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All Beaked Up with Nowhere to Go

22 Aug

It’s been a strange week for me. After putting it off for about 35 years, I finally agreed with the doctor that my sinuses might be a tad, well, debilitated. I think his exact words were something like, “I’m wondering if you’ve ever experienced a decent breath.”

Apparently, I couldn’t put it off any longer. I’d run out of excuses. It’s not that I didn’t care, but everything else seemed to come first. Family, church, work, social activities, writing, cleaning—everything. Anything:

It’s nearly Christmas. Perhaps after the holidays.

Let’s get through summer vacation and then maybe I’ll have it looked at.

I can’t do anything about it now. I used up all my leave over the summer.

Are you kidding? I’m about to start a new job.

I have this giant stack of coupons to clip…

Long story, shortened: I finally said yes. I took a few days off and committed my brain to a stranger’s hands. He authorized someone to pump anesthesia into my veins and they wheeled me away. In that last moment of clarity, I looked back to my friend and said something I’ve never found the slightest bit amusing, but for the moment it was perfect.

“Smell you later!” I remember the nurses giggling, but nothing else.

Today I feel a bit like I’ve been punched in the face. I’ve spent the past few days trying to keep my head still, and tilted back to hasten healing, wearing a bandage that looked like a duck beak. No television, no standing, no lifting. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. I felt as if I were carrying my head on a balloon string, the faster I moved, the more it jerked backward.

By the way, to my fellow bibliophiles who think this might be a dream predicament, yes, I shared your optimism that I might be left with no option but to read. I pulled out a Kindle and held it above my tilted head—awkward but somewhat doable—until I dropped it on my beak. I think I saw actual stars. Sadly, I had to do this three times before admitting reading might not work out.

So, I did nothing. I don’t know if I’ve ever done nothing in my life, but it’s been strangely freeing.

Despite this tale of silly woe, don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not posting this lovely picture to elicit sympathy. I find it hilarious. I can laugh because I see only positives. Every day my head is a bit better. Tonight I’m going to try washing my hair. Tomorrow I’m going to work (which is not a victory for me, but my boss will be glad, I think).

The point is, I know where this is leading. I still can’t breathe. The doctor said I shouldn’t expect to for a week or so but I can be confident the victory at the other end will be worth all the pain and discomfort. I, too, am wondering if I’ve ever experienced a clear breath. I’m wondering if it will be like the first day I put on glasses and the entire world looked new—will the world smell new? Will I sleep through the night? Will the weekly migraines ebb?

Will I find myself shaking my head over all this procrastination, asking why I didn’t do this sooner?

Ah. There’s the real issue. Over the years, this is something many doctors have often approached me about. I deliberately ignored their advice and encouragement, preferring my ordinary status as a prominent mouth breather and migraine sufferer to something I didn’t know. I don’t embrace change. But now I’m excited about what tomorrow might bring.

Isn’t this like so many areas of our lives? I have many tasks on my “to do” list that I’ve ignored or put off, thinking the timing isn’t right, I’m just not ready, or I have too many coupons to clip. I’m only cheating myself. Many of those are pathways God has laid out before me that I choose not to walk on, because I’m not sure where they lead. They are victories He has in store for me if I would only denounce my ordinary status. I know. I just KNOW, when I finally take those steps I will see victory, and I will wonder why I didn’t do this sooner.

It’s time to send that letter. Sign up for that class. Apologize, whether you’re wrong or not. Submit that invention idea. Apply for that job. Listen to that voice calling. Every day that goes by is one more day without tasting victory. For me, that looks like submitting a book proposal. What does it look like to you?

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For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it. – Hebrews 12:11.

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Uprooting and Unraveling: Is Family Worth the Effort?

8 Aug

“Families are messy. . . Sometimes the best we can do is to remind each other that we’re related for better or for worse…and try to keep the maiming and killing to a minimum.” ― Rick Riordan

Not all families are close-knit, but I believe a desire to be part of a close-knit family is deeply entrenched in each of us—the desire to know there are people out there who love us for who we are and not what we do, people who will remember our birthdays, who will always have a listening ear, and who will be there when we need them, even if we store them on a shelf like discarded potted plants at other times.

That desire is what keeps us going back, or wanting to go back, to that point where the yarn began unraveling and start again. Get to know each other better, rekindle a friendship—we pull a tray of dry plants from the shelf and flood them with water.

The reality is, we don’t know the first thing about those plants.  In fact, we never really understood them in the first place. Do they even need water, or are they suffering from something else? And what’s with those prickers? Each one has different needs, and yet all we have to offer is this pitcher of water.

So we pour, and they sputter. Or shrivel back. Or don’t even respond.

My own family is, well, not even loosely knit. We are nine siblings born over a span of 19 years in three sets of three. Each set of children experienced a completely different set of parents—despite us all having the same mother and father, and if we took our cues from their example only, we ended up with a rather confusing definition of love.

I met with some my siblings recently for a semi-reunion. We had some good times, laughed a bit, and enjoyed mom’s donuts and pickles—two family recipes I thought I’d never taste again. We also failed in many areas, simply because we don’t know each other.

Don’t get me wrong, my siblings are fantastic. They’ve each overcome phenomenal odds and I found them all to be loving, caring, smart, witty, and giving people. Interestingly, there was one child from each set (I’m the middle child of the middle set), and two from the oldest at this gathering. But although we hadn’t been together in nearly 20 years, something made us think we could just pick up and slide into relationship. Throw into that mix attention deficit, introverts, autism, high expectations, and varied recollections of an unusual past, we barely made it to first base.

I certainly didn’t help matters. As an extreme introvert, I’ve kept to myself over the years, defining my family as my husband and the boys. Sibling issues exhausted me, trying to understand why this person doesn’t like that person and what this brother did to that one. There was a point at this gathering when I threw my hands up and said, “I quit. It’s not worth the drama.” This is an introvert’s most treasured weapon—retreating.

But I didn’t. I went into the fray and asked for knowledge. Boy, did I get it. I’m still processing some of what I learned. I am sure some of my sibs may be cringing as they read this. I don’t know them well enough to decide whether this will be considered therapeutic or airing dirty laundry, but it’s therapeutic for me. Because my advice is not just to them, but to all loosely knit or unraveling families: Keep trying. They’re worth it.

cacti, all in a row
The more I stare at this family, the more I understand my own.

Because maybe, just maybe, after we put ourselves out there enough, those little sprouts will begin to respond and grow. I learned a lot about my siblings and their family members during our short time together, and it has stirred up a hunger to know more. I left feeling a tad melancholy that I’ve missed out on so much family over the years by listening to my introvert voice. Family: brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews (some of whom I haven’t’ even met, for Pete’s sake!) I want to know them. I want to know their stories. Their dreams. Their lives aside from social media.

None of us is perfect. We’re going to keep screwing this up, I can promise you that. But I commit to doing what I can to start cultivating a ground in which siblings can not only sprout but thrive. Shoot, in this ground, even weeds are welcome, which is a good thing, as I am surely a weed of the most bizarre sort.

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Above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins. – 1 Peter 4:8

The First Day of the Rest of My Life

18 Jul

“Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” –Albert Bigelow Paine, misquoting Mark Twain

So yes, the Portrait Writer is officially alive and back at the keyboard. It has been a long, strange journey since I last blogged, May 31, 2019. A few things have happened since then, resulting in huge changes in my life, in this nation, and in the world.

I have no comment to offer regarding the nation or the world, other than this—God is not surprised, God has not changed, and God is still running things. Let Him be your source for counsel and hope.

This leaves only one subject I am qualified to discuss, but that’s nearly impossible to do without acknowledging the effects of local, national and world events. I’ve been quite buffeted by recent storms, and right now I’d describe parts of my life as “wistfully unsettled.” I’m a bit like the feather in the opening and closing scenes of Forrest Gump, being carried along at the whim of the air around me. It’s not a bad situation, but I believe it would be nice to land.

A LITTLE NOTE BEFORE WE PROCEED: I am a writer, so I write about writing. But these pages are intended to inspire you to consider your purpose, that call to be who you were created to be, regardless of what others think or what your practical voice tells you. While you read, I encourage you to exchange the words “write/writer/writing” with whatever is your equivalent; whatever makes your heart sing, whether you cook, paint, teach, garden, raise children, drive a taxi, or rake quahogs from the bed of Rhode Island’s Sakonnet River (that last is a shout out to my brother Chris, who is more likely raking Greenwich Bay but that sounds less cool).

Lately I’ve spent a significant amount of time re-reading every Portrait Writer blog post—starting in April of 2013, when my writing dream began to take root. I’ve learned a lot about myself, about those who read my writing (what moved them to comment and what messages seemed to resonate most), and about my journey. The blog I kept coming back to, the one that resonates most in this season, is the saga of the plumeria, our Lily tree, from September 2018. (You can click the link to refresh your memory).

When I wrote that blog, I believed God intended for me a season of rest, a pruning. What God knew, and I didn’t, was that it wouldn’t be a short season—for me or the tree.

In the year following the plumeria’s traumatic toppling, we (my husband) nurtured forth a second plant from one of the broken branches (the third didn’t survive the winter). The tiny thing struggled, but its stubbornness was rewarded when it sprouted three leaves. The original tree recovered as well and produced about ten beautiful flowers. We brought them back inside in the fall, thinking the worst was over.

The following spring, we coaxed both plants out of hibernation and set them on the deck to bask in the sun. Their branches had just begun to turn green when they were assaulted by a squirrel (or perhaps more than one). The beasts had taken large chunks out of both stalks, gnawing primarily on the greenest portions, right down to the nubs. We thought the poor plants were dead for sure.

We found a natural (albeit putrid-smelling) product that squirrels apparently dislike and sprayed the plants, their pots, and the ground around them. Somehow the plants rebounded. They sprouted new nubs that twisted in odd directions and produced another sprig of leaves.

Then came the ants. Apparently, whatever we sprayed on them smelled delicious to the little pests. Thousands swarmed up and down the stalks, covering the leaves and causing a milky white sap to leak out, as if the plants were crying. I, too, wanted to cry.

Dear Lord, haven’t they been through enough?

Scarred, bitten, windblown, and bent,
but stubbornly alive and leaning
toward the Sun.

Today, after surviving the worst that nature could throw at them, both plumeria are alive and . . . well, let’s just say alive. Both produced leafy greens this spring, but no flowers. Sometimes we have to be content with basic survival. Their story is not unlike some of what we’re all experiencing in these crazy, unpredictable, unsettling times.

Right now, I can say the same for my writing dream. It is alive, and I’ll be content with that for now. Like the plumeria, I have produced a few blossoms, then suffered a few squirrel bites and an ant invasion. And as the storms, the squirrels, and the ants in my life relentlessly try to shut me down, I found myself shrugging it off. Where there are no expectations, there can be no disappointment.

I put down writing and took up a part-time job, which I then left for a full-time government job similar to the one I walked away from in 2014.

As God and I went over the evidence of my situation, I pointed out (or should I say pouted out), with not a little sarcasm, that I seem to be back where I started in April of 2013: no concrete direction, just a mind full of ideas, working full-time in a non-writing job, relegating creativity to that mythical “free time” slot.  

Perhaps I’m just not meant to write.

He replied, with absolutely zero sarcasm, “Come to me.”

Which, of course, made no sense as a response, so I stowed it away in my ponder-in-my-heart-like-Mary place. There it sat, until the next time I read Matthew 11, specifically verse 28, which says, Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

“What! Rest? What have these past two years been if not to rest? I don’t need rest. I want to produce. I want to work. To create. To DO SOMETHING! You claim this is a gift, well why am I not using it?”

Which is when it hit me. The plumeria did nothing to get back to life except to live. It sloughed off what the world gave it and continued to smile at the sun, drinking in its nutrients and becoming strengthened day-by-day. Life was its gift from God. I’ve not been resting. I’ve been doing. Every. Single. Day. Planning, responding, managing, striving to overcome difficulties, to get by, to find a different way forward, to not be crushed by adversity. Figure out what’s coming and prepare. I made a mental picture of what the end of the tunnel would look like and I’ve been struggling to reach it, thinking I’d know it when I saw it. But I’m in the wrong tunnel. Mine is more like a drainage ditch along the bank of a huge mansion, where I’m a pine needle moving at the whim of the current. Striving is pointless. Yet, all along, Jesus has been walking alongside me on the lawn, saying, “Come to me.”

I’m more than weary. I’m exhausted trying to run my own life. I just want to be. I want to put my head back and soak up the Son and all His nutrients. He never told me to make all those choices that brought me full circle. I told HIM I intended to make them, and He let me.

One of the sweetest realizations for those living with Jesus in our hearts is that we get second, third, tenth, twentieth chances. Even though my situation looks similar, I AM NOT the same. And neither are you. The great irony is that what we’ve experienced on our journey makes us even more qualified to answer the call than we were yesterday, but we have fewer tomorrows to do it in.

So, what do you think? Is something calling you? Have you set aside your true love in attempt to manipulate your own life? How’s that working for you?  If you’re still on the fence, ask yourself these two questions: Why is it considered a “calling,” and who is doing this calling?

Enough procrastinating. Shall we jump back in together?

Where no oxen are, the trough is clean;
but much increase comes by the strength of an ox. –Prov. 14:4

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Inspired by Artism

31 May

Today I’m going to tell you about one of the most inspirational people I know. His name is Joey Frye, and his story, although I know very few day-to-day details, is one of victory and hope that could teach us all how to live better lives.

Because we live more than an hour apart, Joey and I have only met face-to-face about ten times, and most of those when he was quite young. Much of what I know about him I’ve learned through his amazing mom and through his art. His mom and I worked together for 12 years, from the time she learned about his Asperger’s Syndrome (a high-functioning region of the Autism spectrum) through his high school graduation.

Joey is an artist of rare quality, and an entrepreneur. His paintings are pure, unusual, and delightful. He specializes in creating visual word puns (house fly, a scholar ship, etc.) and in pulling all the positive elements of a person’s life into one beautiful tribute.

Now, Joey has three things going for him right off the bat that make Asperger’s merely a part of his personality and not a hampering distinction.

First, he has fantastic parents, who have always nurtured, encouraged, and championed his abilities. They didn’t shelter him from the harsh realities of life, despite the heartache that occasionally came with it. He attended public school and learned early on that not everyone is nice. They did, however, teach Joey to believe in himself and to search for joy in times of frustration. Some might argue they did such a good job that humility is not part of his vocabulary. (“Why Joey, you’re an amazing artist!” … “Yeah, I know.”)  But his confidence is irresistible, and it has made him quite popular. He was voted homecoming king in his senior year of high school, and last year he was a guest of honor at the Virginia House of Delegates, introduced on the floor by Republican Delegate Margaret B. Ransone. Add to that, last week Joey, now 22, graduated from Germanna College magna cum laude with a Certificate of Fine Arts.

ArtismChristmasSecond, Joey has great faith in God. His faith is pure and childlike, which, as we’ve all been instructed, is the best type of faith. He is not afraid to pose questions to his online friends, challenging them to truly assess what they believe and what they believe is possible. Thanks to Joey, I fully expect to see dinosaurs in Heaven. In one of my favorites of his works, Joey painted a manger scene in which the Christ child (a snowman, of course) is flanked by two cheerful puppies who look suspiciously like Cricket (but why not?). Moreover, I believe Joey can see how God has turned his Asperger’s into a gift and take joy in the way it enables him to view the world differently.

Third, Joey has great joy for life. This emanates from all he does, from celebrating Steve Irwin’s birthday to going to the beach for a weekend. He’s all in, and it transfers to his art. Joey does with paint what I have always tried to do with words—create whimsical pictures of life to help people find the joy that is always available to us.

artismIt is my great hope to make enough in my own business to commission a Joey Frye painting. I’ve actually made that a personal goal, for 2020. In the meantime, I will continue to purchase his greeting cards and promote his art whenever I can. (Check out Joey’s business at http://www.facebook.com/artismbyjoey.)

Which brings me to my point: Joey’s FIRST ART EXHIBIT! If you are looking for something to do tomorrow, June 1st, and in light of the gorgeous weather in the forecast, I recommend taking a day trip to Bowling Green, to the Sidney E. King Arts Center (121 N Main St) to see some of his work from 1-4 p.m. You will NOT be disappointed, and you might find yourself with a new, jubilant, inspirational friend.

______________________________

Now may the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. –Romans 15:13

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Wild About Waxwings

20 May

In the 20-plus years we’ve lived at this house, my husband and I have hosted thousands of birds in our backyard aviary All-You-Can-Eat-Buffet-and-Oasis. We enjoy marking off  the species listed in the Birds of Northern Virginia manual that stop by for a snack and quick chat. Some even repay our seedy hospitality by chirping out a tune or two.

Quite often (and just a few days ago, as a matter of fact), I flip through the manual’s pages, amazed at the many birds we’ve seen. Then I come to the page of that beautiful cedar waxwing and say to my husband, “Just once I’d like to see one of these beauties. Why don’t they ever come here?”

I say all this to bring us to Friday morning, which started as a particularly grumpy day for me. After a sleepless night, I left my bed grudgingly and stomped downstairs, as if the universe owed me something now and I was going to grumble until I got it. Alas, bad moods are less effective when one is alone, but I didn’t let that didn’t hamper my pity party.

There was a text message on my phone from a creditor, thanking me for making my  latest payment.  Bah. As if I had any choice. I stewed for a moment. Rather than be thankful that we made sufficient money this month to pay all bills, I chose to grumble that we had nothing left over.

With a heavy sigh, I made some coffee and settled down with my daily devotional, pretty much daring God to mess with my surliness. So, He did.

I read about God’s unlimited resources—His vast abundance, and His desire to lavish abundance on me.

Naturally, I mumbled under my breath, “Well then, O Mighty Abundant One, how about you lavish me with a little more cash, then? ‘Cause that’s what I’d like to see in abundance.”

God and I have this running gag about my sarcasm. I can’t not serve it up, and He can’t not turn it around. I should know by now.

Since no bag of bills fell in my lap, and still feeling quite sorry for my sleepy self, I trudged upstairs to dress for the day.

For some reason, I felt drawn to open the blinds that covered the bathroom window, which is not something I typically do in the mornings. Outside there seemed to be a to-do in the mulberry tree, so I opened the window . . . to the most unusual concert—a twittering frenzy like nothing I’d never heard before. Without my glasses, however, all I could see was that the mulberry tree appeared to be moving.

Race downstairs for my glasses. Race back upstairs where I can shut the door on the cat so he won’t jump out the bathroom window.

strip1bThe tree was alive with birds! On nearly every branch, twittering and leaping away as they tugged at ripened mulberries.

Race downstairs for my binoculars. Race back up, past a now-disgruntled cat who just knows something is going on.

Cedar waxwings! Not one, but at least 50 or 60, putting away mulberries like they’re going out of style, which, technically they were, because that poor tree was sacrificing all it had. The berries were larger than their beaks, yet they’d tip back their heads and swallow them down in one gulp.

Race downstairs past grumpy kitty to grab the camera and long-range lens. Race back up, fighting to close the door against his protests.

Now I can really get a good look.

They were lovely—smooth gray and cranberry pink feathers with yellow and red tips, pudgy yellow bellies, and that adorable little mask. What’s more, unlike those mean ol’ blue jays that insist on hanging around, they were nice to each other, not pushing to get berries for themselves, but passing them to those without, and they sang the entire time, this sweet, twittering song, as if the work were some sort of treat.

On more than one occasion, I caught two of these precious sweeties passing a berry back and forth, as if to say,

“Please, I insist, you have this” and,

“Oh, I couldn’t,—after you,” then,

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. Take it for yourself.”

They’d pass it six or ten times before one would give a, “don’t mind if I do” shrug and tip back his head.

strip3My cup runneth over. It was all I hoped for and more—so much more. I spent the next 30 minutes hanging out the bathroom window snapping photos like a mom at a first-grade recital. I caught myself laughing a few times, and thanking God for this demonstration of—oh, dear—real abundance.

That’s when I got it. A verse from the morning’s reading ran through my head, the second half of John 10:10: “I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.”

It’s not about the money. Sure, I’d love to have something extra at the end of the month, and go out to dinner more often. But this experience, 30 minutes of reveling amid the beauty and the chatter, 30 minutes of pure gratitude and joy, 30 minutes that made me late for work and care not a lick. This was life. Abundant life.

On both Saturday and Sunday mornings, as berries continued to ripen, the waxwings returned. I spent time each day on my deck watching them through binoculars and chatting with God about His creativity. (Those red tips on their wings are actually a wax-like secretion from the berries, so I read.) I find it fascinating that, rather than just give us “a bird,” God chose to make so many variations.

I’m rather certain God never meant for me to have a lot of money. But I’m equally certain He wants me to live in abundance. He wants me to look for Him as the source of my joy. That’s not always easy, but it’s quite rewarding whenever I get it right.

This Monday morning, we’re down to 10 or so waxwings left, as the tree’s resources have nearly been exhausted, but I do believe I enjoyed that gift to the fullest.

It occurs to me, these same birds likely stop by every spring, but until this year I’ve never noticed. How many other wonders are occurring right under my nose that I just never notice? What about you? Is God trying to show you something? Let’s keep our eyes open today and be on the look-out, just in case.

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You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore. –Psalm 16:11

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Of Pantsers and Peculiar People

10 Jan

Trying something new this week, so I’m asking you to bear with me, and tell me in the comments whether this works. It’s called being a Pantser. Apparently, some writers take a long time to organize their thoughts in an effort to enhance the clarity of their message. Others, pantsers, write by the seat of their pants. This concept scares the dickens out of me, but it could hold merit for someone who can’t find solid blocks of time to map out plans. Rather than test this concept on my work-in-progress, I’ll toss my blog to the guinea pig arena and see what truffles out.

For starters, I have no message today. Most of my blog articles are born after days or weeks of mulling certain situations or challenges. Today, however, I turn to the internet for ideas, and search for January National Observance.

Holy Guacamole! There are a LOT of national observances in January. And, depending on which links I click, the observances are different! Now some make sense. For example, it’s National Get Organized Month, and Soup/Crockpot Month, and Tea Month, all of which I can understand. It’s also National Mail Order Gardening Month, Radon Action Month, and California Dried Plum Digestive Month. Yowzer, now that’s something that could put me off blogging for another year.

Before I continue (welcome to the ADD mind), I’m distracted by my curiosity and I ask, by what authority are such events ordained?  I searched a bit and found that, while there is an official listing of national observances kept by the Library of Congress, it’s way more boring than the unofficial lists that grow on their own accord. So, we’ll stick with unofficial.

Then, as the ADD pulled me further down one unofficial source, I learn that the daily observances are far more interesting. I’m sad to learn I’ve missed Festival of Sleep Day (Jan. 3). I could have really devoted myself to that one. I’m also elated to learn that today is both One Day We’ll Look Back at This and Laugh Day and National Peculiar People Day.

Eureka! I’ve found my pantzer blog, because I can honor both with one story about a man who was both peculiar to me and the instigator behind my own sense of humor, as well as a fine example of how we can look back on bad days and still smile: My dad.

My dad was the only person I’ve ever known to get his ear stuck in the car door. Near as we can figure, he dropped his keys as the door was closing and leaned down just in time to get pinned. (NOTE: and only children of HIS would have run to get the camera to take pictures of the helpless, red-faced, yelling man before drawing straws to decide which of us would set him free while the others escaped).

Dad fathered nine children, although there’s debate among his offspring about whether he loved his dogs more. He lived in a world of patterns and impulse. Solitaire every night at the kitchen table, always with a bag of pretzels and can of Pepsi at the ready. Popsicle in his favorite chair just before bed. (After he passed, we found stacks of thousands of Popsicle sticks in his work bench area of the basement.) The impulse? Encouraging us to put Pop Rocks in Grandma’s martini, quitting job after job because of perceived slights and offenses, and a willingness to drop everything for a new adventure—once even moving the entire family out of our home and into a houseboat for about three years. He also lived a Walter Mitty-like secret life the nine of us are still shaking our heads over and trying to understand. Perhaps I’ll explain more when I write Mom’s story, but that’s about four years down the road.

Anyway, our tale takes place in the early 70s, at a particularly sad time of my childhood. My mother had been rushed to the hospital in the ninth month of pregnancy. The doctor was telling my father that she had lost the baby. My dad, a retired Marine Private First Class and proud of his ability to adapt to any situation, asked the only question he could.

“Is there anything I can do? For her or for you? I really want to do something.”

The doctor gave what must have been a typical response to such a request:

“We can use some donors. Lots of donors. Why don’t you see if you can round some up.”

My dad was off like a shot. This was something he could act on.

He raced out the emergency room door and was gone for about 20 minutes. To this day I hope my mother was still under sedation while this scene went down, because I cannot imagine anything she might have wanted more than her husband by her side. Then again, she married him, so…

Dad returned, out of breath and panting heavily, holding three rather flat boxes above his head like a championship trophy. He went straight to the nurses’ station and asked that the doctor be paged.

“He’s quite busy sir, perhaps I can help you,” said one of the nurses.

“No, he asked me to do this and I want to let him know I did.”

Take the bus or stop for sugar? Tough choice.

Donors vs Donuts- What’s a few letters?

After another 10-15-minute wait, the doctor appeared, disheveled, bleary eyed, and clearly ready to go off shift. My dad shot to his feet, grabbed the boxes and rushed to greet him.

“Doctor, here they are! There were many to choose from—Jelly-filled, frosted, chocolate—just too many. So I got two of every kind. He shoved the three boxes of donuts into the surprised doctor’s hands, grinning like a three-year-old holding up a piece of artwork.

Shaking the bewildered doctor’s hand, Dad then turned to the nurse and asked for Mom’s room number. “I think I should go back and see how she’s doing.”

Yes, yes, we would look back on that day and laugh. Many times.

Pantser, signing off…

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Another New Beginning

2 Jan

Welcome to a new year, a new blog attempt, and, to a small extent, a new Portrait Writer.

I love the promise of a new year. I see the days ahead as a book full of blank pages that God, not I, will fill with joy and personal growth—if I allow Him to. This year, I am determined not to grab the pen from Him so often, and I’m excited to see where it leads.

You see, I learned quite a bit about this wrestling for control last year as I tried to fill the pages in by myself. In fact, 2018 was for me a year of frustration, disappointment, and significant bouts of outright anger, because I wasn’t in control.

I learned a lot last year. If I had to put my finger on two verses that impacted me the most, they would be:

  1. Romans 8:28, which is a common verse, commonly misinterpreted: And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose. I cannot stop bad things from happening, or my train from derailing on occasion, but I can trust that God will get me back on track.
  2. Matthew 6:10, which scholars have changed over the years by adding a comma in a most unfortunate place. Consider this, the King James Version: Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. And here is the current, ESV version: Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.

Just look at those commas. They completely change the emphasis of what we’re praying. I now purposefully say Thy will be done on earth (and when I pray this verse with my congregation in church I’m jarringly off beat).

In summary, I’m learning that God’s will is NOT being done on earth, or we wouldn’t have been asked to pray for it. I’m learning that when evil has its way on earth and in my life, it’s not because God ordained it, but because evil rules this place—for now. However, God’s not surprised and can work that event for good, if I trust His plan.

So I have to concede, despite my optimism, that some of those pristine pages ahead will marred by heartache, self-doubt, and (for me at least) potentially anger-inducing stress because of Satan and his minions. I say potentially, because I’m learning to lean more on Jesus’ response to my situation and to see him as my paraclete instead of an idle bystander. That requires constant reliance on Romans 8:28.

Bannister

The Caps toque only adds to the look, doncha’ think?

 

All of which brings me to this day, and a new beginning for my blog. Some would say I’m a day late, but one of my resolutions for the new year is to give myself more grace. Just yesterday I packed away the boxes of Christmas cards that were never opened, joyful to know I already have cards for next year, and I’m intentionally leaving the garland draped across my entry banister as a reminder that Christmas (or even life) is not about getting it all done.

I don’t usually make resolutions, but this year I have. Let’s call them goals, though, because it leaves room for God’s input:

  1. Knowing that my purpose in God’s kingdom is to write, I will write. My blogs may be short on occasion, but they will be regular. I shall keep my writing time sacred, and I will resume work on a collection of stories about people in our church family. I have a goal of 4,000 words per week. I’m considering putting a word counter at the bottom of my blog each week for accountability purposes, but I’m afraid of the pressure it will place on me to succeed despite my second resolution. . .
  2. I resolve to give myself more grace. Math has never been my best. . ., on the top 10, part of my vocabulary, but I’m learning to accept that I can only do so much in 24 hours. Writing takes dedicated time, as does traveling to Ferrum College to pick up our scholar, working my day job, laundry, grocery shopping, editing jobs, date nights, etc. Last year, there were many days when I actually tried, on occasion, to use all 24 hours available and STILL couldn’t finish. I’ve learned to be content that I’ve done my best. If only I could leave the green garland on my banister all year as a reminder of that. . . Hmmm . . . Let’s just say if you visit my home in July and it’s still there, you’ll know why.
  3. Finally, I will enjoy the way my pages flow. I don’t want to miss the blessings because of my temper tantrums. When I prayed yesterday for a word of knowledge for the year ahead, all I heard was “sacrifice,” (which immediately destroyed my “No Whining” resolution, so you won’t read about that here). But as I prayed, I realized I’ve confused sacrifice with being a doormat. I know my recent bouts of anger stem from knowing I’m letting others direct my path, and I resent it. However, while preparing for this writing yesterday, I came across these words from fellow writer Susan May Warren: “The secret to living your life to its potential is to value the important stuff above your own comfort.” Sacrifice is giving up something good for something better; It’s NOT putting everyone else’s wants before your own. My goal this year is to learn how to discern others’ wants from their needs, so I can love them generously, yet not get so involved in their plans for me that I ignore God’s. I must sacrifice some things to get there. Simple? We shall see.

Each of these points could make an entire blog, so I won’t expound on them here because I know you don’t need that much sleep. I will share a secret here, however. Part of my inability to blog last year was because I worried my words were leaning toward too much of Jesus and might be turning people away, as I have many friends camping in the secular world. I’ve decided this is not my concern. God will keep them reading my blog if He wants them to. Let’s study His words together, shall we?

In a nutshell, God has called me a writer, and so I will write in 2019. I’m glad to have you along for the ride. Tell me in the comments, what has he called you to do in the year to come?

Happy New Year!

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Post Hurricane Pondering

20 Sep

My heart is with Althesina, my friend from Havelock, NC, who left the shelter because of overcrowding and now sits at home without electricity or running water. She’s waiting. She’s unsure when, or even if, she’ll return to her job at a New Bern riverside hotel.

Yet, she sings. At least to me. She has sent texts blessing the linemen who are working so hard outside, laughing over the irony of finding the car keys she thought were lost–as if she could use them–and proclaiming joy despite her situation.  I can picture her light emanating from the darkness.

For my part, it’s a helpless feeling. Of course, I’ll pray, and I’ll donate to relief efforts, but what I really want to send is a crate of  hope. It’s times like this that make or break people, and I’m praying for increasing trust in the Lord and His perfect, albeit unfathomable plan. This morning I’m reminded of a blog I wrote years ago when storms buffeted our own neck of the woods, and I’m re-blogging it this morning. If one person is inspired to keep going, it’s more than worth repeating.

North Carolina, our prayers are with you. The sun will shine again, honest.

Click here to read the blog. 

🙂

 

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Pruned! There’s a Nap For This

13 Sep

A year ago, I made what I still believe is a right decision. I put family needs before personal wants, although, in fairness, I believed I could manage both. I now know I cannot. I also know the road back is not as simple as reversing my trajectory.

It took a potted plumeria tree to show me the road ahead.

We call it the Lily Tree, to honor its previous owner. Soon after we brought it home last fall its leaves began to drop. Sad looking thing—a three-pronged stick in a pot. However, a friend told us to be patient, saying it’s a hearty tree and worth the wait.

As instructed, we set it in a dark, quiet corner of the house and left it alone to nap, not even disturbing it with water. Apparently, the plumeria is the introvert of the tree world. This was difficult advice and counterintuitive to our way of thinking, but we ignored it.

plumeriaThis spring we set the tree outside, certain it had died. However, its three spindly branches developed green tips almost immediately, and within a few weeks sprouted tiny leaves. Only then did I allow myself to become emotionally invested. I looked up plumeria on line.

There I learned another name for this plant is frangipani, which is SO fun to say, and that it’s native to Hawaii—the source of those lovely lei flowers Hawaiians string together to welcome visitors to the island. Of course, this discovery gave me cause to whine.

Hey, why don’t we get flowers?

We researched possible reasons for this barrenness and discovered the plumeria likes certain nutrients. In case you’re wondering why I don’t name those nutrients, the botanic realm looks a lot like math to me, all those phosphorus levels. So, I recommend the following:

Look it up, sigh heavily, then turn it over to a problem-solving spouse.

My husband, whose thumb is far greener than mine, purchased some fertilizer and worked it into the soil. The Lily tree’s leaves fanned out and grew appreciatively. We’ll never know if flowers were forthcoming, because just when the tree seemed to be at the pinnacle of joyful thriving, a strong gust of wind blew the plant AND its heavy terracotta pot off our deck. Two branches snapped off and the third lay helpless atop a now-flat basil plant in the garden below.

As I stared at those pots, I saw a somewhat depressing similarity to my own life.

For more than four years, I lived the life I’d dreamed about since my teenage years. During that time, I was blessed to receive a glimpse of the writer I might be and know for certain that writing is my life’s calling. Every writer’s group, conference, networking contact, and writing class, as well as the feedback from people who read my books and articles, all fed me nutrients, to the point where I could practically feel the blossoms emerging.

And then my pot blew over.

Anyone who follows this blog has surely noticed the almost eerie silence about the place for the past year. In the few entries I did manage to write, I’ve remained true to my Pollyanna side, trying to paint a rosy picture despite evidence to the contrary. I sprouted green leaves even though I lacked proper nutrients.

To be frank, I’m in a season of inner conflict. Blessed with more than I need, yet somehow still unhappy because I don’t have what I want. Trying not to complain, because it feels wrong to whine about writing woes in view of the myriad people in my life suffering real trauma right now. So, I’ve been stuffing my emotions to the point where any time I’m asked, “How’s the writing coming along?” I practically burst into tears.

Because it’s not coming along. In focusing on the mundane demands of my detour, I’ve managed to dissolve nearly all ties to writing groups, magazines, contacts, as well as that part of my brain that sees a story in every situation. I paused a book project mid-way through the interviews, and it seems to be on perpetual hold. My leaves are gone. I’m a bare branch in a pot, left to nap in a quiet room.

I’ve been pruned.

Plumeria_StubMy gardener husband was not undone by either pruning. For the plumeria, he researched a bit more and learned that it’s likely not terminal. He set the pot back upright and gave the sagging tree some water. Then he picked up the branches and carefully pruned their leaves until they looked like two long cigars, which he set out to air dry. Then he planted them in a new pot, side-by-side so they’ll support each other through this traumatic time.

Apparently, if we bring them inside for the winter to rest in the quiet corner, we should have three thriving plumeria trees come springtime.

His solution for my own pruning was to give me wide berth and let me mope. He knows the more depressed I feel, the more I turn to the Bible for answers. He’s a wise gardener.

I learned that pruning is good news for both plants and people. The dream hasn’t gone anywhere, nor has the promise. In showing me Proverbs 13:12, He helped me see that those four years represent a hope deferred, a glimpse of a tree of life, a vision of who I’m meant to be.

Through reading the Bible, I’m reminded repeatedly that my status is not terminal. In fact, the passion to write is stronger than ever, with new ideas developing continually and those unfinished stories sill intact in a dark still corner of my brain. Resting. Waiting for spring.

Lately, I’m starting to feel as if spring might be on the horizon.

However, I won’t emerge as the same writer you knew a year ago. You see, I was elated just to be writing, satisfied to be producing beautiful shiny leaves. But that was never God’s plan. My tree is supposed to produce large, aromatic flowers. My tree had to be pruned to prepare me for more than I knew to ask or imagine.

plumeriaSo I’m going to essentially start over. Write a short blog here and there, attend a writer’s group or two, take on an editing assignment. This time, though, I will keep before me a vision of the plumeria flower to represent God’s plan for my life. If I have to, I will go about the mundane hours of each day singing, “frangipani, frangipani” (likely annoying my coworkers), to stay focused on the something better that lies ahead. I will remember (shout out to the poetry of Rob Thomas) that I am a black and white person with technicolor dreams. But I don’t have to be.

———————–

He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. –John 15:2

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Time’s A-wastin’; What Can I Do?

10 Mar

“Determine never to be idle. No person will have occasion to complain of the want of time who never loses any. It is wonderful how much can be done if we are always doing.” — Thomas Jefferson

“Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them.” — Dion Boucicault

These two quotes represent opposing views of time. Which speaks more to you?

As we prepare to set our clocks forward tonight, I find myself slightly miffed at the prospect of losing an hour. While my practical side understands that, by some slight of hand, the hour will fortuitously appear back in the bank next fall, right now it feels like thievery.

Perhaps this is because time has been my nemesis lately. I seem to be preoccupied with finding some, particularly this mythical “free” time I hear so much about.

According to the internet, time is money, time is of the essence (of what, I’m not exactly certain), time [supposedly] heals all wounds, it and tide wait for no man, it flies, it runs out, it marches on, and it drags. The time can be right, ripe, near, or at hand. We can make it, spend it, keep it, mark it, lose it, save it, and kill it.

I hear time can stand still, as it did for “almost a day” for Joshua in the Bible (Josh 10:8,12,13) or even go backward like the 40 minutes that backed up for King Hezekiah (2 Kings 20: 9-11). However, being neither a leader nor a king, I’m rather certain that option is not available to the likes of me.

About the only thing we can’t do with time, I suppose, is understand where it goes.

calendar_daysSince taking on a “part-time” job a few months ago (has it been seven months already? My, how time—oh, nevermind). Anyway, since then, I’ve developed an enhanced appreciation for the stuff. It’s true that we appreciate something more when it’s no longer ours. At the end of the day I become frustrated that I accomplished so little of what I used to . . . in what I call my “free time.”

I’m in awe of America’s forefathers and all they accomplished in the time they were given. George Washington ran a country and a plantation, and still found time to write more than 17,000 letters (which have been preserved in a handy 52-volume set, in case you ever find YOUR free time). Newspaper man and Philadelphia postmaster, Ben Franklin served as the U.S. ambassador to France and “dabbled” in science and inventing. Aside from entertaining the ladies, his more reputable interests included demography (study of populations), the wave theory of light, meteorology, refrigeration, electricity, oceanography and ocean currents; he played the violin, harp, and guitar, he was an avid chess player, he established one of the first firefighting companies, invented the lightning rod, bifocals, and the Franklin stove, and travelled back and forth to FRANCE, for Pete’s sake. Still, he found time to write Poor Richard’s Almanac for more than 25 years and produce the first monthly magazine in America.

All I want to do is write a weekly blog.

Mind you, our forefathers didn’t have the internet or television to slow them down. Or electricity. And they travelled by boat and horseback (only one of which, come to think if it, seems conducive to writing).  In a strange sense, technology seems to have made us less productive.

In analyzing this perceived waste of my free time, I’m realizing that my frustration is not how with little I receive, but whether my pursuits during that time are worthy of having it in the first place. Some days this is what drives me; other days it’s what drives me nuts. Then it dawned on me. . .

It’s ALL free.

Time is one of God’s greatest gifts to us. Not a second of our lives is promised or deserved, let alone the hours, days, weeks and years we seem to accumulate so effortlessly. Some of us operate so far into the future we fail to see the minutes sitting right in our laps today.

timeI want every minute to count.

The first words I utter each morning—well, after “Are you kidding me? I just got to sleep!” and after whatever I mumble to my husband, which can vary depending on how long ago “just” was—so let’s say the first coherent comment I make each day is “Heavenly Father, thank you for one more day on this earth.”

Lately I’ve started balancing that thought by asking at the end of my day, “God, did I use it prudently?” He wisely doesn’t answer. Or perhaps I close my ears because I really don’t want to hear. Either way, I know the answer.

Time isn’t my nemesis. I am.

——————

Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil.—Ephesians 5:15-16

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