A gross but timely reminder….

Being the mom of an eight year old boy gives me an interesting job description at times. This week entailed squished, smeared, lightning bugs and boogers just to name two things. Immediately the ‘EEW’ radar goes on for most, but I’m writing this with a huge smile and a chuckle.

I had a migraine…ALL WEEK LONG. OTC meds had me pain free for awhile but feeling very foggy- almost like I was in a tunnel. The little things even took a back seat in life. By Friday night I’d had more than enough and decided to do what I should’ve done from the get go. When I had yet another sleepless night I grabbed my phone and lay there in the dark with one ear bud listening to my Bible app read the Psalms to me. I heard about 50 chapters but already began to feel comfort after the very first one. Theres a lot about David’s pleas to the Lord that calm and reassure me to my core. Saturday morning I woke up (I had finally fallen asleep sometime around 4 am) knowing my head felt different. The ache had broken and all that was left was tired remnants. 

Friday evening we had chased lightning bugs in the yard. Catching them one by one we temporarily caged them in a bug box to watch them glow. It was a necessary summer night activity that I enjoyed, but would’ve liked much more without the oppressive headache hanging over me. It had to end. I had missed enough smiles already. Why do we wait to bring something to God until we just can’t take it anymore?

Upon releasing the little critters I discovered the fate of one poor bug smeared on the porch boards. 

“It would be cool if they were all different colors!” thought my boy outloud. I envisioned a rainbow of smeared bug guts on the porch and answered “what if we fed them food coloring?” 

“Would that work?” 

“Well, no. But that’s a funny thought” I had to smile whether I felt like it or not. 

The glow of captured bugs…

By Saturday night the smiles were much easier to come by. It’s a good thing because that nights conversation had me laughing out loud.  We have a little devotion time before bed and while I was reading aloud I noticed him picking his nose. He was headed to his mouth with it until he saw me looking at him.

“I saw that! You’re busted” I said with a knowing smile.

“What? I wasn’t gonna. It wasn’t a good one anyways!”

Hesitantly I responded with “what do you mean a ‘good’ one? They’re all yucky!” (not really sure I wanted to hear the answer at this point but I was intrigued.. .)

“No they’re not”, he says. “The black ones are yucky because they’re the dirty ones.”

As opposed to….?

He reassured me the white ones were clean and much tastier. At this point I’m disgusted but laughing and yelling for his dad. Maybe he could convince this boy how gross this bad habit is. To borrow a word from a dear friend (you know who you are)  ‘hoart’.

Oh the little things in a day that I can’t help but smile at. Someday I’ll haunt him with this post…and I’ll re-read it myself as a reminder to not let oppression of any kind hold me down. While I’m fairly certain it isn’t God’s desire we eat boogers or kill bugs for fun- I know Hed rather us be able to laugh at the prospect than to be too worn down to smile at all. I know He wants us to give our burdens, all of them, to Him. 

Loving Fathers

Another Sunday dawned threatening rain, but never really delivering. We need the rain right now, but I was hoping for it to pass because today was a special day in the Irish Hills. The NASCAR stage was set at Michigan International Speedway and we had three ticket holders here waiting for a spectacular day. This week’s heat broke a little as well so an afternoon in the bleachers with a sturdy breeze would be tolerable. 

My husband and two of our son’s spent this Fathers Day together enjoying this first race for the boys. It was bittersweet watching them drive away. In years past I would’ve been right there with them. I actually enjoy the jet fly-over and roaring of engines as much as some of the guys. As it was though, I found myself experiencing a fibromyalgia flare up so a day at the track wouldn’t have bode well for me. Good thing our daughter and I had planned on spending the morning together instead before she had to head to work. 

Headachy, foggy headed, and sore I tried to focus instead on meal prep for a homemade dinner for my dad. I opted for a slow cooked beef noodle recipie from Pinterest. I have never bought a pie at the store but I bought his lemon meringue today. It’s his favorite, and though he deserved one from scratch, I just couldn’t make it happen. It was nice to spend the meal together; just him, mom, and I no matter where the pie came from.

I feel so discouraged when I view these setbacks as losses. I wish I could do everything I used to without physical consequences. On days like today I have to look at these men we celebrate: everyday they march on with tasks because they feel they must. They work hard. It takes a toll on their bodies and minds, just as certain tasks take a toll on mine. They rise before dawn, toil in the sun/rain/sleet/snow to earn a life for those they love.

As I’ve mentioned before, my dad is a farmer. By itself it’s a tough job. He also simultaneously spent years on the city road crew. Quite often that’s an unforgiving job. Long days loomed before him no matter what the season. He did it for mom and us. Our clothes, sports, private schooling, cars, gas, etc. He does more than he should to take care of us still today. 

My husband’s the same way. He works constantly for our care by literally building everyone else’s dreams. He comes home each night to a family who wants even more from him…and he gives it.

I can say no less of my father-in-law who in his retirement selflessly toys with lake improvements…not for his enjoyment necessarily, but for everyone else’s. Its not easy making others happy-meeting their wants and needs. 

All of the dad’s in my life are still trying.

With a grateful heart I hope to relay my thanks despite today’s appearance I might not care much at all. I look to you dad’s and pick up my chin- I am encouraged and challenged by you.

Lost In A Story

When the heat of summer presses in heavy even basic daily chores take twice the energy. Here I lay on the couch expending only enough of myself to operate a papermate pen. Earlier all I held was a book.

My optimum function occurs on a cool breeze- so in the summer that’s early in the morning or later in the evening. Right before the current heatwave my son and I ventured to the city library to find some hot afternoon reading material. An old pillared one and a half storybuilding met us for the first time that day as we wandered through a few basement rooms of children’s books. Once those selections were made we ventured back up the narrow wood railed staircase to the adult fiction on the main floor. I found a title that caught my eye and not knowing how much time our busy week would allow me it was my only choice. It has become a welcome diversion to the heat. An author previously unknown to me has successfully drawn me in to her tale: A single mother has desperately run away from a life of abuses to her childhood coastal memories. Hoping to start afresh little by little she sees herself with new eyes and purpose through her now deceased land lady’s hidden prayer boxes. Hired to clean out the residence she discovers them in a closet and begins to read a lifetime of written notes to “Father”. Piece by piece a picture is drawn that not only rescues her, but an entire town. 

A great story takes a message, slowly infuses it throughout the pages, drawing me into lives that become real in my mind. It was this authors purpose to show how a hidden woman’s life and prayers effect more than anyone ever imagined. It struck a chord, and a fountain of tears, in me. How many times have I asked God what purpose I could have from my small corner? Obvious answers include my impact on my family, but the broader spectrum is the world around. Do I have any influence on my neighbors, town, or even my region? What can a housewife do? Pray. One never knows the opportunities presented through life and how each could change someone’s circumstance.

I closed the pages today hot and tired, but challenged. As another week looms ahead with more heat and inevitably more work I’d like to table until a cooler time I have to place my hearts scribbles before the Lord. All that I mumble through the day may best be written for some days future review. In amazement I’m sure I would look back and see the pieces connecting in a way I don’t see right now. Maybe my children, or even a stranger, would be more moved by the prayers than even the answers. 

Heavy food for thought as the heat finally lifts and dusk sets in.

A Lasting Impression

It was the year 1923 and the world was spinning forward with new life and invention. With the Great War behind us authors like Agatha Christie and William Yeats took the forefront. A “Hollywood” sign was built in California as an actor named Charlie Chaplin made a silent film called “The Pilgrim”. Greats like Babe Ruth made history winning the Yankees first World Series that year as well as his award for MVP that season.

Charles Lindbergh made his first solo flight. The Nobel prize was won for the invention of insulin. Calvin Coolidge took the office as US President after Warren Harding’s death. A massive earthquake shook Japan on September 1st, leaving Frank Lloyd Wright’s newly built Imperial Hotel as a survivor.

On November 8, 1923 Adolf Hitler launched his first attempt to seize control of Germany named the Beer Hall Putsh. History was definitely on the march.

On the same date in the quiet little farm community of Clayton, far removed from world events, a man named Lewis Hawley scratched his name by our entry door. 

Though not brightly visible these scratches are still marking a date from 1923

That was 94 years ago. As famous men and women made their mark for me to google, Lewis left his mark as well. My romantic side wonders if he scratched his name while waiting for a girl inside to come to the door. Maybe he lived here but the only records I find during this time period are for a man living in Union City, MI about 50 miles from here. He left his mark but all I have are romanticized ideas and questions. My main question is what mark we’ll leave on this place. During its time many metamorphosis have occurred here transforming structure and landscape. As people have come and gone through these doors some have lefts notes, scribbles, height measurements, and dated signatures.

Yesterday I power washed an old wood fence in efforts to add a little character to our chicken yard. In keeping with this property’s age the ‘new’ old fence had to be cleaned before I can add a fresh coat of white paint. I’ve never power washed anything, so after a few hours I was sore and quite a sight. My hands were cramped. I was head to toe mud and paint chips. I can only imagine the birds eye view the neighbors had. In creating a lovely home there’s a lot of ugly work. Anything meant to last probably requires some elbow grease. Those famous figures from 1923 didn’t get that way without effort.

While this world keeps spinning, in this small farm community I too am scratching my name on some bricks. I hope to mark my existence for years to come. My lasting mark here is filling these walls with the joy of the Lord and the yard outside with life. It’s not always easy.