever the LORD leads His people to do, He will help them to accomplish. It's our job to trust Him and to try!
Friday, July 31, 2015
Friday, July 17, 2015
Five Minute Friday: Free
Today Kate Motaung's (http://katemotaung.com/2015/07/16/five-minute-friday-free/) word for Five Minute Friday is Free. So, here I go!
Start.
When I think of the word "free" so many things come to mind. Our national freedom, hard earned through great sacrifice and the favor of God Almighty, & my spiritual freedom bought by the Blood of Jesus Christ Who gives me freedom from sin. But there's another freedom I have been thinking about. It all started this afternoon after I called to talk to a friend of mine about a Wednesday night kid's Bible program. At some point as we discussed curriculum, Mrs. S said, "I know that you worry alot about things, so I don't want you worrying about this one, okay?" I was offended. You don't know me very well, Mrs. S, what gives you the right to think that I am a worrier? I thought. It nagged at me after I got off the phone. What did she mean? Am I a worrier?
I hate worry. It plagues certain people in my family and irritates me so much. I guess, for one reason, because I am afraid that it might be contagious, that my being around worriers might make me one. So am I?? Wow.
In Christ, I can be free of worry, knowing that Jesus has all things in His control. Knowing that my future, my eternal future, is secure in His Hands, that He is capable & I have nothing to fret about. A dear friend of mine, actually Mrs. S's daughter, (the irony), said to me once, "Worrying is sin because it means that we don't believe that God is big enough to handle the things we face." Big Enough.
Stop.
Lord, with Thy help, I certainly want to take advantage of the freedom You offer me--the blessing I can have of being free from worry.
Start.
When I think of the word "free" so many things come to mind. Our national freedom, hard earned through great sacrifice and the favor of God Almighty, & my spiritual freedom bought by the Blood of Jesus Christ Who gives me freedom from sin. But there's another freedom I have been thinking about. It all started this afternoon after I called to talk to a friend of mine about a Wednesday night kid's Bible program. At some point as we discussed curriculum, Mrs. S said, "I know that you worry alot about things, so I don't want you worrying about this one, okay?" I was offended. You don't know me very well, Mrs. S, what gives you the right to think that I am a worrier? I thought. It nagged at me after I got off the phone. What did she mean? Am I a worrier?
I hate worry. It plagues certain people in my family and irritates me so much. I guess, for one reason, because I am afraid that it might be contagious, that my being around worriers might make me one. So am I?? Wow.
In Christ, I can be free of worry, knowing that Jesus has all things in His control. Knowing that my future, my eternal future, is secure in His Hands, that He is capable & I have nothing to fret about. A dear friend of mine, actually Mrs. S's daughter, (the irony), said to me once, "Worrying is sin because it means that we don't believe that God is big enough to handle the things we face." Big Enough.
Stop.
Lord, with Thy help, I certainly want to take advantage of the freedom You offer me--the blessing I can have of being free from worry.
Saturday, July 11, 2015
God's Plans and the Inspiring Lady Mary Jane Ponten
I just finished watching the story of Mary Jane Ponten's life. http://www.joniandfriends.org/television/mary-jane-ponten-gods-perfect-time/ I have long been drawn to disability and disability ministry. I grew up hearing about Joni Eareckson Tada. I grew up with regular trips to visit my mother's younger brother who was paralyzed from the neck down following a car accident. I grew up going to a church that had a Deaf ministry, whose director's son was a sunny young man who zipped around in a wheelchair and smiled at anyone around him. Because of what Jesus Christ has done in my life, forgiving me of my sins and promising to keep me forever, I want to do something with this life He's loaned me. He has given me a passion for those who don't look exactly like everyone thinks they should. They aren't disabled really. They may have challenges different from mine, but each and every person has been created beautifully and wonderfully by our Great Creator. I'm not sure where this passion of mine will lead, but as I pray and move forward, I add fuel to the fire inside me by watching the videos on the Joni & Friends website http://www.joniandfriends.org/television/ & by soaking up as much about disabilities that I can.
Mary Jane's story inspires me. As I watched, I found myself praying, "Lord, if You can use her, would You use me?" I know that His plans are incredible and I look forward to what He is doing with me now and what He will do in the future!
Mary Jane's story inspires me. As I watched, I found myself praying, "Lord, if You can use her, would You use me?" I know that His plans are incredible and I look forward to what He is doing with me now and what He will do in the future!
Friday, July 10, 2015
Hope
Sometimes I sit back and marvel at the way the Lord does things, especially when it comes to topics I need to hear or things I need to think about (or give up to my All-knowing Father). That being said, I have been thinking alot about hope and hopelessness. You might imagine my surprise (and yet my feeling of "I shouldn't be surprised at all"ness) as I read Kate Motaung's word for today's Five Minute Friday: Hope. (http://katemotaung.com/)
*Disclaimer: I didn't get all I wanted to say within the 5-minute time frame, so here's 5 minutes worth of thoughts and then some. Also, I did some editing for clarification purposes (and because I have a somewhat-stronger-than-moderate case of perfectionism).
I walked along our family's dirt lane. The evening sky was growing darker both with the passing of time and the rain that was threatening with noise and wind. I felt lacking in hope for some reason. I've been listening to Dave Ramsey talk about not losing hope in the face of debt, I've been getting texts from a dear friend who is ministering to the down-and-out in a huge city far away. Hope in that place is scarce and the lack thereof can be terrifying. Only at the mission, she says, does she find a glimmer, an expectancy, that things are getting better for these people as they surrender to Christ and let Him fix their brokenness. I've also been struggling with hopefulness (or maybe -lessness) in light of the recent passing of my grandparents. I know that things aren't bleak and that I'm probably going through some natural grieving process, but at times, life seems very dim and Heaven seems like such a long time to have to wait for. As I walked along with all these things swirling in my head, I looked up into that beautiful big sky I am so enamored with out where I live. A dark cloud was the backdrop, huge and looming. But there was something else. A blink-blink-ing. It was an unflustered white egret flying against the darkening sky. Its wings against the deep blue seemed to turn on and off, blink-blink. A streak of lightning miles away streamed down "right in front" of the bird seeming to try to discourage the determined creature as it steadily propelled itself forward. Its wings bobbing up and down somehow gave me such an assurance; things weren't as bleak as I thought. Not that a bird was some kind of sign that things were going to be okay, but in a way, it was. It was a sign that spoke loud and clearly that my Heavenly Father was in control of all things: the storm, the animal kingdom, my dearest relations, and me, and that He is definitely trustworthy enough to hope in.
*Disclaimer: I didn't get all I wanted to say within the 5-minute time frame, so here's 5 minutes worth of thoughts and then some. Also, I did some editing for clarification purposes (and because I have a somewhat-stronger-than-moderate case of perfectionism).
I walked along our family's dirt lane. The evening sky was growing darker both with the passing of time and the rain that was threatening with noise and wind. I felt lacking in hope for some reason. I've been listening to Dave Ramsey talk about not losing hope in the face of debt, I've been getting texts from a dear friend who is ministering to the down-and-out in a huge city far away. Hope in that place is scarce and the lack thereof can be terrifying. Only at the mission, she says, does she find a glimmer, an expectancy, that things are getting better for these people as they surrender to Christ and let Him fix their brokenness. I've also been struggling with hopefulness (or maybe -lessness) in light of the recent passing of my grandparents. I know that things aren't bleak and that I'm probably going through some natural grieving process, but at times, life seems very dim and Heaven seems like such a long time to have to wait for. As I walked along with all these things swirling in my head, I looked up into that beautiful big sky I am so enamored with out where I live. A dark cloud was the backdrop, huge and looming. But there was something else. A blink-blink-ing. It was an unflustered white egret flying against the darkening sky. Its wings against the deep blue seemed to turn on and off, blink-blink. A streak of lightning miles away streamed down "right in front" of the bird seeming to try to discourage the determined creature as it steadily propelled itself forward. Its wings bobbing up and down somehow gave me such an assurance; things weren't as bleak as I thought. Not that a bird was some kind of sign that things were going to be okay, but in a way, it was. It was a sign that spoke loud and clearly that my Heavenly Father was in control of all things: the storm, the animal kingdom, my dearest relations, and me, and that He is definitely trustworthy enough to hope in.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Rotten Potatoes
{DISCLAIMER: Those with weak stomachs, read at your own risk!}
It was drizzily when I left
church. My umbrella kept me dry as I
crossed the parking lot, but I felt weary and sad with the grayness of the afternoon. Any other day like this I would have exulted
at the atmosphere, but something was wrong with me. I lugged myself into the car. My umbrella slapped my ankles as I climbed
in, a cold wet slap, and I felt cold as it slapped me, cold and unfeeling. I
pulled out of the parking lot and drove slowly.
I was so numb.
“Lord, something’s
wrong with me.” I began to pray and gradually confess the gunk of
sin in my heart. There was the envy I
felt toward one person, the jealousy that they had what I did not. The bitterness I felt for not having and not
knowing if I ever would. Something about
starting to confess my sins to my Shepherd was like the glimmer from a door
cracked open, letting light into a pitch black room I was locked in.
There was hope! This was right, to confess my wrongs to my Master! “I have gone astray, dear Shepherd; I’m the
sheep that’s wandered away from You.”
As I thought about the putridness of my heart, I was reminded of an instance that had happened not many days before. I was at my uncle’s family’s house. They were moving and I was helping them by taking over the kitchen to free up the family for packing. My poor cousins were so overwhelmed with packing that several items had been neglected in the kitchen. In one spot I found a paper bag filled with potatoes. Something wasn’t right, though. No, not just “not right,” something stunk! I put my hand into the bag and reached down among the potatoes trying to find the “root of the problem” (pun intended). I realized quickly what a bad idea that was as my hand found the vegetable and I nearly gagged. The rotten potato had deteriorated to such a degree that it had affected it’s neighboring cousins and was stinking up it’s corner of the world. How disgusting thing!
As I thought about the putridness of my heart, I was reminded of an instance that had happened not many days before. I was at my uncle’s family’s house. They were moving and I was helping them by taking over the kitchen to free up the family for packing. My poor cousins were so overwhelmed with packing that several items had been neglected in the kitchen. In one spot I found a paper bag filled with potatoes. Something wasn’t right, though. No, not just “not right,” something stunk! I put my hand into the bag and reached down among the potatoes trying to find the “root of the problem” (pun intended). I realized quickly what a bad idea that was as my hand found the vegetable and I nearly gagged. The rotten potato had deteriorated to such a degree that it had affected it’s neighboring cousins and was stinking up it’s corner of the world. How disgusting thing!
How much more disgusting my heart, stinking from the rottening affect of sin, contaminating those around me! Thank You, Precious Father, for hearing me when I pray to You, for being merciful to forgive me when I cry out to You, for waiting patiently until I realize how desperately I need You, for always being available, for cleansing me of my sin completely. I shake my head in awe over You, Precious Lord!
Friday, July 3, 2015
Loved Ones
He doesn't worship him. He just loved him. And now he misses him. Twenty-seven plus years and he's still so close to my Daddy's heart, sometimes Dad tears up when he mentions him. My Grandpa, a man I never got to meet.
"I wish you could have known him," Dad'll say, his mouth quirking at the corners a little, eyes getting a bit red. My Dad, the strong, the affectionate, the hard-working, showing emotion at the memory and the missing of a man I never knew, a man who impacted his life in more ways than I'll ever understand.
--------
Interesting how someone can be here one moment and unattainably gone the next. This truth has struck me so strongly with the passing of both my maternal grandparents within 10 months.
Meemaw (that's what we called my grandmother) was so full of life, so animated, so not old, even after 85 years of life. She was the primary caregiver to my grandfather, (Peepaw), her husband of over 65 years. I thought of her as the strong one of the two of them. She washed clothes, fixed meals, got Peepaw up in the mornings, did the shopping, drove them to church. She had a passion for the Bible, the things of the Lord, and for seeing people come to know Jesus Christ as their Savior. She was a tech-y: she learned the computer in her 50's or 60's, got a cellphone, a kindle, an ipad. And then, just before we celebrated my grandfather's 90th birthday, just before all the family came in and all the celebration commenced, Meemaw started feeling bad. She wasn't one to run to the doctor for "just anything," but finally she went.
I remember standing in the dining room hearing the report like it was moments ago: "Meemaw has cancer."
No, not Meemaw. Surely not. And then with the next breath, as my brain reeled with the news, my head started pounding, Will everyone I love get cancer? It wasn't a new thought. Mother's eldest brother had, then her eldest sister was diagnosed with it. Thankfully, Mother's sister was surviving, but now Meemaw... I was in shock.
When the day of Peepaw's party arrived, Meemaw was still in the hospital. Peepaw had rarely been without his life-companion, his bride. He didn't talk much, but while she was away, he said quietly one afternoon, "I miss Mama." (His name for Meemaw ever since they had had children.)
It went so fast. She was diagnosed in mid-March and gone by July 1. I was in denial practically throughout it all. Everyone else would tear up or cry occasionally. There will be plenty of time for that after she's gone, I would think. I won't cry now, I'll just live this moment while she's here.
But then she was gone and all the family left and the house got quiet and there was no Meemaw sitting in the overstuffed orange recliner. No Meemaw to hear scuff-scuffing through the house, hurrying on her way to put on lunch or a load of wash. And I couldn't cry. I tried. I wished and longed to cry, but no tears came. I had numbed myself for so long that nothing would happen when I had the opportunity, when things were right, when no family was around to see me red-faced and blurry-eyed.
We plugged along, finding "a new normal". Fall came and I enrolled in college again. Mother stayed with Peepaw, working hard caring for him; Daddy and Kyrie were at their jobs, working hard in their respective fields. We fell into something of a routine. Breakfast with it's pertenences, lunchtime, naptime, various medical and home-aid workers rotating in and out in the mornings and afternoons, supper time, time in the evenings to sit as a fivesome where we had been a sixsome.
I grew to love my grandpa more in the months that followed my grandmother's passing than I probably ever had. I'd hold his hand at mealtime prayers, I'd scoot his food around on his plate closer to him, I'd give him his vitamins and pills, I'd help him into his wheelchair, I'd comb his hair, I'd work on his supper, I'd take off his veteran's braces at night, I'd warm the heating bags for his cold feet, I'd kiss his wrinkled forehead, push his covers up around his chin, and tell him I loved him. That I will never regret: that I realized that I should tell him that I loved him, and I began to tell him more often.
And then, one day I came in from school and my Mother said something was not right, that Peepaw seemed to have had a stroke. And in half a month, with him getting better, (I thought), and then worse, he had left us, too.
I let myself cry as I saw his decline. I didn't want a repeat of what I had done, my impassiveness, with my precious grandmother. I missed him, even as he was still with us, and I let myself cry. The day he passed away, his favorite day of the week: Sunday, just hours before he left us, I leaned my head toward his resting there on his pillow. He was at his own house; they had issued the bed for convenience of care. I hugged his wooly head and cried. I was quiet; he couldn't hear me, but I'm sure he felt my shaking. How can I let you go? my thoughts sobbed. But I would have been selfish to keep him. What a fight he had fought for the Lord! What an example he had been to his friends, his neighbors, his cousins, his siblings, his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren! What a testimony for righteousness, what a faithful man to follow! How can we go on without you? How can we let you go? But I was wrong. The same Lord that led him when he was orphaned at 13 years of age, the same God Who had protected him as a 19 year old in the foxholes and hedgerows of countries at war with one another, the same God Who had lead him to Bible college where he met Meemaw, Who had given him seven beautiful children, Who had taken a small-town, country boy to the capital city of Brazil and made him His missionary, a pastor and preacher for Jesus Christ, He Who had never--not once!--failed my precious grandparents was the God Who was vastly able and Who is vastly able to help us and carry us on.
And so, we hold on to the memories of those we loved who have passed from this life--and we press on, that we might be faithful followers of our Lord Jesus Christ Who has loved us and forgiven us of our sins as He did for them.
"I wish you could have known him," Dad'll say, his mouth quirking at the corners a little, eyes getting a bit red. My Dad, the strong, the affectionate, the hard-working, showing emotion at the memory and the missing of a man I never knew, a man who impacted his life in more ways than I'll ever understand.
--------
Interesting how someone can be here one moment and unattainably gone the next. This truth has struck me so strongly with the passing of both my maternal grandparents within 10 months.
Meemaw (that's what we called my grandmother) was so full of life, so animated, so not old, even after 85 years of life. She was the primary caregiver to my grandfather, (Peepaw), her husband of over 65 years. I thought of her as the strong one of the two of them. She washed clothes, fixed meals, got Peepaw up in the mornings, did the shopping, drove them to church. She had a passion for the Bible, the things of the Lord, and for seeing people come to know Jesus Christ as their Savior. She was a tech-y: she learned the computer in her 50's or 60's, got a cellphone, a kindle, an ipad. And then, just before we celebrated my grandfather's 90th birthday, just before all the family came in and all the celebration commenced, Meemaw started feeling bad. She wasn't one to run to the doctor for "just anything," but finally she went.
I remember standing in the dining room hearing the report like it was moments ago: "Meemaw has cancer."
No, not Meemaw. Surely not. And then with the next breath, as my brain reeled with the news, my head started pounding, Will everyone I love get cancer? It wasn't a new thought. Mother's eldest brother had, then her eldest sister was diagnosed with it. Thankfully, Mother's sister was surviving, but now Meemaw... I was in shock.
When the day of Peepaw's party arrived, Meemaw was still in the hospital. Peepaw had rarely been without his life-companion, his bride. He didn't talk much, but while she was away, he said quietly one afternoon, "I miss Mama." (His name for Meemaw ever since they had had children.)
It went so fast. She was diagnosed in mid-March and gone by July 1. I was in denial practically throughout it all. Everyone else would tear up or cry occasionally. There will be plenty of time for that after she's gone, I would think. I won't cry now, I'll just live this moment while she's here.
But then she was gone and all the family left and the house got quiet and there was no Meemaw sitting in the overstuffed orange recliner. No Meemaw to hear scuff-scuffing through the house, hurrying on her way to put on lunch or a load of wash. And I couldn't cry. I tried. I wished and longed to cry, but no tears came. I had numbed myself for so long that nothing would happen when I had the opportunity, when things were right, when no family was around to see me red-faced and blurry-eyed.
We plugged along, finding "a new normal". Fall came and I enrolled in college again. Mother stayed with Peepaw, working hard caring for him; Daddy and Kyrie were at their jobs, working hard in their respective fields. We fell into something of a routine. Breakfast with it's pertenences, lunchtime, naptime, various medical and home-aid workers rotating in and out in the mornings and afternoons, supper time, time in the evenings to sit as a fivesome where we had been a sixsome.
I grew to love my grandpa more in the months that followed my grandmother's passing than I probably ever had. I'd hold his hand at mealtime prayers, I'd scoot his food around on his plate closer to him, I'd give him his vitamins and pills, I'd help him into his wheelchair, I'd comb his hair, I'd work on his supper, I'd take off his veteran's braces at night, I'd warm the heating bags for his cold feet, I'd kiss his wrinkled forehead, push his covers up around his chin, and tell him I loved him. That I will never regret: that I realized that I should tell him that I loved him, and I began to tell him more often.
And then, one day I came in from school and my Mother said something was not right, that Peepaw seemed to have had a stroke. And in half a month, with him getting better, (I thought), and then worse, he had left us, too.
I let myself cry as I saw his decline. I didn't want a repeat of what I had done, my impassiveness, with my precious grandmother. I missed him, even as he was still with us, and I let myself cry. The day he passed away, his favorite day of the week: Sunday, just hours before he left us, I leaned my head toward his resting there on his pillow. He was at his own house; they had issued the bed for convenience of care. I hugged his wooly head and cried. I was quiet; he couldn't hear me, but I'm sure he felt my shaking. How can I let you go? my thoughts sobbed. But I would have been selfish to keep him. What a fight he had fought for the Lord! What an example he had been to his friends, his neighbors, his cousins, his siblings, his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren! What a testimony for righteousness, what a faithful man to follow! How can we go on without you? How can we let you go? But I was wrong. The same Lord that led him when he was orphaned at 13 years of age, the same God Who had protected him as a 19 year old in the foxholes and hedgerows of countries at war with one another, the same God Who had lead him to Bible college where he met Meemaw, Who had given him seven beautiful children, Who had taken a small-town, country boy to the capital city of Brazil and made him His missionary, a pastor and preacher for Jesus Christ, He Who had never--not once!--failed my precious grandparents was the God Who was vastly able and Who is vastly able to help us and carry us on.
And so, we hold on to the memories of those we loved who have passed from this life--and we press on, that we might be faithful followers of our Lord Jesus Christ Who has loved us and forgiven us of our sins as He did for them.
Five-minute Friday: Favorite
I have, at times, participated in Five minute Friday writing challenge hosted by Kate Motaung at http://katemotaung.com/. It's a great exercise for me as a would-be writer to engage in, using my current skills and hopefully fine-tuning them--in an unedited, fast-paced writing spurt of five minutes. Now that I have a blog, it is much easier than it used to be when I would put my "spurt" in the comment box. :) The word for this week is Favorite. So, without further ado, here I go:
I don't have a favorite sports team. I don't have a favorite ice cream flavor (there are just way too many good ones!). I don't have a favorite color (I love so many!). But I do have one favorite above all. I have a Favorite with Whom I love to spend time. He is my Lord Jesus Christ. I get up in the morning and I want to go meet Him. I find Him in a cozy corner of my house and there I read the loving words He has written to me in His Word, the Bible. There I get to talk to Him as long as I want without long-distance phone fees. There I get to hear from my One True Love Who has my best interests in mind, and in Whose Presence I am the safest and securest than any other. He's my Favorite and He treats me like I'm His favorite. He doesn't have favorites, but when He tells me "whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord" I know He means me. When He says "I am with you always" I can take it as Him talking directly to me. There is no one I feel more comfortable with. He knows all my secrets, my dark and dim, and my highest delights. He knows what I wish for and what I want to be and He has great plans for making me something far better than I could ever imagine being. He is the Top of my List. He is so wonderful!
I don't have a favorite sports team. I don't have a favorite ice cream flavor (there are just way too many good ones!). I don't have a favorite color (I love so many!). But I do have one favorite above all. I have a Favorite with Whom I love to spend time. He is my Lord Jesus Christ. I get up in the morning and I want to go meet Him. I find Him in a cozy corner of my house and there I read the loving words He has written to me in His Word, the Bible. There I get to talk to Him as long as I want without long-distance phone fees. There I get to hear from my One True Love Who has my best interests in mind, and in Whose Presence I am the safest and securest than any other. He's my Favorite and He treats me like I'm His favorite. He doesn't have favorites, but when He tells me "whosoever shall call on the name of the Lord" I know He means me. When He says "I am with you always" I can take it as Him talking directly to me. There is no one I feel more comfortable with. He knows all my secrets, my dark and dim, and my highest delights. He knows what I wish for and what I want to be and He has great plans for making me something far better than I could ever imagine being. He is the Top of my List. He is so wonderful!
Thursday, July 2, 2015
Thoughts on Anniversaries
Today is July 2nd. One day after the first anniversary of my grandmother's passing. One day before the two-month mark following my grandfather's passing. It's been a different year. I felt my grandmother's absence (we call her Meemaw) strongest three days ago. I was cleaning her house which my family began living in over a year ago to care for Meemaw after she was diagnosed with cancer. So many memories flooded back as I worked. There was her hot pink housecoat hanging in her closet, (she loved pink, even before the brand came into being), and her navy houseshoes that I can still hear scuff-scuffing with her footsteps as she hurried off to some task. (Yes, we still have them. Some things just take time.)
I vacuumed around her purple recliner. Bobby pins used to litter the carpet beside that chair, a testament to her great use of the wonderful little inventions and to the crowdedness of the ledge she tried to drop them on.
I polished the sink and mirror. Her denture cup was there just months ago, her toothbrush and the orderly caddies, one on either side of the sink, holding her's and Peepaw's toiletries.
The hospital bed that Peepaw used, (such a help as we gave him home care following his stroke), is now made up with a purple coverlet, so different from the pristine look it previously had.
The day progressed and I moved on to other things. Soon it was supper time and I swung open the fridge to see what we could eat. In a split second I was back in "Peepaw's supper-fixing mode," starting to look for the milk to fix the sugar-free chocolate drink he always had at supper. Suddenly his absence washed over me, and I crumbled a bit inside.
In the mornings, after meals, in the evenings, I find anytime I can to sit down at the old, deep-
chocolate, Howard piano in the living room. How can it be that it is mine, that I've inherited the instrument my grandmother played from a child? It's not in perfect condition, of course. It's got scratches and one of the keys stick and a few sound flat. But still I play it; I try to mimic my Meemaw's effortless style as she would "tickle the ivories," sounding out "There is a Fountain," "He's Still on the Throne," or "Jesus, the Name High Over All." I find such a disconnect between my hammering and her trilling, but still I press on.
My grandparents were such a huge part of my life. I lived down the lane from them for 15+ years. Every Christmas, every Easter, every birthday, Friday evenings and Sunday dinners were spent with them, plus hundreds of visits and calls and drop-bys sprinkled throughout it all. I'm not sad that my grandparents have gone to be with the Lord. I'm not sad that they are free from pain, from physical difficulties, from sorrow, from sin and the effects of living in a sin-filled world. I miss them, but I am so comforted that they are with my Heavenly Father with Whom I hope to be someday soon. And until then, I'll keep on with my Savior's help, remembering my grandparents and trying to live a faithful, God-fearing life as they tried to do.
I vacuumed around her purple recliner. Bobby pins used to litter the carpet beside that chair, a testament to her great use of the wonderful little inventions and to the crowdedness of the ledge she tried to drop them on.
I polished the sink and mirror. Her denture cup was there just months ago, her toothbrush and the orderly caddies, one on either side of the sink, holding her's and Peepaw's toiletries.
The hospital bed that Peepaw used, (such a help as we gave him home care following his stroke), is now made up with a purple coverlet, so different from the pristine look it previously had.
The day progressed and I moved on to other things. Soon it was supper time and I swung open the fridge to see what we could eat. In a split second I was back in "Peepaw's supper-fixing mode," starting to look for the milk to fix the sugar-free chocolate drink he always had at supper. Suddenly his absence washed over me, and I crumbled a bit inside.
In the mornings, after meals, in the evenings, I find anytime I can to sit down at the old, deep-
chocolate, Howard piano in the living room. How can it be that it is mine, that I've inherited the instrument my grandmother played from a child? It's not in perfect condition, of course. It's got scratches and one of the keys stick and a few sound flat. But still I play it; I try to mimic my Meemaw's effortless style as she would "tickle the ivories," sounding out "There is a Fountain," "He's Still on the Throne," or "Jesus, the Name High Over All." I find such a disconnect between my hammering and her trilling, but still I press on.
My grandparents were such a huge part of my life. I lived down the lane from them for 15+ years. Every Christmas, every Easter, every birthday, Friday evenings and Sunday dinners were spent with them, plus hundreds of visits and calls and drop-bys sprinkled throughout it all. I'm not sad that my grandparents have gone to be with the Lord. I'm not sad that they are free from pain, from physical difficulties, from sorrow, from sin and the effects of living in a sin-filled world. I miss them, but I am so comforted that they are with my Heavenly Father with Whom I hope to be someday soon. And until then, I'll keep on with my Savior's help, remembering my grandparents and trying to live a faithful, God-fearing life as they tried to do.
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