A Stringle-tingle Zinger

I'm writing a poem
About a string
A string-a-ling
A string-a-ling.
A silly poem
About a string
Tied around my finger.

It has been there
For, oh, so long
A ling-a-long
A ling-a-long.
It has been there
For, oh, so long
Why, I can't remember.

If you have a clue
Please give me a ring
A jingle-tingle-
Telephone ring.
Remind me, please,
About this thing that's
Tied around my finger.

(This poem is light-heartedly in honor of my Dad who has Alzheimer's Disease.  He is a brave and precious soul!)

Good-bye, My Son

Good-bye is a red suitcase
And an airline ticket taking you on a journey
That doesn't include me.
Good-bye is singing the blues
While salty tears drain from my heart
Down my cheeks to my quivering chin.
Good-bye is an emptied room
Where we used to read bedtime stories, and
Have quiet talks of whispered truths
Painting a map in your mind.
Good-bye is a bouquet of daisy mums
With purple statis tied by a silky ribbon
Acknowledging what really matters.
Good-bye is a doorway
To a long aisle of white leading
To a smiling hello
And a lifetime full of possibilities.
Good-bye is
'God be with you,' my son.

Baby Ways

These thoughts are inspired by my 3 month old granddaughter:

Look
Your clear baby blues
Look, look, look
Taking in
Colors
Making sense of the patterns
Learning about your new world.

Listen
Music, voices, language
You search for the patterns
To understand the message.
It doesn't make sense yet,
But you can tell that the message is pleasant

Coo
It is a step above crying.
You are learning to communicate
More than just need.
You can already pull my heart strings
With your non-words.

Muscles stretch and pull
You are learning to move yourself,
Learning to get around.
Baby steps,
Not even baby steps,
Baby ooches.
Soon you will roll,
Then crawl,
Then cruise,
Then walk,
Then run.

Eat, sleep, cry, and wet?
No, you are doing so much more.
You are discovering your world!

What a miracle you are!

Love Seeking a Home

Ms. Shirley is known for being particular about how our campus looks. She is in charge of Public Relations, and she pours herself into her job of welcoming families from all over the world to our school. She works to cut through the communication barriers that internationals face. One of the ways she makes them feel welcome is to tend the flower beds herself. Beautiful flowers mean 'home' in any language. This is her story.

She was a beautiful young woman. Her dark curls and starburst blue eyes were accentuated by her cherry red lipstick smile. She wore feminine flowing skirts. It was easy to see why her husband had chosen her. Their young love produced two handsome sons. But happily-ever-after took a turn for the worse. It was not the paradise she had dreamed of. Her husband turned to alcohol. When he was drunk, he was cruel. She would have put up with his unkindness to her, but when he turned on their boys, it was more than she was willing to allow. She chose to raise those boys without his help. She filed for divorce. It was not easy. The years took their toll. Lines began to crease her face and her shoulders displayed the weight of her burdens. You could rarely see it in her attitude, though. Even when the boys were struggling to make good grades in school, her smile twinkled when she greeted you. I never suspected all she was enduring.

As time passed, it seemed that the sun was smiling on Ms. Shirley. She met a man named Jack. He was a kind man, a good man. They enjoyed spending time together. He loved her and she loved him. He proposed marriage. She accepted. They planned their wedding, but rainclouds darkened the horizon. Her older son was not in favor of their union. He said that if she married Jack, he would move out. He was too young to live on his own. She did not want him subjected to his father's drunken rages. She had a choice to make, true love or mother love. When she broke the news to Jack he could not hold back the tears. Her starburst eyes were deep pools of tears as well, but she had to finish raising her sons. She had to choose their welfare once again.

She yearned to be Jack's wife. She told me her story of love lost one rainy day, a heart-wrenching story, to be sure, but she had confidence that she had made the right choice.

Jack went away to let her raise her sons, but now her sons are responsible young men and good fathers to their own children. Jack came back. He continued courting her. They each again found delight in the company of the other. Once again he asked her to marry him. Once again she said yes. They were planning their retirement. They anticipated many blissful twilight years together. They went furniture shopping, and dreamed of the day when they could make their home together at last.

But last week she received the tragic news that Jack was found in his
apartment. He was only 65, but he has crossed the threshold into eternity, leaving her alone. She is not his widow, but the pain is just as real. Her plans are shattered. She does not understand. She gives so much to others. Why has she once again missed her opportunity?

On the day of his funeral, she came early to weed the flower beds of our school to prepare for guests on campus. The fuchsia blooms did not utter even a whisper of the tears that watered them. Who could have blamed her if she had neglected that chore, and yet, again, on her knees she dug and weeded to welcome others home.

Reflections on Writing Workshop

Slice of Life - April 24, 2012

Writing workshop is one of my favorite parts of the day. Unfortunately, since it is usually at the end of the day, it too often gets short-changed. I am chagrined when I get to the end of my mini-lesson to find that it has turned into a maxi-lesson and the children have hardly any time to write on their own. Surely that never happens to any of the good writing teachers out there. Thankfully, I have the freedom to adapt my schedule, so sometimes when that happens, I just tell them to keep their writing at their desks at the end of the day, and we begin the next day with writing workshop. That is what happened this morning.

I love the quiet creativity of a morning writing workshop! The children settle quickly and begin working on their ongoing writing project. It seems that when they are fresh, they don't need as much help from me. This morning I decided to spend my time just sitting by some of my writers and watching how they write. It was an eye-opening experience for me. I sat at the table with Judah and Caleb first. They had been quite chatty before I walked over. When I sat down, they suddenly got very quiet and very busy. Caleb was reading the last few pages of the book he is writing about New York Sports Teams. He read for a while, then he got his eraser and erased a word or two and wrote something new there. H did this several times. He was revising! I think they have seen me revise, and surely I have mentioned revising, but he was revising on his own! Wow! I wish I had asked him about his thought process as he was doing it, but it seemed like such a sacred moment that I felt I would be intruding if I said too much.

To give Caleb a sense of privacy, I turned my attention to Judah. He was working on a book entitled Reading. I read the page he was working on: My teacher Mrs. M----likes to read. I do too. She reads really good. He was writing in complete thoughts with capitals and periods in place, and staying on topic, too. He has come a long way since the beginning of the year. We talked for a while about how to use commas to set off appositives. I know I did not know anything about such things when I was in first grade.

I moved over to watch Noah write for a while. He was working on a piece about Tennessee basketball. We did not talk much at first. He just wrote sentence by sentence. He would write a sentence, then erase s word or two and write it a different way. He was intentionally crafting his words to sound the way he thought they should sound. He was thinking about Pat Summitt and her battle with Alzheimer's disease. Again I saw the opportunity to talk about appositives. He began the page with this sentence, "Pat Summitt the Lady Vols' coach might have to leave because she has a disease. He went on to talk about certain games that the team has played and who won by how much. Do I see a budding sports writer here?

I noted that next year I need to subscribe to some sports magazine for little boys. That is a genre of writing about which I am certainly needing to educate myself. I find myself wondering if there may be many different types of writing in them that may prove to be a blessing to boys and girls alike.

I also noticed that I may need to be more intentional about how letters are formed. I am seeing my boys making certain letters from the bottom up. Do you think handwriting is suffering in our computer-driven world? Since they are going to grow up to do most everything on keyboards, is it less important to know how to write legibly? I still think it is important. Who should be addressing the handwriting issue? By the time they come to first grade, they have had preschool and kindergarten to form their handwriting habits. If they have learned to hold pencils incorrectly or to form letters from the bottom up, I am fighting an uphill battle to get them to correct those habits.

The main thing I noticed, though, is that I have some first grade friends who are writing far beyond what I could do at that age. Did I even match what they can do by third grade? I doubt it. I think we expect more these days.

Recycled Wrappings

April 22, 2012

After church I had a bridal shower to go to. I was so proud of myself for remembering to go by Target and get one of the gifts that my former intern and her fiancée requested on their registry. I just forgot to get wrapping paper. I wracked my brain to think of a creative way to wrap the gift acceptably. I had no white paper. I had no gift bags large enough for the stainless steel scale I had purchased. I pondered the dilemma all night long. It affected my dreams. Finally I awoke this morning with a plan. I was not going to stop by Wal-Mart or anywhere else to pay $5 or more for wrapping paper that is going to be immediately ripped off and discarded. I knew I had some leftover newsprint, the colorful advertising pages. I decided to use that. I made the bow out of newsprint, too. Scales are easy to wrap neatly. I still felt guilty for my audacity at taking such a common, informally wrapped gift to the shower, so I had to do something to make it acceptable. I made a card that said:
"Dear Monica and Jeremy,
May God's blessings on your life together be as abundant as the need for recycling in the U.S.A. May the weight of your love for one another exceed the tonnage of the Appalachian Mountain Range. May laughter ring in your home as clearly as sleigh bells at Christmas!
Joy, joy, joy!
Jama

Grace Period

A found poem taken from my notes on the sermon of my pastor, Dr. William Shiell, of First Baptist Church of Knoxville, TN. The sermon was preached on April 15, 2012.

Grace.
Belief in action,
Take care of the least of these,
Poor, downtrodden, lost . . .
World turned upside-down-
Gather together to take care of their own.
Even the pagan would
Take care of widows and orphans,
Farmers brought itheir extras.
Jews were the best at taking care.
How would the Christians measure up?
Demonstrate koinonia,
Grace?

When they gathered there was power,
Spiritual power.
They would lay their offerings at the apostles' feet
Trusting them to distribute it fairly.
Barnabbas
Son of Encouragement
Sold some family land
And brought it to the apostles
To share-
Resurrection redistribution,
The power that still turns our lives
Upside-down with
Grace.

Today we take care of our own
And everyone else's, too.
We care for the least of these-
Share and care.
Beulah Wright
A woman who shared
Zero interest loans
So the downtrodden wouldn't be evicted.
Grace.

Working poor can't afford to buy groceries
Go to pawn shops,
Gold stores,
Check-cashing stores, where
Predatory lenders
Threaten to eat them up.
Payday loans
Thirteen days, no interest-
Grace.

Teach them skills
To manage their lives
Take care of those who cannot take care of themselves
Grace.

As we see the bread pass,
We watch God's gifts multiply.
His grace flows.
Prayer
Scripture
Sharing food
Like after a funeral,
We remember
And tell the stories,
Like at a wedding feast,
The cake is all for you.
Celebration.
We share
All around the room
God's grace flows
We pass the bread
Receive the cup.
We share
Grace.

Poetic Risk

Slice of Life - April 10, 2012

Ow! I got a paper cut!
It sliced across my knuckle
It happened when I turned this page.
I'll thank you not to chuckle.

It's true I meant to write this poem,
And writing is like bleeding
But the blood that seeps from out this poet
Does not improve your reading.

So I will rest my pen awhile
To go procure a band-aid
Then I'll return to craft this file
About this mess my hand made.

A Letter to Four People on Two Motorcycles

Slice of Life - April 3, 2012

Dear People Who Passed Me Today,

You looked like you were having a great time on your motorcycles today. You were buzzing like two angry bees as you went zooming past us on the straight road from. Jefferson City to Knoxville. I was surprised to see you going so fast! We were doing the speed limit. You must have been doing about 75! That is bad enough, but on top of that, you had bare arms and legs! Didn't you know that you are totally unprotected on that bike? If you were to wipe out, you would be in the hospital for months getting skin grafts and blood transfusions. Granted, you were wearing helmets, but I have seen a motorcycle accident where the man was wearing leather breeches. The breeches were ripped all the way through! If he had not had that kind of protection, he would have lost skin down to the bone. That is what I worry about for you. I hope you made it home. I hope you won't ever wipe out. God bless you.

Sincerely,
Someone who worried about you today

Reflections on a Challenge Fulfilled!

Slice of Life - March 31, 2012!!!

 

Ah! As of this post, I have completed the thirty-one days of writing. It was not easy. It was truly a challenge, but it has been such fun. I have learned many things just by participating:

 

• Priority - Things that are most important have to happen early in my day.
• Sometimes sleep takes a back seat. (Writing is more important than sleeping and eating.)
• One of my greatest challenges still, is figuring out what to write about.
• Positive feedback is the best motivator.
• The best writing happens when I stop hiding and pour myself into it.
• Sometimes it is easier for me to write a poem than prose.
• Working with words is like a delightful puzzle.
• There are a lot if great people on-line.
• I really enjoy being part of a community of people who value the joys of writing.
• I learn a lot about writing and life by reading other people's posts.

Plans for my future

• I plan to be part of the year long Slice of Life Tuesday group.
• I want to try out different styles of writing like Paul and others, I want to try villanelle and squeezed poetry, and found poetry.
• I will collect more mentor texts and try out what they have modeled.
• In my classroom we shall do more sharing and commenting. I need a framework for that.
• I need to make a new plan for writing every day since I no longer have the accountability that this group affords.

I am indebted to Ruth and Stacey for this opportunity and to all of you who have read my posts for your support and encouraging words. You are dear to my heart. I will miss hearing from you on a daily basis, but I look forward to hearing from you on Tuesdays.

 

Until then,
Jama

I Imagine . . .

Slice of Life - March 30, 2012

There is s special time in the early morning before the demands of the day begin. It is almost a magical time, before the first word is spoken, before the time when the cars start swishing by outside my window. In that quiet time when the silence almost rings in my ears, I love to curl up at the top of my bed, open my Bible and read the stories of Jesus. I love to imagine that I am there, walking with Jesus. I look into his eyes. I imagine . . .

She rolled over in the darkness. A ray of bright sunlight peeked through a crack in the door of her little house and fell across her face, awakening her to the new day. She lay there motionless in bed, trying to will herself to rise. The pain in her belly that never went away was still persisting. Her head throbbed. She moaned at the thought of another day with this misery. She was so weary of this valley filled with the shadow of death that never offered relief.

It had been twelve years now, since she had felt whole. Twelve years of doctors who made her worse instead of better, with their strange potions, their leeches and powders. Twelve years without going to synagogue or to Temple to worship, because anyone with an issue of blood was unclean and unfit for worship. Oh, how she longed for wholeness. She was weary of trying to figure out her way, tired of the loneliness, tired of blood, and just tired of being tired.

She had heard of one last hope, a teacher called Jesus of Nazareth, but she did not know if she had the energy to endure one more quack. One more man examining her, judging her, could prove to be the last nudge pushing her to insanity, or worse. She took a deep breath, held her aching head with one hand, her cramping belly with the other, and forced herself to get up and get dressed.

On her way to the well for the day's water ration, the woman wondered why the streets were empty. Where were all the peering eyes? Was there no one there to whisper about her today. Then she overheard neighbors shouting good news to one another.  "Jesus of Nazareth is passing through our town!"

Jesus of Nazareth! Was this the day she could be healed? Did she dare even hope for healing? Then she saw the commotion down the hill from where she was. There were many others who dared to hope for healing this day. She was unsure of what she was going to do, but her feet were moving toward the mob surrounding Jesus. It was as if the power of her desire to be whole was drawing her toward him. Nearing the group, she heard the many cries for help. "Heal me, Jesus!" "Save us!" Then she heard someone say, "Lord, come heal my daughter, who is dying!". She knew the leader of the synagogue. His daughter was ill? She could not interrupt such an important errand. She did not really want to attract the attention of all of these people, anyway. She decided to try to just touch the hem of Jesus' garment. Surely just a touch would be enough to heal her. She need not disturb him.

She plunged into the crowd of people who were all reaching out, calling to Jesus. They pushed her back, but she pushed forward. She used her elbows to make her way to the Healer. Someone gave her a shove causing her to lose her balance. She fell, but she did not give up. She got up and tried again. Drawing closer to him, she lunged forward to touch his robe, but she again fell to her knees, missing. Even the added pain of skinned knees would not discourage her. She took a deep breath, gathered her strength and pushed forward once again, this time straining to extend her fingertips as far as she could reach, just brushing the hem of his robe. The surge of power that she felt from that light touch left her sitting, stunned, in the dust. She had no more pain! Her belly did not cramp. Her head did not throb. Even the pain in her knees suddenly ceased. She felt life flowing once again through her veins.

Then the crowd stopped. Jesus had stopped. He was asking who had touched his clothes. His disciples looked confused. " Master, everyone is touching you!" they exclaimed.

His voice was as quiet as a gently flowing stream. "No, someone touched me. I felt the power go out of me."

The woman knew she had to admit her deed. She rose, stepped forward and bowed low to the ground. Some heard her whisper, "I am sorry, Lord. I did not want to disturb you, I only needed to receive healing.

The look in his eyes as he reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet warmed her heart like a mother's embrace. "My daughter," he said, "Your faith has healed you. Go in peace."

Oh, how her heart sang for joy as she returned to the well to fetch her forgotten water jar. Singing, she walked with a light step, even with her water jar on her head, back to her house. The birds twittered a happy tune in the cloudless sky. The shadow of death had lifted. She was free once more to care for her family, to go out in crowds, and to worship in the synagogue or the Temple. That one touch, that one look, that voice like a gently flowing stream had washed through her life, cleansing her, refreshing her, giving her life.

Taking a few moments in the quiet of the day fills me with new life to face a new day. I love to read, imagine, and retell the stories of Jesus. 

The rest of the story can be found in Mark 5:21-43.

Frustration!

Slice of Life - March 29, 2012

Grrrr! I am working on a piece that I care very much about. I had typed into my second page, really pondering my word choice and building my story piece by piece. But, it is late, and I am tired. I fell into a doze. My fingers rested on the keyboard of my I-Pad, and I erased more than half of my work. Apparently I struggled with that state for quite a while because I pushed "undo" to get as much of it back as I could, but I am still missing half a page. It is past 1:00 in the morning. I have a field trip tomorrow, and I just got an e-mail that a parent who has not paid thinks she has paid and is planning to come along. I am frustrated and weary, and . . . I am just going to bed. Tomorrow will be a better day and a better post. . . I hope. Grrrr!

Rocks Hold Memories

Slice of Life - March 28, 2012

These are my rocks, the ones I have left. When I was a little girl we lived in an island community with dirt roads. I collected boxes and boxes of treasured rocks. I loved their shape and density. The way they changed color when they were wet was magical to me. Actually, I only had one box, but whenever it filled up, my mother would tell me that it was time to go pave the road. I had to take all but my most favorite rocks back outside and fill in the large mud puddle just outside our gate. Then I could begin the process of filling up my box again. I filled it up at least once a month.

When we moved to the city, I could not take my rocks along. I had to choose just a few. I still have those. The fourth big rock from the left in the picture is one of those rocks I found in that tropical home. It is a conglomerate, I think. It has green pebbles embedded inside it. I couldn't let that one go.

I did not find the first two rocks. The very first one was a crystal that was on display at a fair. It reminded me of the glass mountain I had heard about in a fairy tale. I raved about its beauty, and the boy who had found it gave it to me. It became my treasure that night.

My first beau, Sid, gave me the second rock. Knowing that I had a sweet spot for shiny rocks, he smeared the flat side of that brown beauty that he had found with Vicks Vaporub and polished it to a shine. It was a gift of young love.

I don't remember the name of the guy who gave me the geode in the center. He was the boyfriend of a college roommate. He gave me the rock because he knew I loved crystals. Wait, I think his name was Mark.

The rocks on the extreme right are souvenirs from my travels. The one in the back was found beside the Dead Sea on a family trip to the Holy Land in 1976. It took the longest time for it to dry out completely.

The rock in front of that one is a piece of granite gravel that I picked up from the DMZ in Korea when I was there in 2001. Did you know people stack rocks there as a prayer? This one was not stacked.

The rest of my collection are bits of lava from Africa and Costa Rica. My husband and I went to Costa Rica for a couple of months to study Spanish. We spent the night in a fancy hotel on the side of an active volcano. That is my idea of an adventure. The lava from Africa was a gift from the father of a former student. I have never been to Africa.

These rocks are just a tiny collection that sits on the shelf in my living room now, but sometimes they remind me of my girlhood afternoons under a warm tropical sun scouring the dirt roads for priceless treasure. They remind me to treasure life.

The Quiet of the Night

Slice of Life - March 27, 2012

It is so quiet this evening. My husband usually turns on the T.V. and then falls asleep, but tonight he fell asleep without turning on the T.V. Every now and then I can hear him snore, his breathing so even and peaceful. Outside I hear a dog barking in the distance. It is a friendly bark, as though he is sending a message to a nearby companion. The computer in the other room is whirring that familiar whir that it makes just before it goes into sleep mode. Everything is whispering, "Sleep, sleep, sleep . . .". It sounds like a good idea. The clock in the bathroom tick, tick, ticks that it is time to power down. I hear and I obey.

**************************

The alarm clock beep, beep, beeps me into consciousness. It is time to get up. I hold the cellphone in my hand, considering the offer of the Snooze button . . . No, I have lots to do before I leave the house, so I push Stop and put it on the shelf. My feet are tight and stiff after a good night's sleep. I hobble to the bathroom to take care of immediate business. The warm shower water trickles over my shoulders and splashes into the pool at my feet. I thank God for warm showers, the delightful massage of droplets caressing my skin, cleansing, refreshing me, body and soul. A thirsty towel gives comfort as it soaks up the wetness that is turning cold in the morning air. I find my thoughts drifting to the past when warm showers were not a given. I am glad that they are so common as to be taken for granted in my life.

The morning is quiet like the night, but it is a waking up kind of quiet. I hear my husband in his study rustling papers as he prepares lessons for his Spanish students. Soon he will walk into the bedroom and say, "Good morning.". Then the quiet of the night will be gone, and we will walk into the busy day.

Auto-correct

Slice of Life - March 26, 2012


I am going to rant a little bit. I have been thinking about writing a slice of life about this for a while now, and perhaps today is the day. I hate to misspell words! It is one of my pet peeves. If I write something, then publish it with a misspelling in it, my self-esteem is damaged. -Oh, dummy! You should have proofed that better!- I chide myself. As a result, I try to be so careful.

Enter the i-Pad.

I love my i-Pad. I enjoy being able to carry it along in my purse, and that I can use it to record conferences with my students. I enjoy i-books, the camera and video recorder, and the games I can play with my little granddaughter. I enjoy so many things about it. I do not like the way I misspell with the on-screen keyboard. I hit s for a and e for w. I try to be so careful to proofread my comments, but sometimes I miss a typo until I have already published. That can prove to be very embarrassing, you know. To compound the problem, there is the feature - that I could probably turn off - of auto-correction. So many times I have typed what I meant to type, (Okay, I had probably misspelled it, but still.) and the i-Pad corrects the word with something completely different. It makes me crazy, especially when I only notice it after I publish the comment! Grrr!

Some of you must forgive me, because I have been known to go back and comment with the correction. That boosts your comment numbers, but I realize that it is not very satisfying. Sorry.

I do have a wireless keyboard. You would think that would solve the problem. But, sometimes the keyboard won't communicate with the commenting box. I don't know why. It is just a frustration.

And another thing . . . the little squiggly words that must be typed in to prove that I am not a computer. (I'm shaking my head, here.) The auto-correct always wants to make real words out of those things. Sometimes I have to try three or four times before the squiggles are not close to something the computer can correct. I love it when I comment on the blogs that don't have those pesky little safeguards. I should just turn off auto-correct, but then the s in place of a and e for w would be such a bother, too.

I guess I'll just have to be more diligent at proofing my text before publishing. Okay. Be it resolved . . .

P. S. To Company's Coming

Slice of Life - March 25, 2012

No eloquence tonight.
Eyes won't stay open.
Sitting on my couch
Thinking happy thoughts.
Happy that you liked my poem
Happy that I got it sll done
Happy that company came
Happy that I do have friends
Happy that my parents were here
Happy that I got to be with my granddaughters and their mom
Happy that the party went well
Happy that everyone seemed to have a good time
It was a Pampered Chef Bridal Shower
For my son and his fiancée.
Happy that they got lots of kitchen stuff
So happy that she and her mother were pleased
Happy that it is over
Happy to be going to bed soon
So sorry that I can't make a complete thought,
But happy that this still counts as a Slice of Life
Good Night

Getting Ready For Cooking Company in March

Slice of Life - March 24, 2012

I have invited some dear friends for one of those demonstration parties where you watch someone cook, and then order the cookware, so I must . . .

Put away Christmas decorations that have been lingering
Dust the furniture they may be fingering

Clean out the science projects in the refrigerator
Put the garbage in the garage until later
Wash the dishes in the sink
Mop the floor quick as a wink
Wipe down the appliances, make them shine
I want everything to look so fine.

Clean the mirrors for a sparkling reflection
Bathrooms have to pass inspection
Change the towels, refill the soap
Scrub it clean. There's time, I hope.

Sweep the wood floors, mop them, too.
It's the least a good hostess should do.
Wash the tablecloths, sheets and towels
I really don't want the house to smell foul.

Sweep the porch for a good first impression.
Some flowers on the table will be a nice expression
Go shopping for the food to prepare
Take some time to arrange the chairs

Change my clothes then greet the guests.
After the party, clean up the mess.

When all is done, say "That's a wrap!"
Lie down on the couch and take a nap.

Reflection on the Teaching of Writing

Slice of Life - March 23, 2012

This is one of my favorite times of the day, when it works. The children have claimed their writing folders and have collected pencil, eraser, markers and crayons to move to their favorite part of the room to work on their writing. Classical music is quietly playing in the background. The little group around the low table in the library are talking in almost whispers about their stories. Two or three children are waiting at the stapler to add pages to their current project. I move about the room stopping here and there to help stretch out a word here, to listen to a finished piece there. The atmosphere is peaceful and creative. I have been known to lose track of the time in such an atmosphere.

So much growth has taken place since the beginning of the year. This group of children began with three word sentences. They were writers from the start. Now they have written nonfiction posters about George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. In the process they have learned to write in complete sentences and to stay on topic. Some of them even remember to use punctuation and rules of capitalization. Some. Others still just spill words onto the page and leave it to the reader to figure out such intricacies.

That is where I find myself in a dilemma. I want to allow the writing workshop to be a place that supports creativity and imagination, totally positive and constructive, but the second grade teachers are going to expect at least some conventions to be in place. They will be looking for some understanding of capitalization and punctuation. They will expect high frequency words to be spelled mostly correctly. Their hopes for the future motivate me to have realistic assessment practices in place, and I am in a quandary. Everyone is in a different place on the writing continuum, but all are growing by leaps and bounds. I know how to move them forward, but how do I put a grade on what they have done, to satisfy parents, administrators, and all of "them" who expect such things? Rubrics? How does one use them to give a manageable grade? I realize that there is a wealth of wisdom in the slicing community. Please don't think I know nothing. I have read the books, but between reading and practice there is a risky leap of faith. I need courage to continue to fly across the chasm. Sometimes I feel like I am falling. Is there a safety net down there?

I Am Not Superstitious

Slice of Life - March 22, 2012

It has been such a warm winter that we have not had any snow days in Tennessee. The bulletin boards in our halls were all about snow, all winter long. Wishful thinking. I have been telling the other teachers that if they would take down their snow boards it might help. We might get some snow.

Are you superstitious? I would like to say that I am not. I think it is silly to worry about the number 13. I have 13 in my address two times, and it does not bother me. I have a hunch that the reason I was able to get my little house at a good price may have something to do with everyone else's dread of that number. I like that.

I don't worry about black cats. If a black cat crossed my path, I probably would not even notice it. I don't think I would walk under a ladder, but it is not because of any superstition. It just doesn't seem very safe to walk under ladders . . . or to open umbrellas inside the house, for that matter. No, if you asked me, I would probably say that I am not superstitious.

I don't think twice about throwing away chain mail. I don't feel any compulsion to continue that silly stuff. I don't carry a lucky rabbit's foot. It wasn't very lucky for the rabbit, so why would it be any better for me? I don't carry any sort of lucky charm.

However, I have been known to say that I am carrying my umbrella to keep the rain away. I did go over to meet my neighbor while she was washing the car the other day. There was a gigantic storm cloud approaching, and I was so close to telling her that she had brought us the rain. I have been known to knock on wood to prevent bad luck, but usually I just knock on my head. It seems important to tell my children to be safe before they leave me if I don't want anything bad to happen to them.

No, I do not consider myself superstitious. Still, today, on the first full day of Spring, everyone took down their snow bulletin boards. I think we may have a blizzard soon.

A Sweet Lunchtime Treat

Slice of Life - March 21, 2012

Students stream out of the stately old building surrounded by trees, talking, running, laughing, walking toward the little brick building in the middle of our campus circle. Between the hours of 10:15 to 1:10, this little cafeteria is the most popular place on campus, where all 450 of our hungry friends meet for a delectable treat

Middle schoolers stand aside at the door to allow kindergarteners to exit in a long chattering line. I glance up from my cornbread salad just in time for my own sort of treat. A tiny blonde preschooler, still sitting at the table, does not resist the urge to pop out of her seat to grab a tall seventh grader around the knees and squeeze as she enters the room. The once-shy seventh grader makes me proud to have been her first grade teacher. She leans over to listen to the pigtailed girl, smiles, then kneels to give the child a happy hug, wrapping her long arms around the petite little body.

Moments like this, where love reaches across the ages, are some of the treasures that make teaching at my little school so priceless.

Futility and Frustration

Slice of Life - March 20, 2012

I meant to post my slice last night
just past the midnight hour
But sand in my eyes obscured my sight
So it was beyond my power.

For hours I sat in my blue chair
Computer on my lap
I tried to write, I do declare,
But my mind would only nap.

At two o'clock when I awoke
Cobwebs still in my head,
I tried to read, but what a joke!
I decided to go to bed.

This morning I come to you, I fear
With only apologies.
My request, if you come near
Is that you will forgive me, please.

Perhaps today my mind will clear
And I'll think of something to say.
For now I'll get my mind in gear
And wish you a good day.

It's J-ay-ma

Slice of Life -March 19, 2012

I was commenting on Jaana's list of soothing things and asking her how she pronounces her name when I remembered this silly story.

Have you ever forgotten your own name? My name is Jama. My parents tell me that it means 'daughter of James', so there is a long a in the first syllable, of course. Unfortunately, it is also the title of a magazine. They pronounce it like  the stuff you put on toast.

When I was born my mother gazed at the tiny firstborn in her arms and congratulated herself on choosing what she thought would be a simple, easy-to-pronounce name. She looked up as the doctor came in. "You only had to burp to have that baby," he commented. Then he looked at his medical chart and howled, "What in the world did you name her Jama for? (pronouncing it like jam)- Journal of the American Medical Association!"

All my life people have mispronounced my name.  In high school I was nicknamed PJ for pajamas. I considered changing it to Jamie or Jimmie to help folks out, but I never did.

You would think that such an unusual name would be memorable, though, wouldn't you? But, several years ago I was at a bookstore, writing a check for a pile of books I was purchasing (another of my addictions). When I came to the signature line, . . . I drew a complete blank. Embarrassedly, I made small talk to stall while I tried to remember what to write. "Oh my. Have you ever forgotten your own name?" I said to the young strawberry blonde as she twirled a strand of her long hair.

"As a matter of fact, I have," she sweetly replied.

Surprised, I glanced at her name tag, then signed my check. Her name was Jama.

Treasures in the Trash

Slice of Life - March 18, 2012

Okay. I'll admit it. It is getting harder and harder to think of a slice of my life to put on the plate for your consumption. At first the ideas were plentiful because I could tell the stories that I love. I shared my admiration for my parents. I told slices of my past. I have enjoyed trying my hand at some poetry, and sharing my thinking on a few of my soapboxes. Now, though! I go through the day thinking, What would I say about this? Would this be a good slice to write about? And, the problem is that I love the positive feedback of your comments so much that I find myself editing before I even write the first word. Oh, yeah! That is the problem with my addiction to positive feedback. It causes me to lose sight of my first priority, which was to write everyday. That is really the reason I joined the challenge - just to get into the good habit of writing everyday. I didn't join in for your praise or for the prizes. You know what that means, don't you? I think that means that I am going to have to give myself permission to post some trash. Yes, some trash. Forgive me, but it is like a flea market or a yard sale, sometimes you find your most priceless treasures in the trash.

Sleep-deprived

Slice of Life - March 17, 2012

I don't have what it takes today.
I can't even think of anything to say.
Every story in my mind is
Incomplete.
I just want to go to sleep.
My concentration is diluted.
My flow of thoughts is temporarily muted.
I want to share words of inspiration and hope,
Or at least identify techniques to help me cope,
But after a full week of work, it seems
That the only thing I am good for
Is dreams.

Springtime Melody

Slice of Life - March 16, 2012

I was going to write on my computer, but a thunderstorm is moving through the area. I've turned off my electronics and am working unplugged.

The temperature is so pleasant outside that I had opened the kitchen door to listen to the frog song. When the storm began, I left it open to hear the music of the storm. I am surprised to find that the storm sounds a little different! There is an unfamiliar swishing sound. Between flashes of lightning, crashes of thunder, I stuck my head out the door to discover what it is.

Last year at about this time our area was hit by a ferocious hailstorm. We were following the storm on the radio, when the power went out! Sitting in the dark, riding out the storm by candlelight, we were startled to hear a loud thud! It sounded like someone had chunked a heavy rock at our roof. We heard another, then another, and then a whole barrage of rocks seemed to be hitting our house. The noise was deafening, terrifying!

In the months that followed, insurance adjusters and roofers were busy, busy, busy. Many of the homes in our area got metal roofs. I have noticed that the roof directly behind us reflects the sun in the daytime and the moonlight at night, but until tonight I did not realize that when the rain falls on our neighbor's roof, I can hear the raindrops plinking a springtime melody. When the rain comes down hard, it swishes like a giant shushing her baby to sleep.

The storm is over now. The temperature is still mild. I think I may sleep with the window open, to enjoy the frog song and the shush of the rain on the metal roof. Listen! It is whispering to me again.

Dandelions

Slice of Life - March 15, 2012

What a change

From yesterday's winter brown grass.

Rain,

Brown turns to green,

Circles of yellow appear overnight.

Sunny, yellow

Dandelions.

Popping out like fuzzy-headed chicks

Dotting the landscape

Heralding the beginning of spring.

If undisturbed,

They will grow into

Perfect spheres of lace

Bowing politely in the breeze

Sending fairy-winged ambassadors

Dancing into the world to share the

Joy of summer.

The Squatleys Choose a New Car

Slice of Life - March 14, 2012

Squatleys. That is the name that my mother used for country bumpkins who didn't fit in city life. "Don't act like that! They will think we are the Squatleys," was her threat myriad times when we were children, when we didn't behave in stores, when we wanted to go to a fancy function in casual dress, whenever we threatened to embarrass her in public. All she had to do was whisper the name, and we knew to attempt to restrain our unruly behavior.

Then the day came when the whole family was reunited at a new mall after months of being apart. As we stood at the entrance of the mall, it was she who noticed that the ceiling was made of mirrored tile. She was the one who suggested that we take a family picture in the reflection. We laughed with tears in our eyes, as we posed, whooping and waving, while Daddy took the picture. From that day on, the name has stuck, and we have affectionately called ourselves 'the Squatleys."

"Ma, I'm thinking it is about time for a new car," said Pa Squatley as he cranked the ignition on the red jalopy they had driven for too long.

With her lace hankie Ma fanned away the billows of exhaust whirling around her and answered, "Well, Pa, why don't we swing by the Wal-Mart parking lot on our way home and check out the possibilities?"

As they drove up and down the lanes of parked cars, Pa pointed out a little green Mustang on the second row. "How do you like that one, Ma?"

"Too low to the ground!" Ma exclaimed. "I don't want to be scooting around on my behind everywhere I go. I want something up high enough for me to see." Ma suggested a metallic blue truck.

"But, Ma, how are we going to fit all of our babies in that cab?" Pa made a good point, so they decided to choose something up high that would carry the whole family.

After several Wal-Mart trips, they were ready to see their selections in action. Driving through traffic, Ma spotted a vehicle that was high enough for her tastes but big enough to carry their brood of offspring. "Catch up with that one, Pa!"

Pa gunned the accelerator of the jalopy sending plumes of fumes into the air behind them, until they caught up with the car.

"Okay, Pa," Ma said. "Get up on the left side. Let's look at the driver's side."

Pa sidled up to the driver's side so they could ogle out the window to check out the steering wheel, mirror, and tires, on the driver's side. Then Pa asked, "Okay, Ma, are you ready to check out the passenger side?"

Pa hung back to let the beautiful car pull ahead. Then he signaled and pulled up to the passenger side of the car. "What do you think? Is that the car for us?"

When they had selected the make and model of car they wanted, they went to the dealership to test drive the car, and that is how they chose their Toyota Highlander.

Treasures of the Past

Huff-puff! Pant, pant! Gasp! Choke! Sputter! It was that kind of day. I had deadlines that all came due today-a class book to put together for vanity press, grades for the quarter, and it was daylight savings time to boot! I met the deadlines, but by the time I got home, all I was good for was a nap on the couch.

That got me to thinking about the busy lives that children face these days. When I ask them, it seems that they are always on the go. Daycare, after-school sports, dance lessons, gymnastics, art lessons, meals on the run, going, going, always on the move. When they get home, I've asked-TV, Wii, X-box, screens. Whatever happened to Kick-the-Can with the neighborhood children and catching lightning bugs at twilight, and climbing trees to just sit there and watch what's going on around you? What happened to jump rope and hopscotch, and sitting around the family dinner table telling stories? What happened to sitting on the porch in the sunny-dark evening listening to the crickets?

It is the rare, but blessed child who has enough free time to be bored into creativity. Do you know what I mean? When I was a child, it took the words, "Mama, I'm bored," to launch me and my friends into some project of mammoth proportions, like putting on a variety show for our parents, or piling all the sheets and pillows around the dining room table to build a tent that transported us to a world of imagination. Those words would prompt my mother to hand us a box of craft supplies so we could create masterpieces that she hung with a magnet on the refrigerator door.

Oh, we had TV, but it was not 24/7. There was a limit to how much we could watch. Outdoor time was the norm. And after dinner and a bath, we didn't fall asleep in front of the TV. We nestled in our beds with Mom or Dad in the middle, telling stories of their childhoods, and reading bedtime stories that spun a sleepy web of peaceful slumber full of glorious dreams.

We live in a richly technological age, but in our desire to give our young the best of everything, we must make room to give them some of the treasures of the past.

A Tribute to My Dad

Slice of Life - March 12, 2012

 

This is a tribute to my dad. I know it won't fit all dads, but I haven't experienced all dads. This is my experience of a dad, and I wanted to share it with you.

What is a Dad?

A dad is someone who loves your mother. Their love blossoms and grows to produce fruit, and you are born. Then, they are so pleased with the results that they give you sisters.

A dad is someone who reads to you when you’re a baby, and when you are a child, then buys you provocative books when you are a teen, giving you a love for books and for thinking.

A dad is someone who works hard to provide for your needs. He provides for your wants, too, bringing you presents when he comes home from business trips, staying up late on Christmas Eve to make sure your dreams come true. And, when you ask for more, he reaches for his wallet saying, “When it’s gone, it’s gone.”

A dad is someone who doesn’t want you to grow up to be an oddball, but who is willing to risk it to obey God. His obedience is a perfect model. He takes you on special outings, like on a cruise to a foreign home. His good choices change your life in glorious ways.

A dad is someone who makes sure that the background music in your life is beautiful. He brings you classical music and orchestral show tunes, and he makes sure each room in the house is filled with delightful music.

A dad is someone who willingly puts up with your teenage mood-swings. He cares enough to discipline you creatively. He dances a jig to celebrate your joys. He is there with an encouraging hug in your sorrows. He prays for you every day. When he is away, he brightens your day with humorous e-mails. It reminds you that he loves to laugh, even at his own jokes.

A dad is someone who tells you stories so you’ll know where you came from and where you are going. His best stories are God stories, and he tells them often and in many memorable ways so you won’t forget, and so you’ll remember to pass them on, too.

A dad is someone who loves you.

A Reflection on Aging

Slice of Life - March 11, 2012

This old girl stands in front of the mirror and grimaces. The face looking back has more lines than she remembers. Where did all of that loose skin under her chin come from? She smiles. Her cheeks fill in and the wrinkles move to the corners of her eyes. She frowns. The furrows between the eyes and hanging from the jowls make her look like the Wicked Witch of the West. She quickly smiles again and decides that she needs to remember to smile always so others won't realize how much she is aging. She tries to smile as she brushes her teeth, smearing toothpaste all over her cheek in the process. That makes her chuckle as she wipes her face. Picking up the brush, she runs it through her long white hair. As she sweeps it up into a twist, she wonders if it didn't use to be thicker. She examines the reflection again. The pink scalp showing through at the part confirms her suspicions. She sighs. Looking closer into the mirror she realizes that there are even light flecks in her eyebrows now. Curling her fingers like an old crone, she claws the air and croaks, "I'm fading! I'm fading!" Taking a deep breath, she smiles at her reflection, and reaches for her mascara and lipstick. Shrugging, she smiles again and walks away from the friendless mirror to find companionship in the land of the living.

Snippets From The Good Book

Caught!

She couldn't lift her eyes during the humiliation. No man was yanked from his bed to join her. Only she was pushed, pulled, carried, forced into the light of day with the secrets of the night. With eyes cast down, she saw his finger boldly etching the dirt, heard his words, "Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her." She heard the heavy thud of stones in the dirt, then words of understanding and forgiveness poured into her heart. "Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you? Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again."

Odds

He fingered the coin as he walked. What are the chances that he would catch the one fish in the sea that carried a coin in its mouth, a coin valuable enough to pay taxes for his master and himself?

Quiet Surrender

She gazed into his eyes watching the stories flicker across his face, memorizing every move of his hands, every shadow, every glimmer. Her heart overflowed with adoration. He could never be hers alone, but she treasured his love more than life itself. She contented herself in total surrender to him, even if that just meant sitting quietly at his feet.

Marbles

Slice of Life - March 9, 2012

Marbles

Shiny glass orbs
Reflecting the light
Rainbow colors

Red, orange, yellow, black,

Green, blue, iridescent purple,

And the ones that look like little bubbles
Joy materialized

Rolling

Rolling in my hand

Shiny roundness

Boulders, Peewees

Cats-eyes, Steelies

Falling

Bouncing

Rolling on the ground

Spinning

Colliding

Clicking
Rhythmic

Ageless toy

Telling a story of another time and place,

Another rhythm of life

Marbles

An Unexpected Guest

Before I post my slice for today, I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to all of you who have commented on my previous posts. You may have an inkling how much your comments mean to me, because you are experiencing the same thrill on your end. I am truly lifted up by each of your kind remarks. I am delighted to be a part of this story-telling community!

Slice of Life - March 8, 2012

When I was young in Davao City, Philippines, television only aired during certain hours each week. It was a treat for me and my sister to get to see American shows. The Monkees came on every Sunday night at 8:00. Our parents went to church on Sunday nights, but since there were no activities for the children, and since the service was all in Cebuano, the native language of that area, they succumbed to our pleas and left us home to watch The Monkees. I remember one particular Sunday when an unexpected visitor interrupted . . .

The theme song had just played, "Hey, hey, we're the Monkees! And people say we monkey around. But we're too busy singing to put anybody down," when Becky, our caregiver, came running up the stairs yelling, "There's a snake! There's a snake! She had gone outside to flip the switch to pump water up to our water tank so we could take our evening baths in the upstairs bathroom, when she saw it. Cindy and I ran outside to witness with our own eyes. There it was resting right on top of our 10 foot high cement block wall. I felt especially vulnerable since the adult in charge had come to me for help. "Let's call Uncle Clyde!" I suggested. Uncle Clyde was a missionary to the Chinese, and they had services earlier in the day.

I dialed. Uncle Clyde answered the phone with his slow Texas drawl, "Hellooo?" My words tumbled out too fast. "Uncle Clyde! Uncle Clyde! There's a snake! There's a snake on our back wall!"

He probably thought- Of course there is. You live in a house surrounded by 10 foot Cogan grass. Where else would a snake be?- "Well now," he drawled. "How big is it?"

I was only 8 years old. What did I know about estimating the length of a snake on a wall in the dark? "It's about three feet long," I guessed.

He figured a little snake like that would quickly be gone. "Well now, go back and see if it's still there." He said the words slowly as though I would understand better that way.

We rushed back outside to look at the snake. It had not moved.

On our way back to the telephone, Becky came to her senses. "I will call our neighbor, Mr. Forrester," she said in her Filipino accent. Mr. Forrester was a hunter. He would know what to do.

He did. He climbed to a second story window in the new house under construction behind our house. He aimed his rifle at the snake's head and POW!

The snake fell dead into our yard. Apparently it had been hanging down on the other side of the wall, because it was nowhere near 3 feet long. It was a 12- foot boa constrictor, 12 feet long and nine inches around!

Upon Mom and Dad's return we ran to the gate yelling, "Come see the guest in the back yard!" My mom was appalled that we had not invited the guest into the house, until she saw who our interrupting guest was. We showed it to all the missionaries we knew. Uncle Clyde just chuckled with embarrassment when we showed him.

We skinned and tanned that snake. Then we cooked and ate the meat. Yum! I only ate a bite or two so I could say I had eaten boa constrictor.

We missed The Monkees that evening, but we experienced a story that we have told ever since.

Come! I Want to Show You Something!

Slice of Life - March 7, 2012

Have you ever noticed that the beauty and joy in a day occasionally depends upon the people you share it with?  If the folks you are with say that the day is dull and gray, all you can see is the overcast skies.  If you are with someone who can see the sparkles in the air, you suddenly realize that magic is there.

Several years ago my children and I had a precious gentleman friend, a grandfather-type, named Lloyd, who delighted in taking us on excursions to show us different wonders of nature. He would meet us with a bright gleam in his eye and say, "Come here! I want to show you something!" Sometimes the wonder would be a backyard treasure - berries growing on a vine, hot peppers spicing up a garden, a groundhog peeking out of his hole. Sometimes it would be an adventure like a day at the lake fishing from his boat. We noticed that the harder the treasure was to get to, the better it was. Our times with Lloyd were precious. Our lives are richer for having known him. He told me once that even the smallest piece of pie tastes twice as good if you share it with someone.

Lloyd has touched my understanding of the Scriptures. When I read that God would come to Eden to walk with Adam and Eve in the cool of the evening, I can imagine him meeting them with that same bright gleam in his eye. I can almost hear him say, "Come, follow me! I want to show you something!" Can you imagine the beauties that he shared with them? Waterfalls, touch-me-nots, bumblebees, butterflies, a lioness with her young, otters playing in a lake . . . and, it was all brand new and untouched by sin! Those wonders were made for us and await us when we get home.

When I rest my head on my pillow at night, one of my prayers is that I will be the sort of companion who sees the wonder and the magic of life, and shares it.

The Man in the Picture

Slice of Life - March 6, 2012

You've probably seen the picture. An old man sits alone bowing his head in prayer before partaking of his daily bread. He looks so content, so serene, but it is a lonely picture. Where is his wife? Has she died? Where are his children? Why is he alone? He is not really alone, for he sits talking to Someone. He is grateful to Someone for all the blessings he has experienced in his long life, and he is pausing, as is his custom, to express his gratitude.

I do not know the man in the picture. I do not know if he was a real person, or if he is just from someone's imagination, but I know what his story may have been.

In his youth he rode in a buggy pulled by a horse. He remembers the day his father came home with a Model-T Ford. He recalls how they had to keep the car from rolling downhill by placing rocks behind the rear tires. He chuckles as he relives the day his father cranked the car, but couldn't get back into the driver's seat fast enough. The car got away and rolled into the creek.

He had to quit school early, to help the family make ends meet, by bicycling all over the city delivering telegrams as a Western Union Messenger Boy. He laughs until tears roll down his cheeks when he tells about the dog that barked and barked with teeth barred, then ran at him right through the screen door. When the dog lunged to knock him down, he put his hands under the dog's chest and lifted, and the surprised dog flew right off the porch into the yard. He loved his days as a Western Union Messenger.

He has out-lived three wives. His first wife, the love of his life for 48 years and the mother of his two sons, accompanied him as he returned to high school and college as a preacher-boy. She served as pastor's wife as he pastored three missions and helped grow them into churches. One day her heart quit beating and he was alone. Too soon, extreme loneliness prompted him to marry a woman whose compulsive neatness required him to keep his desk in the walk-in closet so that no one could see the clutter of creativity it held. He remained faithful to her until her death thirteen years later. By that time he was in his eighties and thought he was through with romance . . . until he met Judy, who was almost twenty-five years younger than he. They enjoyed walks in the mountains, visiting old cities, and reading the Bible together. He got giddy when he spent time with her. Life had new meaning. He asked her to marry him, and she surprised him with a yes! They had one year together before cancer took her away leaving him lonelier than ever been before.

For the past ten years he has lived in an apartment in his son's house. He loves baseball season on TV. He always has a project in progress on his three desks. He does needlepoint and word puzzles. He loves chocolate. His social time is at supper when he discusses the news, baseball and his sweet memories with his son. In the quiet of the evening he can be heard reading aloud from the Bible or one of his old sermons, the whistle of s's making a melodic rhythm in the night. And, at bedtime, as he turns out the light he whispers prayers for his family; his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren-praying for safety, and health, and mostly for faithfulness.

He is now ninety-five years old. The Lord's mercy and compassion have seen him through all the years, and he is grateful. That is why he bows his head. I know because I sit on the other side of the table, the side you cannot see. He is my father-in-law.

A Tribute to My Mother

She never thought she’d amount to much.
She was a sickly child.
During her father’s military service,
She wore her shoes on the wrong feet,
And she posted a sign,
“Mad house”
For passing truckers to see,
All to her mother’s consternation.
When her left-handed mother
Complimented her acne-ridden daughter,
“You’d do very well if it weren’t for your face,”
She felt the pain
Of humanity.
She probably didn’t hear
The echoes her mother intended:
You have good features.
You have a beautiful figure.
Your personality is delightful.
You have poise and grace.
You are intelligent.
You are loved.
She never thought she’d amount to much.

But she inherited
Wisdom
And a love for people
From her father;
Poise and propriety
From her mother and older sister;
Playfulness and a love of story
From her little brother;
And they gave her a heart,
A heart for God,
Feet,
Strong legs,
And wings.
Then she found a gem of a life’s partner
And she flew
Like an eagle
With grace and beauty
All around the earth,
Leaving blessings of God’s love
Wherever she chose to light.

There is no voice
Like my mother’s voice.
In my terrors,
Her rich gentle voice
Reminds me of the
Presence of God
And my fears are calmed.
In my sadness and confusion,
Her voice soothes
And counsels,
Find rest, O my soul
In God alone.
In my joy,
Her laughter sparkles
And twinkles
Like fireworks glittering
In the night sky.
She plays,
She teases,
She laughs,
She listens,
She counsels,
She cries,
She prays,
She teaches,
Through it all,
She loves.

She never thought she’d amount to much,
But God gave her iridescent wings
And she flashes His glory everywhere she flies.

In her beautiful face
Shines the light of God.

Sunday Rest

Slice of Life #4 - March 4, 2012

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child . . . and I hated Sunday afternoon naps! Every Sunday my sisters and I had to do the Sunday dinner dishes . . . quietly.  We were then banished to our rooms to do something that wouldn't disturb our parents, something quiet. If we happened to get into a tiff over something inconsequential and wake our parents from their long afternoon naps, . . . dun dun dun! We knew better. We could read books. We could color. We could watch TV with the sound down low. We were not to yell, run, scream, stomp, or make any loud noises until at least 4:00 in the afternoon. It was interminable!

Now I am an adult. The children have already flown the coop. I still have to do the Sunday dinner dishes, well, the dishwasher and I do them. I still delight in reading and writing during that blessedly quiet Sunday afternoon interval, but it has changed. It used to be interminable. Now it is fleeting. It is my haven of rest, my calm before the storm. It is a pearl of great price. It is my time to refuel before the new week. This is my treasured time, my Sunday afternoon naptime.

When I was a child I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child . . . and I hated Sunday afternoon naps. Now I am grown. I put my childish ways behind me . . . and I take my naps without complaining.