Thankful's

There are an awful lot of things I wish were different. Everyone could say the same. In fact, some make a habit of saying it, stuck in an "oh woe is me" mode. Sometimes the circumstances of life hurl us into that mode with such force that we cannot catch our breath as we spin, helpless to stop, but thankfully circumstances change, that is one certain thing, nothing stays the same.
I wish for more money. Everyone does, especially these days, a ton of it, money provides more opportunity, and who doesn't wish for that?
I wish none of us would ever get hurt, or sick, or grow old, and we could always be together.
I wish my house had enough table space that all my family, children and their in-laws and friends, could gather in one place for holiday festivities, so they would never feel obligated to choose, or that their time had to be divided.
I wish that there was a park right next door where everyone could spread out and have plenty of room to run, and roll, and romp, and hop, and throw, and bat, and bump, and jump for joy.
It sounds like the song lyrics my little kids sang with gusto in the back of our loaded station wagon.- "a big big house, with lots and lots of rooms; a big big table, with lots and lots of food; a big big yard, where we can play football; a big big house, it's my Father's house". Sweet were those days!
With all that I wish I could make different, I am a thousand times more grateful for how right and good so many more things are, have been, and will yet be.
It has probably been about two decades since beginning our family tradition of naming three things we are thankful for before enjoying Thanksgiving dinner. It was an idea I happened to hear about on the car radio one day near Thanksgiving, while going about my usual motherly chores. Each person at the Thanksgiving table would be given 3 items, unpopped popcorn kernels were suggested, to be dropped one by one into a jar as the person dropping them stated what they were thankful for. The idea of it being, to have tangible representatives of all of our "thankful's" as they accumulated in the jar through the years.
The first several years of additions in the mostly empty jar, barely had a presence. Slowly they occupied more and more space, and with time, beads, and other tiny objects, have indeed filled to the brim, that little jar of thankful's.
It was easy back then to get stuck in oh woe is me mode, there were so many difficulties, but those little kids needed positive influences to be stronger than the negative. We all needed to make ourselves consider what was right and good, to consciously refuse the vortex of negativity permission to suck us in. So began our habit of at least one time a year, thinking and speaking aloud in the presence of eachother, of that for which we were thankful.
Little boys being little boys, meant the idea was first met with eye rolls, as they were more intently focused on dinner rolls, while little sister loved and took advantage of every opportunity to take center stage. Sometimes they could not resist the chance to be a comedian for a ready audience, and would name something they were sure would get the whole gang laughing and fooling around, I should add here, that some big boys find it equally impossible to resist being like little boys when they all get together at Mom's house, like the good old days, which means that this is a continuing activity of family gatherings to this day. Sometimes the named things were just that, things, like a bike, skateboard, or skip-it. But every year, at least one would take the ritual seriously, having given genuine thought to what they were prepared to say they were thankful for, and at the risk of appearing corny, be brave enough to put into words what is not always easy to. Eachother. Home. Food. A mentor. Jesus. Grandparents. Parents. It was an activity that bared hearts, exposed vulnerability, helped us establish who we were, who we would become, and who we are today.
The family has grown; grown up, grown out, grown larger, and grown comfortably accustomed to expressing love and care. It is obvious now, that this Thanksgiving tradition which started out being a somewhat bothersome activity to keep us impatiently waiting for all the good food that was getting cold, has become something we would all miss most about the day if not continued.
The tradition has been fine tuned and perfected since those early days. We now wait to put hot foods on the table until after we've done our thankful's, and the last couple years we have written our thankful's on paper, as well as stating them, so that in the future we can look back and remember exactly what each little bead, or popcorn kernel, or button in our thankful's jar, represents. Instead of one jar, a separate jar for each year will contain our beads, papers, and a photo of those present for Thanksgiving dinner, my daughter-in-love's idea (my friend Mary calls her kids' in-laws, "in-loves"; another idea I think is appropriate and have adopted, thanks Mary!).
One of my daughter-in-love's parents joined us this year, we broke her Mom in by unintentionally neglecting to tell her that the bathroom doorknob sticks; she was locked in. With all the activity in the house, when we heard knocking, it didn't seem like anything so unusual that it needed to be addressed. When she had repeatedly knocked and called for help to no avail, she finally managed to jiggle, (which is the effective method) the stuck lock, and enable her own freedom. She was a good sport, we thanked her for the days first belly laugh.
My heart is full. As we went around the table, each taking a turn to name our thankful's, it was a beautiful traditional activity to participate in. The children made us laugh as the little one new to verbal communication was thankful for "1) bus, 2) bus, 3) bonk" (the sound his bead made as it hit the bottom of the jar!), and my granddaughter raised her hand and said "pick me" as she sensed uncle Andy needed help choosing what he was thankful for! My daughter was thankful for brothers who were like "six dad's". We were thankful for opportunity, ability, family, friends, health, Volkswagens, children, grandchildren, spouses, jobs, troops, safety, freedom, love, peace, joy, Santa, another year, energy, the Bible, and Jesus, always Jesus, and, that we carry on this family tradition.
There was play time as the festivities of the indoors moved to the out, with fabric tunnel crawling and rolling, and an all time uncle favorite-picking up children and spinning, and potato sack (pillow case) hopping. G-ma came through with a train whistle, harmonica, spoon and pot lid, and plastic container of peanuts for shaking, that combined for a band. Auntie brought out an old favorite, sidewalk chalk. We wore everybody out, and then ate pie, again.
There are an awful lot of things I wish were different, but as I sit at a makeshift dining table fashioned by my Dad and I a few years ago, of plywood stretched across two smaller tables, to be assembled and taken apart as necessity warrants, I am thankful.
I am thankful for the free fabric leftover from my work, that drapes perfectly in one long stretch down its length.
I am thankful for a space, tight as it is, that accommodates that table, surrounded by mismatched chairs.
I am thankful for My Mom, who unlike me, loves to be in the kitchen putting to good use her culinary skills, with sincerest and deepest love and esteem for those who'll benefit from her servants heart.
I am thankful to share the moments around that table, as I always have, with the people who are my family and friends. Sometimes, as they take their turn telling everyone what they are thankful for, even as they are all now adults, they have a certain facial expression, or smile, that for a split second shows me the face of who they used to be, and I melt inside. Sometimes the new additions, my daughter-in-love's or grandchildren, bare their own hearts, and again, mine melts.
I am thankful that my parents share these moments.
All things considered, I guess it really would not be as meaningful if my space were larger, and I didn't have to re-arrange every piece of furniture to accommodate a homemade dining table and hodgepodge of chairs, and we would have lost a laugh if my bathroom doorknob didn't stick. If I had a ton of money, I would probably have had the whole day catered to save all the work in the kitchen, Mom would not prefer that. And what of our jar of thankful's? Well, we wouldn't want that to change.
I guess when it comes right down to it, there's really not so much I wish were different after all. It's a matter of perspective. A heart attitude of gratitude.
That collection of mostly useless objects in an old jar, has turned out to be even more than I imagined it might, and hoped it would, all those years ago. Each otherwise useless object bears the responsibility of representing a piece of what has been important to us. As we took the time then and do still today, to consider the many things we could name, it is sometimes difficult to narrow down to just three, but just those three thankful's have filled to capacity that little jar, and now overflows into new jars.
Very much the same as all the thankful's in my heart.
My jar/heart/cup, runneth over!

going and going and...

It all just keeps going, and going, and... well, you get the point.
I used to measure the year strictly according to the calendar. As the end of the year approached, and seemed to go faster because of all the holidays and festivities associated with them, I could not help looking back over what the year had held for me. I don't wait for the calendar's cue anymore.
These last couple of years the "end" invaded my thoughts much earlier than the calendar's indication, it now begins with school bus traffic signalling the end of Summer, and the first hints of the arrival of Fall. This has prompted a need to go visit the Fall, since here in Florida it comes and goes mostly unnoticed. It was important to me that I witness this briefly offered display with my own eyes, with my own soul. I knew I should not allow myself to miss it. The opportunity would not present again for considerably more than 300 days.
Utilizing my usual method of planning, I made the decision the day before I left to head to Asheville for a tour of the Biltmore Estate. It seemed like a great dual purpose plan. I would finally, after years of telling myself I should, see this grand architectural phenom, at the same time that Autumn would be dressed in her most spectacular Fall frock. And with that plan, I was off.
Driving alone, aiming my car north at seventy miles an hour for more than eleven hours, provides ample time for thought, contemplation, and reflection. The complete change of scenery is inspiring.
I thought about the people in the vehicles I shared the highway with. Where were they going? Did they, like me, divert from the routine of daily schedules because they too saw the importance of time out, time to look, time to be? Did they, like me, consider that we were headed down this highway as fast as the law would allow, in a hurry to a reach a single destination, and in so doing think it better to slow down because of the little treasures we were surely missing along the way? Isn't it just like life? Always busy, always over scheduled, always running late for the next something. Speeding along in a hurry to get there, without much consideration that when we do get there, it's almost over.
When I arrived in Asheville it was a beautiful, crisp, blue sky Smokey Mountain day. The temperature was a sunshiny sixty two degrees. I looked, I walked, I hiked, I wearied my camera, and my feet, and found a place to call home for the night so I could have some sort of Autumn enjoying repeat the next day.
That next day was invested driving along the Parkway. Together with the sun, clear sky and cool breeze, I was treated to Fall's finest pageantry. I absorbed it all into the deepest depths of my soul. It was my soul food. I could feel my soul swelling with fatness, and I liked it! But the sun kept getting lower in the sky and I was reminded of the long drive still ahead of me. It was time already, to go.
I stopped for the night, since I had left late in the day and didn't really want to drive after dark, you know, deer and all. I thought about just bucking up and driving the eleven hours all the way home, it would save the expense of another night in a hotel and get me into my own bed. I decided against it. My Mom told me I shouldn't drive after dark in case of car trouble, I wanted to be able to tell her I obeyed. At more than half a century old, I still wish for her to be happy with me. I also knew that as much as I love home, once I pulled off of the expressway, the much too quick trip would officially be over. Well, there was unpacking yet, but that part of the trip is better left out.
I was not ready for it to be over.
But again, isn't it just like life,
with all that is passed by as we go as fast as we can along life's highway,
and after all that hurrying to get...where?
All of life's plans and dreams and schemes and anticipations,
come,
and then go,
and then its over.
It just keeps going, and going, and... well, the point is,
When God shows you beautiful,
and He constantly does,
look,
and thank Him.

P.J.

Pure

At fifty something, it is not easy to have an untainted view. There are of course, some very positive results that come with having lived enough life to accumulate the knowledge and wisdom that comes only from experience.
Much has been learned, and from that, certain emotionally expensive things will not be repeated. Certain other things will be repeated as often as possible, like chocolate and trips to Disney!
It has been a beautiful pleasure in the last several weeks to have some nice long visits with my grand kids. Without any effort on their part and with no intention of doing so, they teach.
Their communication is simple, basic, their best attempt based on their very limited experience with life, to relay what their heart feels to what my mind comprehends. Like a sort of missing puzzle piece language of verbal prattles and squeals, along with facial expressions.
When my own kids were just babes and tots they taught me to be fluent in what I liked to call "gobblygook". That language disappeared as the more common universal language took over, but has recently reappeared as the second batch of wee ones to the family are fast becoming linguists.
The youngest of the three, not even yet a half a year old, has a smile that not only lights her whole face from ear to ear and hair to chin, but her whole little self wriggles in delight. Unhindered, untainted, pure, heartfelt to her fingers and toes delight! In fact the glee she experiences is too much to be contained in her little self and actually shoots through her fingers and toes to everyone who witnesses the phenom, and the proof of my words is clearly written on the faces of those witnesses whose own ear to ear upturned lip expressions fall under the spell of her influence.
The same sort of delight is evidenced as it continues to have similar affects with the two year old who throws his head back with a belly laugh at what has just tickled him, the simple hilarity of a greeting card with a monkey sound! Over and over he opens that card to repeat the process that was at first so immensely enjoyable, and it proves to be just the same each time. Again, all the onlookers are sucked in to the vortex of pure glee and delight.
At five years old things are beginning to change, life is pressing it's way into the once innocent thoughts that are slowly, as experiences are gained, seeping in and stealing away what can only be held onto for just a short time. Still, when her eyes spot me in the room she runs and hops up into my arms speaking my name as if it were honey dripping from her genuinely delighted to see me lips! And that honey makes Grandma, the only name she knows me by, sound like a choir of angels to my ears!
It is in those moments, those brief, too seldom moments, that experience knowledge and wisdom don't count for anything and hold no value compared to the delightful innocence of the children.
At the age of fifty something, I get to know the true secrets of living life full. Because of them, I witness and experience ever so briefly, the wholly satisfying essence of purity.

Dish Washing

Several years ago my son presented me with my first dishwasher.
It was life changing.
There are occasions since that time when I have washed dishes by hand, like Thanksgiving or any special occasion that uses more than the usual amount of dishes, or some that I want to be more careful with. But mostly since that very first time deciding which line to position that beautiful black wash cycle knob on, I have relied almost exclusively on my machine.
It has been like a good friend who has kept the dirty little secrets of what is hidden inside, behind the closed door, and it has relieved me of that one more job at the end of an already job weary day, offering silently and dependably that I sit down for a while, take a load off, put my feet up, let it do all the work. Of course I have been thankful to oblige.
When I remodeled the completely inefficient, grossly undersized space to a space only slightly more suitable to the needs of my family and I, a double sink was installed next to the opening fit to hold a dishwasher.
As the number of us who utilize the space has decreased, the space has increased. Where there once was barely enough room for all the kitchen gear, there is now room enough. This also has to be attributed at least in part to my weeding out of unnecessary or too seldom used items, keeping only what I really like to use.
Considering all this and the fact that it’s just 3 adults who live in my home now, I find it a little unbelievable that we would ever have a dishwasher and both sinks full of dirty dishes!
True, the dish washing detergent was gone but only that for the dishwasher, there was still liquid detergent, there are 3 licensed, employed, able bodied adults in this house, any one of whom could have gone to the store to purchase detergent and any one of whom could wash dishes the old fashioned way…
After a trip to the store to purchase detergent and a few other items equally important to the smooth function of the household, I for the umpteenth time, turned that little black knob without even thinking having done it so many times previously, and the machine faithfully began its chore.
I pressed the plunger on the stopper to plug the drain in the sink and filled it with hot sudsy water to wash by hand the remaining dishes, a task I had not done in a long time. I was a little surprised to admit to myself that it sounded like a good idea. I actually used to like washing dishes when I lived in Illinois because it warmed my perpetually freezing winter hands, which warmed all of perpetually freezing me. While I was not cold or in need of warming up there was still something about the act that was inviting. The smell of warm suds, the way they fell off under the light pressure from the faucet for rinsing, I liked it.
I thought about the times of washing dishes with my sweet friend 25+ years ago, and what a wonderful time in life it was because of her friendship.
I thought about my little boys whose job it was to wash the supper dishes night after night for years and with our big family it was no quick task. I remembered how they complained and really did not want that job, and how I wished they did not have to do it. They did have to do it though because I needed help, I was tired, and each family member should contribute to the overall quality of the life of the family as a whole, pulling some of the weight of what needs to be done as they are able. They did have to do it.
I thought about the photograph I have of a couple of those boys hard at work and play as they arranged the washed and dried dished in a stack one by one, creating a dish tower on the counter. Their ability to improvise a less than desirable situation to be an opportunity to express creativity impressed me.
I smiled about it then, and again as I washed my sink full of dishes.
Among the items to be washed was a large 1 gallon Tupperware pitcher. I bought 2 of them 20 or more years ago and still own them both. They were to me, in the life of my large busy family, a most ingenious piece of kitchen equipment with push button release vacuum sealing lids to keep drinks from spilling out the spout making drips all along the way to a glass, when carried by a small person who is not mindful of such things.
I thought how it is still as good as new even after accommodating hundreds, maybe thousands of gallons of Kool-aid and sweet tea guzzled down by hot sweaty little boys anxious to get back to the business of serious outdoor activity.
How much tea went over that spout to fill the glass of a thirsty boy just taking a break from a bike or car repair, how many friends found refreshment in the contents of that pitcher, how many sips for tea parties and picnics spilled over that spout for my little girl and her friends, countless.
Washing the dishes today was perhaps the best or at least one of the best spent 20 minutes I have had in a while.
I am not suggesting that I might be better off hand washing my dishes regularly by any means.
I would not suggest that I won’t be upset when my poor old dishwasher finally gives out as has been recently indicated by the unusual sounds it makes now.
I would certainly be surprised if I am not frustrated the next time the kitchen is a disaster because of the dirty dishes of 3 adults while apparently only 1 of the adults is on dish duty.
I am just pleasantly pleased at how thoroughly I enjoyed the chore of dish washing today.
It can have a transporting effect on ones memory.
P.J.

Miller Woods

The other day while perusing facebook , a picture posted by my son of what appeared to be a filthy, uncared for, even abandoned old kitchen made me think, oh my, where in the world is he?! Why did he take a picture of that?! In a fraction of a second that thought combined with knowing he was back visiting our home town, became the realization of what I was seeing, what his picture was showing, our house, the place that he and I once called home.
I was immediately shocked and sick with disbelief, followed with overwhelming sadness as I stared at what was left of my once beautiful little kitchen, the one room I still tell about because to me it was just perfect, then and now still my favorite of any room I’ve ever been able to call mine.
I looked at that picture and saw with my eyes the vaguely familiar; combing every square inch I recalled what it looked like before this.
I ate there as a child at a pink Formica table when it was my Grandma’s kitchen. She made lunch sandwiches spread with a layer of butter and jam, and topped lunch off with peanut shaped cookies or butter cookies with the hole in the middle that fit on my finger, or windmill cookies for desert, and milk in a jam jar glass the perfect size for small hands. Some evenings when my whole family visited, Grandma would cut slices of Sara Lee chocolate cake from its pinched foil tray and we all together ate at that pink table.
It was the kitchen of the house that Grandpa built with his own hands, sweat and determination, for his young family. It was his vision and provision for them. The lumber for that house was salvaged from another, dismantled board by board when that house’s purpose was completed, when its family had grown, and moved on.
My Dad and his brothers tell of their memories removing old nails preparing the boards for their new assignment, the very modest new 2 bedroom home of old wood. All 3 brothers would share one of those small bedrooms until they were grown to men. Grandpa and Grandma would live the rest of their life together, right there.
Grandpa farmed using his old tractor, up before dawn. He wore a fedora hat and a sweater with patch elbows and smoked a pipe. Grandma ironed, wearing her apron, sprinkling the clothes with a pop bottle sprinkler. She wore silver framed cat eye glasses and thin white bobby socks; she carried a hankie and a skeleton key with a string on her wrist or in her apron pocket. A cuckoo clock could be heard keeping time in the living room.
That kitchen became my kitchen for several years when my own children were small. We ate at the same pink Formica table, on the same pink vinyl upholstered chairs, placed in the same spot of the pink and black checked tile floor that I scrubbed and waxed on hands and knees. I washed my dishes where Grandma washed hers, at the white porcelain one piece sink and counter that topped the white metal cabinets. The same little panda bear salt shaker that graced the shelf of Grandma’s kitchen when I was a child enamored with it, lent charm to mine. My babies chewed on teether cookies while their big brothers dipped cookies in milk, just like I had years before in that same space that had changed so little, and yet so very very much.
In my melancholy Ecclesiastical mood I am socked in the stomach and shot to the heart with wishes. I wish we had never sold that house. I wish that we had had the foresight to know what a gem it was and would be to future family members. I wish I could have it back to do better. I wish there was a way to restore what is un-restorable. I wish I’d had enough money that money would not have been a deciding factor. Mostly, I wish I had known the dreams and stories of the builders of that house, my grandparents, my Dad and uncles as boys, every last detail because they mattered to me, then and now still. I wish I could say great care has been taken to preserve what they built, in their honor. I wish I had at least taken more pictures.
All houses crumble, even the palaces of great kings lie in ruin eventually. So will mine. So will my children’s should time continue its countdown.
We have only this, now, and I can say with Solomon, “He has made everything beautiful in its time, also He has put eternity in their hearts, I know that nothing is better for them than to rejoice, and to do good in their lives…every man should eat and drink and enjoy the good of all his labor-it is the gift of God. I know that whatever God does, it shall be forever. Nothing can be added to it. And nothing taken from it…and God requires an account of what is past” (Ecclesiastes 3:11-15)
My past has been beautiful in its time, that time precious to this time.
I remember, with overwhelming gratitude for it.

P.J.

Poems of my grandparents written October 3 and 5, 2001

~Maybelle~

What I remember fondly
of youth full days
Point often to her
in many simple ways
Like a big bottle of pop
on a Sunday afternoon
Or a curvy bottle
of Cotillion perfume
Butter and jam sandwiches
cut in half
“Horse tails” sticking up
out of the grass
A flowery apron
and a springy hair band
A hankie or tissue
clutched in her hand
Dolly Madison dolls
from around the world
A necklace and bracelet
in rows of pink pearls
Sara Lee chocolate cake,
a special treat
Dick Cavett and Johnny Carson
on late night TV
Pretty glass doorknobs
on doors with keyholes
Where the skeleton key tied on
a white string goes
The cuckoo clock, knick-knacks
and jam jar glasses
Memories that sweeten
as more time passes
Back then it was our normal,
now it is nostalgic
But yesterdays with Grandma
still work magic

P.J.

~Donald~

Its 4:00 a.m.,
dawn still slumbers
His day has begun
despite the clocks numbers
That built-in alarm rings out,
work to be done
Daylight is burnin’,
get a move on son
Denim dungarees
and a plaid cotton shirt
And a cap to begin
another day’s work
There’s earth to till,
seeds to sow
The tractor in the barn
is rarin’ to go
He built their little house
by the sweat of his brow
His boys helped,
he showed them how
Peonies, lilacs,
apples and pears
Grapevines and rhubarb
all grew there
Work at the plant
earned him a wage
From Ford Motorcars
‘till retirement age
There was camping and fishing
amongst dragon flies
Skimming lakeside
under sunny skies
He raised up his boys
and cared for his wife
With hard work and commitment
all of his life
My mind’s eye
still pictures him there
In the old living room
in his favorite chair
I wish back then I’d known
how good it would be
To remember Grandpa
and what he'd still mean to me.

P.J.

I Have Pictures!

I used to be young.
It was a long time ago so I don't really remember a lot of the details but,
I have pictures.
Paper frames of the people I have shared life with in the places we shared it. Moments in time frozen and accessible for reliving, though in the reliving the details may become askewed.
I used to have them in albums and knew from the album cover where to look for a particular child or event. The cumbersome albums became architecture in my house, lined up on a shelf like a heavy horizontal beam jutting unnecessarily through the space, wholly unacceptable.
It was a surprise when I saw the contents of those bulky, dated, even somewhat hideously embellished albums reduced to envelopes. Those envelopes, dated as closely as I could recall all the many years later, fit nicely in an old rectangular wooden suitcase.
In just one suitcase containing date estimated envelopes of photographs, our lives were summed up.
Since that time an endless collection of photos have outgrown that space spilling into new envelopes and envelope containers, and for years now have been digitally stored in folders on my computer and on back up disks. This is a far far friendlier solution for burdened decor, with the bonus benefit of easier dusting.
Those early photographs went from a thick beam awkwardly juxtaposing itself in our room, to a suitcase that could be easily concealed in and retrieved from a closet.
A whole record of living, carried in one hand.
When I was young I thought I would always remember, never forget those times and the sweet early language of tiny boys and girl conversation, that the way they looked and sounded were indelibly etched in my sharp, carbon capable mind. These people, these things, these moments and events were too precious to ever forget.
Sadly, I was wrong.
Forget I have.
But, I have pictures.
Some of the frozen recollections are from a much earlier time, when it was not the baby faces I positioned myself behind a camera to capture, but mine the baby face being captured.
They are the still shots kept in the files way in the dark dusty back of my memory's archives. They are fewer faded colorless, but treasures nonetheless. Kept there in the back, not because they are less valuable than those filed nearer the front but because they are filed sequentially, and there are many files. As with all antiquity, though there may be a more substantial layer of dust in the cracks, even the dust adds to the value.
The value of the pictures was established, even as they established the beginning.
All of that, what is visually recorded in those photos, either to memory or tangibly, had to be, before any of this could be. This now is because of all those then's. Those way back in the back less often viewed, more seldom retrieved pictures, are the cornerstone of us. Their value is that they are the evidence of the foundation, strength and position of them in the lives they silently testify to.
They are not silent to me though, I can hear them. When I look at them not only my eyes remember, sounds and smells and even feels re-awaken.
I have a picture of me sitting on Grandma's lap in the webbed lounge chair right in front of her rural home. It is alive with the loud buzz and clacks of field insects, and I can feel the fluffy tuft of un-pictured horse tails growing along side the railroad tie edged driveway of tar tabs. I can smell the tar, and the green. It is a powerful 3 & 1/2 inch paper square of various shades of black and white lines shapes and shadows, proving that I was, Grandma was, there, way back then, when I was young.
Every one of my old wooden suitcase-full of photographs is as deeply meaningful, sensory alive, foundationally relevant and memory evoking as that one.
To go through them each, one by one, reliving the moments, well, it would take a lifetime.
A lifetime really can, almost, be retro-fitted into just a few small seemingly insignificant containers. But only by special invitation will the viewers of those container's contents, be lavished with the secrets and hidden treasures, of the whole unseen story actually contained therein.
I have pictures.
All totaled up they would be somewhere in the area of a hundred years worth. Most of my pictures are only 50 something, 4 to be exact, and newer.
I love who they attest to, the life they witness of, the events they prove.
Looking at them is an indulgence into personal lives.
Not so much unlike a juicy tabloid's version of front page full color photo-shopped sleazy journalism with trumped up stories meant to seduce and pacify tongue wagger's.
These stories though, are real, and way better than the fiction of even the craftiest imagination. We, my people and I, are the real insiders of the stories, we know what even the pictures right there before one's very eyes cannot possibly reveal.
I know the stories those pictures can't tell.
I know that while the stories those pictures can tell, are rich and colorful and a delight to my eyes, I know also that it's all the stories the pictures keep secret that delights my soul.
I know, and have proof that life is precious and the most beautiful of gifts.
I have pictures.
I used to be young, and there was so much I did not know.
Now I am not young. I'm not yet old either, but I do know a lot more.
I know I would need to live to the age of 108 to be only 1/2 way through my life right now. Realistically, I am as much as decades past 1/2 way.
I know that now was not as far away as I thought it was then.
I know.
I have pictures.
Taking more pictures, enjoying my camera, recording for future reference the proof of life's beauty, capturing an entire story in a single still moment, has become a favorite activity. And I have envelopes and cases and folders and disks full of our stories. And, there are at least as many more tucked safely in the files of my heart and memory, that can't be proven with a photo for anyone else to see. They belong to only me. I'm the only one who gets to see them.
As 54 July's provable by photographs bear witness to the fact that I am no longer young, they can also bear witness to this:
with a winning hand, having put all my cards on the table, all in, I hit the jackpot. I took my winnings in exchange for my youth so I could live a life that I now know because of the living, is indescribably invaluable.
My winnings are received in regular installments.
Way back then, when I was young, my Grandma's lap was just the right size for me.
Now I am the Grandma.
Funny isn't it how Grandma laps are always just the right size.
They really are.
I know.
I have pictures!

That precious memory triggers another: your honest faith...handed down from your grandmother...2Timothy 1:5 (The Message)
P.J.

JULY 4th 2011

If I had been born in another place and time I think I would have shriveled up and died.
I'm a wimp.
I am much too fond of my toothbrush, hairbrush, flip flops, camera, computer, air conditioning, crushed ice, hot water and flush toilet, to even really begin to consider doing without what is still very much out of reach for an awful lot of the world's population, though there is no guarantee that it will always be readily available or that I won't one day be forced to do without them.
Freedom was purchased for my privileged independence, paid forward to my account.
Freedom to be, think, speak, live, and pursue happiness has always been mine. I haven't got the foggiest clue what it is like to not have freedom, nor does a single person alive and born in these God blessed United States of America.
No excuses about how hard life is, we all have hard things to conquer and only so much time, we can come through or buckle under, pick one.
We each are privileged to have the doors of opportunity wide open to us.
It was expensive to establish this nation.
It is expensive to maintain the privileges of it.
It is expensive to pursue happiness.
Only the rarest most valuable things in life come with the heftiest price tags and all the money in the world cannot purchase them, sacrifice is the only acceptable currency.
Objects of desire satisfied by a material pay off lose their luster, beginning to depreciate the moment the purchase is made. What is truly valuable continually increases in value and requires constant attention, commitment, dedication, devotion and protection, without which it would be lost or stolen or removed.
Hold on, stand up, and fight for what is valuable because "all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing" ~Edmund Burke
I am so thankful for my position of privilege as an American in 2011!
Happy 235th Birthday America!
p.j.

...the goodbye's

Yesterday began "the goodbye's", they continue through tomorrow morning when Jamey's pedals make their first rotations into his adventurous vast unknown.
It's like being a 21st century pilgrim or pioneer setting out on a journey with a good vision of how that journey will play out ultimately but without a clue of the details.
All the things taken for granted on a daily basis, an electrical socket, a hot shower, a soft pillow and bed, a cold drink from the fridge, unavailable.
He has an array of supplies that will make the travel comfortable and still as light and unencumbered as possible, and intends to frequent establishments where he can tap into wi-fi and electronics rechargings.
He expects he'll do some couch surfing but largely he will camp in a one man tent with few if any conveniences.
He will mostly follow maps created by bicyclists for bicyclists and include information pertinent and specific to bicyclists. He has confidence that he will fare well.
He is taking only a change or 2 of clothes and the 1 pair of shoes he'll be wearing. Those shoes have been "broken in" so he knows they are comfortable, but in typical Jamey fashion he decided they should get "funned" up. So he asked Ape to splash them with her creative doodling.
Now, every spin of the crank and every step on unknown soil will be accompanied by the familiar. Sister's doodled shoes.
And what's more they were doodled with the sharpies purchased to make the banner for his send off party hosted and well attended by the people who love and appreciate his colorful character, his friends and family.
So the shoes are now simply a representative of all who will be thinking of him, praying for him and cheering him on, right there with him.
You never walk alone Jamey, never ever!

Dream Big!

Here we are, on this great big planet that in the grand scheme of things is actually quite minuscule, just going about our daily business of whatever comfortable routine we have established for ourselves, paying little mind to the fact that it will all one day cease to exist.
Today's offer to use up life with this days resources is only good for this day, the same resources may not, likely will not, be available for use at a later date.
Its a risk.
Maybe if we wait a little longer more resources will be available than are available today, but if we wait, we risk not ever being able to accomplish what we hope or wish to because we put it off in hopes of something that doesn't happen.
The opportunity just becomes completely unattainable, chance missed, door closed.
Energy, stamina, fearlessness, imagination, the once plentiful characteristics of my youth led me to believe I could live in a shack as long as I had love. I even remember saying those words to my Mother in a phone conversation, I don't know what the rest of the conversation was, probably me trying to convince her I knew what I was doing and she pleading sanity for me knowing that I was kidding myself!
Just like the Beatles sing "all you need is love" do do do do do, "all you need is love, love, all you need is love".
They lied!
Giving the benefit of the doubt, it was not that they lied but that they were as young and naive as I was, with one real difference, they were fast becoming rich. Its a lot easier to sing songs about not needing anything when you've got plenty of money to buy everything you need, or want.
I was never a big Beatles fan, nor do I think their music was any more of an influence than any other music that permeated the airwaves of those yesterdays, it was simply an expression of the culture as a whole, as music is for all cultures.
I wasn't in any hurry to get anywhere back then, there was plenty of time, my vision for the future was pretty simple. I would raise my children with their father and live happily ever after, nothing fancy, nothing complicated.
Lots of songs were written about that too!
I "turned the page" with Bob Seiger, took a trip down "the yellow brick road" with Elton John, climbed "the stairway to heaven" with Led Zepplin, joined with Genesis and "the carpet crawlers", and when me and Bono still didn't find what we were looking for, I realized I needed to "seize the day" with Carolyn Arends!
Finances were not on my side then and never have been. My how things would have been different were that a resource available to me. Interestingly , money is an obstacle used as an excuse to keep us from our dreams and goals, but its not a legitimate reason to prevent us from making them happen.
We need to be flexible in our vision of that dream or goal, perhaps there needs to be some tweaking of how we can make it work, how to obtain the funds, how to save on expenses, a different route, a different support system. Often it will look entirely different than what was first envisioned, but will result in the same or even greater satisfaction upon achievement!
Its been 15 years since I stepped out in faith to make one of my dreams come to fruition. I had a plan, executed that plan to the best of my ability, with every resource I could muster and utilized fully the support of my amazing friends.
That unrealistic, highly improbable, nearly impossible dream, was reached. Everything that led up to it, every way it came together, every step toward its completion, all the way to the photo lab to develop the pictures to prove it, and the unforgettable memories etched forever in my fondest most empowering thoughts. Every detail surpassed my imaginings as it wound up looking very different from the way I thought it would.
Looking back, I would not change a single thing. It was the most incredible life changing experience for me, and because it was for me it was also for my kids. They lived with a different Mother after that, because of that. It was huge. I did it!
Maybe its at least in part because of early influences that my family has a pretty strong sense of "can do". For that I am very grateful.
I know that the God who made us each installed a curiosity section right next to the adventure section surrounded by the oh yes I can section of our brains! And then made our brains capable of absorbing what our senses transmit to it in such a way that we long to maximize and volumize and amplify all the beauty, potential, imagining and possibilities these brains can fathom.
Every one of us strive for bigger, better, fuller, more. Its what pushes the climber to the top of Everest and the bungee jumper off of the bridge, its what an architect imagines before building a Sears Tower or an engineer as he plans the space shuttle, its the drive of a motorcycle stunt man or Indy racer, its what keeps the reel spinning in an effort to finally catch the one that got away, its the thrill of a win even through a hundred losses, it's the big kahuna, the whole enchilada, the wow you did it, even when it seemed like you were your only cheerleader.
My son Jamey will leave in a couple of days to begin a journey into his own personal unknown. He is going "to see the world" by bicycle. A trip around these United States of America, he has talked about it for years. this trip was originally intended to be taken in a 4 wheeled engined vehicle but has morphed into a 2 wheeled peddle powered mode of transport.
At first and for a long time I was not on board, thinking from a Moms perspective of safety and what ifs. What if he needed help or what if he got sick or hurt or the bike breaks. My mind could not see beyond the what if's.
As time passed and it was still his topic of conversation I woke one morning, literally, to realize he was doing what I had done, what his grandparents have done, what many many other people have done, chased their dream and deliberately cornered it so it wouldn't get away wrestled it to the ground and stood over it, a victorious conqueror.
The what ifs turned into what if he didn't do it because he didn't have my support, could I live with bearing any of the responsibility for squashed dreams?
What if he like me, finds that by doing this thing he gains a sense of the joy of life that he would never otherwise gain? What if this thing charts a new path that leads him to his greatest wisdom's and best life changes forever?
Sure the old what if's are still there just as they were when I did my thing and as they are for everyone concerning their unknowns. That's my problem and should not be dumped on him. He deserves to have his Mother cheer him on to achievement, especially his Mother, I understand.
The best things to come of such an adventure is a deep rewarding satisfying sense of accomplishment and security, you find out you are not alone, ever.
God shows up and says, see, I told you, with me all things are possible, stick with me, I have so much more to show you!
I love my son more than oxygen, both are life to me. As a mom who cannot help being "concerned" I will have to hold my breath for a really long time while he's away.
But I know he will tell me the stories of his forever enhanced life changing experiences, and those stories will take my breath away!

Spontaneous Combustion

Pink Newspaper

After days, even weeks of a severe case of the extreme oh woe is me's, I'm happy to say I'm up and running, back on track, back in the game and ready to rock and roll...so to speak.
My energy kicked in about 3/4 of the way through last Thursday and at the same moment my motivation stepped up to to give my energy a high five and a chest bump, elated to be back together again!
So the 3 of us, energy motivation and I, quickly devised a plan to release the pent up creativity too long suppressed and longing for freedom, which caused a spontaneous combustion that resulted in creation euphoria.
Really, I'm not even kidding!
It was as if a too long left can of pop exploded in the freezer.
It was like the time the boys put a 6 man rubber raft in our 15 ft above ground pool. They were thoroughly enjoying the big waves until those waves created so much pressure against the sides that the thin metal literally ripped. All the water gushed out. I was lucky I didn't have sliced sons!
Just like that, all of my bottled up imprisoned need to create came spilling out and splashed all over the door!
I knew the time would come when this would happen, I was prepared. I had my necessary supplies handy to make sense of what might have other wise been a mess had preparation not preceded the event.
My co-worker Fredrick, a small in stature dark skinned man with a pretty thick accent was in the room service kitchen clearing some carts when I saw him, said Hi and then couldn't help but notice the newspaper he had on that cart, it was pink! I had never seen a pink newspaper so I asked him about it. It was the "Financial Times" (it's name explains why I'd never heard of it!) and comes only on the weekend, he asked if I wanted it. I said yes, of course I would say yes, it was pink!
I knew immediately that it would be part of a decoupage one day.
I did not know until I got to it, that 3/4 of the way through last Thursday would be the day and that the project would be the door.
I never would have suspected at the time that I came into possession of the pink newspaper that it would turn out to be such an emancipator.
Funny how things come together sometimes.
P.J.

1 Shoe and a Bit of Sparkly "oooohh"

Yesterday at work I found a shoe. Just 1 shoe, a Ralph Lauren gold strappy low heel sandal that appeared to be about a size 8 1/2. As far as shoes go, it really was not very outstanding but I had to wonder...where was the other shoe? Where was the shoe wearer?
It sat alone on a chair. Nearby on the floor was a white plastic bag.
As I tidied up the room before exiting it for my next assignment I thought about what a party the wedding reception must have been in that room the night before that would result in losing or forgetting certain articles worn to but not from the party.
What could possibly be the circumstances under which one might lose a shoe?
Giving the benefit of doubt I thought of logical unassuming explanations, perhaps after a night of dancing tired feet kicked off those shoes and at the end the wearer had their hands full of wedding favors and shoes and dropped it unaware.
Then there was the assuming explanation that had to be considered, perhaps a few too many adult beverages had been too much enjoyed leaving the too tipsy beverage consumer to get herself back to her starting place with at least 1 bare foot but still, what then of the other shoe, one can only imagine!
And even the highly unlikely explanation that it was a 1 footed person who normally only wears 1 shoe and their 1 foot kicked off their 1 shoe not really caring to take it back home at the end of the night, secretly hoping that someone like me would find it and wonder.
And last but not least, Cinderella was a guest at this party too.
I figured I'd take it up to the security office where one might be referred if looking for a lost shoe.
I picked it up and then bent to pick up the bag as well and could feel that there was some weight to it, I looked inside and saw a lovely bit of sparkly "oooohh". It was a rhinestone necklace. My immediate thought was "finders keepers losers weepers" conjunctively with "what kind of a lame loser would sell out their own integrity for a cheap glass, imitation diamond necklace?"!
I took it along with the shoe to the security office upstairs as I thought about how little it takes to cause me to sell out, or at least have the thought come to mind. It's really disappointing to clearly see my own true colors and find they are far less lustrous than I'm often able to convince myself they are. Sitting loftily up there on the pedestal I like to think I deserve to be on makes it a lot harder to see all the way down to where the bottom dwellers feed on the cheap low valueless sludge of self indulgence.
I voluntarily stepped down from the pedestal. I clearly saw that my thoughts concerning the improprieties of the 1 shoe'd person were out of line and uncalled for.
I clearly saw that my own thoughts were easily captivated by an imitation that would have soon proven to be nothing more than a momentary cheap thrill.
I threw a dust cover over the pedestal and as I walked away looked back at it with disgust.
I know I don't belong there it's just where I think I ought to be.
I'll probably go back to it, take the cover off and climb back up on it real soon. If I didn't think so I wouldn't have bothered covering it up to keep the dust off of it.
What if it had been a real diamond necklace? What if it had been 2 shoes, in my size?
I shutter to think.

P.J.

Galatians 6:3 If anyone thinks himself to be something, when he is nothing, he deceives himself.

I Corinthians 10:12 Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall.

Me-no-pause

Ughhh!
Enough already, no really, g-o- a-w-a-y!
I don't like you, I never did, there is no place for you in my life, just
g--o-- a--w--a--y!
I'm not talking to anybody (though there have been times when it would be completely inappropriately appropriate!) but myself and this "event" that is mercilessly ruling my affairs at a time when I am least able to fight it! Honestly, I feel like I'm on the floor with a giant booted foot applying constant pressure to my neck so that it is impossible for me to get up. My kanuter valve is clogged. My oomph is kaput. My get up and go got up and went and didn't take me along.
I have big plans, grand ideas, implementing them...well, a lot of times they just don't happen. My head and heart are steps ahead of my body and just about the time my body catches up, bam, broadsided by that Mack truck again!
Then my mind throws itself a pity party, it's not a private invitation only party but for some reason I'm always the only one who shows up. I don't even know why I keep going, I don't like these parties but I feel kind of sorry for me that no one else will go and so I think I better go or the party will be a flop, I mean what party is it if no one attends, so I attend, out of pity, and then when I get there I feel sorry for myself because I threw a party and no body cared enough to come. And then I further the pity cause by dwelling and wallowing in the oh woe is me's and poor poor pitiful me's.
It is a nasty underhanded dirty little trick this "event" would have me succumb to!
In my event planning business it is imperative to work out all the details well in advance of said event. It's the only way to approach and see to fruition what was originally envisioned. Sometimes the original plan is so modified it is hardly recognizable but any plan can be reconfigured to adapt to needs and requirements.
As I continue to work out the kinks in my plans and ideas that are so greatly influenced by the uncontrollable "events" in life, I stand as I sit in my easy lazy chair, in complacent defiance shaking my fist raised high, silently shouting
Me-no-pause!

Sloppy Joe, Sloppy Sloppy Joe

Lots and lots of years ago, way back when I was a lass, our family on my Mom's side would gather in summer for barbeque's at Grandma and Grandpa's house. A family gathering for a family with 9 children, their spouses and the grand kids, plus a few friends that were regulars, made for a well populated party!
Their house was a grand Victorian over 100 years old that sat on a large parcel of land, the backyard was a perfect setting for such a gathering.
Mismatched metal chairs filled with aunts and uncles dotted the lawn, and the sound of clanging horseshoes mingled with the smell of smoke rising from the grilling bar-b-q ribs, were the trademark. Grandma was a kitchen genius and always had a variety of summer salads to choose from, Waldorf (still a personal favorite!), 3 bean, old fashioned potato salad, cole slaw, there was certainly no reason to leave hungry!
Ribs were not the delicacy then that they have become now. They were relatively inexpensive which is partly why (the other part, they're delicious) they were the grilling food of choice for such a large number of people.
For some occasions it really is just necessary to serve ribs, it is the only acceptable option, like on the 4Th of July, but now-a-days ribs break the bank and are a treat reserved for rare celebrations.
Sloppy Joe's are for my kids, what ribs were for me as a kid. It became the food of choice when appetites grew with the size of us and the expanding guest lists. It really began out of necessity, as the most cost efficient way for me to have plenty to feed everyone and like my Grandma, send no-one away hungry. Interestingly it has become the food of choice especially for birthdays, we have all come to associate a family gathering with sloppy Joe's, like it or not, that's what's on the menu!
We fancy it up a bit with deviled eggs or as G-ma and G-pa like to call them "angel eggs", black olives always a staple for finger adornment and for the across the room to a mouth open wide toss, veggies, cheeses, Wickles Pickles hors d'oeuvres (a recent addition), chocolate cake or rice krispy treats on lucky days, chips and pop.
We decided to mix things up recently and changed the menu to another childhood family favorite, homemade sliders, shakes and fries. That day the power failed, the fries had to finish cooking on the grill, the rolls flopped because the oven was goofed up in the power blip which resulted in a dash to the store for ready mades, lunch that was planned for 2:00 happened at 5:00 and we sweltered in the unusually high temps of 90 something! I'm not suggesting these odd phenoms occurred because we dared change the traditional family gathering sloppy Joe menu, just that it is indeed odd. All of the mishaps that resulted from that particular days power malfunction actually made the whole get together even better than we'd planned since we had to improvise and the improvision was memorable!
In the grand scheme of things the menu is the least of it. Time spent in good company growing relationships and making moments that will last in our memories is the far better purpose.
I suspect in the days ahead as the grand kids grow and the family morphs into one that looks different than it does right now, when we think about how birthdays and family gatherings used to be, there will be the fond recollection of the slider mishap and large pots of sloppy Joe. I'm not sure we'll try the sliders again, that's a lot of burger assembly, fry frying and shake shaking, but the sloppy's are probably here for a good long run yet.
If we bump into you as we ready for a gathering you'll get an invite, we love extras, you can probably expect sloppy's on the menu because there's always room and food enough for friends, nothing fancy just a family tradition. Who knows, maybe like ribs sloppy joe's will one day be a delicacy reserved for only the most special occasions, but then we already knew that!
Here's to gathering at the crockpot!

My Space

The small house that I and my family have called "home" for a quarter of a century, has grown. It's dimensions are the same size they have always been but the occupiers of the space have taken leave for spaces of their own, leaving me with this space, for my own.
This newly available space has been the subject of many recent considerations as I thought about paint color and room use and objects for decoration. It's a mental activity that I have always enjoyed as I poured over decorating magazines and brought home stacks of design books from the library to inspire creativity dreaming of room re-do's.
This room that I've been working on has been available since November when it's dweller signed up with his best girl for matrimony. It has taken this long to come up with a plan and the time to implement that plan.
I finally woke up one morning that I didn't have to go to my job and thought, I'm going to paint that room! The room painted still left me with decisions about furniture placement but it's always easiest for me to put it in there, move it around and actually see it to make a final determination. I also enlisted the opinion of my son who had an idea that I had not even considered and as it turns out, his idea was the best one, and I love the space!
I now have a "library" / guest room / craft room. The library part is really the only part finished but I am so excited about it! I had 2 sets of shelves that happened to fit side by side on a small wall and they don't swallow up the space in the room. My beautiful books are for the first time all together and easily accessible like a real library! I am not a big fan of novel type books, I gravitate toward design and decor books filled with pictures that inspire me to make something fabulous. I have some very old books, a couple that were my Dad's as a child, I have devotionals, short story books, books of poetry, and love letters, sweet sentiment that reminds me of the beauty that is this life. I have a collection of childrens books from when my kids were little that are as entertaining and amusing now as they were then. It's good to revisit a childlike perspective of innocence from time to time, these books assist!
I can't leave well enough alone. Book shelves cannot possibly be for only books, so little treasures were added to the nooks and cranny's filling vacant spaces with framed photos of family my hearts joy, a heart shaped rock found on a trip, a small wire bicycle handmade by the Zambian people my parents were missionaries to, a hand painted tie that was my grandpa's, some skeleton keys, a horse shoe, a couple of unusual pop bottles saved from travels, a bird shaped tag from a special birthday gift, and there are more.
It's so much more than a library. It's a museum! the artifacts of my life are contained in that small piece of square footage. It is my history in bits and pieces. I was so thrilled to be placing each of the items as I recalled the reason for which the item was acquired, and so thankful.
All at once I thought, this is a grandma's room! Grandma's all have these spaces, I have become them! It even smelled funny! Then to my relief, I remembered I had a bag of scented candles in there!
Maybe it just is a right of passage to have a space like this, one that until you have lived the right number of days, until you have raised your children, until you have an empty or emptying nest, you just don't have a right to.
There's a price to pay for this right. While I finally have the space that I desired for so many years, and can fill it with all my simple treasured objects of wonderful days past and fondly remembered, it comes at a cost.
Within these same walls over this quarter century, entire childhoods have come and gone. The room has had a patriotic theme, a black and white theme, it's been blue and it's been gray. It has been carpeted, tarrazzo, rugged and tiled, It has contained 2 beds, 4 beds and 1 bed, and the belongings of the sleepers in those beds.
I picked many a crayon and Lego out of the cracks between the carpet and baseboards. This is the room of toy car driving, band instrument practicing, trophy displays and a hang out enjoyed with many friends. From this room sleepy little wild haired boys emerged each morning wearing only t-shirts and underwear. From this room bare footed boys bounded out with energy and excitement to get to the plans of the day. After stepping from this room, one day at a time, my little boys stepped across that threshold so many times that the journey they began then, took them into their manhood now.
It has been a journey on a path paved with so many precious fleeting moments, and it is now my right to have this space of my own and to fill it with the objects that bring back the memories. One could never replace the other, not even a remote possibility, it was all so good then and it is all so good now.
If you get to Florida and need a place to stay I have space. I will welcome you into my space and joyfully tell you about the quirky display of "things" on my library shelves, in my museum.

Marred Visage

It seems increasingly so, that we as the human race are becoming more shallow, less independent, more fickle, less loyal. The more we have, comforts we are able to enjoy, emphasis we put on youth with it's strength and beauty, and wealth, and knowledge we acquire, the more insecure, weak and dissatisfied we become as individuals and as a whole.
We don't measure up.
To what?
The things that have stolen our focus are false, fleeting and fail. None of it is dependable and all of it uses up the very limited number of days that total up to be life, wasted. Life's visage marred.
Easter approaches and my thoughts are on chocolate bunnies and colored eggs, after all as we "hop into spring" these are the pictures painted by the advertisers, retailers and various media for our minds and thoughts to absorb. Unless there is some background with someone to tell you that there is another explanation for the holiday know as Easter, someone to tell that it is not about bunnies but a lamb, a sacrificial lamb, and a cross and a miracle and a victory, then all there will be is chocolate bunnies and colored eggs, and woven baskets of sugared marshmallow chicks and jelly beans. Easter's visage is marred.
For me, Easter was always about something special, someone very special. Easter meant a service at church on Good Friday evening to ponder the moments in history that changed the future of the world of anyone who chose to let the story turn their world right side up. While there were chocolates and egg hunts, there were also new Easter dresses and new white Easter shoes to attend Easter Sunday church service for a celebration of the life, death and resurrection of the Man Jesus, Son of God, who's whole life purpose was a plan to redeem back to God those who were hopelessly unpresentable in and of themselves. Ordinary people who's visage was marred.
Just in the last week or two I have read the words of the prophet Isaiah about that Man Jesus, written some 700 years before Jesus was even born. The 53rd chapter lists details about the Man who was yet to be born, who would fulfill the words written about Him 700 years earlier and who would "sprinkle (startle) many nations" and who's truth would cause even the most powerful people on the planet, kings, to "shut their mouths at Him" and "consider" Him. This is Easter.
The Man, God with flesh and in Spirit. The description of what He chose, did not have to, voluntarily did as a human which culminated in why he became a Man in the first place; His sacrifice, His offering to God the Father, for the blotting out of the sins of every body who would accept His offer, This is Easter.
Life is in the blood, no blood no life. His blood covers sins, washing them away exposing only life, clean and unspoiled as God created it and intended it be for us all.
The horror of the barbaric physical treatment that caused unimaginable suffering and spiritual anguish, the marred visage, the unthinkable facts of those last hours of His life are brought to attention at Easter.
We have communion with juice and crackers meant to symbolize our remembrance of what He did, and why and for whom, to reason in our own hearts and souls and minds the cost. Though the offer to us is free and available to everyone just the same, it surely was not cheap, it surely was of great cost, impossible to ever be able to pay ourselves. But there was 33 years of life lived here among "us" as a human being, what of the rest of His time living and understanding life as we do?
Isaiah says he was quite ordinary looking, not the King Messiah that the Jewish people were expecting to come and turn their world right side up, just a man so ordinary that He wouldn't even be noticed, wouldn't stand out in a crowd, wouldn't be paid any attention to. He Knows how it is not to be cover of a magazine beautiful, to be last picked for the team. He was hated and avoided for doing the right thing as everyone He encountered in life was so full of themselves, He knows what it's like to be alone, unaccepted, unwelcome and unloved. He was teased, taunted, mocked, dismissed as crazy, and rubbed people the wrong way for doing the right thing so badly that they sought to and finally did, kill Him. They foolishly thought His death would end His influence, they were obviously mistaken. They refused His message of freedom, hope and life, but could not stop it from reaching the ears and hearts of us, 2000 years into the future.
I love Him.
His life is one that was lived in such a way that I trust He fully knows and understands mine. His death was so only my body would die while my soul, the real me, lives. His resurrection is the first of the many He made intercession for and who will join Him forever.
I love Him.
His marred visage, as well as the picture in my mind, though I know what I picture falls far short of the awesome reality of the description in Revelation 19, of Him on a white horse, beautiful not plain; powerful and authoritative, not subjected; clothed in a robe fit for only The King of Kings, not naked and humiliated.
I love Him, because He demonstrated His love for me, first.
This is Easter.

Isaiah 53

Who, if any could live their life rejected
by the very ones for whom life was invested?

Who could withstand such objection and disdain
that passersby would choose to go the other way?

Who could endure the hurt of constant ridicule,
taunting and contempt for good and truth?

Who's heart could be broken, yet selflessly live
still concerned for others and choose to forgive?

What man could bear humiliation before his mother,
the person he'd prefer to honor over any other?

Despised, rejected, Man of sorrows acquainted with grief,
He was not desired for any appearance of beauty

stricken, smitten, afflicted, oppressed, chastised,
wounded and bruised, undeserving of the stripes.

He exchanged everything He had, His good and innocence,
for what was yours and mine, condemnation and violence.

Interceding for our transgressions, purchasing our peace,
taking what was ours upon Himself, so we'd be healed.

In this labor of His soul He's pleased and satisfied
knowing the exchange He made would make us justified.

Who is He that overcomes man's evil with God's good?
Jesus, Servant of God, saves the many no other could.

P.J.