To Love Mercy

I've been trying to figure out life today. A small task for a September morning. I'm feeling a little moody and a little restless and a little unsure about how to shake myself out of it and get back to my normal Pollyanna self.

In the midst of this momentary crises, I crave the solid and the simple. I look for words that echo with the wisdom and the comfort of the Ancient of Days. Words that tell me all is well, no matter how I feel. And I find this:

He has showed you, O man, what is good.

And what does the LORD require of you?

To act justly and to love mercy

and to walk humbly with your God.Micah 6:8

Ah. That is it. The only thing I have to do to find my Center again. It is so simple. Not easy, mind you, but simple. Just do what is right. Shower folks with mercy. And keep a right perspective of who I am and who God is.

My Other Mother

My eighty-nine year old mother-in-law is visiting us for two weeks, and she is such a joy. She is content to spend the day working her jigsaw puzzle but always ready to jump in the car and go out for lunch. Well, she jumps pretty slowly, but she is always interested in whatever we want to do. Earlier in the week, she taught some of the great-grandchildren the wonder of word search puzzles. Even the kindergartner who can't actually read yet mastered the art of the hidden word. Both she and Grandma-Great were excited.

Today, I drove her back to the town where we all once lived, and we attended services at her familiar methodist church. The congregation smothered her with kisses, and we both enjoyed celebrity status. We even won the loaf of homemade bread reserved for visitors!

I know these days are a treasure, and I'm determined not to take them for granted. I want to enjoy every moment and soak up every hour with this lady who gave birth to one of the greatest gifts in my life. Is is a privilege to count her both my mother-in-law and my friend.

Note to Andrea: I know this post will make you homesick for your mother. I'm sending you a hug as I write.

Girl Clothes

Last weekend I stepped way out of my comfort zone and into a moss-green bridesmaid's dress for the sake of my sweet friend, Angela. I felt more like the Queen Mum than a princess, and I had some great trepidation about making it down the aisle and up the three steps to the platform without embarrassing myself and everyone related to me.

But, God (and Heather the Wedding-Planner-Extraordinaire) were looking out for me. My escort was a strong young man with a steady stride. He is also a son-of-my-heart from the days when we lived as house parents for our Bible college. Taking his arm put me perfectly at ease. And although I didn't glide elegantly down the aisle like the younger bridesmaids, I did only trip on my skirt once.

I was worn to a frazzle by the time I got home. All that curling and spraying and painting and puffing was exhausting. But it was so worth it. When Angela came glowing down the aisle and dazzled her handsome groom, I wanted to shout "hallelujah" and dance a little jig. Fortunately, the corset prevented such a display.

At My Letters

Time seems to become more valuable to me as I age. As if I'm finally realizing I have a limited amount of it to accomplish all the earth stuff assigned to me. So, I'm wary of the time-wasters. And, seriously, what could waste more time than a narcissistic blog? Facebook, perhaps. Or maybe Twitter, which I haven't succumbed to yet.

But, when I read about the great men and women of the past, I find a common theme among them. Most devoted a few hours every morning to prayer and Bible reading. Then, they sat down with quill and parchment and spent another few hours "at their letters." These folks achieved some great things in life, such as founding our nation. Yet they found time to write long, thoughtful letters to loads of people. Maybe the writing of letters actually helped formulate their thoughts on weighty matters. Certainly it helped teach them the art of writing.

I'm not sure updating my Facebook status equates. Yet, computer time seems to have become my version of being at my letters. After I've prayed, and read, and walked on the treadmill, I'm always ready to check my email and respond to a few electronic letters. (or maybe write a blog). This little exercise seems to help me, especially on days like this one where the to-do list spills over the edges of the day and into the evening.

So, I've taken a few minutes now to send out these words. It may have been an exercise in self-indulgence. But it reminds me that among my callings as wife, mother, grandmother, office manager, and mentor I am still at heart a writer.

Is it Working?

I bought new make-up last week. It's specifically formulated for old-lady skin. That isn't what it says, of course. The label refers to it as "ageless" and Ellen acts all spunky when she advertises it on t.v. But you can't get past the point: this make-up is designed to work with wrinkles!

Skin, of course, is only one of the things that changes dramatically once we become grandmothers. I think there should be a film strip for that somewhere. The kind they screen in a darkened room after all the boys have been sent to the gym. 

In this particular cycle of life, we get little warning. And the amount of creams, potions, and extracts needed to prevent our bodies from shriveling up like an Egyptian mummy is mind-boggling. So, I bought new make-up. And hand lotion. And an extra bottle of moisturizer. And a lighted, magnified, make-up mirror.

I spent an extra half-hour putting it all on, watching to see if it really did "glide above the wrinkles" instead of sinking in as promised. I can't really tell, because my eyes aren't that good even with the magnified mirror. But, I don't think any of it will make much difference. Nobody is going to be fooled into thinking I'm ageless. I am obviously seasoned. And, fortunately for me, the man I married still likes me that way.

Our Easter Tradition

One of my favorite traditions involves otherwise sensible grown-ups clawing through the tall grass of my father's sheep pasture looking for little plastic ovals filled with chocolate eggs and marshmallow chickens. We've followed this particular tradition for at least three decades. Before that, Easter Sunday was marked by a picnic somewhere in my great-grandparent's woods. I think we had a brief lull in the fun back when my siblings and I were too teenage-cool for such things.

We are over that now. In fact, we are so over it that a few years ago both my brothers climbed to the top of a tall tree in search of an egg peeking from the top of a squirrel's nest. It was sleeting at the time. But, the hunt has two rules: If you find someone else's egg, you are sworn to silence and cannot tell where it is. Rule Number Two: No one goes to the house until everyone finds their egg.  

We were all rooting for that second brother.

My parents have pretty much perfected the art of family traditions, in general. We still hunt the eggs pretty much the same way we did when all of today's young parents were toddlers. But this year we will hunt on Saturday instead of Sunday so everyone can be in their own church Easter morning. 

I know my parents would love to have the whole bunch of us crowding into pews and singing "Up from the Grave He Arose" with them on Resurrection morning. Instead, they will send us each back to our congregations where we will teach Sunday school, lead worship, serve as ushers, welcome guests, and be faithful members of the congregation. 

And that is the best part about strong families with great traditions. We multiply.

I'm Not Eighteen Anymore

This week marks the anniversary of one of my favorite days in all of history after the Resurrection: the day Felicity was born.

I won't tell you how old she is, but I will tell you I've come to an amazing realization: Our daughters are not girls anymore. 

I remember when Felicity was fifteen and I had the strangest sensation that I was really only about eighteen myself. I would seriously get up in the middle of the night, walk into the kitchen for a drink of water and think, Where did I get this huge house? How can I possibly have four teenagers sleeping upstairs? It was like deja vu only backwards. I would just hit these surreal moments now and then when the whole thing seemed totally unbelievable. Lovely, but unreal.

The sensation has changed some through the years. I don't see our daughters as girls anymore, and I feel more like thirty-four instead of eighteen. I think the grandsons did it. Even after the girls married and started having sweet little babies, they were still "the girls." But I realized this week it is impossible for someone to be a girl and also be the mother of a son who can make his own basketball bracket for March Madness. 

Felicity is a grown-up. So is Serenity, of course. Her eldest son can look me in the eye without standing on tip-toe. Fortunately, Charity is still hovering on the line for me since her baby is still tiny and can be considered almost a fashion accessory some days. (that is Charity's line, not mine.)

When Felicity was born, I was immediately enthralled. The first three months of her life, I mostly sat in the rocking chair and stared at her in awe. I was so amazed by this creature who could take my breath away just by flicking her eye or making a soft sound. But Felicity is an adult now, and, evidently I am not really thirty-four. Some things don't change, though. I walked into a room yesterday and saw her sitting at a table with a group of her colleagues. 

And she took my breath away.