Closet Cleaning...

Cleaning the closet.
I just wanted to make space for my vacuum.
Who knew a simple task would eventually lead to tears.
On a mission, sorting and chucking, I didn't think I just did. But, as I dug deeper into the closet, the magnitude of my task struck me. I pulled out box after box bearing scribbled labels like: army guys, Playmobile, Lego's, blocks, Lincoln Logs, Play Dough, beads, and Lord of the Rings. That's when it really hit me. I remember buying the Helm's Deep playset for the boys oh-so many years ago. I remember the unabashed look of pure delight and disbelief on their faces Christmas morning. How can I give this away? How can I simply throw it in a box, drive it to the donation center and leave it? I know it's just plastic, but...
All these memories wrapped up in all these toys...my heart hurts...there's a lump in my throat. I'm saying goodbye to an era in the simple act of cleaning out this closet.
Good bye to marathon sessions of building make believe towns and communities that eventually pushed out beyond the playroom doors and spilled over into the rest of the house.
Goodbye to Polly Pockets and Littlest Pet shops and American Girl dolls.
Good bye to epic battles fought and re fought over mountains of furniture and in valleys of carpeting.
Good bye to the time when simple kisses made the hurts all go away.
Good bye to cuddling and sipping hot chocolate curled up together in a comfy chair. Good bye to this home, these toys, these memories being the center of their universe.
In reality, these boxes sit untouched in the closet. They haven't played like that in a long time. Yet somehow keeping them felt like holding back time for a while. Who's foolish enough to try that?
I'm surprised at myself. I just told a woman yesterday how much I loved this stage right now and how I didn't really miss when the kids were younger. They get my jokes now. They make me laugh now. They have original thoughts and ideas and opinions of their own now and I love it. I see each of them reaching out for God and faith and finding it. I'm proud of who they are and what they're becoming.
And honestly, until this moment, didn't pine for earlier days.

But there it is again, the tears welling in my eyes and my heart tearing just a little.

I wish I could tie this all up with a profound quote, Bible verse or life lesson. But the closet is calling and if Brad walks in a finds me typing and crying instead of sorting, it might be a long day.
I know I'll be ok.
I know the tears will stop and my heart will go back to normal and that I'll be happy when my vacuum takes it's new spot.

The Long and Winding Road

You can see for miles. Roads stretch out before you with very little to obstruct the view. Over the open prairie, the sky's big and the earth gently heaves and sighs. It's beautiful and I've grown to love it.

On our way to Gavin's Point Dam over the July 4th weekend, we drove over hills and through dales that actually twist and turn so you can't always see where the road leads. I found myself looking down the byways and wondering what was around the bend. One little road, for some reason, seemed magical. It looked lovely and mysterious and like it could only hold treasures.

In my younger years, I'm quite sure I saw my future through those same curious, hopeful eyes; anticipating the best kind of magic. But at some point in my life, I'm not even sure when or how it happened, my view changed. What lay beyond the bend became something I feared. Instead of hopefully trusting that life (or more aptly the Giver of Life) would be full of ups and downs and twists and turns that eventually always lead to someplace lovely, I started believing that danger lurked in the unknown places.

Maybe it's because not knowing what's next makes life not only unpredictable but messy. When Brad's feeling out of control over something in his life, he quotes Steve Martin from Parenthood: "I don't like messy." I don't know if any of us like messy, but at some point we all have to accept that it's part of life and we can either 1) live with it begrudgingly, 2) keep trying to manage and contrive and control and drive everyone-including ourselves- crazy or C) Look beyond the mess and enjoy the journey despite the uncertainty.

Lasting Legacy

"...a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is better than learning, the charity which calls all mankind `brother', the piety that blossoms into character, making it august and lovely.
Earnest young men found the gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they, thoughtful
or troubled women instinctively brought their doubts to him, sure of finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel. Sinners told their sins to the pure-hearted old man and were both rebuked and saved. Gifted men found a companion in him. Ambitious men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions than their own, and even worldlings confessed that his beliefs were beautiful and true, although `they wouldn't pay'.

To outsiders the...energetic women seemed to rule the house,and so they did in many things, but the quiet scholar, sitting among his books, was still the head of the family, the household conscience, anchor, and comforter, for to him the busy,anxious women always turned in troublous times, finding him, in the truest sense of those sacred words, husband and father.

The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their souls into their father's, and to both parents, who lived and labored so faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth and bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses
life and outlives death.

~Louisa May Alcott Little Women

I love you Dad and am blessed daily be your influence. Happy Father's Day.

Love, Patty

Good Grief

Precious in the sight of the LORD
is the death of his faithful servants. ~Psalm 116:15

The white haired organist played the old hymns. Flowers in shades of pink adorned the chapel. People spoke in hushed tones as they dabbed away tears. Friends and family gathered to say good bye and celebrate life.

It's a scene played out over and over again and yet, when it's your mother, father, brother or friend, it's no longer a common occurance because now...now it's personal.

She lived a long, full life. Sitting in the pew, listening to adoring sons and loving grandchildren, you might think it was a perfect life. But anyone who lives knows there's no such thing even for this lovely woman. Blessed, faith-filled and faithful yes; but not without hurt, tragedy and pain. And yet, through it all, she loved God and her family well. Passing on a legacy of strength, loyalty and trust in her Maker, her funeral honored her story but more importantly pointed everyone in the chapel to the Giver of that legacy.

Several thoughts struck me as I sat in the church during this sacred moment simultaneously mourning and celebrating.

What would she think of her own funeral?
What would my kids say about me when I die?
What would they laugh about?
Would memories spark hurt or anger about me or would love truly cover the multitude of my sins?
Would the funeral be more about me or the One to whom I belonged?

When I ordered flowers for the service, I told my talented florist friend that the most distinguishing trait about the deceased was her faith and trust in God. I couldn't think of hobbies she had or what she loved to do. I could only think of Who she loved (well, that and the fact that she regularly prayed for the Twins--yes, the baseball team--but I didn't want a Twinkies floral arrangment).

What would someone tell a florist about me?
At the graveside, the pastor asked the family to say just one word that described their mom and grandma.

Selfless.

Loving.

Faithful.

When I'm gone, what will those closest say about me? Will they struggle to find appropriate words or will the praises come out fast and furious like they did yesterday for this lovely, dearly loved woman?
What would I want them to say?

What do you want those nearest and dearest to you to say...

Marion R. Solfelt 6.27.1924~5.24.2011

The day after

The second I saw the kitchen I was angry. Not the sighing weary anger but real- from the gut want to commit acts of violence- anger. The remnants of a fun, late night of cards and food were enough to send me over the edge. This is what happens when your children grow up and stay up later than you. Add to that dirty and clean laundry all co-mingling on the floor, last nights dishes and a plugged toilet and it's a recipe for disaster.

Me stomping through the house...
NO one picks up after themselves *bang*
they treat me like a maid *slam*
no respect. I get absolutely zero respect *violently throwing clothes in the general direction of the laundry room*
Room and board. I'm going to start charging room and board *slam slam bang*
I have to go away to WORK now...where I cook and clean and WAIT on OTHER people *yelled as I grab my bag and slam my way out the door*

You get the picture.

Once at work I remember there's no milk. *slam* Oh yeah, nobody is here to hear me.
I make my list and run to get groceries and upon my return, I hit my head getting out of the car. *moan* I put the key in the shop lock and it won't go in.
What the what!?! This just worked-I just unlocked this 20 minutes ago *fuming*
Maybe if I push a little more *snap*
Oh crap *grumbled under my breath as the key breaks off in my hand*
The universe is against me *Tears well up*
I will not cry I will not cry I will not cry *huge lump in my throat*

Tears suppressed, I get in my van and tires squealing head back home for the other keys.

Note for the future: It would be a lot easier to ask for Brad's help if you haven't acted like such a jerk. But I have no choice; so I ask. He grabs his jacket and follows me in his truck (from a distance, mind you, I'm sure fearful of what I may do). Upon arriving back at work I look and hang my head in shame and humiliation; I put the key in the wrong lock...that's why it wouldn't go in and that's why it broke.

User error. My user error. What's wrong with me! I've been opening this door for 6 years *no tears now just more anger*
As Brad pulls up, I hastily tell him the news and retreat into my shop kitchen. I assume he retrieved the broken key, I didn't stick around to find out.

In my kitchen, listening to Beethoven (which, incidentally is good, socially acceptable, appropriate for the work place anger music) I continue slamming and fuming partly wishing someone was around to care that my day's crappy and it's only 7:15 and mostly grateful no one's witnessing my hissy fit.

After I get everything going, I check my emails and facebook and finally this blog. And what do I see? Living on Sunday. What an idiot I am. Why did I ever post that? Now I have to own up to it. Wasn't yesterday Resurrection Sunday? The day we're reminded of the fact that not only did Jesus die for our sins (which should have been enough) but He rose again so that we "may have life and have it to the full".

So far my Monday living was full. Full. Of. Crap.

Legitimate frustration with my family for not picking up after themselves spiraled within seconds to full blown anger, resentment, bitterness and more anger. But I was at work now.

It was a busy day at the shop. 20+ women came in and I was friendly and charming and served them with a smile. None of them would have guessed that I still harbored malicious thoughts towards my own flesh and blood.

I'd love to end this post by telling you that when I got home the kids apologized and I apologized and we all made up and had a big family hug. But the reality is, although I'm letting it go, I'm still a little miffed and trying to get over my pity party.

Will living on Sunday ever be easy?*

*that's a rhetorical question.
**both photos are Lois (Jane Kaczmarek) from Malcolm in the Middle

Charmed

Big round eyes with long lashes, flashing a toothless grin stretching from ear to ear, our hearts were charmed. Even a stranger's gaze turned upon you and you generously, gratuitously broke into an eye sparkling smile. Happy, beguiling and strong, we dubbed you our Charming Child.

Fifteen.

School, drivers ed, football, basketball, soccer, and friends fill your days. Active, never passive, you're determined, funny, noisy, loving and aware. Soon, so soon, 15 will be a distant memory and you'll be called into adulthood and all it's joys and responsibilities.

So right now, as you stand on the edge of the rest of your life, I pray you embrace who you are: strong, passionate, energetic, hardworking and brave and enjoy all God is giving you in this moment.

I know it's tempting to look back and define yourself by events in your past, both good and bad. But I pray you see them as molding, shaping circumstances-no more and no less- and let God be your definer. He loves you oh, so much. He knows every scrape, broken limb, disease, close call, and heart wound you've suffered. He's also rejoiced with every joy experienced. He's your Healer, Savior, Strength, Comforter, and Counselor and is calling you now, on the cusp on adulthood to an even deeper relationship with Himself.

.We love you and all that you are and we pray and ask God to strengthen you by his Spirit—not a brute strength but an amazing inner strength—that Christ will live in you as you open the door and invite him in. And we ask him that with both feet planted firmly on love, you'll be able to take in with all followers of Jesus the extravagant dimensions of Christ's love. Reach out and experience the breadth! Test its length! Plumb the depths! Rise to the heights! Live a full life, full in the fullness of God.*

Happy 15th birthday, son. Love, Mom & Dad

*adapted from Paul's prayer for the Ephesians in The Message

Don't let the sun...

I've read Little Women so many times, the back is worn and many of the pages dog-eared. But no matter how familiar the story, I'm stilled moved, convicted and touched by it. One time, reading in bed late at night, I started sobbing. Brad asked what was wrong and I slobbered through tears Beth died!
But, you've read it before, you know she dies came the quizzical response. I had no answer, just more tears as I continued reading. That's what it does to me.

As I cozied up with my fuzzy blanket, hot chocolate and a storm raging outside, the touching story of the four dear sisters carried me to tears again. No, it wasn't Beth's untimely death that provoked the flood. It was Jo's unforgiveness towards Amy after the younger sibling burns her prized possession: her manuscript. After the incident, Marmee (their mom) admonishes Jo to forgive her sister and "not let the sun go down on your anger". Jo dismisses her mother's wise advice and allows the anger to fester. Later, when they go ice skating, Jo knows that Amy didn't hear the warning about the thin ice and doesn't inform her or even stop her as she glides out toward danger. If you haven't read the book (which is a shame and you really should read it even if you're a guy) I have to tell you that Amy falls through the ice but is saved (thank you Lauri) and there is sweet reconciliation between sisters. Jo, though still prone to rash behavior, never again lets the sun go down without forgiving.

That's when I started crying.
No one else knows the anger, bitterness, envy or secret grievances we carry around with us.
No one knows when we go to bed, night after night, angry for real or perceived wrongs.
Sometimes, people can guess by words we say or how we respond to certain situations, but no one really knows.
Yet, that anger or unforgiveness or envy or jealousy or whatever we harbor, festers like an infected wound.
Sometimes those around us are hurt by it, but most often, we're the ones who suffer the most from our unforgiveness.

Friday, a beautiful young soul was lost in a tragic car accident. There was no warning. No time to say goodbye or one last I love you or please forgive me. One moment she breathed oxygen, the next she stood with her Savior in another world.

The older we get the more obvious it is that life is short and unpredictable. Each day begins and you have no idea how it will end...sitting together in front of another episode of Mythbusters or mourning over a casket.

Forgive while you can.
Say I love you while you're able.
Don't let the sun go down on your anger.

Laughing at the days to come...

If you read this blog with any regularity you know I'm always wanting more in this life...searching for deeper purpose and meaning...longing for more intimacy in relationships...striving to be everything God intends me to be.
Well, I'm not a New Years Resolutions kinda gal. Never have been and really don't know why. I just know I'm not. But when my friend Jennifer wrote about a "word for the year" my interest was sparked. Coming up with a single word for the year doesn't feel like a resolution to me but a focused call to more. Yeah, a focused call to more...I want that.
Thinking, praying, reading and trying to come up with the right word here are a few of the ideas traversed:

fearless
willing
kind
verbal
Integrity
silence

Reading through the book of Proverbs the other day, I inevitably came to the 31st chapter. The last part of the chapter is about "The Woman of Nobel Character". If you're not familiar with it, click here. Sometimes I read about this chick and I'm in awe. Sometimes envious. Sometimes convicted. But most of the time she completely annoys me. I mean, what's she doing making the rest of us look bad? She basically never sleeps, keeps a perfect home, is an amazing friend, savvy business woman and wise mother. Oh please. So, does the writer really have a wife like this? Maybe he combined all his different wives best traits and came up with this picture? Or was he observing someone elses spouse? Perhaps he's writing to one of his wives for some sort of ancient Mother's Day?

When I finally got over my annoyance with Little Miss. Perfect Proverbs, I started truly rereading the passage with an open mind. The phrase "she laughs at the days to come" struck me. Since turning 40 I don't laugh at all about the future. I worry about the days to come...that our society will collapse, that we'll be broke, that something will happen to my kids, that I'll experience pain unimaginable, that I'll have to work until I'm 80, that we as Christians will face growing persecution.
Why can she-this mythical, perfect, supermom/wife- laugh at the coming days and I cringe?
Because she won't lose her outward beauty? A few phrases later the writer says "charm is deceptive and beauty fleeting; no, wrinkles will crop up and everything else will drop down and she will, like the rest of us, succumb to the effects of gravity.
So why can she laugh?
Financial security? Maybe she's got enough in her 401K's to relax and travel in her old age?
The fact that both her husband and children love and respect her?
Does she throw her head back in abandon because she doesn't care what anyone else thinks anymore--is she an early version of a Red Hat--it says she's wearing purple.

The only indication of why she can laugh at the days to come* is implied in the phrase immediately prior: she's clothed with strength and dignity.

strength
physical power: the physical power to carry out demanding tasks
emotional toughness: the necessary qualities required to deal with stressful or painful situations source of support: a source of strength or support

dig·ni·ty [ dígnətee ]
self-respect: a proper sense of pride and self-respect
seriousness in behavior: seriousness, respectfulness, or formality in some body's behavior and bearing
worthiness: the condition of being worthy of respect, esteem, or honor

I know a lot of women who are clothed with strength and dignity as defined above but not all of them laugh at the days to come. Upon reflection, the ones who seem to face the future with a smile have two common denominators: they've accepted their age(or aging) and they're not worried about physical provision for the future.
That touches on something tough for me, something I have a hard time admitting and harder time writing. I feel so shallow. But somehow as I look at the future my fears boil down to aging and money. It's ridiculous, really. And I know it. All the money or physical vigor in the world doesn't ultimately lead to security. Just like more friends doesn't mean less loneliness.
When I dig a little deeper and get honest with myself, it's not really about looks and money, but security which in turn, for me, points to a serious lack of trust.
God's been with me before, but somehow I fear He won't be with me later or He'll be with me, but what He leads me through will be too much.

Ok, I'm starting to ramble.

Sorry. I guess I'm still sorting out more than I thought.

Back to the word for the year thing. I heard someone described once as being curious but not adventurous. That's an apt phrase for me, I believe. Curious? Yes. Adventurous, risk-taker? Ummm, not so much.

So, I think my word of the year will be "yes". To answer in the affirmative to whatever comes my way this year. To not just survive or put up with life, but embrace whatever Providence places in my path... without fear...in trust... in hopes that a smile or even a laugh might come along with it.


*The Message: "she faces each day with a smile."
New Living Translation: "she laughs without fear of the future."

artwork: Calvin & Hobbes by Bill Waterson

Joy

I held the song book for her but there's no need; she can't read or even speak the words anymore. Her hand felt soft and warm in mine. I smiled and she squeezed my fingers. Her eyes lit up as she heard the familiar strains on the piano. Immediately she hummed the tune. She closed her eyes, the edges of her mouth slightly curved in a little smile while she continued humming along. She remembered the song note for note. As we sang, the words fell fresh on my ears.
"Let every heart prepare him room."
She can't speak and doesn't remember or understand enough about her faith to articulate it, yet, as she smiled and hummed it seemed obvious to me that her heart not only had room for, but was praising her Savior, Jesus.
I sat and listened to her and looked around at the Christmas tree in the corner and the wreath adorning the door and remembered how she loved Christmas. Each year she lovingly decorated the tree, put out her Christmas village, the nativity set and her collectible carolers. Powdered crescent cookies and homemade peanut butter cups covered her counter and apple cider with cinnamon red hots perked away while she prepared to celebrate the Holiday with family and friends. She didn't treat any other holiday with this much attention to detail or tradition or care. Christmas was special to her. She once told me that Easter felt solemn because of the weight it carried--the fact that Jesus had to die for her sins overshadowed the fact that He also rose again. No, the joy of Easter was dampened by the death on Good Friday.

But Christmas, well now, Christmas was a truly Holy Day that was all happy and good. A precious baby here to save the world, now that was a joyful occasion.
As we watch her, week after week, slipping away, it's comforting to get little glimpses like this. To remember who she was and what she loved and to listen to her hum a Christmas carol. God hasn't left her or forsaken her. He's still her salvation even as she slowly loses mental and physical ground. He not only accepts, but loves her simple, unencumbered hummed offerings. Her joy seems pure.

Let every heart prepare Him room...may all our hearts be open and ready to receive Him in pure Joy.
.

Dishes

As I washed the dishes I thought of her. Her dishwasher ran well (unlike mine) yet she always did some dishes by hand. Truth be told that always irritated me.

She always washed. She liked washing.

I always dried. It was my job.

I remember what her hands looked like under the running water, smoothing over a pot to make sure she'd gotten all the gunk off. I remember the conversations shared over the steamy suds, white cotton towels and assorted pots & pans. Sometimes it was her childhood or child rearing years. Sometimes it was about her marriage. Sometimes about the lean years when dad's construction business struggled. It's one of the only times we talked...really talked. I don't know if that's because it was easier to discuss real things --not just the weather or day to day activities, but real stuff-- while you could look out the window and be busy or simply because it's the only time we had alone.

Today, as I talked to her softly and stroked her hair, I thought of those times we washed dishes together.

Only a few years ago we stood over the sink, watching the squirrel at the bird feeder and sharing life.

Only a few years ago she still made Sunday dinner and wrote birthday cards and tied quilts and went to Ladies Aid at church on Tuesdays.

Only a few years ago she talked about her life with dad and her boys.

Those days fade into memory as she sleeps in her chair covered with her soft velvety blanket.

Tears stained my cheeks as I remembered her hands...her busy, able hands that now hang limp. She can't read or walk or talk or enter in and lately she can't even stay awake. Her vacant, tired eyes barely stayed open long enough to focus when I whispered her name. She's not physically gone. But she--who she was--what made her her--is no longer... and we miss her.

Usually lasting at least an hour, today our visit only lasted a few minutes.

The kids cried. Brad looked sad. And I, well, I couldn't help stroking her gray hair and rubbing her arm and whispering to her and missing our times at the sink.

Near Death Experience.

My grandpa died when I was 4. He was big and tall and had a black patch over one eye. A stroke patient before his 55th birthday (and long before I was even born), he walked with a cane and couldn't speak. Needless to say, as a little girl,he scared me. But laying there in that hospital bed with his wife and daughters gathered around, he didn't garner my fear but my pity.

I remember sitting quietly on my mom's lap until Grandma whispered through tears "He's gone". My mom and aunts each kissed his cheek and stood in the institutional gray room silently weeping. I remember a few moments later (or what seemed like a few moments, but I guess in reality, it must have been a much longer time) watching the hearse pull out onto the street and off to the funeral home. After that, I have no memories...not of a funeral or memorial service or of what we did after he died. I only remember the death.

Flash forward a few years to our house on East End Street. The police showed up at our door. I don't remember the time or day or the weather, but I remember the panic in both my parents eyes. Dad grabbed his bag and left. My mom, tears in her eyes broke into fervent prayer. Suicide, they said. So young, they said. So much life left, they said. Her kids were close to my age and now they were motherless.
Finishing up my freshman year in college, I came home for a few days to regroup before starting my summer job. As soon as I walked in the door, my mom told me she wasn't doing well. Moments later, the phone rang. My best friend's voice sounded tired and sad and all she said was "she's gone". We got off the phone and I walked the few blocks to her house. Her aunt was cleaning. Everything was quiet and strange and even the house seemed to know she was gone. We hugged. We cried. Then we talked about everything and nothing. The funeral, the first one I'd attend as an "adult" upset me. Why were people eating and smiling and talking? Didn't they know she was gone? Didn't they get it? So young. So much life left.

Since then I've been near death many times. Family members. Close friends. Strangers. Tragedy. Cancer. Accidents. Natural causes. Old. Young. Too young. Too fast. Too slow. At some point, it doesn't matter how or when death comes, just that it comes.

Does it make it easier when there's the hope and certainty of heaven? The obvious answer is yes.

But missing the person is still just as real.

The grief feels just as raw.

The reality of day to day without them is just as empty.

The aching arms of a mother longing to feel the weight of her baby.

The quiet, cold loneliness of a spouse-less bed.

The missed conversations with a dear sister.

The advice never to be given by a wise mother.

The dreary prospect of another meal eaten alone.

On the phone with a widower last night, the reality and intensity of his pain was obvious. Does he believe his sweetheart is in heaven? Yes. Does he have the hope of seeing her again? Absolutely. But even after time, his suffering lingers and his lonely heart hurts and longs for her.

I love a line from the Sara Groves song What Do I Know?: "Death can be so inconvenient. You try to live and love and it comes and interrupts."

Interrupts.

1st Day

Nine months pregnant and two other little ones in tow, I didn't cry when he went off to Kindergarten. He was ready and excited and it was right.

When he climbed on the bus for the first day of high school, I didn't cry. But, I did worry...30 minutes away, not knowing anyone, all new school, teachers...Would he find friends? Would these years be happy or painful?

Would he make it?

Snapping pictures left and right as he made his way down the isle in his long navy robe at graduation, I didn't cry. So proud, so happy for him, and so filled with gratitude that my fears on the first day of high school were unfounded, I smiled and laughed but I did not cry.

He's not going that far away.

He'll be in the same town where he went to high school.

He knows a few people.

He's confident and fun and I have no doubt he'll be fine.

But home will feel so empty.

He's funny and quirky and kind.

He leads with quiet strength and conviction.

His "collection" of energy drink cans and numerous pairs of old Asics will be left behind as he moves ahead.

I know he'll come home again to visit...but it will never be the same.

It's good it won't be the same...his independence is something Brad & I have worked towards and prayed for and hopefully he's prepared.

But the change feels profound and hurts.

And tomorrow, after we've unloaded all his clothes, shoes, computer, fridge, and books and said one more good-bye...I just might cry.

Dear Josh,
‘May the Lord bless you
and protect you.
May the Lord smile on you
and be gracious to you.
May the Lord show you his favor
and give you his peace.’
love, Dad & Mom
Numbers 6:24-26 (New Living Translation)

Man of the Hour

"There is still no cure for the common birthday." John Glenn

For me, turning 40 was hard. I don't think it was the number, I think it was all the physical changes that occurred within weeks of the milestone: tiny wrinkles, visible veins where you don't want visible veins, dimmed eyesight, slowing brain etc... But despite all that, I've tried to embrace the 40's and three years later, there's a glimmer of hope that I'm progressing. Maybe by the time I hit 50 I'll have come to terms with 40.

The 40's are a thing of the past for you.

Today, you're turning 50.

And I know it's hard for you.

I don't know what to say to make it easier except to remind you that you are a loved man.

Your children look up to you and crave your words, attention and time from you because they value you so much.

Your siblings (including in-laws) appreciate your humor, talents, and steady character.

Your mom, even with her rapidly declining faculties, still knows when you're near and smiles.

Your parents in law adore you...and have told me again & again how thankful they are that you married their daughter.

Your friends see your wisdom & discernment and seek it out.

Your clients are in awe of your skills and proudly show off their homes naming you as the builder.

And your wife? Your wife is humbled again and again by the incredible gift given to her in all that you are. She wouldn't be the woman she is without your love, patience and encouragement. She thinks you're amazing.

You are loved, Brad.

Loved to the core of your being for all God's made you to be.

"I thank my God every time I think of you." Phillipians 1:3

Poser

"Don't just pretend to love people. Really love them." Paul to the Romans (New Living Translation)

I've always tried to be a face value person: what you see is what you get. Maybe that was the problem yesterday...

Long day at work. 94 degrees. Air conditioning in the van...out of commission. Whole family in the hot van... lots of noise...my younger two bickering incessently. We arrive at my daughter's last soccer game, set up our chairs and proceed to sweat and get blown over by 35 mile an hour sustained winds. Last week it as 55 with a wind chill; this week it's record highs, typical prairie winds and lots of humidity. Welcome to Iowa.

Anyway, sitting at my daughters game, everything was bugging me: the dad on the sidelines "coaching" loudly, the beads of sweat trickling down my back, the wind, the arguing kids, even my husband (who hadn't really done anything)...I was even annoying myself. I was snippy with the kids, snippy with Brad, and not at all pleasant to be around. It dawned on me later (sadly too late), that the lady next to us could have certainly heard and seen my hissy fit behavior and general grouchy demeanor. If someone asked her what she thought of me, I'm afraid the answer would be scary. For that hour, at that game, what she (or anyone else paying attention) saw, was a crabby mom and disrespectful wife. Not much love. Not much joy. Not much of anything good.

I entitled this post "poser" because I've never wanted to be one. Well, guess what, yesterday proved that I'm no poser. But what you saw if you were looking, was what you got and it wasn't a pretty picture. Maybe some posing wouldn't have been all that bad. Or maybe if I would have taken two minutes to think outside myself, my attitude and behavior could have been adjusted. But I'll never know what could have been because I was too wrapped up in me.

Yesterday morning I came across this verse "Don't just pretend to love people. Really love them." from the book of Roman's. I thought of it all day, and yet when I went to the game, really loving people was not in the forefront of my brain. Me, myself and I were in the forefront and the back and all the space inbetween. When I woke up this morning, my behavior and this verse were staring me in the face. As I reflected, another Bible passage came to mind...let me paraphrase it...

Love stays cool even in the heat.

Love speaks kindly even when correcting.

Love doesn't wish for something it can't have-like a new car with a/c.

Love doesn't think it's being cheated just because life isn't always perfect.

Love doesn't demean or degrade or humiliate others.

Love doesn't get angry over trifles.

Love tries to forget others wrongs and see the best in them.

Love isn't happy when others are hurt or suffering or embarassed, but wants to bring relief.

Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails, even when I do.

May you and I be true lovers today.

Mom

This is a re-post with a few changes...



A Woman at Rest
I'm not talking about a sleeping woman. I'm not talking about a confident woman. I'm not talking about an accomplished woman. I'm not talking about a calm woman. I'm not talking about a passive woman. I'm not talking about a positive woman. I"m not talking about a perfect woman.
I'm talking about a woman at rest.
She speaks truth and sees even the most difficult situations clearly.
She doesn't deny hardship or pain and allows emotions as they come.
She's not always quiet and demure but there's something in her demeanor which exudes peace.
She's not necessarily okay with who she is, but she's great with who God is and it shows.
No need to control, contrive or manage...God's got it.
No need to hang on to the past or worry about the future...God's got it.
She can live in the moment...good, bad or ugly... because God's got it.
She is a thing of beauty and a rarity.
There are many imitations in our world and churches, but few women who truly rest.
If you're privileged enough to know one, thank her today for making her world a better place.

I'm blessed and privileged to not only enjoy a woman at rest, but call her Mom. Love you, Mom.

Letting go...

From the time we're born, we're letting go. From the cradle to the grave we let go of--well--eventually everything in our lives ending with our own bodies. We let go of ourselves...who we were, who we thought we were, who we thought we'd be. Hopefully, as we grow and mature, we let go of prejudices, dogmas, and judgements. We let go of people as they leave our lives through moves or choices or death. We let go of our children. We let go of dreams. We let go of homes, cars, clothes...all the stuff of life. We let go of the boxes we've built to hold God or people. We let go of the walls that either keep others out or ourselves in.
There are some things that aren't too hard for me to let go of, and others, the mere thought of giving them up makes me panic. Yet, eventually, all will be stripped away. Will I willingly let it go or will it be taken?
My kids will grow up and leave. They, hopefully, will find loving spouses and establish homes of their own. Will I let them go? I have three teenagers right now (soon to be four) and it always surprises me what I have a hard time letting go of in regards to them.
My heart's heavy this morning as I continue to let go.
But not just letting go of my kids, but of wrongs (real or perceived) committed against me, of hurts new and old, of words spoken to me and words I've uttered, of mistakes filled with shame, of past choices that I'd do anything to change...
Letting go is filled with fears for me...
fears that wrongs will go unpunished...
that healing will not come...
that reconciliation is beyond hope...
that mistakes made may be irrevocable...
So much fear.
And yet, in the end, there is no choice but to let go; to let other people's "stuff" be theirs and not take it on myself.
I'd love to end this post with a nice little happy Bible verse or cliche or meaningful song, but the truth is, letting go is just something you have to do whether it feels ok or brings any sense of comfort or relief or not and all the words in the world can't make it any easier.

***Brad just read this and said "That's what Jesus did. He willingly let it all go."

Where have you been?

"Where have you been?"
Like a wide eyed child with a bewildered smile on her face, her words rang out crystal clear. Three or four coherent words strung together are about her limit now, after that, it's just jumbled syllables. Disease deteriorates her brain and slowly steels away bits of her: her memory, her personality, her language, her mobility, her sanity and some day, her very breath. Sitting with her at the table surrounded by others of sound minds, if not sound bodies, her words shot an arrow right to my heart.
"I've been sick, mom...you know I still work...and I'm really busy with the kids..."
My words sounded hollow.
She continued with her strange little smile, not really registering much except the fact that people she knew and a son she loved were close.
Where had I been? All the reasons I mentioned were true and valid reasons for not visiting her often. But I knew a deeper truth.
"What takes more faith...to tell the mountain to move or to forgive?" (Mark 11)
Pastor K's question not only helped me understand some words of Christ that I've never fully understood, but also cut through all the crap and excuses to the heart of some of my biggest obstacles to loving people. It's hard for me to forgive. I remember and hold on to hurts, allowing them to fester. I don't let people off the hook for real or perceived wrongs. Moving a mountain does feel easier than forgiving.
We've all been hurt...by parents, siblings, spouses, in-laws, friends, co-workers and even strangers. Hurt deeply. Sometimes wounded to the core of our being.
Grace. Mercy. Forgiveness. Love. All wonderful words and concepts. But living out forgiveness or mercy or grace to someone who's hurt you is more than difficult; it's painful. It requires letting go of your role as judge and jury and having faith that God will not only take care of you, but them as well.
The Bible tells us God is a God of judgement. But, we know He's also the originator of Grace and Mercy, and Forgiveness. And through His son, Jesus, we and the people who've wronged us, can be forgiven and we can have the freedom to forgive.
Personally, I've got a long way to go.
Something to think about during this Holy Week.

Pretty Princess

She's always been sweet. Usually smiling, kind and gentle; that's my girl.
She woke up this morning, got ready and greeted me with a big hug & smile.
Happy birthday, honey! I whispered, still blinking the sleep from my eyes.
Thanks, mom! came the cheery response.

She's been waiting for this day for months. Well, years, really.

Her celebration started a week ago. Twelve girls descended on our home ready for a party. But the planning has been in the works for a month.
I suggested she have a theme for the party. She looked at me and replied, with a characteristic smile "Disney Princesses". That sounded like fun...I'm all into dressy, girly, princess stuff. Armed with nothing but ideas ( and a little cash), we headed off to party places and dollar stores to search for princessy stuff.
A few weeks later, the cake baked, the table set, the house and food ready, and no males in sight, we prepared for the arrival of the girls.

Upon entering our home in a swarm, they donned their borrowed princess dresses, primped in front of mirrors and then the party started.



After a fun, loud, giggly photo shoot, and amidst lots of talking, laughter, and goofy teenage girl stuff, I called them into the banquet. With gifts for each girl, food in abundance and friendship all around, they celebrated with us.


Twelve 15 and 16 year old girls dressed up like princesses, sitting at a feast, enjoying one another. Reading from I Peter 2:9-10 "But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood..." , I prayed with them and told them how, if you were a daughter of the King you were truly a princess. It was all I could do to not to cry(sappy person that I am).
Well, the meal ended and they went on to spend hours laughing, talking, playing truth or dare, mafia, sitting around a fire, having a dance off (at 4 a.m.) and staying up ALL night! It was everything she'd hoped for and worth the missed sleep for me.

But that was a week ago. Today's the day.
She's finally sixteen.
Brad & I gave her a ring this morning. A ring to remind her of our love, to remind her of her Heavenly Father's love, to remind her of a call to holiness, and to remind her that she's truly a princess.
Happy Birthday, Beautiful girl...we love you!

Words aptly written...

"Sticks and stones may brake my bones but words will never hurt me."
Whoever came up with this little childhood gem should be racked. It's one of the biggest lies that I've heard.
Words do hurt. They can do unrepairable damage.
I remember stinging words from every stage in my life. Like whispers in the quiet night, hurtful, pain filled words come back and echo in my ears when I'm doubting myself, or doubting God.
Why do words hurt so much? And why are they so easily recalled? I feel like some of the painful words spoken to me left an indelible print on who I am as a person. Having a kid make fun of my teeth or my ears, left me always self conscious of those traits. Having boys in junior high rate me compared to other girls left scars on my heart that just don't go away. As an adult, I know they were speaking out of their own insecurities and their own pain and that there was little truth in what they said. But even as adults, we suffer the pain of cutting remarks...words that degrade us or bring into question our worth. The legacy left by those hurtful words is a vast, deep one.
Thankfully, I've also been on the receiving end of beautiful, encouraging, Truth filled words. Growing up, my mom rarely spoke harshly, raised her voice or made any negative comments to us. She just didn't. Both my parents, in general, live Proverbs 25:11 "A word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver." They walk through life handing out golden apples left and right.
So, Jennifer, at GDWJ (http://gettingdownwithjesus.blogspot.com/) recently posted several blogs giving her own reasons for blogging. Of course, that got me thinking about why I blog.
Is it simply exhibitionist tendencies? Is it the desire to be known...really known on a heart level? Is it because I love to write? I didn't come up with any one answer, but I guess I blog because I know the impact words have had on my own life. I know that words can do more damage than sticks and stones...but words can also bring healing, encouragement, insight, wisdom, peace, grace, joy...words can leave a vast, deep, legacy of love.
That's partly what I hope my blog does. I know I'm honest to a fault at times and it probably either freaks some people out or gives them the impression that I'm always one step away from some sort of "Peaceful Pines" institution. But, I blog, and try to be honest doing it, because I'm compelled to share (hopefully) life giving words.

Rough hewn

It was a rough few hours last night at the Horstman household. After sitting in the rain and wind without an umbrella for over an hour, watching my daughter play soccer, I gently informed her that we couldn't stay for the boys game, but had to head back home (a half hour drive) right away.
I prepared myself. I knew what was coming.
No tears.
No rolling eyes.
No yelling, angry protests.
Just a clenched jaw and a stony silence. My 15 year old was upset and angry.
I tried not to let it change my mood.
Good Game! You played well!...thanks
Do you want a steamer before we leave to warm you up?...sure
As we drove on in silence, I started to question my decision. Maybe we should've stayed...it wasn't that big of a deal...what's another two hours...
Then I heard the voice of Reason reassuring me I'd done the right thing. We needed to be home. The rest of the family needed us home.
I thought of all I'd done the last few days, specifically for her:
drove 15 miles out of my way to pick her up and take her to another town 10 miles the other direction so she could eat a special supper with friends...
waited in that other town while she was with those friends then drove her back home...
got up early to make her favorite muffins for breakfast...
went to the grocery store at 7 a.m. to get drinks she told me she needed for the soccer team...
dropped everything and drove like a maniac to her game after she called me panicking because she didn't have her home game socks...
But, I realized, none of it mattered at that moment. All that mattered to her, right then, was that we didn't stay for the boys game. No amount of gifts, running around, schedule changing, or words of encouragement mattered. Thankfully, Reason kept me from saying any of this. I just drove on, pondering.
I do this to God all the time. ALL THE TIME.
My life is like the best Christmas morning ever! I'm like a kid surrounded with gifts that I asked for and dozens that I didn't dare ask for because they're beyond my wildest expectations. But instead of revelling in the moment, I sit in the middle of my presents, disappointed by the one that is missing from under the tree. I clench me teeth and sit in stony silence wondering Why didn't He give me that? I've asked for years now...faithfully...expectantly...in hope...it's a good thing...why won't He give me that?
As I sat in the van, with one of my greatest "gifts" sitting next to me, I unclenched my jaw and broke the silence with Him. I began to thank God for all He's given me: for all the times I've called on Him in a panic and He's rescued me...for all the trivial things I thought I needed that's He's patiently provided...for all the essentials He gives me every day that I all too often take for granted.
The rest of the night was fine. She got over it (which I knew she would), I kept my cool and didn't make it worse (another gift), and I went to bed thanking Him.

track #11 on the player