Memories Knocking at My Heart

     That unsettled feeling I sometimes get around the holidays started after we returned from Colorado. Then I realized it was memories of Tracy stirring in my mind. I want to ignore them if they make me cry, but I remembered the Lord's message from last Christmas, that the memories are the part of Tracy I get to keep until I see him again. They are a gift from God that I would be rude to leave unopened. So I remembered my little boy charming the hats off of visitors by trying them on and looking so cute they let him keep them. The child who brought me his softest teddy bear to use as a pillow when I had a migraine. My purse and pockets full of rocks, miniature trucks and army men. Driving home from dropping the kids off at school with Tracy's stuffed animal of the day buckled into my passenger seat. My teenager coming home and crying on my shoulder when his girlfriend chose a rival instead of him. 

     I miss the solid substance of my son, but the memories are the pathway to those times. His expressions, his voice, even his stinky feet. And if crying is part of remembering, it is also part of healing.

 

Memories Knocking at My Heart

 

I sense it in the pulsing of my heart,

which inexplicably kept beating 

after yours was torn from mine--

memories knocking at my heart.

I feel it like the coming of winter,

like the holidays that lay ahead,

and with them, thoughts of you--

memories knocking at my heart.

Good memories, for the most part,

yet it hurts to hold them in my mind, 

to brush aside the mists of time for

memories knocking at my heart.

My Savior holds me close to Him. 

My family's love secures me.

I could not bear this on my own--

memories knocking at my heart.

 

For that would be a deeper grief

than I have ever known,

memories knocking at my heart,

and facing them alone. 

                                                                            11/15/23

Soaking in the Son

      This is another phone poem written on my phone. And another poem written at a hotel. I hated it yesterday. That happens, a writer does not have to love all her brain children. But today we have made a tentative peace. If it continues, I will post it.

Soaking in the Son

 

Thank you Lord for this,

for all the times like this,

sitting in front of a nice hotel

soaking in the sun,

when there is none at home.

For a time without schedules and lists

to think, and to breathe, and to be,

just be a daughter of a King

who loves me. Whom I do not,

cannot even, thank as I should.

And I go from these sunny respites

to a much more beautiful land,

to the place, people and purposes 

you have planned for me.

So many blessing, too few words.

And if this is how you choose

to bless me on a fallen Earth,

far from my King and Father,

what will heaven be like

when I come home to you?

 

To an indescribable land and

the people, purpose and home

you have planned for me. 

Soaking in the Son for all time,

yet still unable to thank you enough.

Quiet Quitting

     When we checked into our hotel on Monday, I was afraid it was in the midst of quiet quitting. That is the latest term for people who show up at work but give it their minimum effort. We used to call it being lazy--or a government employee. Lazy is also the housekeeping plan they encouraged us to choose--Decline service. No way! I can decline housekeeping at home. I would love to quiet quit that entirely. Since we are staying here for two weeks, they waived the $10 per day parking fee. Which they never had before. (And we have only seen at Marriotts in much swankier locations.) The airport Residence is hardly an in demand area. As platinum members of Marriott rewards, they are supposed to give us free bottles of water at check in. They did not, until we specifically asked. And our plutonium status also entitles us to either extra points or an item from their snack shop, I planned to do the latter, but she warned me to check it out first. I did. It was only one quarter full. The market pantry was definitely quiet quitting.

    I was looking forward to a cup of coffee from the urn in the lobby, but theirs is only available at breakfast. When we got to our room, it did not have an alarm clock or the USB ports which even flea bag hotels now have. I have so many good memories of sitting on the bench in front of this hotel, reading, knitting, praying, and just enjoying the afternoon sun. The bench is gone. Tuesday I was going to print statements from our bank and credit card companies on the secure internet in the business center. They had two nice printers. No computers. The desk agent told me where to go (to have documents printed). He said they haven't had computers since Covid. I was unaware computers could die of Covid and none of the other hotels where we have stayed are that paranoid about computer Covid cooties anymore. A business center without computers is definitely quiet quitting.

     Before we left for dinner Monday, I actually asked the front desk gal if the hotel was going out of business. She said no. The next day's breakfast, however, said yes. Both at 7:30 when Reed ate breakfast, and at 8:30 when I did, there was a only spoonful (hopefully not the same spoonful) of eggs in the breakfast bar that was supposed to be open until 9:30. Not a fan of eggs anyway, I decided to have oatmeal, but it had congealed into a hard mass that would not come out of the pot. My memories of their former assortment of fruit, cheese and pastries began to congeal too.

    I'm happy to report that things have improved. They managed to track down an alarm clock for our room and Reed had enough adapters for our USB needs. Breakfast the rest of the week has been pretty good, although they were offering bananas so brown I would only have used them to bake with. There are no flavored creamers for the coffee, but that is more than made up for by the pumpkin spice Torani coffee syrup the last two days. They even have cold brew coffee, which I have never seen in a hotel before. And for three evenings in a row, in the lobby spot where coffee used to be, there have been cookies instead. And as of Sunday, there is coffee in the lobby. Reed told a reservations gal at West Star what seemed to be missing from the hotel and she knew the manager, so that is probably what brought about the change. Sometimes it pays to be the squeaky wheel. There are even a few more items in the snack shop now.

    It helps a lot that it has been sunny and warm the past two days, so I am making new memories sitting in their courtyard until the sun quietly quits behind the neighboring hotel. So maybe the hotel is not quiet quitting, maybe it is just some of the employees. . . and whoever buys computers  . . . and orders alarm clocks . . . and breakfast items . . . and snacks. And with that, I'll quit.

When the King Meets His Steward

 

      I am still having a hard time harmonizing the diet that is eating it's way through the women of our church with scripture. Jesus commanded his followers "Not to worry about what you will eat drink or put on." (Mt. 6:25). Peter tells women to not focus on outward adornment but a beautiful spirit (1 Pet. 3:3,4). And in the Old Testament 1 Sam. 16:7 says, "For the Lord does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart."

    I have asked a couple Christian friends for perspective. My perspective is that of a mother seeing her son's healthy weight, physically fit, dead body in a casket. Yes, I care what my body looks like and, of course, I want to be healthy, but having struggled with an eating disorder off and on for 20 years, I do not want to waste any more hours of my life focused on food. My concern for some of these women, including the one promoting it in our church and on Facebook, is that it is easy to mistake controlling food intake with controlling your life. The latter is a job the Lord reserves for Himself. 

    At ladies functions, I feel like a recovering alcoholic whose friends have started drinking. Maybe control issues will not be a problem for most of them, but I hate to see mature Christian women focusing on their figure flaws and food when, without exception, these are not the bodies we keep. Certainly there are no specific commands against dieting, but what we eat and drink is to glorify God (1 Cor 10:31) and our focus is to be on the eternal, not the temporary (2 Cor. 4:18). 

    I do not want to discourage women who have felt trapped for years by their weight or appetite, but my prison looked a lot like where they are living now--focusing significant time and effort on an artificial eating plan. I have known from the beginning that I cannot follow this diet because I know my addiction voice would roar back to life. I am also praying for those I think might be confusing controlling their weight with controlling their life. I know what they are eating, but I am afraid that what some of them are drinking is this world's Kool-Aid--to value yourself based on youthful appearance, fitness, weight, and that by these things we control our own lifespan. Once again, God has already called dibs on that. Maybe I can work this dilemma out of my system with a poem.

 

  When the King Meets His Steward  

 

 When the King meets His steward

    and the steward must account 

    for the time and resources given

    for the service of the King--

 

He will not ask 

   the size of your thighs or your jeans,

   how much your body weighed

   before it was buried or cremated,

   whether your skin was wrinkled or smooth.

   How many miles you hiked,

   unless it was in his service,

   how healthy your body was

   or how fit it looked

   when your soul left it.

 

There is nothing wrong with

health, hobbies and appearance

except that they do not matter

to the King, or in His kingdom.

 

They do not matter because--

  these are not the bodies we keep,

  and trying to save their youthful

  weight, vigor and appearance

  is dead weight in the eternal realm.

 

We are the stewards of our bodies,

the King is the owner.

They are not part of the treasure  

His stewards are commanded 

to be saving up in heaven

because--

  When the king meets His steward,

  He provides a brand new body

  worthy of a servant of the King

  and the service of His kingdom.

An aging steward's priority

should not be what time has done to me.

This body is an earthly thing

from which I'll then be free.

Relieved, I do not have to bring

this worthless treasure to my King.

 

 

 

   

 

Joy Takes Wing

    If not for Grandma day with Ren, I might have missed the birds. I had noticed them, even just from the shadows where the sun touched the bedroom floor--birds, masses of them circling. But I would not have stayed outside to watch them if Ren had not been here, painting rocks with water by our fountain. Because I was with Ren, I didn't feel guilty wasting time watching birds. I always enjoy those times when they fly from tree to tree and speculate about who is in charge of the spectacle. Even after Ren left, I sat outside watching and wrote the following on my phone.               

Joy Takes Wing

With a fluttering of wings

like sheets snapping in the wind,

 the birds wheel from tree to tree.

 I, who watch them from below,

 wondering, would seek to know

 who tells them where

 and when to move?

 Savior, is it you?

 

 Whatever shelter there may be

 upon the branches of the tree

 lasts but a moment, then they flee.

 And though I do not understand

 the purpose in their hectic plan,

 I cannot tear myself away.

 Perhaps, Lord, nor can you.

  

Some, with scientific words

 like murmuration, say the birds

 are safer in great numbers.

 But most admit their ignorance

 of why sometimes birds choose to dance

 their noisy, aerial ballet.

 What would their Creator say?

 

 Perhaps, like me, He loves to see

 their high hopscotch from tree to tree

 just for His own enjoyment.

 For all His creatures here below,

 it gratifies God’s heart to know

 we delight in the world He made,

 and look up when we have the chance

 to watch joy take wing and dance.

 

10/18/23

Writer's Remorse

     I knew the process of getting published had changed, after all, most of what I now read are eBooks on Kindle. I sometimes miss the feel and texture of physical books, but I don't miss going to the library, especially ours. Since Flathead County Library (isn't that simple and concise) became Imagine If, and my library card read like a loyalty card to an adult book store--No Questions, No Judgments, No Values (oops, that last one was mine), I have rarely darkened the door of our library. But until a recent guest in our home, driveway actually (they slept in their camper) encouraged me to publish my poetry, and explained how simple it was on Kindle Direct Publishing, having my writing published remained an elusive dream. Since Jeanette Windle is an excellent writer, her encouraging words about my poetry gave me the push I needed to, at least, check into getting published. After all, I didn't have to write anything, I just needed to organize what I had already written.

    Since bringing order out of chaos is something I gravitate to, braiding together my grief journal, poems and blog flowed fairly easily. It seemed like something I should have thought of in the first place. My niece, and fellow writer, with a communications degree got me started on the KDP website and had a cover whipped up in no time. I wanted a picture with a lamb and she found one free on a website she uses. I knew there would be lots of formatting changes going from full sheet Word documents to an eBook and she showed me how to do that also. I wanted to foist the formatting job off on her, and would gladly finance the foisting, but if there are going to be more of my writings out there, I really should learn how to use the program. This mostly consisted of making page breaks between my prose and my poems. Fortunately, all but three of my poems fit on one page, so I did not have to split many of my brainchildren in half. Unfortunately, as I have sometimes experienced using Word, the titles which had started out centered became skewed and I spent a ridiculous amount of time unskewing and uploading them. By then I just wanted to save my text before anything worse happened to it. 

    The next step was figuring out price. I was thinking $.99 since that is what I am willing to pay for eBooks on Book Bub and my book is less than 70 pages, but Jeanette recommended at least $2.99. For one thing that is the bottom threshold for earning 70% royalties but, since I am hoping my book can be used as a ministry to the grieving, I will have the option to let people download it for free from time to time, and the distance from $2.99 to free is greater than the price drop from 99 cents. From there KDP needed info on where to send my huge earnings and tax information for my I-9 so I don't try to cheat the IRS out of their potential $7 share. 

    At first, seeing my work previewed in an eBook made me feel like an actual author. Then, formatting the book made me feel like just another frustrated computer user. After that, things kind of got away from me and I felt like I did when Reed and I got engaged at 19, or when I found out I was pregnant. (To clarify, those events were six years apart.) Writer's remorse, I assume. But then Reed, who has long wanted me to publish a book (under the delusion that it would bring in so much money he could quit his day job), reminded me it is not all that different from when I post a blog. Not only have I done that hundreds of times, I am doing it right now. The worst thing that could happen is that nobody reads my book and, for me, that seems about write.

     

I, Connie, Take Thee, Jesus

     Our BSF lesson this week was about John chapter 3, so naturally, there was lots of discussion about what it means to be born again. Most of the women in my class are much younger in both age and in their Christian walk than I am, so their understanding of, or at least the way they expressed what it means to be born again, was a little fuzzy. However, they are right that there is a process involved in rebirth, and the following illustration from physical birth, was helpful to me. Just as a baby forms secretly and silently for months before its birth, in the same way, God prepares his children to receive Him. But actual birth, both physical and spiritual, is a definite event, the first in time, the second in eternity. 

    Ezekiel 36:26 describes this change as a heart transplant, God replaces our heart of stone with a heart of flesh. Looking back, God prepared me for surgery for many years, in hundreds of ways until (due to my own stubbornness) I was willing to trust Christ. I picture being born again like wedding vows, so today's blog is my personalization of traditional vows.

 

 

I, Connie, take thee, Jesus, 

to be my Lord and Savior, 

to have and to someday hold,

from this day forward, 

for better, for worse,

for richer, for poorer, 

in sickness and in health, 

to love and to cherish, 

to honor and obey.

And death cannot part us.

For then we will love each other 

face to face

forever.