Come Home

The land is calling to me. Its voice has been growing louder as the confines of the city have begun to strangulate. Blocks and boundaries have started to feel like balls and chains.

Normally, the call of mountains and rushing rivers beg my ear to listen, but of late, the murmur of the prairies grow louder.

In the waving of the corn, I hear it.

“Come home.”

In the blue sky that goes on for miles.

“Come home.”

In the rich, black soil that so readily nourishes the crops.

“Come home.”

In sunsets that are saturated in reds and purples and deep oranges, I hear it calling.

“Come home.”

In the rolling thunder as it pours over the prairie.

“Come home.”

My soul longs for a place as wide as imagination. My heart yearns for a parcel of land that is just mine, but then again, you can never really own the land - the land owns you.

The land calls to me as it called to my ancestors who have lived off of it for generations. Some people aren’t meant for cubicles and mile-high real estate. Some souls aren’t meant for city blocks and harsh pavement.

I can hear it in the lonely silence of the night and in the howl of the coyote.

I hear it whispering in my prayers.

“Come home.”

What Are You Missing?

I love my cell phone.

I love texting and Facebook and geocaching apps. I love mobile coupons and paying for my coffee with the scan of a screen. I love the tidiness of it all and yet I love how far the capabilities of my phone can reach.

Then it was stolen.

My darling little black phone with the worn FFA sticker on the back was gone. And so was the ridiculously expensive waterproof case (my phones have the propensity to go swimming). Suddenly 1985 didn't seem that distant as the landline with the cord was now my only connection to the outside world.

Without the vital piece of technology I was afraid of how much I'd miss. I was worried I'd now become a hermit, devoid of human contact.

 

But instead I became PRESENT for my children and my husband. My attention was no longer divided between an "important" text and the call from my kids to do a puzzle. Conversations happened. Books were opened-REAL books- and consequently devoured. Mother's day was spent on the porch playing basketball and eating snacks and building LEGO's and never once did I say, "Hold on, honey. Mommy needs to answer this." Because I didn't, and frankly very few texts are of the "NEED to answer this" nature. Facebook seemed a lot less important and a lot more fake.

I was also ignored. At times, I was the only one at the table who was looking up. I stopped talking mid-sentence to see that my companions were both on their phones, not listening to me at all. I left the room and no one noticed. I have a couple hundred "friends," yet only two called me at home after the cell was taken.

What are you missing by turning off and tuning in? I can tell you it's a lot less than what you're missing by living a life in social isolation with only Facebook friends and Twitter followers to keep you company. When Siri is considered a fantastic conversationalist, it might be time to unplug for awhile.

I'm not against technology. It totally has its uses and I'm looking forward to having a phone again, but I will not be a slave to it, or social media, or really cool apps.

I will turn it off. Sign out. Log off.

Will you?

What are you missing?

PSA- Acetone: The Must-Have for Your Home

Ladies and Gentleman, if you keep one handy dandy household product around, make sure it's fingernail polish remover WITH acetone. My husband demands this type of remover not because it gets the lovely ladies of the house sparkle polish free, but because it dissolves all manner of adhesives...like super glue.

So, my mother came for a visit and brought me a super sweet travel mug. Within five minutes I had broken a small piece off of the lid of aforementioned super sweet travel mug. Being the pretend fix-it type person that I am, I busted out the super glue and got to work. Moments later, I had a sticky (but still broken) lid and two fingers on my left hand glued together. Not just sort of glued together, but straight up bonded, adhered, STUCK kind of glued together.

For those of you who know American Sign Language,, my hand was permanently in the letter "F" position. Or you could say I was giving the "A-Ok" sign, OR if you happened to live in some Mediterranean countries, I was insulting you.  

I called my husband to let him know his awesomely capable wife had glued her fingers together. All the while I'm on the phone with him, I kept trying to pick stuff up with the afflicted appendage. It didn't work.  And my fingers were starting to cramp.

Thankfully, we always keep acetone in the house. I poured some and started to soak my fingers in it. Mom saw what I was doing and yelled at me because this stuff can be caustic to my skin. (I kind of thought that was the point) Anyway being the nurse that she is, she found a Q-tip and used it to slowly, sloooowwwly, sll-ooooo-wwwww-lllll-yyyy, dissolve the glue from between my fingers.

Free at last, free at last...

Lesson learned: Don't try to fix things, just wait for your husband to come home.

Ok, totally just kidding.

The REAL lesson is to always, ALWAYS keep acetone in the house. That way when you're being super independent and start fixing things, but glue your fingers together (or to whatever you're fixing), you don't have to go to the store to BUY the acetone. Because while you're at the store buying the stuff, the cute Greek salesperson will think you're calling them a mean name and refuse to sell you the acetone. That is just a bad situation all together.

So, if you don't have any nail polish remover with acetone, go buy some. Right now. While you're fingers can still wiggle.

PSA over.

Workin' It

Exhausted and covered in bug bites, I collapsed into bed with a sense of accomplishment that can only come from hard work. Circumstances have dictated that I mow our lawn with a push mower. I mean a PUSH mower. No motor, no electric or gas driven parts. Just some well-oiled ball bearings and man power gets this baby going. Might I add the date “1906” is stamped on this gorgeous, if a bit rusted, machine. I’m pretty sure it is that old.

Earlier in the day, while I was mowing, and sweating, and itching, I got to thinking. (Thinking is easy when your body is moving and there is silence except of the swish-swish of the ancient blades.) My mind started turning at the same rate as the mower about all of the work that needed done in the yard and how, when they get home, my twin sons would be drafted into service. Complaining and grumbling were in the foreseeable future, which sent my thoughts in a whole new direction.

My kids are afraid of hard work. (Insert embarrassed vocalization here) My grandparents and their contemporaries were hard workers; they knew it was a part of life. A part of life that we now consider “simple” or “the good old days,” In reality, things are simpler now than they ever have been. We drive cars with automatic shifting, get food from drive through windows and connect with “friends” through tiny hand held devices that can also text, email, play movies, and call your mother. Things have never been so easy. But that’s the root of the problem. We have become so simple there’s no depth to living.

Life in the ‘30s and ‘40s, when my grandparents were coming up, was hard. Really hard. There was still no electricity in many places, no running water (my mom has not so fond memories of the freezing outhouse at HER grandparent’s house in Minnesota). My family has always been rural folk. Establishing roots in Nebraska and elsewhere around the mid-west, I’m not sure what life was like in the cities during this time, but I can guess it wasn’t any easier just different. If kids wanted money, they sold newspapers or shined shoes, or helped at the grocers. There was value to a dollar and value to a day’s labor.

There was also a beautiful routine to life. Farm families got up before the sun to milk the cows or feed the animals, then breakfast, then school for the youngsters and more work on the land for the adults. After school, there were chores suited for the children and then dinner preparation, then bed. City families got up early as well in preparation of the hustle and bustle of the day. Idleness was not in their blood as it is in ours.

We want everything to come so easy for us. Unfortunately, we’ve passed that on to a whole new generation. When I was growing up I can remember singing at the top of my lungs from the monkey bars. Knowing, KNOWING, a talent agent would be walking down my street in Scottsbluff, NE (that was my first mistake) and immediately book me for a leading role in a Broadway musical. I didn’t want to work for my dream. I wanted it handed to me in a New York minute. Where did this come from? And sadly, it’s something I’ve inadvertently passed down. I don’t know how to change what’s going on, but I know it needs to change.

 

Fast forward to present day. All three big kids pitched in to help me remove the massive pile of sticks and limbs that had recently fallen. There were few complaints and one child found his own work gloves without being prompted. Only one gave up a wee bit earlier than the others. Hard work is rewarding work. If I can teach them that, maybe there's hope for them after all.

Bruce

I'm honestly not sure why he caught my attention.

Our street is busy and people are always walking by. In fact, he was half-way past my house when I heard myself yell out, "May I offer you a soda?"

The young man's body visibly relaxed under his heavy backpack. A backpack laden with, well, everything. He smiled and said that would be great.

Will you leave the porch light on
for the visiting stranger?

I ran inside cursing myself for not 1) having bottled water and 2) not keeping soda in the fridge. I handed him three drinks and an icy pop while apologizing for the sodas not being cold. He smiled and said they were colder than this warm air and that was cold enough for him.

His bright blue eyes were piercing under his mop of unruly, sandy hair. There didn't seem to be a wrinkle on his face, but there should have been smile lines for as often as he grinned. Tattooed on his finger was the word, "happy."

Turns out, this young man was travelling from Vermont to North Carolina. Soon, he'd be celebrating his 29th birthday and was meeting up with friends in Winston-Salem. He'd already walked to New York then taken a bus to Danville, VA (where I am). Now his feet would be carrying him the rest of the way.

He expressed his concerns about turning 30 (though that was another year away) and how he felt that after that milestone year, everything started to go down-hill. He had a lot of life to live and wondered if he was having the "loss of my twenties doldrums." We talked of his walking up the west coast and how different San Francisco weather is from Las Vegas weather, and how Virginia weather is different from Vermont weather.

Surprising myself again, I heard my own voice asking if he needed food. He seemed taken aback that I'd asked that. Even saying, "Do I NEED food?" Not wanted to offend him, I quickly asked if he would LIKE some food. He smiled and replied that he was a fat kid on the inside and ALWAYS liked food.

Me too, my friend. Me too.

I ran inside for the second time cursing myself (again) because I really had nothing to offer this young man. My cupboards and fridge are pretty bare, but what if this was my son, and he happened past a home of someone claiming to be a Christian?

He couldn't carry much more as his burden was already heavy, so canned goods were out. Besides, did he even have a can opener? (I have no idea what I'm doing. Would he like a bag of hot dog buns? What? That's so dumb!) I grabbed the last of the fruit snacks (which my husband had refused this morning), heated up a bunch of frozen nuggets, grabbed some oranges and dried cranberries, and headed back outside. I was preparing to apologize for the meager fare, when his eyes widened and he whispered, "Wow."

We chatted away like old friends. I'm fairly outgoing, but around strangers I'm more reserved and afraid I'll say something stupid or that there will be that uncomfortable lull in the conversation. It wasn't like that with him though, and I was grateful.

Though he looked young, he had a ruggedness and a confidence about him that reminded me of a mountain man. I felt I was witnessing the pioneering spirit that was so prevalent long ago, but has lost its luster. He wanted to get to North Carolina and no lack of money or transportation was going to stop him.

He said he'd been off the road for three years and, as he pointed to his head, he felt that he's lost it a bit. I knew intuitively what he was referring to. It's wasn't his mind that he'd lost, but the instinct of the open road. The pull of the destination. Some folks are just born to wander and I believe he is one of them. But he was back to it. It was good, he is happy.

He said how much he appreciated everything I'd done for him. In 1,700 miles only one other person had spoken to him. Now, it was my turn to say, "Wow."

I wish I could say this is just the sort of person I am. That I always keep extra food and drink at the ready for the needy passerby. That hospitality is in my blood. Yeah, it's not. In fact I probably would have let him walk past had I not read a blog post this morning on Christian hospitality. It talked about how hospitality nowadays is reserved for those we know. Those who can give something back to us. Those who can offer us THEIR hospitality. That is not what hospitality is supposed to be.

Before leaving, I asked this young man if I could pray with him, surprising myself for the third time this morning. I asked the Good Lord to please protect him, give him the physical strength to make it to his destination, and that He would show Himself along the journey. I told him praying like that is not something I normally do, but something (someone) was calling me to it. He replied, "It felt good. Thanks; it's just nice to know someone cares."

I told him he was welcome back anytime he found himself walking by. I held out my hand and introduced myself.

"Emily," he said with a smile. "I can remember that; it's my sister's name. I'm Bruce."

Bruce never asked for a single thing (except directions to 29 south), and that's so often the case with those who truly need our hospitality. They're not going to ask because they aren't what we consider "in need."We must ask God to open our eyes to those people. It's not always that obvious. There will always be people who need food and shelter and clothing, yes. But the majority of people need a smile or a handshake, or, like Bruce said, just to know someone cares.  Charity is different from hospitality, though they are intertwined. He was not in need of charity, he had everything he "needed." All he was lacking was some hospitality.

If you happen to see Bruce walking through your neck of the woods, stop him and give him a drink. Engage him in conversation. I'm sure he'll be happy to tell you about his travels.  He won't ask you for a thing (except for maybe directions). Pray with him, let him know you care. Those blue eyes and wry smile will stick with you. He's someone's son, brother, friend. Treat him like you'd want your son, brother, friend, to be treated.

Maybe someday you'll be walking through the woods of Vermont and see a lone house. You might just be in the need for a drink. Perhaps a man with unruly sandy hair will open the door and return the hospitality he was offered once upon a time.

Imperfect Progess

Hey you!

Yeah, you!

The mom with all those kids running around while I'm trying to Zumba.

Do you have any idea how distracting it is to have your munchkins yelling and whining while I'm trying to cha-cha? It's hard enough to not complain while my thighs are burning from all those squats and now I have to listen to your kid whine and moan about how bored he is. Not cool, lady. Not cool.

Oh wait.

Those were my kids.

I was that mom.

At that moment I pretty much wanted to crawl under a rock and hide my face in shame. When they act out like that it draws attention to every inadequacy I have as a parent. Obviously, I don't discipline because they wouldn't act like that. Obviously, they're spoiled otherwise, they wouldn't whine like that. Obviously, they rule the roost because they got what they wanted when they left Zumba early.

On the flip side of that neurotic coin, I promised the children they would go to a play room during class and thus none of the little ones brought anything to keep them occupied...not even a stroller for the baby. They were bored and mom had misled them.

Maybe we should have cut back on the caffeine
(don't worry, it was empty)

BUT, then again, don't they see how absolutely inconsiderate they were being?

When I take a step back from myself, I see that they are well disciplined children (usually), who were tired and bored and did NOT get what they wanted by leaving Zumba early. In fact all were sent to their rooms for their behavior. While I'm not making excuses for them, it helps me to see that kids (especially bored twin boys, a rambunctious little girl, and a fidgety baby) don't see outside of THIER circumstances to see how their behavior affects other people. I don't believe they had any idea they were being distracting, rude, and generally bad behaved. But they were.

And I was calm(ish). We left early and I explained to them how I was disappointed, how I was embarrassed. Embarrassed not by THEM but by their actions. I knew it was God's grace because my flesh wanted to cry and blowup and act the fool, but I didn't. In fact, I made imperfect progress. I'm still not the peaceful calm mom that breeds peaceful calm kids. What I did demonstrate was grace in the time of frustration; something I may not have done in the past. And that was a step forward.

My body may not have gotten the workout it wanted, but my heart did.

2014 is on like Donkey Kong!

Let me first say Thank You to those who joined my pity party encapsulated in my last post. Thank You for leting me rant, and thank you for the words of encouragement. But mostly Thank You to the ones who called me out on the selfishness of the post and that I needed to get my head out of my backside. Well...I have. Watch out 2014... Here. I. Come!

I am so excited to report some big things going on in 2014. I've made resolutions and so far, I've basically kept them. Yes, I know we've only been crossing out the "13" on our checks for one week, but baby-steps friends, baby steps. One week is better than no week.

My resolutions, or challenges, or commitments for the new year are:

1. Get closer to God through faith
2. Become more organized
3. Become a better Mommy

What I've found is that they are all working together. As my faith increases, I'm noticing I'm not afraid to fail at my organizational challenges. While it's not in my nature to be tidy, it's in God's nature to change me as He sees fit, and he's answering my organizational pleas. As I grow in faith and become more organized, I'm less stressed. I've got more "free time." Thus, I'm becoming a better Mommy. I can play with the kids without guilt because there are piles and piles of laundy, because dishes are overflowing the sink, because nothing is vaccumed or swept.

I love it when a plan comes together. (Yes, I can even watch A-Team on Netflix).

To get closer to God, I reached out to Him and said I needed help. I wanted to hear His voice. I wanted needed Him to prove himself real (see, total lack of faith. I have seen His works in the past, yet still doubted). He IS proving himself faithful.

 

First I recieved a beautiful prayer journal from my sweet friend Britta over at Britta's Banter. It was such a lovely and thoughtful gift and right up the alley of my plea to God. Then, the Bible app on my phone suggested I find a verse for 2014. A year verse that will envelope what I need 2014  to be. (I chose Isaiah 41:10, if you're curious) Next, many of Beth Moore's books were provided for FREE on e-readers. I downloaded as many as I could on my NOOK and started reading Believing God. (That's exactly what I need: to believe God at His Word.) Shortly after that. I came across Scripture Memorization for the Rest of Us: The Jesus Project at A Holy Experience. Everything fit together like a well made puzzle. Praise God!

 

Believing God, is believing His Word. It's believing He is who He says He is. It's believing (not just knowing) that He's there and He's got me in the palm of his hand. He's making Himself known to me and I am so grateful. My life is only victorious when I know the Victor. If faith was easy, we'd all have it, but we don't, and it's not. I'm working on it and He's working on me.

Did you make resolutions? I'm super curious: What are they and how are you doing so far?

 

(Perhaps you noticed I didn't touch too much on my other two resolutions. Well, stayed tuned. I see a series in the making. Happy 2014!!)