Back in the Day

 

 

Before ballpoint pens, when space travel was relegated to the imagination of little boys reading comic books and the speed of your bike was dependent on how fast you could pedal; when gay meant brightly colored and politically correct had something to do with etiquette; back in the day when the street lights coming on were the only clock you had in summer to tell you it was time to head for home and you walked to the local drug store to buy the sheet music for your favorite song so you could memorize the words; a really good babysitter got 50 cents an hour and the height of independence was when your weekly paycheck finally cleared $100; that was my time.

Before xbox and wii, pocket calculators, and phones that you wear on your ear; we still played games (Monopoly, Chinese Checkers, Parcheesi); we still added and subtracted, and we still communicated with our friends by phone, sometimes sharing a phone line (called a party line) with several other families to keep down the cost, or calling home and asking the operator to place the call person-to-person then asking to speak to yourself so your parents would know you arrived at a given destination safely. Writing letters was in vogue and young women waited patiently for the mailman to bring word from their loved ones who’d been drafted.

Back then you could use a playing card and a clip clothes pin to convert your bicycle into a motorized sports car.  If you had a red handkerchief from your dad’s dresser drawer and the right sized stick you were a cowboy in the wild west, and if your front porch had a railing around it, you could ride your bucking bronco into the sunset.  A blanket thrown over the clothes line provided a tent for the night. Soup cans dug into the yard gave you a golf course.  You could spend hours putting together a model airplane then climb to the top of a garage and set it on fire to have your own WWII.

Being sick you might have measles, mumps or chickenpox and all the associated side effects. Doll babies did nothing but lay there, they didn’t speak, didn’t eat, and for sure they didn’t poop. Sitting on the back porch on a lazy summer evening watching the fireflies light up the night air while sipping Kool Aid. The commercial still rattles around in our brains, “Kool Aid, Kool Aid, tastes great!  We love Kool Aid – Can’t wait!” That was my time.

It is a wonder how we made it this far, and that we remember.  Going on a trip meant following state roads through one little town after another, with all the associated stop signs and red lights.  McDonald’s hadn’t been thought of, fast food was determined by how quickly you could eat it. Eating while walking outside was unheard of, and certainly eating french fries with your fingers was just not done.  It was the end of another war and the beginning of an era now referred to as “the good old days”.  And they were good.

When we finally got a television of our very own it came with doors on the front to make it a console, a piece of furniture to enhance the beauty of the room when it wasn’t being used.  After a while, people started getting color tv’s.  We were happy to not have to go to the neighbors to see their tv, but all the same wanted the color effect that was so highly acclaimed.  My dad purchased the latest in adapters to make a black and white tv into a color model.  It was a piece of very heavy plastic that you rolled out across the screen and watched as Lucy and Desi walked from one color band to another, turning from red to green to yellow to blue.  What a wonder! A color tv of our very own.

A new fangled invention back in the day was the decorator wall clock, other than the old Regulator clock that hung in train stations, wall clocks were not decorator items prior to this time.  My mom called me into the kitchen one day to unveil a surprise she had created.  The kitchen door to the back porch was opened, concealing her surprise.  With a bit of flourish she swept it to the side to reveal our very own wall clock.  We were just as  fancy as anyone on the block.  She had hammered a nail into the trim behind the door and hung a watch that was missing one of the leather bands on the nail.  Fancy!  We were movin’ up, you just had to remember to wind it every day.

We still remember the evening gowns for the prom in the high school gym that had been transformed into a wonderland with parachute material draped from the ceiling and artificial grass and a gurgling water fountain in it’s center.  The more crinolines under that gown and the higher the beehive teased up on your head, sprayed with some sort of lacquer to stay that way for hours (or the rest of your life), the better.

Walking home from basketball or football games and their dances at 11:30 at night and not being afraid. After all you’d just danced to songs like, “One Eyed One Horned Flying Purple People Eater”, “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini”, “Lets Twist Again Like We Did Last Summer”, and the trusty old favorite “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor On the Bedpost Overnight?”.  All of your friends chipping in to buy a couple of gallons of gas for the car might cost you a quarter a piece.  You’d have two gallons of gas and cruise town for hours.

Looking back we see mostly the good with smatterings of dark clouds scattered on the edges of our memories. All of this while at the same time we still had people riding in the back of the bus and drinking from separate water fountains, the Cuban missile crisis, the Bay of Pigs invasion, air raid drills in our schools, children huddled in school hallways with their heads on the floor and their hands over the backs of their necks till the all clear was sounded, black outs and brown outs and peeking out through the window blinds to see who would be the first person on your street to relight their lamps, our President gunned down while riding in the car with his wife, so much tragedy but for the most part, we grew up in the  good old days.

Girls still cried over the loss of a boyfriend, mothers still watched their boys go off to war, fathers still were demoralized by the loss of their jobs, and sons still drove cars too fast and suffered the consequences.  “But God is faithful and will not suffer you to be tempted above what you are able, but will, with the temptation, make a way to escape that you might be able bear it.”  I Cor. 10:13

Some of our adventures were our way to escape that we could bear the most difficult of times. So we are perceived as the “Ozzie and Harriet Generation”.

 

 

MOVING – An Adventure?

U-HAUL used to have a sign painted on the side of their trucks that read, “An adventure in moving.”

Now tell me, who needs an “adventure” when they’re moving? Relocating in and of itself is adventurous enough.

Take it from me, an habitual mover. For the first twelve years of my married life, I didn’t ever have to do Spring and Fall housecleaning – we just moved to a new home. In fact, I didn’t want to marry my hubby while he was in the military cause I didn’t want to be transferred all the time.

Then we got married, we lived in 11 houses in 13 years. That was after he got out of the USAF. The thing is, the longer you’re married (it’ll be 46 years in August), the more kids you have (we have four), and the more stuff you accumulate. And it’s not all your stuff. After a while you start storing everyone else’s belongings too.

The kids (who now have kids of their own) don’t have room for this, that or the other, “Mom, can we put this at your house till we have room for it?” Since there is no good reason not too, the answer is, “Of course.” On numerous occasions we’ve even “stored” other families in our house. But each time someone moves in or out, even if you’re not moving yourself, you still end up with all the same symptoms. In an effort to make everyone comfortable, even on a temporary basis, the whole house gets rearranged.

The kitchen is the worst, if I have oregano and an extra, and she has oregano and an extra, we then have 4 oreganos to put somewhere “handy” for when we run out. It’d be a l-o-n-g time till we used that much of any spice! Now multiply that times all the spices you spot in your kitchen cupboard. It’s tricky!

My youngest daughter is in the process of moving just ten minutes up the road from her current home, but to get those ten minutes away still requires packing every little knife, fork, spoon, potty seat, sweater, mitten, sock, pot, pan, photo album, blanket, stuffed animal, picture frame into a box that is generally either too big or too small. Box size, you know, can be corrected by the use of enough packing tape to go coast to coast – TWICE. The packing process is endless. Or so it seems at the time.

And this is the other thing regarding moving, once you have each darling little item snuggly, I might add, lovingly, slapped into a box, you then have the privilege of loading it into a truck. It then takes a quick ten minute jaunt up the street, where you take said box out of said truck, carry it into the house, and lovingly unwrap it, find a place to put it, and then decide what to do with all the packaging materials that you’ve accumulated that now appear as though a paper box factory threw up in your backyard.

I am so thankful for the diligence and industriousness I see in my kids. They are all workers and I’m proud of them. Right now my moving girl is like that bunny on the television ad that just keeps going and going and going. With an almost three year old and a five year old, wanting to know what is in every box, making dinosaurs jump enthusiastically off of cartons, “helping” tape up boxes, she still managed to sit down and do a meal plan for the next two weeks so we can know what items from the kitchen can be packed and what needs to remain till the last horn blows.

Yesterday, after helping all day with packing, I was in bed by 7. Yes, I said 7 o’clock. While she still had to make, serve and clean up supper for her family, get the kids to AWANA, go pick out paint for the new house, bring little people home and ready them for bed, and finally breathe. Her momma was sleeping soundly.

I don’t know where she keeps her cape and her phone booth, but I think I packed her blue shirt with the red “S” on it.

As an “empty nester” it is difficult to remember when I ever had that much energy. I think it’s like grace, you only get it when you need it.

You moms are to be congratulated and encouraged. Granted I’m 36 years older than she, but she looks like she’s going in fast forward, while my engine is stuck in reverse!

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST

 

We’ve celebrated the birth of the babe who came to earth from His heavenly home. He left all his majesty behind and came to seek and to save the lost. Jesus gave the perfect gift and as a token we give gifts to each other.

Our tree is up and the lights are on, but the packages are nearly all dispensed to family and friends. The families are each in their own homes, or traveling to them, and I’m reflecting on Christmases that have past.

When there were only two of us  living in a far away metropolitan city, we were so anxious to get back to the familiar small town where we grew up. Anxious to be in the company of family and friends, who knew us and loved us anyway. There were always presents, my dad loved Christmas and one of his favorite sayings was, “I know where there’s lots of money.” So he bought prizes for all of our family and when a neighbor fell on hard times he bought their family presents as well. There was no spiritual application to his Christmas, but he so enjoyed being the “HoHo”.

When our children were small and we’d moved to the next county, he’d get up early so he and mom could be at our house before the children got up. Since we lived in a rural setting, locking the door was unnecessary and we’d be awakened by a “Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas! Where is everybody!”

Needless to say, children bounded out of bed and the party was on. Typical Christmas morning breakfast was coffee and cookies, especially since my mom only baked cookies once a year, we wanted them breakfast, lunch and supper.

Years past by and mom and dad aged, as we all do. No more early morning visits, but now grandchildren of our own to enjoy.

It’s hard to eliminate items from their lists. They’re all good kids and we want to share with them. Seeing pleasure on their faces makes our hearts joyful. Singing beside them in church is literally breathtaking. It is the living out of the verse that says, “I have no greater joy than to know that my children walk in truth.”

This ghost of Christmas past has stirred up the melancholy in me. The many sweet, sweet memories of years of blessing. God is so good to share the perfect gift of His only Son with us. How can we do less than share with each other by thoughts, words and deeds. Infinite love.

May you and yours have a blessed New Year!

The Blame Game

Rowan and Martin’s Laugh In. A blast from the past where stars like Steve Martin, Goldie Hahn, the Smothers Brothers and Flip Wilson got their start.

Flip was a good natured stand-up comic with a great sense of humor and impeccable body language.He often used the line,

“the devil made me do it!”

With his accent and the flick of his head, he had you laughing no matter what he was insinuating.

Of course, the devil he referred to was most likely dressed in red with pointed ears and a long tail. He was no comparison to the actual devil who is “seeking whom he may devour.” He’s so subtle and uses whatever is closest to you to cause you to stumble in your walk with Jesus.

We can say,

“it’s just the way I am!”

But that doesn’t excuse us from not being Christ like in our actions and our attitudes. We make it very convenient for the enemy of our soul to defeat us when we use that line and claim that we can’t help ourselves. Since we’re new creatures in Christ, we still have to deal with our flesh, but Jesus reminds us, “I have overcome the world.”

When the devil whispers lies in your ear telling you it’s okay to do what you know to be wrong, it’s time to sing. “God inhabits the praises of His people.” “Resist the devil and he will flee from you.” Satan is the father of lies, don’t believe him when he tells you that you have no choice, it’s just the way you are.

Make a conscious effort to never ignore that still small voice of your Savior who is speaking to your other ear, telling you that “Greater is He that is in you, than he that is in the world.”

Don’t play the Blame Game.

You’ll always lose, even when you think it’s the only way to win.

Lost and Found

Squinting and hunched over my lap top was how my son found me this morning.  I was trying to make an entry into facebook before going out to our weekly breakfast.

This was today’s post:  “The trouble with being 65 and wearing glasses is you can’t remember where you took them off and you can’t see them while you’re looking. (I think that’s what I typed!)”

There’s this old saying that goes, “Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most.”  Don’t you hate it when you tell someone that you’re looking for a lost item and they reply, “Well, where did you have it last?”  Come on —- LOST!

I have lost my car on a regular basis at the mall.  It’s constructed like a wheel with four main spokes coming out from a central hub.  At the end of each main spoke there is a large department store and each store has four entries, one into the mall itself and the other three lead to parking lots.  I can’t tell you how often I have walked out the wrong door and searched in vain for my car, only to finally find it was parked on the other side of the building.

When I was single, some hundred and fifty years ago, it was the custom for women to wear gloves when going out on a date. (You thought I was kidding about the hundred and fifty years didn’t you?)  Anyway, I was in a flurry one night trying to be ready when my date arrived, but searching in vain for my white gloves.  My mom gave me a confused look and just stared for a minute.  “Mom, can’t you please help me find them!” “You mean white, like the one you’re wearing?”     . . . . .      “Oh.”

Children, I hate to admit it, but I’ve lost each of my own children twice.  I have four, so if you do the math, eight times I’ve been through a parent’s worst nightmare of not being able to find my child.  Why God would entrust me with other people’s kids is a mystery. I never lost anyone else’s child though, just my own, at the beach, at the mall, at Hershey Park, at Friendlys Ice Cream Parlor.  Really, God is so good to me and watches over the details of my life in a most particular way, as He does for each of us.

I’m reminded of Jim Elliot, famous martyred missionary, who said, “He is no fool who gives what he can not keep, to gain what he can not lose.”  God is in the business of lost and found.  “We were lost in our trespasses and sin.”  But by His grace we have gained eternal life  through the death, burial and resurrection of His Son.  He paid the price we can’t pay, so that we can have eternal life that we can not lose, “…no man can pluck you out of His hand” not because of our righteousness, “all our righteousness is as filthy rags”, but because of His sinless perfection “For He hath made Him who knew no sin, to be sin for us, that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him” taking on our sin, past, present and future.  I have found a new and remarkable life in Christ, not without problems, but not without hope either. What a Savior!

A LOANER – NOT AN OWNER

Sometimes it’s easy  to forget that these little people who fill our homes are not ours. 

 

They’re only on loan to us. Scripture calls them, “Children are a gift from God.”    I have never taken a gift; birthday, Christmas or Valentine’s Day and squashed it. We vividly recall the hours of painful labor that brought them into the world, the seemingly endless sleepless nights, and such worry about their welfare.  We think that makes them ours.

 

But it doesn’t.

 

They’re still His – entrusted to our care.

 

We are entrusted with the care of this great gift and we often just take it for granted.  It doesn’t stop with being a mom, it happens with a grandmom too.  It’s so easy, easy, easy to say, “Just a minute.”  Do you know how long a minute is to a kid?  Sometimes it can be three hours long and by the time you come back to ask what they wanted, they’ve FORGOTTEN!

 

It’s not that interrupting us while we’re talking is okay.  It’s not.  That’s manners. But while we’re doing dishes, cleaning the toilet, facebooking, checking out pinterest, or twitter, really? Why do they have to wait?  Are the dishes, the toilet, facebook, pinterest or twitter more important than they are?  To that we’d answer a resounding, “NO.”  But it’s so much easier to ask for just another minute.

 

Often times what we mean is, give me ten minutes, just ten.  I just want to finish going to the bathroom by myself.  But that’s not where we’re at often times.  Whatever seems urgent to them, is urgent – to them. It could be a doll stuck somewhere upside down with blood rushing to its little plastic head.  Perhaps that new Matchbox car was just run over by a bike. That can be a tragedy if you’re three….or six.

 

Years ago we had two bedrooms connected by a bathroom. I can almost hear children calling for me throughout the house.  Unfortunately, I didn’t understand how urgent they felt their request to be.  But, I also wasn’t able NOT to answer, so in the faintest of voices I’d say, (really small letters here) “I’m here. I’m here (hiding) in the bathroom.” Actually I was hoping no one would hear me, but was unable not to respond to their call.

 

God calls us to love “the apple of His eye”.  Whether we are reminded of this at 26 or 60, remember that we have the privilege of pouring into God’s treasure from the abundance of wisdom and mercy He’s shown to us. We need to respond to these little people as though He was sitting in the room observing us.

 

Cause He is.

Memory Lane in My Nightgown

Here I sit in my red plaid nightgown on the verge of Spring, sipping morning coffee with my gluten free toast.  The house is quiet, so quiet you can hear it. There’s no noise coming from the Sesame Street people who reside in the 38 year old house that sits on the floor by the couch.  No one is banging into the wall in the miniature rockers by the picture window.  The marble track is completely at peace with itself and all of a sudden I’m wandering down Memory Lane in my nightgown!

 

How often do you hear the well intentioned old ladies in the mall telling you, “Treasure this time, it goes so fast.”  “One day you’ll wish you had this time back again.”  “It won’t be long and they’ll be grown.”

 

I’ve heard these remarks.

 

I’ve made these remarks!

 

But at the time, when there’s a screaming child trying to escape the stroller in a crowded mall, or pulling on the tee shirt of a complete stranger’s child in the playground, knocking him to the ground, it’s irrelevant. It really does nothing to diffuse the situation.

 

Why do we say those things?  The white haired wonders of the world think somehow this helps you to cope with the drama, but it doesn’t.  It just adds one more layer of frustration to an already difficult situation.  It’s not our intention to make a tension charged drama even worse.  I think we just want to identify with you, remembering that we’ve been there and now our mini rockers are no longer bumping the wall and our floors are not littered with toys to trip over, food to retrieve before the ants do, and children to separate from the indelible markers. But we were there, and just like you often times vacillating between pulling our hair out and hugging them ever so tightly to let them know how much we love them.

 

Mothering is not for wimps!  We ought to have Superman equipment at our disposal at all times.  Where is our telephone booth and our cape when we need it?  Somehow Lois Lane and Clark Kent are nowhere to be found when all you can hear is the bickering, or the crying, or the spilling.

 

I have to laugh (now) as I recall hearing something pouring in the dining room. My second thought was, there’s no faucet in there, that sound is coming from the dining room not the kitchen.  As I rounded the corner from the living room, there perched precariously on the edge of the table, sat my sweet blond two year old, happily pouring a half gallon of milk to the floor – just because she could.

 

It’s really true, however, though you think sometimes you won’t make it through to the next day, you do.  And His grace is new every morning, every single morning.  I remember so vividly a dear saint, Aunt Esther, praying so often, “As our day, so shall our strength be.”  The older I get, the more meaning that holds.  We only have grace for this moment.  As Corrie ten Boom said in her book, “The Hiding Place”, you don’t get grace to put in a suitcase for later.  It only comes as you need it.

 

Forgive the white haired wonders who unintentionally step on your toes by reminding you of how quickly life passes.  Rather, thank them – if only in your heart – for the reminder.  Take a deep breath, get perspective and remember they are, “…a gift from God” loaned to just the right mama.  

 

YOU!

 

THE PLAYGROUND – CHAMBER OF HORRORS

You’ve heard that springtime turns a young man’s fancy to love, but it also turns a child’s fancy to the playground.

 

I’m sure it’s reasonable, but it’s a little like Chinese torture to me.  In the Northeast the swings, slides and other assorted gym equipment stand like frozen sentinels waiting for the spring thaw. Soon the lively chatter of moms and their children break the long winter silence. Why do little people have to pick the highest point on the jungle gym to jump from? I know it’s just to see if they can. Don’t they realize how funny I look  diving across the playground to land underneath them so they don’t get hurt?

 

There’s always that little kid who dares to try anything. My brother was one of those.  In fact, my mom met a man from the “old neighborhood” one day who inquired about her children’s health.  He first asked about my oldest brother, wanting to know what he did after getting out of the Navy.  Then he wondered whether I was married and did I have any children.  They chatted awhile about her oldest and youngest children. But before parting ways, she asked him if he didn’t want to know about her middle son.  The man’s reply was simply, “I lived across the street from ‘The Playground’, I figured there could be no way he was still alive. I watched him every day! Even in the SNOW! I didn’t figure he could have survived to be an adult.”

 

The difference between moms and grandmoms isn’t just our age, it’s our CCL, Crisis Concern Level.  The smallest child wants to climb the highest sliding board.  A grandmom’s response, “How am I ever going to fit down that sliding board with them?” The biggest child stands on top of the jungle gym. The grandmom’s response, “Why can’t they just hang below the bars? How silly will it look to follow him up there?”  Tiny folks feel obligated to walk in front of moving swings, oblivious to danger. A grandmom’s response, “Can I stop the swing at the same time I lunge for the babe?” T

 

As a kid, I took my niece to the nearby playground on a walk.  I’m sure that’s colored the rest of my life’s encounters with playgrounds.  I was probably nine years old and she was about three.  She did the old “walking in front of a moving swing routine”.  Not that it makes a difference, because impact is impact, but the swings then were made of a wooden board with cast metal edges to support the seat and attach to the chains.  When that hard surface met the soft surface of my niece’s head, there was instant blood. I’m told your head bleeds so profusely because the vessels are so close to the surface. When it’s running down their face, you don’t care about the explanation, all you want to do is stop it!

 

In an effort to get my charge immediate help, I scooped her up and ran across the street (looking both ways first, of course) to my friend’s mother.  She took one look at this sweet little blood covered child and all her blood went to her feet.  As the mom’s lips turned at white as her teeth I came to the realization that this was not the place for a nine year old to be in charge.  Ladies who pass out at the sight of blood should have a sign posted on their front door, “Don’t bring accident victims here unless you’re prepared to care for us both!”

 

My niece recovered, her mom recovered, the neighbor recovered.  

 

I never recovered.  So I still take grandchildren to the playground, but I always have a knot in my stomach when approaching the Chamber of Horrors.

 

I was much younger when I was a mom, I don’t comprehend how I raised my kids without making them basket cases.  When their children are being super heroes trying to prove they really can fly, my girls’ reply is almost always the same, “They’re fine, mom.” As callous as it seems, it’s that moment I just have to stop watching.  It’s embarrassing for my girls to watch their mom climbing the jungle gym and going down the sliding board.

 

If you’re a mom of little people reading this, be patient with the white haired ones.  If you’re a grandmom, you probably understand.  Any coping mechanisms would be appreciated for the sake of my children, my grandchildren and ME!

SLEEPLESSNESS IS SEASONAL

It arrives about the same time as hay fever and is just as annoying. I’m operating on approximately two hours of sleep so please forgive any misteaks in punkuasion and spelling.

The cause, coming in close contact with a brightly colored yellow plastic bag. At all other times of the year, if you can find these bags at all, they’re on an obscure clearance shelf or relegated to the bottom most corner where the light doesn’t touch their delightful graphics.

Finally they make their appearance in the Spring of the year along with the pansies, the daffodils, the tulips and the dreaded pollen. Suddenly they’re right up there with the main attractions; the chocolate bunnies step aside for them, the tinfoil covered eggs greet them with a cheery hello, and any competitors just give a respectful, “Hey.”

In the last year or so, packaging has changed. The market has obviously expanded. Now they’re designated as “Original”, “Tropical”, and my all time favorite, “Reds”. Hence the sleeplessness.

Since I turned fifty, caffeine and red affect me just like they do some six year olds. Sleeplessness.

It doesn’t matter how often I tell my brain to shut down. Rolling over, punching my pillow, pacing, reading my Bible, watching an ancient of days black and white movie for lack of better programming, even writing doesn’t allow me to go to sleep when I’ve overindulged in this package’s tasty morsels.

I love “Starburst Jellybeans”!!!! They are the perfect combination of sweet and sour. When my kids were all at home, they used to lore me into a trap with the new extremely sour hard candies that were on the market. “Here mom, taste this, you’ll love it.” I’m a sucker for a piece of candy and, trusting my little darlings, obliged their request. Whoever invented a Warhead, or a piece of candy that tastes like puke. That’s nasty! They split their sides in gales of laughter and imitations of mom, while I ran to the garbage disposal!

But Starburst has a corner on the market for jellybeans in my book. I just have to be ready to stay up all night. I might consider giving them up, but not yet. There’s still some in the candy dish and they’re so pretty. And they’re on sale for half price after Easter. What’s not to like about that!

If you’re up at two in the morning reading these ramblings, let me know why. I may be up too, we can chat!

Fly birdie, FLY!

I feel like the bird in the nest that the mama bird thinks has been there too long – it’s time for flight baby!  There are only two options, fly or face plant.

I choose flight!

So many of you have been living in the blogosphere for ages while I’ve been cowering in my nest.  I need lots of advice in this area, and welcome your participation.  My friend Sarah Mae at sarahmae.com has been my cheerleader.  She regularly gets out her pompoms, her cheerleading skirt and puts her hair in a ponytail to jump up and down at the side of my nest to cheer me on. “Fly birdie, FLY! You can do it!”

According to the calendar, I’ve lived 65 years, but according to my head I’m about 39, give or take a year or two.  That in itself is an impossible feat I know, cause my oldest daughter will move on from 39 to the big 4-0 this year.  And my youngest daughter just entered her 31st year.  There are two “kids” in between, a son of 36 and another daughter who is 34.  So I guess I deserve all the white hair I’m wearing, but it does truly feel impossible.

If I was 39 for real, I’d have a three year old, a six year old, an 8 year old, and a 12 year old, and thrown in for good measure, eight more children who were loaned to me by God to try and have an impact for Him on their lives.

It was a busy household, filled with laughter, fun and tears.  Not a day went by without a smattering of each.  There were bikes and tikes all over the place, roller blades and skateboards abounded.  We enjoyed the company of many large families that only added to our own version of hoopla that we called “family”.

I’ve walked in your shoes, sometimes dragging my feet, sometimes running, but always moving.  Being a parent is hard work, being married is hard work too.  We’ll celebrate 45 years this summer.  I know that both parenting and marriage are tremendous blessings, but they don’t come without effort.  Each individual has to willingly contribute not 50-50, but 100-100 percent of their mind, will and emotions.

Join me, ask me, help me to be a worthy contributor to this sphere of living.  I really don’t want to do a face plant – it would waste of all my years of “Clinique” applications! I just have to keep reminding myself that ultimately, like the old song says, “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.”  My flight is up to Him.