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.

 

 

Connie the Gray

    This post is not about my hair which, under the dye, has gone from gray to white, this is about cleaning. When I think about how much housecleaning I used to do compared to now, it reminds me of the scene in Lord of the Rings where three of the good guys encounter Gandalf the wizard, whom they thought was dead. Apparently, even Gandalf thought he was dead because, when they call his name he says, "Gandalf? . . . Yes, that was what they used to call me . . . Gandalf the Gray." Admittedly, nobody ever used to call me Connie the Cleaner, but it would not have been too inaccurate. I still like things to be clean, I've just lost interest in being the one who makes them that way. Of course, the house does not get as dirty now as when we were full time parents, but I probably do less housecleaning in a month than I did on a typical Friday back then. 

     Today I noticed that my kitchen counters had reached the point where a wipe down with the dishcloth was not enough, so I decided to clean the kitchen. My new best buddy for cleaning is shaving cream. It works well, smells good, and makes me feel like I am finger painting instead of cleaning. While I was creaming the microwave, I discovered two things  I had long forgotten: 

                              1. The microwave has a back.

                              2. The back is not self cleaning.

Those are the type of details one forgets if one doesn't clean frequently. Not that I intend to change anything. My house is one of the many things I will leave behind when I go to my real home--heaven.  So, if the standards I once had for my home are now a distant memory from a cleaner, whiter existence,   

  -if the front of my fridge looks like I am preserving fingerprints for posterity

  -if no sane bird would mistake my front windows for open air

  -if my Norwex cleaning cloths die of neglect

  -if I am content to live with dust until that is what I become

feel free  to call me Connie the Gray. (As long as you're not referring to my hair!)

The Best Day Ever

     When my son-in-law, Luke, told me he wanted to get Britten away for a few days to celebrate their 20th anniversary, I thought that was wonderful. We agreed to watch the girls while they were gone. Knowing "we" meant mostly me, I had a few things I wondered about too. Being decades away from both full time childcare and, most importantly, energy, I wondered if I could keep up with my three and six year old granddaughters. I have a Grandma day with each of my three granddaughters on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but that is only for a few hours at a time, one at a time. On Grandma days, I am at their disposal. No work, just play. And they decide what we play. 

    As a mom, I took care of our three kids along with my many responsibilities at home because we would not have had food to eat, clean clothes, or a functional home otherwise, but as a Grandma, I hate to waste our precious time together on such trivial tasks. Yet, on a two day visit, house chores were bound to come up. Also, Britten's girls have outgrown afternoon naps, which was when I used to study the Bible when my kids were little. Actually, afternoons are still my preferred time for that, so I wasn't sure how to work my BSF lesson in with the girls around. I also wasn't sure what to feed them since their picky eater meters vary by the day and hour. Besides that, on our last experience with Brie sleeping over, she was still awake and talkative at 11:30 p.m. Reed and I, however, did not want to be awake, much less talk, that time of night. And Ren, who sometimes can be consoled only by her Mama, had never slept over anywhere. In many ways, this was going to be an experiment, a test of my dormant mothering disciplines.

     The first activity I had planned after Luke dropped off the girls was painting rocks. Lest anyone think I am either creative enough or crazy enough to use actual paint, we paint rocks with water, an idea I copied from the BSF children's program. Our front yard fountain is lined with river rock and water makes even the most ordinary one look beautiful. It accentuates colors, layers and textures barely noticeable when they are dry. Rock painting was followed by play dough, water painting pictures, popcorn chicken and mac and cheese for dinner, plus umpteen episodes of the Australian cartoon "Bluey". After jammies, brushing teeth, and a stack of bedtime stories, I tucked them in, hoping their day bed and trundle sleeping arrangement would work out. 

    Then Brie asked me, "Was this your best day ever, Grandma? We got to paint rocks, play and have dinner together, then a sleepover." Brie's words were the water that changed my day of childcare responsibilities from duty into beauty. I laid down with an angel in kitty pajamas until she fell asleep and thought about the day. Isaiah 11:6 says, ". . . And a little child shall lead them." Thank you Brie, for helping me see the best day ever.

What Eve Sang

    My pastor might be a little disappointed that, as he began his message on spiritual gifts, this was what I was thinking about. I had never had this thought before. I'm sure after she was a mom Eve sang lullabies, but what did she sing before that? Because I cannot imagine sitting in the splendor of Eden and not singing. This turned out a little more rhymed than I intended, but I have no idea how to fix it, so I will post it anyway. Sometimes, that is how poetry works . . . and my knitting.

 

What Eve Sang

 

What did you sing in the garden, 

mother of us all, Eve in Eden?

For who could not sing in paradise,

in a world that had just begun?

FOR

 

As the morning stars sang at creation,

and the birds sang on their first day,

what did you sing in the garden

before sin took perfection away?

GOD

What did you sing as you waited

for your evening walk with the Lord, 

where you met in the cool of the garden,

heard the love in the voice of God?

SO

 

What was it like to talk with God

             in Eden, Earth's most special place?               

The song my heart sings is of longing

to speak, as you did, face to face. 

LOVED

 

Though I cannot imagine perfection

or a world without dying and sin,

may I sing with you in the garden

that the Earth will become again? 

ME

8/13/23

 

 

 

 

The Lamb's Lament

     Lamentations is a difficult book of the Bible to read. Most of it is bad news, very bad news for Judah and Jerusalem. But it became easier for me to study this year when I found out that it was not just a collection of sad snapshots of the destruction of Jerusalem. Jeremiah organized his lament into acrostics of the 22 letters of the Hebrew alphabet and groups of 22 stanzas. Even the longest chapter, 3, is a multiple of 22, 66 verses. Jeremiah could not bring order out of the chaos in Jerusalem, but he could organize his thoughts about it. I like symmetry in poetry, so when one of the lesson questions asked us to write a prayer of suffering in acrostic form, I was ready to find a new way to express my grief. This does not reflect how I feel every day, but Jeremiah did not wrap a spiritual sounding sugarcoating around his sorrow, and neither will I.

All my life you have been faithful and kind to me, even in hardship,

But now, Lord, I am broken. You have taken away my

Child, my son. I know he lives in heaven, but this hurt is so

Deep, sometimes I cannot bear it.

Even the

Familiar comfort of your words, fail to lift the crushing

Grief I feel in my

Heart.

I love you and I know you love me. You gave

Jesus, your Son, to save mine. I know you

Keep him safe now from the sin that tried to destroy him. Your

Love surrounds him now, but I

Miss my son with a fierceness beyond words. Do

Not let it turn me away from you. You know

Our hearts are

Prone to stray.

Quiet my soul so that I can

Rest.

So many nights I struggle to sleep.

Turn my tears into prayers, and later, praise.

Until I see my son again, let your

Voice strengthen me to

Wait patiently. Help me be an

eXample of trust and faithfulness through the

Years to come. Let my

Zeal for heaven flow from love and not despair.

My heart is yours Lord, but it is broken.