Posted in Life, Love, marriage

Light (A Dystopian Fairy Tale)

Once upon a time, in a land not too far away…

The land was dusty and dry, the sky red. They marched together, down a straight path toward a destination only their spirits knew. They knew they must keep moving toward the great light ahead. It’s purity beckoned them forward and they were pulled like magnets toward it’s sweet promise of rest and beauty. They knew this barren land was not their home; there was little comfort there. Instinctively they knew that they must not deviate, they must not let go, they must march together, and they must stay on the path.

They were focused and determined at first. Their faces were set toward the light and they broke their intense gaze only occasionally, and only to turn to each other to exchange a sweet smile of encouragement. Her gown was gauzy and light, and blew behind her as she walked. Her feet were bare, and her step was light. She wore a backpack stuffed full of joy, hope and devotion. And sometimes she was so happy she skipped like a child, while he smiled fondly and indulgently at her. His boots were sturdy and he was dressed for battle. He had pockets where he kept his weapons and a canteen on his hip. He had a backpack too; it was chock full of love, loyalty, and protection. His hands were rough, but held hers gently.

They were not tired, they were not thirsty. They had each other and they were sure of their mission, although they did not know what they would find when they got there. And although the weather had been calm, a sudden gust of wind tugged at her dress, and threatened to pull her way, but his grip on her tightened and her feet come back to the dusty earth. She smiled up at at him, unaware that a bit of joy had spilled out of her bag. He smiled back, but a creeping vine reached out and wrapped around his foot, nearly tripping him. He stumbled, and nearly fell, but her small hand gave him just enough stability to right himself, although when he did, a little love leaked out of the side of his backpack. Unaware of what they’d lost, they smiled at each other and marched on, but not before they stopped to pick up two beautiful pebbles as keepsakes.

They pressed on, although they were wary now as they saw it was not as easy as they had initially thought. For the first time, her gaze swept from side to side, instead of looking straight ahead at the light. She was looking for danger and she found it, although to her, it was not scary at all. It looked like a puppy floundering in a pond just off the path to her right. She started to pull away from him, and go off the path to help the pitiful thing, but he held fast. He did not see a puppy, he saw a wolf, and it was not in distress, it was nashing it’s teeth as she strained to go rescue it. He pulled her back, a little more roughly than he’d meant to, before she could go any closer, and together they continued, a trail of joy and hope staining the ground behind her, while loyality and protection ran down his leg and out of his boot. And although angry with each other, they both stopped at the same time to collect more beautiful pebbles scattered in front of them.

They continued on, but they were beginning to feel weighted down. Her feet were not as light as they once were, and she had no energy to skip. His feet felt hot and heavy, and he did not smile at her. Even her dress hung limply around her ankles and they were both vaguely aware that the pebbles they had collected were beginning to feel heavy, while the reassuring weight they’d always felt in their backs was uncomfortably light. Trudging on toward the light, following the path set before them, they heard a sound behind them, bearing down on them like a freight train.

They turned to look, hands still clasped and saw that it was a tornado, far away still, but coming closer. Still looking over their shoulders, they saw the dry earth and tumbleweeds rise up to join the swirling air, which sucked everything in like a vacuum. The cyclone devoured the sky and obscured the light, and it was headed straight down the path and right for them.

She wanted to run, but her burdens were too heavy, he wanted to fight it, but his arms were full. It was coming closer, following their path and threatening to suck them both up. They realized that the only way to be safe was to leave the path, break apart, and dive to safety, each on their own sides. They took one final look at each other, as the noise from behind them became deafening, her hair and dress swirled around her as they nodded to each other that it was time to let go and save themselves.

But the wind that was threatening to blow them apart had also stirred the earth stained with hope, joy, devotion, protection, loyalty and love. The letters swirled around, becoming words, words became meaning and meaning became feeling. Her gifts were all mixed up with his, and showered down on them both, until it became theirs. And the power that tried to carry them away, had instead blown away the once beautiful pebbles, which had become ugly rocks over the years. Resentment, anger, hurt and sadness were wrestled from their arms, instantly swirling above their heads and sucked up in the abyss behind and over them.

Lighter than they’d felt in years, they looked at each other, hands still clasped, and saw that they were infused with each others strengths. No longer afraid, they laughed and started running together, wind nipping at their heels, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them that was absorbed into the whirlwind chasing them. It followed them the whole way, but did not devour them, because love covered them like a shield. It felt good to run together, unencumbered and free. His boots supported him, and her bare feet flew as her dress and hair fluttered behind her. They did not leave the path, they did not stop, until breathless and laughing, they finally reached the light.

He was waiting for them at the end of the path, glowing as the light behind Him spilled out around Him. They stopped short and looked up at Him. He was spotless and beautiful and smiling at them both. Their smiles faded as they looked down and saw that they were both shamefully filthy. Her dress was torn and her feet were dirty. His boots were covered in dust and his face had dirt smudges on it. They were suddenly embarrassed to show up at such a perfect place this way. Together they turned to leave. But He put a hand on their shoulders and kindly said, “what is in your backpacks?”

They were so used to carrying them, and they had gotten so light that they’d forgotten them. They slipped them off their shoulders and unzipped them and inside, much to their surprise, they found new clothes, without spot or rip. “They are for you, “ He said. “I’m giving them to you so that you can come with me.” They were stunned, and grateful. He turned and beckoned them to follow Him. She was suddenly happy, so happy that she skipped through the doors, behind Him, light as a feather in her spotless clothes. He smiled at her fondly as he dropped the dirty backpack at the doorway and entered too.

And they truly, lived happily ever after. The end.

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A New Thing

The second anniversary of my blog passed last week, just as my dissatisfaction with it had reached its zenith. It’s not that I don’t love writing tidbits, like appetizers about my life and my family…I do love those things. But I’m hungry for more than that, and I feel like my blog has served its purpose for me, for now. I’m not saying that I won’t blog occasionally, but with 102 posts in two years, I’ve averaged about one a week, and right now I’m feeling led to do a new thing.

I believe that God is pointing to a new path and I’ll need to look to Him for direction, because I’ve never been down this road before. But one of the many things I’ve learned since I started blogging is that it does no good to just think about something and never do it. I don’t want to have regrets at the end of my life, I want to close my eyes on that day and know that I took advantage of every opportunity that God gave me along the way, and that I didn’t squander any of the blessings He has given me, including time.

I waited for a long time to even start my blog. Why? Well, I didn’t know if I had enough to say (I do! Just not enough time to say it!), I didn’t know if anyone would read it ( some people do! But that’s not the purpose anymore), and I just didn’t know how to start. (Google! Duh!). Well, here I am, two years later asking the same questions for a bigger project. It’s scary and daunting, but you know what, I’m a little weary of appetizers. I’m kinda feeling like some steak and potatoes, something with substance that I can really take a bite out of. You know why? Because that’s the only way to get to the dessert. And if I fail? So what? If I never gave it a shot, I’d have failed anyway. At least I’ll know I tried. That’s all He’s asking of me. The rest is up to Him.

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Strength and Beauty

What I noticed most while vacationing in the south this past week, was the softness of it all. The people, the dialect, the manners, the trees; all of it. A Northeastern girl, I’m accustomed to a harshness in the land, a toughness in the people, and a fierceness in the landscape. Even our trees, here in the pine tree state grow rugged, tall and proud. Our coasts are jagged, and our mountains are severe. Our weather can be extreme, so much so that Mark Twain said, “if you don’t like the weather in New England now, wait a few minutes.” And from its inhabitants, I’m used to speed, and assertiveness mixed with just a touch of hardness. What I saw and experienced in the south, at least in Charleston, was hazy, easy, and softer, and no where was that more apparent to me than in its trees.

Although South Carolina’s state tree is the palmetto, not the live oak as it is in Georgia, it was one of the most beautiful objects I saw in Charleston, and certainly the tree I photographed the most. Spreading its limbs generously, and luxuriantly across the landscape, the prodigious oaks offered abundant shade, and a filter, selfie specialists could only dream of. These massive trees grow more out, than up, a shape that allowed me to wander like a child under a canopy-like reprieve from the sun and the intermittent raindrops. A product of their environment, the live oaks branches grow out, sometimes up to 100 feet, while the height only reaches 40-80 feet, all of this to prevent it from toppling in the event of a hurricane. And if this isn’t magical enough, Spanish moss drips decadently, and enticingly down; an enhancement of beauty, rather than a deterrent, nature’s lovely tinsel. The effect is a covering of softness and beauty, much like the residents of Charleston, whose kindness oozed sincerity.

Maine’s pine tree by contrast, could never withstand the weight of snow if it grew out, and so must grow tall and aloof. Towering 160-180 feet, these trees are tough, strong, and useful, but lacking in the grace, and charm of the southern live oaks. What I find curious though, is that for all it’s bravado, the pine tree is considered a “soft wood,” while the genteel oak is known as a “hardwood.”  I’m no arborist; I know about soft wood only because my husband was a chainsaw carver, and hardwood ruined his  chainsaw blade, and his shoulders, and it was much tougher to carve over the more pliant pine. Hardwood is so durable that supposedly during the war of 1812, “Old Ironsides,” was so nicknamed because of its live oak hull which was so tough that the Brit’s cannon balls literally bounced off it.

I guess it’s true that you can’t judge a book by its cover, or maybe a tree by its shape. The toughest old Maine codger can be a softie inside, while a sweet southern belle can have a backbone of steel. I don’t prefer one over the other; both are a marvel of God’s workmanship. The Almighty sees the beauty in all of us-hard and soft, indomitable and yielding. There’s not one of us that is too difficult for Him to carve into a work of art. For that, and for the beauty to be found everywhere, I will forever marvel.

 

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Ever In Your Favor

Last night, after a satisfying meal of lasagna and ice cream, my husband turned on the TV, and flipped through the channels. He surfed for a bit, landing briefly on one show, then skipped to another during the commercial, as he often does; a practice that drives me crazy, as I would prefer to sit through a bunch of commercials rather than have my attention divided by three shows at one time and risk missing some of the show that I really wanted to watch. Fortunately, between DVR, Netflix, Amazon Prime, and HULU, we rarely watch live TV, so this is not usually a problem. One might think given all the opportunities listed for entertainment, that we watch a lot, but the truth is with the exception of a few reality shows (Survivor! Amazing Race! and embarrassingly, Big Brother), and an occasional movie, usually several years old by the time we get to it, we rarely watch TV at all. Certainly not in the daytime, and depending on our schedules, sometimes days go by without either one of us turning it on, since we are both of the opinion that we’d rather do something fun, then sit and watch someone else have it. This is pretty much the same reason that I refused to be a cheerleader growing up, because I never wanted to just watch the action and cheer for someone else, I wanted to get out there and have someone cheer for me.

In any event, we somehow settled on The Hunger Games, a movie I’d seen on at least two other occasions as well having read the series several years ago; a literary fad sitting squarely between the innocent Twilight series, and the grownup 50 Shades of Grey, which I could not get into because of the shocking lack of attention to detail as evidenced by the way-off base use of adjectives and verbs in a supposedly American setting (brilliant, keen…seriously?!? I don’t know any person around here who says those things!). Why not just set it in Britain then, a country whose vernacular it’s author is clearly more familiar with. Even the “Grey” in the title is the more widely used UK version. C’mon! Obvious faux pas such as these, drive me bonkers, and ruin the whole book for me, often within the first chapter and is something I consider to be a turn-off, rather than the turn-on the author intended (but, grammarly and smart people, please don’t judge me as harshly, for I am but a lowly nurse blogger with no editor and no matter how many times my super-intelligent sister tells me, I always forget the proper usage of colons and semi-colons and let’s not even get started with how many times I end a sentence with a preposition and those run-on sentences! Ugh! Sorry, Mom!).

But, I have digressed into a weird off the wall rant, so sorry about that. I had a direction for this post and it was this…Ah yes! My comparison of Hunger Games to life…. stay with me on this. My husband and I watched a bunch of normalish, albeit extra good-looking people, face an onslaught of obstacles, with only a brief rest before another attack commenced, all while also fending off other competitors in attempt to win the right to stay alive to fight another day. Although this may seem a bit far-fetched, I couldn’t help but compare the tribulations the characters faced with the trials we all face daily. Sometimes it does seem as if you’ve barely recovered from one set-back, such as costly repairs to a vehicle, when another punch lands right in your pocketbook. Add on sick kids, frozen pipes or a daycare that has inexplicably closed for the day, and it’s enough to make you inadvertently turn against your strongest allies. “Remember who the real enemy is,” one of the competitors in the game said, as the heroine froze, bow poised in a moment of fear and confusion to shoot him. And she did. She did remember before she hurt him and turned instead to aim at the true enemy.

It’s so easy to turn on the ones we love and lash out at them, although they’re there to help. At the risk of sounding cheesy, we are all playing a version of the Hunger Games, and in this game called life, with its twists and turns, its setbacks and frustrations, we must remember who our allies are, and who the real enemy is. It’s not the guy who channel hops like a bunny, and who never gets back to the real show on time, and it’s definitely not the guy who hand shredded three big blocks of cheese for the lasagna and washed a mountain of dishes after. This is my ally, my biggest fan, and the one who has my back, just like my big brother Jesus. Because lets face it, it’s impossible for the odds to always be in our favor, so I’m pretty happy that I’m always in His.

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Step into the light

It’s you…

You robber of joy, you stealer of laughter. You’ve taken our peace, that’s what you’re after.

You’ve stolen my love, taken him away again, and replaced his smile, with anger and pain.

You took our hope, you’ve stolen his light, you made him believe that life isn’t worth the fight.

You inject us with strife, what slick lies you weave, you seek to destroy, hoping one of us leaves.

But, oh… once again, you’ve overplayed your hand! Through the havoc you wreak I understand…

That’s it’s you…the accuser, the liar, the thief; not my husband, not our lives, it’s not even me.

For those who’ve felt the crush of bipolar, and for the loved ones still standing when the heaviness takes over,

only you can know, how isolating it feels, when the blanket of oppression so stealthily steals.

But, take heart my love, and for all those who suffer, you will stand again, and fight the blackness that hovers.

For it IS a battle, we who fight illness know, how tenacious it is,  it doesn’t easily go.

Yet, the Light is coming, hold on a little more…See? here He comes, through the open door.

He bares our weariness, heartbreak and stress, beckons us to Him, so we may finally rest.

So, don’t worry, my sweet, it will be alright, take my hand and together, we’ll step into the Light.

 
The people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.
Matthew 4:16

 

 

 

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The Miracle

My husband has smoked cigarettes for 42 years. He started when he was 11 years old, after he spotted his older brother smoking in the woods with his friends. So, to ensure that he wouldn’t rat them out, they made him smoke too. This isn’t to say that he wouldn’t have smoked anyway.  I’m quite sure that he would have, given the pack of ruffians he hung out with when he was growing up, and since a pack cost 35 cents in 1976, they were not hard to come by. His parents eventually found out, and grounded him, but he was not deterred.

I smoked too, for at least 10 years, my favorites were Marlboro lights 100’s in a box. There was nothing like the feeling of zipping the cellophane off a new box and inhaling the sweet smell of tobacco from what looked to be a box of perfect, white chalk sticks. I enjoyed the social side of smoking, and I’m pretty sure we were both smoking when we met at a pit party in 1989.  I continued to smoke, even throughout my first pregnancy (hey! my easy-going OB-GYN said “pfft that’s like smoking nothing” when I tearfully admitted that I still smoked three cigarettes a day), and even while I was in labor (although I’m not proud of this fact, please know that our now 27-year-old daughter has never smoked a day in her life, and has no health problems related to my foolishness). However, 5 years later, when I was pregnant with our son, I was older and wiser (24! LOL!), and felt too guilty to continue, so I quit only to pick it up two weeks after he was born in attempt to lose that baby weight, which I did – seven pounds worth in the first week. When our son was about a year old though, I had a patient about my age, who was on birth control like I was, who also smoked, and had had a stroke so severe that she could not pick up her own baby. The similarities were striking and scared me into quitting the very next day. It’s been 20 years since then, and although I still dream about smoking occasionally, and have often joked that I plan to return to it when I’m 80, I’m actually pretty sure that I won’t ever smoke again.

My husband, although proud of me for quitting, did not stop. He continued to smoke even after he went to college for physical therapy, and worked with patients who were dying of cancer and those whose activity was so limited by lung disease, that not only could they not walk due to breathlessness, but eventually even eating took their breath away. As a caregiver, it is such a helpless feeling to watch someone struggle to breathe; I can’t even imagine what it feels like for a family member to watch their once vibrant loved one become a shell. I didn’t want to see my nature loving, exercise obsessed, gotta-move, husband become like that, and I told him so, but still he smoked.

It’s not like he didn’t try to quit. Over the years he had many periods in his life that he did not smoke for days, and sometimes weeks, due to unfortunate incarcerations, or self-imposed week-long Appalachian trail hikes, meant to get him over the hump, literally and figuratively. He also tried the gum, patches, and even hypnosis, but nothing worked for him. Each time he came home, he was so restless, and so terribly irritable that he couldn’t stand himself, and I couldn’t stand him either. I once told him to leave the house and not come back until he had smoked because I couldn’t stand his crankiness one more minute.

As the years went by, he became very self-conscious about smoking. It had not been socially acceptable for many years, the era of the rugged Marlboro man long gone, replaced with the trappings of poverty and weakness. It became a very heavy burden; always looking for a place to smoke when out in public, remembering a lighter, trying to cover up the smell, not to mention the cost! He started to despise it so much, that he always tried to hide it from our granddaughter, and he obsessively washed his hands after he’d been outside (he hadn’t smoked in our house since 1990), and he was constantly asking me to wash his jacket because he didn’t like the smell.

Enter our granddaughter Bean. She and I have prayed for him to quit smoking for at least half of her six years. I’ve talked about the power of Bean’s prayers before; the red balloon, the boyfriend…but this request put our faith to the test. Half of your life, is a long time to pray for something, but she didn’t give up. The night he stopped, was no different. I had picked Bean up from school, taken her to dance class, and I was putting her to bed, while waiting for her mom to come home from work. Bean started with “Dear Lord,” then added in her little girl concerns and ended with…”and please help my Papa quit smoking! Amen!” I said the same, tucked her in, kissed her, said goodnight, and shutting her door went downstairs, picked up my phone and found this…5206D3DC-F38B-4991-9C39-1A6B69F29568

Now, don’t get me wrong…I absolutely believe in prayer, I believe that God answers all of our prayers, and that he wants the best for us, but this seemed too good to be true! I’d heard testimonies in church of people being “delivered,” but to have this addiction taken from him so effortlessly seemed too much to hope for. We were both a little afraid that talking about it would “jinx” it, so we moved on to other topics from there. I also didn’t want to pressure him, and make him feel badly if another attempt was unsuccessful, because every effort he’d made didn’t work, and every time he’d tried, he’d limped back to that controlling old lover with his tail between bis legs.

We didn’t say too much about it when I got home that night either, but the next day, I was dying to know what happened in the morning, as this was the time of day he needed to smoke the most. So, I waited awhile, but at break time at work, I could stand the suspense no longer and texted this…03CA8FBC-E108-4450-826A-79C13EDB2F5F

“It can’t be this easy,” he said, but it was. He was not irritable, he didn’t have to chew the terrible tasting gum, wear the patches that gave him panic attacks, or distract himself from nicotine cravings with candy. It was as if he’d never smoked at all…No cough as the previously paralyzed cilia in his lungs woke up and started to sweep out the debris, and his sense of smell, something he didn’t know was crippled, returned. The concerns he’d had initially about filling his time, dissipated. It was all so easy because God did it.

Reader, you might scoff at this, you certainly have the right to believe whatever you want. You might have been praying for things to change in your life, and it seems as if he does not hear you. But, let me tell you, He does. My husband was addicted to cigarettes for 42 years; it controlled his life and mine. He tried so many times to quit, but he could not do it on his own, at least not without an immense amount of suffering on his part, and on mine! It took some time; Bean and I prayed about this for years, and I know he’d also been praying about it for a long time, but if it had happened sooner, it would not have seemed like the miracle that it truly is.

I want you to know that my husband and I are rational, normal people. We are nothing special, just a regular American couple. We have two children and a granddaughter, we work, go to church occasionally, read our bible way less than we should, and tithe when it is convenient. We swear sometimes, go to bed angry sometimes, and are not always a good example of God’s love. We are Christians, but not what I would consider to be “good Christians,” if there is even such a thing. But, let me tell you something that I know, that I know, that I know…and that is this. It doesn’t matter if we are good; God is good. It is not about our faithfulness; He is faithful. It is not how much we love; He is love, and He loves us. We try our best, and he does the rest. It is just that easy, and it is just that simple…and that is the real miracle.

 

 

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Driving Blind

Once I dreamed it was black as night, I could see neither left, nor right

I was driving, although I could not see, the road right in front of me.

I was not afraid until I became aware, that FEAR had dropped out of thin air.

“What am I doing!?!” I shouted in fright, because driving blind is obviously not right.

“I’ll crash, I’ll hurt someone, or myself!” Panicking, I looked around for help.

“Here, I’ve got this,” he said with a smile, “slide over, let me drive for a while.”

I didn’t move, so he sat on my lap, he moved as gracefully as a cat.

“Let me take the wheel, my dear, I’ll soon have us out of here.”

I almost listened, he seemed so sure, besides I didn’t know how to steer anymore,

because it’s impossible to fight that fight, when you don’t know if you should go left or right.

I lifted my hands to let him steer, and that is when I recognized Fear.

“Wait a minute! I know who you are! Get the F@#$ out of my car!”

His time was up and he knew it, once again he knew he blew it.

“I’ll get out, but you’ll see, you can’t continue without me.”

He slunk away, with threats to come back, but I knew I’d know him by the way he attacks.

Alone again, I still couldn’t see, but a new thought bubbled up out of me.

“I’m doing it!” I thought, “I’ve been doing it the whole time, I’m still on the road, I’m doing just fine!!

All I have to do is keep going, even though no path is showing.

It doesn’t matter that I can’t see, in fact that’s what has set me free.

If I am blind and yet can still move, God is in control, and that is the proof!”

He heard my cry and didn’t let me crash, kept me from scary teeth that nash.

And like a Good Father, He let me drive, so that I could learn, and grow to be wise.

And if again I’m blinded by fear, I’ll never doubt that it is HE who steers.

 

Joshua 1:9

 Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.”

 

 

 

 

 

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Perfect

“Nah, I don’t really want to go now,  I have a lot of things to do at home, and I know you have a lot of work to do too,” I said to my husband, as we sipped our morning coffee together, side by side on the deck. “Besides, when we talked about it last night, the forecast was for full sun, and now there are tons of clouds in the sky.” We were discussing plans for the day, a conversation we’d had the night before, when we’d talked about “leaf peeping,” an autumn activity so popular in Northern New England, that tourists come from around the country, and some even come from around the world to see the fall foliage in all its glorious splendor. Some people make reservations months in advance, and spend hundreds, if not thousands of dollars to witness Maine’s grand finale. Yet, here I sat, with a sour look on my face because, now the weather wasn’t perfect. In addition, I was actually in a cleaning mood, and didn’t want to be interrupted, because that mood is fleeting and I’ve found it wise to harness that sucker and ride it while it lasts, or else I’d never clean out a closet, wash a window or dust.

He was quiet for a minute as we both looked over the railing to our overgrown field, the morning dew sparkling on the amber birch leaves, while the sun ignited the reds of the maples in the background. “I guess you’re right, ” he said, squinting in my direction, I should finish painting, and go to the dump.” His smile disappeared, like the sun at that very moment, as it hid itself behind a cloud. I thought of how little he asks of me, and the unavoidable guilt I’d feel by getting my own way and breaking the plans we’d made, so I relented. “Ok, fine, let’s go. I’ll go get ready, ” I sighed, getting up reluctantly and going inside.  I threw some jeans on over my yoga pants, put a hat on my head, grabbed a sweatshirt and a water bottle, and I was ready.

Off we went, into the mountains of Maine. He chattered like a magpie, while I looked out of the passenger side window, answering questions, and offering  one word answers, but I didn’t participate much at first in the way of conversation, partly because I’d left my enthusiasm for the day back with the mop, and partly because the clouds were like a wet blanket on my shoulders. This seemed like a waste of time, when we wouldn’t be able to see the vividness of the changing leaves against the clouds as well as we would against a bright blue sky. I knew I was being ridiculous–that I’m blessed to live in Vacationland, where beauty is literally out my back door, and that I have a husband who loves nature even more than I do, and even better, that he loves nothing better than to share the beauty of the earth with me–but, you know how it is, sometimes when you let yourself get into a funk, it’s hard to pull yourself out, and the fact that you know you’re being ridiculous, makes it even worse. For me, this kind of mood is only improved by one thing, and that is to not only think outside the box, but to literally get out of the box, and into some fresh air.

It is so easy to limit our minds and our lives to the four walls we live and work in. We live in a box, we sleep in a box, most of us work in a box; and so, our minds and our passions can sometimes be limited to what we can control. I can turn on the light if it’s too dim, turn up the heat if it’s too cold, the AC if it’s too hot, and turn on the TV if I’m bored. I live in a controlled environment, but nature will not be controlled, which can be  exciting, disconcerting, but oh, so beautiful. My husband knows this, and sometimes I know it too.

“Ohhh look!” I said suddenly, as we sailed past an overlook. Braking quickly, we turned into a horseshoe-shaped turn with one of the most fabulous views I’ve ever seen. Silently, we got out of the car and looked at the artistry before us. Colors, as far as our eyes could see; brilliant reds, oranges and yellows, set against a backdrop of green pines, “a bouquet from God,” my husband said, and I had to agree. Beyond the trees, a lake framed by mountains in the distance, some as far away as Vermont and Canada, with a flamboyant carpet cover, the whole effect as dramatic, yet dazzling as a fireworks display. Above it all, a layer of clouds adorned the top, the striations adding to the scene, not taking away from it.  My mood lifted like the breeze, as I silently thanked God for his handiwork and my husband for helping me to appreciate it. Why should I wait until the conditions are perfect to enjoy what is before me? I’d be waiting a lifetime, for there is no perfect on this earth; not in our lives, our homes, or even in nature, it’s all in how we choose to see things.

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All Things Work Together

In the past 48 hours, we’ve had to take two different vehicles to the mechanic’s shop for repairs. One had to be towed with a broken transmission line, and the other one needed a new alternator. We’ve also had not one, but two broken brake lines, a flat tire, and for the needle that nearly broke the haystack… the lawnmower just died. I said nearly, because guess what we did, when I called to my husband to come see the gas that he’d just put in the mower, pouring out the side? We laughed.

“Well, that’s the end of that mower,” he said, as he took off the filter and the rest of the gas dribbled out. “You can’t fix it?” He just looked at me, “Bugs… it’s done.” I knew he was right; that 100 dollar push mower has been around for years and has been used weekly to mow our two acres, as well as at times, up to three other properties. I’ve mowed more lawns with that push mower than a teenage boy, not for an allowance, but just so that I don’t have to go to the gym in the summer!

At any rate, this newest domestic annoyance, while not earth shattering, was enough to put us over the edge. In the past, we quite likely would have been bickering, blaming each other, or at the very least, bemoaning our fate and lashing out with a “Great! What else can go wrong?!?” But not today, Satan, not today. It seems the Bickersons have learned a thing or two; maybe we are finally growing up, or maybe, just maybe, we’ve learned that blessings often come on the heels of tragedy, or in this case, vexatious situations.

So, we laughed instead, and we actually could see the “bright side” of each problem…The truck could have broken down while we were away this past weekend in a place with miles and miles of dirt roads, loaded down with a four-wheeler, two bicycles and a trailer with two kayaks, and absolutely no cell phone service. We are thankful to have AAA to tow us, and we were so relieved to find out that what we thought was a bad transmission, was only a broken transmission line, which cost 183 dollars, instead of thousands. The jeep also, when it broke down was conveniently in front of the eye doctor, where my husband had a much needed appointment, and had just enough juice to get him to the shop after the appointment, although without wipers on a very rainy day. In addition, the brake line that failed, as he was driving the truck home from the shop, did not cause him to completely lose his brakes and crash into someone, and the second brake line that blew while he was repairing the first, happened in our drive way. The lawnmower? Well, that does suck, but it’s September, and we’re bound to find some clearance mower out there.

It’s all about perspective I guess. The Bible tells us to “consider it pure joy, when you face trials of many kinds.” That seems nearly sainthood level and I’m quite sure I’ll never be happy about tribulations, but I’m very thankful that both my husband and I have learned this verse, and we stand together on this promise found in Romans 8:28… “All things work together for good to them that love God.” I’m expecting a blessing after all this hassle and all these unexpected expenditures! Stay tuned…

P.S. I would be remiss if I didn’t give credit to my niece Mollie, who has written a “grateful” every night for 1,331 nights in a row, never missing one. A “grateful” is a list of things good and bad that she is thankful for that day. She emails this list, which also serves as a communication tool so that her family and friends can see where in the world this Gad-about Gladys is on that day. What I love about this is that even when bad things happen, like a nasty fall she had recently that required stitches, and several days of unaccustomed idleness to recover, she always looks for the positive, and changes the whole situation around with her perspective. She is so wise for her age, and she is right; there is always something to be grateful for.

 

 

 

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To Everything There is a Season

Mowing the lawn yesterday, I was sad to see that my lilacs have almost gone by. The once vibrant purple now looks ragged and anemic; a forlorn copy of its former splendor like Cinderella, after the clock strikes midnight. The season for them is so short, it hardly seems worth mowing around them, at least that’s what I tell myself the rest of the summer. How quickly I forget how much I look forward to them every Spring; one of the first bouquets of wildflowers to grace my table, perfuming the stale, winter air with wafts of hope and rebirth. But, as quickly as I am reminded that their presence means that Spring has arrived in Maine, with its mud, its blackflys, it’s 40 degree nights and 80 degree days, the lilacs are gone.

My thoughts meandering as I mowed, the by-gone lilacs reminded me of the seasons of my own life. Although I don’t feel old, so many have already come and gone; childhood, teen years, young wife and mother, my own teenagers, and now an (almost) empty nest. Within each season, there were lessons to be learned before moving on. Looking back on each one now, I would never want to return. Each new season heralded a change and growth, but also a nostalgia for the past. Change is hard, but without change, we cannot grow, and without growth, we die. How simple life would be if we had no growing pains but how dull too. I dearly love lilacs, but I would grow tired of seeing them after a while. The smell too, would either cease to be noticed, or the house would be so drenched in it, it would be almost nauseating. As sad as I am to see them go, I’m glad that they were here, even if it now means I’ll have to mow around a giant green bush all summer, the blooms only a pleasant memory.

Sweaty, yet feeling pleasantly accomplished, I pushed the mower back into the garage and went out on the deck to gulp water and admire the fruits of my labor. As I stood in the shade, looking out on our unmowed fields. a splash of purple caught my eye. Lupine! The lilacs are gone, but it’s June in Maine, which means that lupine has arrived. Tall and proud, with pale pinks, vibrant amethyst, and creamy white against a back drop of green waving grasses, lupine is a harbinger of Summer, the premier season to live in Vacationland, at least in my opinion. Lilacs completely forgotten now, my thoughts turned to the joys of summer, then circled back again to the realization that the end of one season means the start of another, different yes, but with its own pleasures and lessons to learn. The Bible says that there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the sun. I’m thankful for the seasons in my life that have led me to this one. The lupine reminded me that there is beauty in each one if we will only stop and appreciate it.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 (KJV)

 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sow; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.