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On the hearth of my fireplace sits a clear gooseneck bottle with four artificial cotton stems.  A few weeks ago the urge hit me to totally change my eclectic decor in the living room to a Texas theme.  It was just a matter of time that my Great State affections would manifest themselves in my home.  

Recently one morning I opened up the front door, steaming black coffee in hand – I like to porch sit first thing.  That was my intention.  And there it was.  All by itself.

“Well, hello there little tumbleweed.”

This little wheat-colored stem with a weed-blossom the shape of a firecracker rested on the cement next to my turquoise chairs.  All by its lonesome.  Just blew in from who knows where.

I picked it up and twirled it around a bit, just looking at it.  Thinking.

When I first arrived here I felt like that little tumbleweed.  All by my lonesome.  Not really a destination, but landed on the front porch of my cousin’s house, hoping I’d find my way.

The first week at my new job I was walking down the school hallway and laughed in delight when I saw my first one.  A tumbleweed as big as two tractor tires.  Huge.  A collection of a lot of little sticks and branches, all tangled up and weaved into a wiry light brown mess.  It kept hangin out by the windows.  Even bits of colored cloth, red, and white were in the mix.  It frequently rolled back and forth with the wind, bouncing from one side of the brick building to the other until the custodian took it away.

Patronize me a bit here.  This city girl came to Texas once a year.  Born here, then Dad took us on to a different life when I was just a little girl.

I loved coming to visit all of the relatives.  Memories of aunts, uncles, and tons of cousins crammed into a tiny house on Hines Street on holidays.  Drinking sweet tea thick as syrup out of jelly jars.  Laughter was contagious as the adults drank beer, played cards and yelled at us kids running through the house, ‘Stay in or out!’  We never listened.  Each visit we’d have crazy fun for about three or four days then head back to Missouri.  To wait another year.

This time I decided to stay a bit longer.  And it’s growing on me.

Wild hogs, big trucks, rattlesnakes, red lakes, Texas flags everywhere!  Chicken fried steak, jets flying over from the air base, cowboy boots, and tumbleweeds.  Rodeos and tractor pulls.  Mesquite trees.  And the gentlemen say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

When I’ve been out in the country, visiting a friend’s happy place where she rides horses and I get to be about ten feet away from sheep, goats, and longhorns — or visit my cousin’s ranch and feast my eyes on the monstrous green cacti with yellow blooms, rocky cliffs overlooking the river — the peace is tranquillizing. I haven’t experienced that inner soothing since I drove my son up to Montana for his first year of college baseball.  Small town of Glendive, about 5000.  I still remember his bright eyes and smile as we were unloading the car and carrying his belongings to his dorm room.  In the middle of the badlands, those mountainous rock formations in the background, his face lit up, “Mom!  Mom!”

“Do you hear that!” He covered his chest with both hands.  “The quiet!  The peace!  You can almost hear the quiet, Mom.  It’s so good here.”

I do remember a relaxing, a sort of settling in my soul I’d never experienced before.  And joy remembering his excitement.  

That joy carried me through the three flights it took me to get back to Missouri.  It was going to be tough leaving him there.

Our lives had been like that twisting of the huge tumbleweed.  Just as it thought about resting a minute, it was taken captive by the wind.  We were stuck like that tumbleweed in the school yard. Tossed back and forth, skipping around and around.  Or if the wind blew hard enough beaten against the walls of the school building in that outside corridor it was stuck in.  There was one opening.  And we found it.

It’s different living in a smaller town.  In the big city  I’d drive 30 minutes to meet for lunch, or 45 minutes to a meeting.  Freeway traffic.  

It takes 2 or 3 minutes to get to most places.  I have to chuckle when I hear one of my cousins groaning about driving all the way across town maybe 10 minutes, or if I hear about a traffic backup on the radio.  Very funny.  Um, no.  You don’t really understand traffic.  I don’t miss that challenge at all.

And U-turns! The first week I was here I almost shouted at my cousin, “What are you doing!?”  as she turned into one.  I was like, “Are you crazy?  That’s illegal!”  I fully expected a cop to pull us over.

“No, cuz, you’re the one that’s crazy.  U-turns are legal here.  Try it.”

I couldn’t bring myself to do it, so one afternoon she said, “Get in this car, cuz, we’re practicin’ u-turns.”

I’m not kidding.

So if you saw two ladies drivin’ up and down the road doing u-turn after u-turn it was us.  And yes, you probably heard a few ‘Yee-Haws!’ amongst the giggles.  That’s kind of how it goes.

It’s the simple things.  Remember that.  And laugh.  Keep laughing.

As far as the tumbleweed?  I stuck it in the glass bottle with my cotton stems.  It’s happy there.  Looks quite nice.

Maybe a resemblance of all of the renewed relationships with family, new relationships with friends, coworkers, and church family – it looks quite settled in there.  At least for now.

The little tumbleweed rests.  Unless the wind blows hard enough it might just fly out of that bottle and skip on down the road.

We’ll see.

One thing I know for sure, it’s not twisted inside an entangled mess of disheveled branches, weaving every which way tighter into maelstrom.  You might have to look that word up.  I had to.  

I’ll take the peace.

 

 

 

 

In spite of not seeing my own children, it’s been a terrific Mother’s Day.  Many of us have entered seasons where our children are grown and far away.  Technology helps bridge this gap with face time, phone calls, facebook, emails.  It helps us to keep in touch!  But nothing replaces human contact.  Seeing the ones you love in person!

Today I was welcomed into the home of a new friend whom I’ve grown very close to.  Her whole family embraced me.  Her husband, his parents, her parents, and their three children.  We had delicious steaks, baked potatoes, salad and dessert.  They surprised me with presents, and I enjoyed seeing them all in genuine form.  Laughing, teasing one another, the little one deciding it was too hot to have clothes on, just all letting their hair down and being real!  Telling their family stories.  I was truly blessed to be a part of the party.

Then the real surprise came.  I learned my friend’s mother attended the church my grandmother attended.  For years.  All her life essentially.  I asked her if she knew my grandmother.  Avon Cox.  She excitedly said, “Yes!  I do!”

Then she continued, “And I have an amazing story to share about your family!”

Anita remembered being at the hospital visiting her pastor from the church.  The same church my grandmother attended.  This was sometime in the late 1990’s.  On that particular day my grandmother, 88 years old was also at that hospital.  She didn’t have much time left.  

She told me as she was in her pastor’s hospital room chatting with people from her church, a young woman came into the room.  Her face was full of grief and asked for ‘Anita’, and told them she’d been told she could sing.  She explained that her grandmother was sick, and wondered if she knew her grandmother’s favorite song, “He Lives”.  She asked if she would come and sing it over her grandmother.

As Anita shared the story with me she told me several people were in the room.  She had followed the young woman and sang over her friend Avon.  She knew her.  She told me she felt so blessed to have had the opportunity to do that.

I’d taken a flight to be with my family that weekend.  I knew my grandmother had a very short time left.  And as she told me the story, I remembered every detail.  I remembered how beautifully she sang as she belted out the verses acapella.  Then it was my turn to share.

“Anita.”  I smiled at her.  “That young woman was me.  It was me.”

 

“Is that your Easter dress?”

“Yes!”  The 9-year-old smiled proudly dressed in skinny jeans and a salmon Easter dress with purple and white flowers.

“You look so pretty!”,  I complimented her as I watched the third-grader shuffle down the hallway in her white sandals, brunette pony-tail swishing left and right.

As I stood in the hall greeting children coming in the day after the long Easter weekend, I remembered my own Easter dresses long ago.

One year my sister and I wore matching yellow shift dresses with daisies sewn in a row down the front.  White gloves and white patent leather shoes.  White lace-topped anklets.  Mom sewed our dresses each year and she and Dad took us to church.  We got to run in the park in our dress clothes as fast as we could to find the colored plastic Easter eggs filled with candy or money.  Dad hid them behind the trees, under the picnic tables, and throughout the grass.

We always had dinner at home with ham, green beans, rolls, and mashed potatoes.  Mom made us a homemade cake from a box for dessert.  We got to lick the beaters from the icing when she made it the day before.  Usually chocolate.

I didn’t really remember much about the church service, just that Jesus died on the cross.  I was too excited about the Easter egg hunt and admiring my new clothes and pretty shoes.  I do remember feeling safe with my family.  My people.

Fast forward over fifty Easter Sundays and I was excited about wearing my new dress with turquoise print.  I’ve moved three states away from my childhood home, and dinner was at my cousin’s house where I joined over thirty extended family members.  Ham, mashed potatoes, potato salad, green bean casserole, rolls – a similar menu including Texas sheet cake and a cousin specialty strawberry cake.  We laughed and enjoyed watching the children run through the yard picking up their Easter eggs in the hunt, each one wearing their Easter clothes.  Adults joined the fun smashing confetti eggs on each other.  Thousands of colored bits of paper littered the grass.

I did remember more of the church service.  And I felt safe with my people– church family and extended family.

And the Pastor did speak of Jesus dying on the cross.  But there was more.  He spoke of Resurrection Power.  And a new beginning.

When my first son was born the nurses brought him to me and placed him on my chest.  He’d just been delivered by C-section and in the moment of physical trauma seeing his tiny face, fingers, and toes brought unexplainable joy to my soul.  My immediate thought was, “How in this world can anyone not believe in God who creates a life as amazing as this!”

As I grew older sitting in church on Easter Sunday I began to hear about Jesus dying on the cross, being buried, and rising on the third day.  Pastors often talked about ‘resurrection power’ throughout the year and not just on Easter Sunday.

As I turn the corner in an older season in my life, I have hope for eternal life because of Jesus’ shed blood on the cross.  I also have hope for that power that’s spoken of, and see it growing stronger in my life.  I really never understood it before.

My life hasn’t turned out the way I’d planned.  Maybe yours hasn’t either.  A failed marriage, losing my mother to cancer at an early age, and a son with years of drug addiction.  Other situations I couldn’t speak of.

God has seen me through it all, and most recently given me the strength and courage to pack up my things and start over, leaving years of familiar surroundings and relationships.  To move along His path into the unfamiliar and unknown.

Easter Sunday is now a memory past.  New clothes are put away, and plastic eggs are stored for next year.  All the candy and boiled eggs have been eaten.  Leftover ham is gone.

The power the pastor spoke of?  It’s still available.  A week later.  It will be available to us all year.

What are you facing today?  What are you struggling with?

If you’ll just call out to Him, He’ll hear you.  I promise.

There’s hope for a new beginning, because of what Jesus did on the cross.  I’m living it.

So I’ll keep believing, and in the meantime plan a trip to go see some of my ‘people’.  The guy who hid the Easter eggs for us.  He’s still around.  One of the people who made me feel safe.

 I watched a You-tube video of a woman in her 60’s lamenting over past years of lost opportunities.  She encouraged her followers to share things they wished they’d done.  I kept reading posts and slumped lower in my office chair.

I wish I’d taken that trip. 

Finished my degree.

Relocated for that great job.

Left the toxic relationship earlier.

That depression demon pressed on my shoulders and hit replay in my brain…searching my own past until I wacked my forehead to rattle it loose!

What? Why don’t we just throw ourselves down on our yoga mats and chant ‘Oh woe is me!’

Girlfriend!  You are not dead yet!  No matter if you’re 20 or 80 you and I share something beautiful.

Choice.

We have the power to choose.

Take the trip!  Sell something.  Save your daily coffee money.

Enroll in a course!

Want to be closer to God?  Read your Bible.  Pray.

For me, it’s a matter of mind set.

Setting goals.  Finding a focus.  Spending time with my heavenly Father.

Then taking action.

We can’t waste anymore time with limited beliefs!

You’re stronger than you think.

And you might just find a fun way of embracing life in your new season.

I have.

By putting on my power boots.

Last May we lost my uncle and my family helped get his home ready for an estate sale.  I was thankful I’d been able to spend a little time with him since I’d moved to Texas.

Every year my parents would travel 7 hours from K.C. to visit our extended family for Thanksgiving or Christmas.  I remember Uncle Penny wearing fancy pearl-button shirts, cowboy boots and hats.  He smiled a big Texas smile and hugged you hard.

I sat in the floor of the master bedroom sifting through his personal belongings.  I know I didn’t understand the depth of emotion my cousin was experiencing.  Our moms were sisters.  I feel deeply connected to her and wanted to be there for her.

I remember looking at several pairs of boots standing lifeless in the bottom of my uncle’s closet.  He bought nice ones.  Each pair carried hidden stories of places they took him.  I secretly wished I could have a pair to keep.  To cherish.

My cousin and I tried on her dad’s boots and hats one of the work days.  We laughed and played, remembering her dad.  His boots fit us both!

When she told me to pick out a pair, I was so happy.  Before we were through with the sale I had four pairs resting on the bottom shelf of my bookcase.

One brown leather pair fit well and I began wearing them often.  Even in 90 degree weather!  My cousins teased me a bit.

To me they were a symbol of love, family, and strength.

I traveled alone for three weeks that July attending a wedding, seeing family, then back home.  For fun I texted a picture of me wearing the boots to my cousin.  I told her I’d be fine because I had her daddy’s boots on.

Power Boots.

It just kind of stuck.

I feel confident and strong wearing them.  They just feel right.

Let go of your past!  Embrace your new season.

We have to move forward.

It’s up to us to do the work.  If we remain in passivity and paralyzed by regrets, we can’t expect anything to change.

We can choose to make things happen.

Set goals.  Determine a focus.  Put your plans into action.

Girl!  Get yourself  some power boots and go get the rest of your life!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The last day before we had a nice long break from the classroom, our staff at school had a Christmas ornament exchange.   When my number came up,  I unwrapped a delicate red and gold painted Santa.  It was stolen right away by a teacher that collected them.  My final choice was two little fluffy sheep.  I saw them and fell in love.  I captured them from our librarian and she wasn’t too happy with me.  I couldn’t help it.   These two adorable little lambs smiled at me, adorned with green holly and bells.  I couldn’t ignore the deep personal meaning they held for me.  No one else in the room was aware what I held in my heart in the midst of the frustration or laughter involved with our game.

I kept thinking these words, “My sheep hear my voice.”  I wanted to bring them home and hang them on my tree.  Two little toy sheep.  Captivating.  Amazingly symbolic.

“My sheep hear my voice.”

As I walked through the front door of this new year before us, I thought about a recent facebook post and chuckled.  An acquaintance took pictures of himself, his wife and their two children ‘stepping into the new year’.  The post read, “We’re putting our right foot forward as we step into this new year.”    But as I step through, even purposing to ‘put my right forward’ so-to-speak’, I have no idea where it will take me.   None of us really do.  As I contemplate the events over  the last almost 15 months of my life, I just feel amazing gratitude.  I realize I’m in a place I never thought I would be.  Have taken on tasks I never thought I had the courage to.  Have spoken words to people in strength I never thought I had.

When I think about this year, I can only get this far.  Putting God first.  Reading His word more.  Praying more.  Trusting Him more.  That’s all I can do.  And personally I think as I hope or dream and plan for other things in this life, it’s where I need to begin.  Again.

So when I saw those little lambs, I was reminded of God’s promise, “My sheep hear my voice.”

I want to follow His best path for my life.  And keep following it.

So far He hasn’t let me down.  And I know that’s impossible, because His ways are far better than mine.

He shut those blue eyes and screamed!

Cutting remarks from two girls in the recess line proved to be his breaking point.   Three 3rd graders stood in front of me, cheeks red from the heat.  I tried hard speaking words of encouragement and ‘team’.

This guy had enough.  Fumbling with words to explain why his outburst wasn’t a good choice,  I asked, “Is this how you handle frustration at home?”

“Yes!”  The mad face stared me down.   I probably shouldn’t have asked.

Parents honestly have no idea what it’s like to be on the front lines.  You just don’t.

I work with amazing people.  Adults that have chosen to dedicate their lives teaching your children.  They arrive early, stay late, spend their own money, cry over and pray for your children.  They enroll in higher education equipping themselves to provide an outstanding learning environment for your kids.

I remember what it was like on the other side.

Every morning my three boys climbed onto that big yellow school bus.  I hated not knowing what really happened each day.

Two mornings a week I graded papers, read to students, laminated — whatever the teachers needed.  I remembered not quite feeling accepted,  but that wasn’t important.  I chose to be where my children were, and decided to support the adults that spent 40 hours per week with them.

A distraught middle school teacher called me one afternoon about one of my son’s incessant talking in class.  I climbed the ‘not my child’ fence high!  “Not my well-behaved top-achieving son!”

I remember talking circles around her and feeling annoyed she would bother me with this pettiness.

We hung up.

But wait!

For the first time in my stay-at-home-mother-my-kids-do-no-wrong-life — the light bulb went on.

I dialed the number back but she was gone.  I left her an apologetic voice mail, thanking her and affirming that my son needed a bit of ‘reckoning’ that day.   My son’s teacher took extra time after school to call me.  Then she had to leave feeling defeated after another exasperating day with middle schoolers.

I must save her!  I must come to her rescue!

I left my toddler with my husband and dinner cooking on the stove.  I explained I had an important mission that couldn’t wait.

Embarrassed and mad,  this mother marched straight into the office.  I waited while the principal pulled my out-spoken 8th grader out of basketball practice.

“Is your office available?”

“Of course.”

Puzzled,  my son followed me into the room and I shut the door.  I told him I wasn’t pleased with his teacher being upset,  and ordered him to figure it out.  The encourager in me reminded him his loud voice would bless others eventually but for now he needed to learn self-control.

Parents!   Teachers need your encouragement.

Chocolate?  Sure.  That works.

How about just saying thank you!   And if they call asking for help — listen with your heart.

They truly care about your kids.

I hope your lightbulb switches on like mind did.

 

 

I had a terrible experience with trying to get my taxes done.

Last week I was on spring break, and that was one of the most  important things on my ‘to do’ list.  With April 15 looming just around the corner,  I started searching for a group of volunteer tax preparers.  On my limited income,  I’m always looking for ways I can cut corners, and I had a great experience last year with a local group.  I found an open session at the library  early in the week,  walked in and signed up on the list.  I waited and waited,  but that was no problem.  It’s a free service and you just expect that when you go in.

I sat at a table with an elderly gentleman that had much to share.  He rambled on and on with stories of his life including  the “daughter-in-law from hell.”   Too much information for me,  but I just continued to listen and fill out my paperwork.  The man explained that his son ended up losing their home because she never paid the house payments.  Said she used the money for drugs then waited for my response.  By his facial expression I think he was hoping to get a shock reaction out of me.

I just nodded, and made a ‘Hmmm’ sound.

Nothing surprises me anymore,  because stuff like this happens.  I’ve seen plenty of adversity in my own life and other people’s lives.    I did wonder about the deeper insights of his story though,  questioning who enabled who – but realized it certainly wasn’t any of my business.

The old guy had some colorful words to describe a man that had cut in front of him in line and scribbled his signature on the list ahead of him.  He kept going on and on about it, and I kept writing information on the tax forms,  giggling a bit inside whenever he spit out a cuss word.

The hostess lady was cute.  Petite.

Told me she worked for a local school district for over 30 years as a teacher.  2nd grade.  4th grade.  Being friendly to her turned on a faucet of opinions about public education.  She was quite concerned when spelling and cursive writing were taken out of the curriculum for elementary students.   Her favorite experience was with kindergarteners.  Her face almost wore a scowl as she complained about the difficult work expected from the young students.  She reminisced over 1/2 day kindergarten, nap mats, and play centers.  I agreed with her.  Those 5-year-old babies are immersed in a world of academic structure that can wait,  if you ask me.

But then,  I’m not in charge.  I don’t set the standards.

I just go in and love on them and help their teachers.  There’s always something you can do to encourage or help a kindergarten teacher,  and the smart ones accept the help!

Finally,  I am called over to one of the tables.  Remember,  I am the only person left.   The last one on their list.  The volunteers began about 8:00 a.m. and it is now 12:50 p.m.  When I sat down the man didn’t look at me or say ‘hello’.   No smile either.  These might have been my first clues that I was in trouble.

The tax preparer stares at his computer screen,  still doesn’t look at me.  Holds out his hand and blurts, “Okay — Whacha  got?”

“Um…”  I whispered.  Thinking, “My tax information, Bozo.”

I know that wasn’t very nice to think that, but c’mon. Why couldn’t he greet me?

This guy definitely had a different approach from the nice lady last year.  I drew a deep breath and hoped for the best.  I tried the friendly approach,  thanking him for his services.  A few times.  Smiling.  I’m not a difficult case.  I have a small income,  health savings account from work.  It wasn’t like I had to be itemized with 15,000 deductions.  Everything with this guy was a problem.  With each document (and there weren’t very many) he whined and complained, aggravated and groaned.  He told me I was making him nervous because of the possibility I was giving him information that was suspect.  How was this happening to me?  He didn’t even make sense.

I’m thinking, “Who IS this guy?  Why couldn’t I get that nice lady over there?  Or that other older gentleman I watched smiling the entire 2 1/2 hours I’d been waiting?

Instead, I got MR. GRUMBLES.

At one point I called my former husband to prove to this volunteer that I was supposed to claim our son on my taxes.  He didn’t believe me.  He couldn’t decide if I should be single, wondered if I really was divorced, and argumentative and upset that I didn’t have a copy of my divorce decree.  I couldn’t believe how long I sat with him and how he made me feel like such a problem.  It became embarrassing the way he was talking with me, loudly.  People were watching as I continued smiling, and  I hoped  tears wouldn’t visit me which usually happens when I’m caught in a frustrating situation in public trying to take care of personal business.

Good Absolute Grief.

Then something magical happened.  Wow.  Crazy!

I stood up slowly… cautiously,  and pushed my chair in.   I leaned over the table and smiled again at this little man,  gripping the back of the chair tightly with my fists.

Then, looking straight into the mean eyes of this character I yelled,

“I JUST NEED YOUR HELP!  WHAT’S THE PROBLEM?

IF YOU DON’T LIKE VOLUNTEERING, THEN GET OUT OF HERE,  DUDE!”

The man was handing me his computer for an e-signature.

I gasped,  thankful I really didn’t do that.  Shook a little bit.   I’d zoned out for a few seconds in a daydream.  He had no idea he just literally escaped an “I’m trying to be nice to you and you’re not getting it” VOLCANO.   He was real lucky.  And I was real thankful I chose deep breathing and self-control.

As I gathered up my papers and stashed them into the large envelope he gave me, my preparer made mention of another document I needed for verification of my college son’s scholarships and grants.  Could there be any more frustration after everything I just experienced?

The next day I took my already filed tax packet to a reputable tax office.  They quoted me a reasonable fee for an amendment, and were pleasantly helpful and understanding.

I think someone told me once that life’s interruptions are God’s appointments.

Mr. Grumbles,  I think you just needed a smile that day.   A couple.  Well, maybe a lot.

And some kindness.  I realize that now.