A quick glance at the October calendar shows that Halloween is fast approaching. As the warm days of late fall scoot past us, fading into cooler days that require a jacket or heavy sweater, leaves are turning an array of colors….winds are more at play in the air than not….rain teases with hints of snowflakes that will soon become winter’s regular source of joy or disdain depending on perspective. But, before we can build snowmen, or drag out dusty shovels, there is Halloween.

I got to reminiscing of my childhood memories that surround this day of the year tagged as absolutely acceptable to dress up in a cute or outlandish costume…yell at people to come to their doors…and fill your bucket or bag with candy. Lots of candy depending on your neighbors’ generosity or how many houses you’d “hit”….a common form of communicating success back in the late 50s and 60s during my Trick or Treating career. “Hey, how many houses did you ‘hit’”? “How many blocks did your parents let you go?” “Did you get lots of good stuff? Any crummy apples or popcorn balls? Ya, there were always those few people that gave out shiny red apples or homemade popcorn balls. Who wanted those? Not me, as I recall.

My first store bought costume was that of a witch. My outfit consisted of a skirt, cape, hat and mask. I wore that simple costume for at least two or three years…until one year I “went as a hobo”…. No fancy bag or bucket for me. Most of us kids used a pillowcase to carry our candy from house to house, twisting it round and round so our treasures were kept safe as we made our way up and down streets illuminated only by porch lights and the big street lights on corners. We always traveled in small groups–most parents stayed home to hand out candy…very few teenagers joined us because the general rule was by the time you reached junior high age, trick or treating ended for you. The evening was dedicated to the “little kids”…

Our neighborhood had a big number of kids so the age range was wide…there were always enough little kids to entertain every year…and as the boys in our neighborhood got too old, they came up with other ways to enjoy a dark night…

I remember one year that some of the boys–one of my brothers included–came up with a coffin and put Donny in it, dressed in a scary costume. Donny was smaller than the other guys so he was the logical choice for them to carry around….allowing him to pop up every once in a while and yell BOO! They were quite effective….we fed their desire to be scary…running away  screaming in terror…even though we knew it was Donny. There’s something eerie about a dark sky, a neighborhood slowly losing light as porch lights turned off….the boys finding trees or bushes to hide the coffin until a group of us walked by their hiding spots. 

Celebrating Halloween has changed over the years. What usually took about a week to purchase a costume has become big business now, with stores dedicated to this lone holiday. Yard decorations that are lifesize now accompany or replace one lonely jack-o-lantern that sits on a porch waiting for children to arrive. More elaborate costumes hang from clothing racks…taking away any need to make a homemade costume I guess. Are the days of going through family clothes to become a hobo…or cutting up an old sheet to become a mummy or ghost behind us? 

To be honest, Halloween gives me mixed emotions. I miss the simplicity of the event. I miss homemade costumes. I miss staring at the skyline and clock, waiting for complete darkness to swallow the last rays of daylight, signaling it was time to “hit” the sidewalks.  I miss my mom going through my candy, taking the candy bars as though it was some form of payment…I miss the innocence of not worrying about my candy being tampered or tainted…I miss jack-o-lanterns glowing on the corner of porches….I don’t miss getting shiny red apples or homemade popcorn balls…somethings never change in that respect I guess.

Labels

Tanisha. Julie. Stephanie. Gloria. Lisa. Lyndsey. Wendy. Frank. Tom. Branden. Barbara. Jay. Logan. Denise. Jaden. Melissa. Ashley. Tammy. Jason. Cheryl. Dan. Jerrid. 

Everyone named above is either a family member or a friend. Each is unique. Some of them have brown skin…some have white skin…one has red hair….one is a Type I diabetic.. Two of them are in recovery from addictions…one is a doctor and one a teacher….one is a very good friend with graying curly hair…one is adopted…one is Chinese…one has passed away…two are pastors (one female, one male)…one is a single mom…two are “gluten free”….one is very blond…one is a widow….one is a young married mother of two…one is married and has three boys and a daughter…..one is Korean AND adopted….one is gay…

If I were to introduce you to either of these dear people I would say “please meet Tanisha”. If I were talking about her in a conversation with you I would refer to her as Tanisha, one of my very best friends.  I could tell you what a wonderful job she is doing parenting a child all by herself; she is a single mom. Does her skin color matter? No.

What about Frank? Frank is a great guy we met this past summer when he came to our church to speak about global missions work within our denomination. He spent a Saturday night in our home. When I tell you about Frank and the work he’s doing for our Lord, is it important that you know his ethnicity? Not to me it doesn’t.

When I brag about Melissa or introduce her to you….do you NEED to know she’s a Type I diabetic? No, not really, not unless you’re close enough in our circle to watch for warning signs if her numbers go wonky. Then it matters….

If I’m talking about my two good guy friends who are part of my Celebrate Recovery Forever Family do I need to tell you one is tall, one is shorter in stature? Or divulge to you their addictions? No.

Branden is a cousin. Is he brown or white? You can guess. Jaden is a great niece. Is she the doctor in our family or the adopted gal? Does it matter when I’m bragging about them? Only if their achievements and how they came into our family is part of the story.

Labels. I don’t care how our society has been quick to “label” people. White, Brown. Black. Skinny, Fat. Tall. Short. Homophobic. Xenophobic. Radical. Liberal. Conservative. Leftist. Deplorable. Dem. MAGA. Republican. Gay. Bi. Straight. Trans. Fluid. Furrie. 

I’m finding myself in a place of self reflection today, asking myself how our culture got to this place? It seems that suddenly some labels offend us while others do not. I guess a simple way for me to justify the need for a label is those found on our food products. For some people, it’s crucial to their health to know if something contains gluten or too much sugar. 

When it comes to skin color, I guess it’s important to differentiate skin color, hair style, color of eyes, height, etc.only  if we’re describing someone to a police officer. In everyday conversations…um, I don’t think it’s necessary. Merely my humble opinion and my personal decision to regard my family and friends as fellow human beings, living in communities…much like crayons sharing the space in their box. 

For me, the most used word lately in any news story is the term “racist”. I hold a lot of disdain for this word. Aren’t we ONE human race? Did I miss something in science back in junior high school or Sunday School? Didn’t God create ONE mankind and from the stroke of His creative artbrush make us all  different shades of skin tone? Some light…some dark….some very dark…and some brown…some who sunburn easily and others who take on beautiful tans during summer months. 

I always chuckle when I’m filling out a form that asks gender. We’ve gone from two to several choices now. Then there’s the boxes to check if you are caucasion, hispanic, black, or other.  So, under “Other” I have begun checking that box and writing in Child of God.Call me radical if you want. If society wants everyone to be labeled,  I’m choosing  what is MY truth. I guess doing so may cause me to earn another “label”–rebellious one or radical.  It’s okay…I’m sticking with Child of God. I like the sound of that much better than anything other people might throw on me in the hope that it sticks.

Water Troughs & Baptism

What does a shiny animal water trough and baptism have in common? To the average person, nothing. To the one going under the water, everything.

This past weekend our 7 year old granddaughter was baptized. She was the only youngster to go under the water Sunday morning. A second person, much older than she, followed suit. Both went under the water…washing away the “old” person and coming up “new”. It’s exciting when any one makes the decision to be baptized in a public setting…it’s another whole new level of joy when it’s your own child! Seeing her smile…witnessing her enthusiasm…hearing people hoot and holler words of love as hands clapped in a fury of happiness for this dear little soul is a moment I will never forget.

Following Macklynn’s baptism…coming out of the water….she jumped into her daddy’s arms and snuggled in as he carried her off the platform, warm towel around her little wet body. I was able to capture the moment…a usual pose for father and daughter. She loves being held by her dad, wrapping her small arms around his neck where it is very evident she feels protected, safe, cared for no matter what comes her way…that’s what a good daddy does for his children.

I think the two of them–caught in this familiar pose–show a perfect example of how each one of us who belong to God can be assured of His perfect and unconditional love, too. Though she is a mere seven, Macklynn knows this truth. She was dedicated to the Lord when an infant and has been in church almost every weekend…she has learned to pray…at mealtime…before bed….for loved ones who need healing…she’s been an active participant in godly conversations with family and friends. She knows her Father.

On one particular Saturday morning, when Macky was about 3 years old, she came into the bedroom where I have my prayer chair in a corner. I had gotten up earlier than she (she had spent the night) and by the time I had finished reading a portion of scripture and began writing my prayers in my journal, she entered the room. Of course, she asked what I was doing and as I explained I also told her that if she made the decision to stay with me, she needed to be quiet. She agreed. Before long, the quiet was interrupted with her asking if she could write her prayers too. I gave her a piece of paper, pencil and she sat down on the floor by my feet. “Gramma, I don’t know how to write the “numbers” (her toddlerish word for letters).

“It’s ok, Macky. God can read what you write.”

Very carefully she drew 3 wavy lines across her page.

“Imitate God, therefore, in everything you do, because you are his dear children. Live a life filled with love, following the example of Christ. He loved us and offered himself as a sacrifice for us, a pleasing aroma to God”. Ephesians 5: 1-2

Well, scripture says to “imitate God” but I’m pretty sure He doesn’t mind that she desired to copy gramma that Saturday morning with her prayers being written out to Him…that precious morning is a treasured memory now….she’s growing up very nicely, currently attending second grade in school, learning how to read and write her “numbers” and “letters”.  Prayers are taking on a bit more maturity…snuggles with her daddy are ongoing…being under the wings of her heavenly Father continues to be her rightful place, too…arms around His neck…as He guides each step on the path He has lovingly laid before her.

Identifying Character Flaws

What does a cute black dress adorned with red apples have to do with character flaws? In my case, plenty.

Today, I’m taking you back to my childhood to a day when I was probably 7 or 8. Most likely I was in the second grade at that age. My birthday falls in early November and although I’m not sure if I received a really cute skirt as a gift or if my mother had purchased it for me, this newly acquired piece of apparel became the focal point of an intense argument between me and my mom. At age 68 I can still see the skirt. It was a black and white pattern and along the hem were big red apples. Small for my age, when I tried on the skirt, where it should have fallen just below my knees, this one came down to about my ankles. I was so excited to wear the new skirt and had it on, ready to go to school when mom interrupted my plan.

“Susan, you can’t wear your new skirt yet”.

“Why? I like it”

“I know you like it, but it needs to be hemmed first. It’s too long”

“No, it’s not. I want to wear it”.

This is when the fight started… fueled by the back and forth of our tongue lashings for one another. The room got heated…both of us grew more exasperated as we refused to give in until mom said “All right, go ahead–wear it if you want to, but don’t come to me complaining that the kids laughed at you.” Her decision to “let go and let me” was the weapon that sucked the air out of my stubborn-need to be right-I’m gonna do things my way balloon. Suddenly, mom made sense. I certainly didn’t want to be laughed at by my friends. . 

Sixty some years later, I can still see the skirt, my bedroom, mom’s defiant face, my own angry face, and admittedly, probably some fist clenching and feet stomping. I can hear her words “go ahead then….” Looking back on that memory is an ability–while swallowing a lot of pride–to admit that that argument was the beginning of my character flaw “a need to be right”. 

I won’t bore you–or more honestly–expose the numerous times in my 68 years that I’ve fallen into the trap of having to be right. I’m not proud of the flaw, rather I’m pleased that I have recognized it, have a window to see where it began, and have begun the work of learning how to overcome my tendency to do the wrong thing…. replace it with listening, yielding, taking inventory of my emotions in the moment….setting aside pride for humility.

It’s funny. Although I can vividly remember my cute apple skirt, the argument, I cannot recall if I actually got to wear it after that morning’s argument. Maybe the part I do have embedded in my mind is there to help teach a lesson that God wants me to learn as I work daily on my character flaws. So, this morning, in my journal, as I revisited this unfortunate argument with my mom, I listed where I was wrong…defiance, disrespect, anger, control…the “need to be right”. Then, I asked God to forgive me for my bad behavior towards my mother…after all, I realize now she wasn’t trying to “control” me…she was actually loving me enough to protect me from possible humiliation from my peers. Isn’t that what a mom is supposed to do?

Identifying character flaws can be painful. But, trust me. The habit of continuing living in them, compared to the freedom when self evaluation produces positive change, is worth a bushel of apples. Big, red ones, I might add.

Hold Outs

Welp…summer is certainly behind us for another year…in several days the calendar will boast that it’s October 1st which means “all things apple, pumpkin spice, caramel, donuts, hot autumn beverages, football games, blankets…sweatshirts, longer pants….” Most all associated with cooler temperatures that come with Fall, now front and center in my mind. 

This past week my good husband turned on the heat. Although it seems early, waking in the morning to feel the warmth in the house as I make my way to the coffee pot is very welcome. Admittedly, I am keeping my slippers by the bed, something I don’t necessarily do during the hot summer months. In fact, my slippers are usually covered up in the closet by summer’s choices of shoes! I like the changes that come with each season. I truly like “all things apple and pumpkin”…but I also like the ability to wear shorts or capris and my sandals…thus my photo. 

On Monday I woke to temperatures in the low 50s. The sky was gray with rain clouds covering our lil neck of the woods. Monday mornings you’ll find me in our church office working for a few hours at the front desk. The drive there is very short, not long enough for the heat in the car to warm up to a comfortable number. I toyed whether to cover my feet with socks and shoes…I really wanted to get a few more days with my favorite jean capris and my most recent pedicure with red toes for Fall! So, I did it. The photo is proof that I left the house sporting my summer hang out “look” on an early chillier-than-usual morning. 

I’m in good company with my sandals..several female friends at church have the same attitude regarding their feet…their choice of shoes…regardless of the weather. A couple of them make jokes about wearing sandals year round no matter rain, snow, slush, ice, or clear sunny skies.  I smile politely and let them enjoy their little quirk–I draw the line at having my feet get real cold or getting a “soaker” as we called it when we were kids, stepping into a puddle that rose up to our ankles.

Just this past weekend, my husband was left in charge of two grandchildren on a Saturday morning. While the 7 year old played inside contentedly, he had the 3 year old outside who is fascinated with the garden hose. Saturday was a mildly blustery day for late September. Rain threatened throughout the morning, the air was cold enough to require a warm jacket, certainly not your “typical let’s play in the water kinda day”….but to a grandpa and a 3 year old….let’s just say that as I drove up the driveway I was audience to our grandson holding the garden hose up to his face and mouth…jibber jabbering at the stream of COLD water pouring out on him and drenching his jacket, pants, and shoes. I questioned the wisdom of such folly only to be told “well, he’s already soaked one set of clothes….I threw everything of the kids stuff in the washer”….grandpas logic and playtime activities differ from gramma’s…but by the expressions on their faces, cold water, chilly air and soaked clothing and shoes–gramma’s common sense didn’t matter. I smiled, laughed, and went inside the house. Kids warm up. Clothes dry out (with some help) Memories last forever.

Yes, I have some summer holdouts. My sandals are one of them. It’s safe to say that most of the flowering plants are going dormant now…seed pods are forming which help to replenish the beds next year or provide a snack for our neighborhood birds and small critters. Some of the “dead” plants have been removed to the compost pile. Vegetable plants have been uprooted too. Their purpose is finished, too. In their place are remnants of what once was a vibrant green healthy plant or vine. Dead leaves have dropped to the ground and will slowly disappear into the dirt until next spring when I will “work” up the ground to get it ready for another “fresh start” in a season of new growth…and I will most likely wear a pair of older sandals while I embrace the promises of spring after enduring winter months that promise “hot beverages”…”blankets”….”jackets”…”snow boots”….”snow”….did I ever tell you how much I love snow?….till next time or the first snowfall! Hmmm….I wonder if anyone has ever tried to design a snow boot that looks like a sandal?

This jar of sourdough starter is not my actual  attempt of bringing up my own delectable concoction of water and flour that ferments and when added to other ingredients, turns out breads, pancakes, muffins, anything that spells cozy and comfort food. 

I’ve not had the best of luck in the past in the world of sourdough starter, but I am somewhat determined to give it another whirl. After all, flour is pretty inexpensive…our water is free and I have numerous jars in my pantry…plenty of counter space to let it have a cozy place of its own and pray for its magic to happen. Wanting to be able to create some tasty breads, once again I found myself searching the YouTube channel for a simple approach to this age-old practice that everyone says is easy. Well, my starter is almost 7 days old…I’m following the instructions…I’m seeing bubbles…and I’m keeping the “discard” on hand in the fridge because the gal in the video said “don’t throw that away! You can use it to make all sorts of wonderful things!” (some comments to the video said gals were even giving names to their starter–I didn’t commit to that, at least until I have “proof of life”….. Ok, I obeyed, and today I had enough discard on hand to begin wondering if it was time to search for a recipe to use some of it. Lo and behold, Google took me to a banana bread recipe. “I have those frozen,” I declared. Here, I’ll toss in a few frozen blueberries”…not enough of those to use in something other than a smoothie…who doesn’t like blueberries, right? So, as I type today’s blog, I have a loaf of banana bread baking in the oven. I’m praying it turns out yummy…(I’ll let you know next week how I fared)

Fall makes me want to make all things yummy. Pumpkin anything. Apple anything. Squash any…well, as a warm side dish with pork or turkey….I truly enjoy baking and now that cooler days are mixing in with the latter days of summer, having the oven on isn’t a hindrance to creating tried and true recipes or venturing into the world of ‘trying something new’.

When it comes to life’s adventures, I’m not as quick to try new things that require great risk. I am not a fan of roller coasters..or great heights…ladders still make my heart pound and jumping into a pool…well, those days are behind me. Last June, when we visited the southern rim of the Grand Canyon I paid close attention to my footing. I was happy to stand near an edge but NO way did I venture out onto some flat rocks where others made their way to get a different view. Um, no thank you. My view of this majestic handiwork from God was very comfortable staying away from slippery gravel and jagged rocks. I guess some would say I’m not very adventurous….maybe a bit scared or dull….whatever adjective you want to give me that doesn’t match your level of courage is okay with me. I’m content to live my version of dodging sandy soil and rocky edges experiences…

I have no idea how a new sourdough starter or life adventures tie in with one another. I guess it’s all due to my self reflection related to taking risks…big or small. Trying a new recipe isn’t the boldest or most exciting thing to pursue, but if it turns out real tasty, the payoff is worth the work! Taking a trip to the Canyon was a lifelong dream duly noted on my bucket list, checked off now and surrounded by photos and memories. 

Let’s hope that I can take a photo of the sourdough banana bread and check it off my list as “that was worth it”….”Sure is yummy”….”Glad this doesn’t need to be tossed in the garbage”….then I may actually come up with a name for my starter…any good ones to offer?

Back to School

August’s hot days and weeks are behind me now. Our air conditioning system is running less frequently as uncomfortable days from high temperatures are slowly making room for cooler mornings…another blanket on the bed at night…cozy slippers for chilly feet upon waking and crawling out of bed….it’s the third week of a new school year for most of our children–Phew!–I know of some who began their new grades in late August…at any rate, each year when kids return to school I, too, feel a “shift” in my emotions and thoughts…almost as though I will get to experience something new and exciting like a brand new school year!

Our oldest granddaughter has entered second grade. She loves school and takes each day very seriously. Unlike her gramma, she embraces math…like me she is excited to explore learning through science and social studies. Being in the gym or playground is on her top list because she loves to run, climb, and do endless cartwheels as she bounces across any surface with ease. As much as she likes school and doesn’t argue about getting up in the morning, she has admitted to her parents that second grade is “stressterating” (her own combination of stressful and frustrating)…it’s evident that everything she mastered in first grade is now being challenged with building on her early foundations of learning. All of us–parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, are assuring her that she will do well. We believe it and she does, too, now that nighttime prayers include speaking positive affirmations over her sleepy mind before laying her head on the pillow. “You are kind….you are a good learner….”

***

When kids head back to school, I am reminded of something my mother once told me. She admitted that for the first few days all three of us kids had left for school, leaving her to an empty house, she felt lonely. I guess the chaos brought on by raising three growing noisy children…preparing endless meals including snacks, playing referee to childhood squabbles with neighbor kids….keeping track of everyone’s schedules left her with emotions of loneliness…perhaps a quiet home was too much too soon and  fed her feelings of missing us kids…now that I’ve had kids of my own…lived through their 12 years of education, I “get it”. What’s odd, though, is that our own children have been out of the house for awhile now…my own September lonely days without them are behind me, and yet, here…now…in the third week of September I have felt the return and effect of kids going back to school….I wonder why…

I truly have no idea why the experience of sending my kids back to school…and now, watching as our granddaughter walks that same path…soon to be followed by her younger brother and  few cousins less her age…evokes emotions that include surviving the heat of July and August to finding ways to occupy my time in the cooler days ushered in by September. Maybe the mere process of recognizing the “shift” is all part of a grand plan to keep me aware of each day’s opportunities for living life and fulfilling purpose…whether it’s waiting to hear a report on how second grade is going….being included in conversations about social studies or how many cartwheels were spun during recess.

Ya, August is behind us. We are living in September. Windows aren’t open as often. School doors have opened, welcoming back our precious babies who are eager to learn. Momma heartstrings are being tugged at as kids leave each morning… noisy goodbyes leave homes  quieter now until the final bell at the end of the day…

The school bus doesn’t stop at our home any more. But it doesn’t mean that I don’t long for those days that are now a thing of the past…what it does mean, though, is that with the gift of four precious grandchildren to love now, while I may not be waving goodbye as the bus pulls away, my hands are now folded in prayer for them every morning,,, that they will be protected, be loved, be kind, embrace learning…and not get too “stressterated”.  And that any melancholy feelings of my own will soon disappear into the calendar of the new school year…

“Most” of my best material for writing each week comes from things that our grandkids say…anyone who’s been around a toddler knows that every conversation is bound to include a mispronounced word that makes us chuckle…or some profound truth their developing mind is putting together…discovering something “new” every day in nature and adding vocabulary words as language comes…

We have four grandchildren and each one is very unique–rightfully so–because that’s the nature of God. He created us to be individuals…not cookie cutter people who walk around like robots or puppets being “controlled” by a master. I don’t have favorites–that’s a huge no-no in grandparenting–but it doesn’t mean that I don’t pick up on the funny little things they say…or in this case, endearing.

When our youngest lil ga Siss–as her parents lovingly nicknamed her–began talking I noticed that often she purposely would (still does) walk to one of her parents, look at me or my husband, and say in as much as an empathic voice a two year old can muster “that’s my momma”…”that’s my daddy”….It was precious to hear the first time and it still grabs at my heartstrings every time she goes through her lil spiel…usually accompanied by patting their shoulder or leg depending on being held or her desire to be “close”.

Her practice of making everyone around her know “who” these important people are in her life is priceless. From the time she was born, her parents have made sure she’s loved, protected, challenged, disciplined, and taught along each stage of development. Watching her learn and develop has been pure joy and thus, has me reflecting on the relationship between me and my Heavenly Father.

Psalm 71:5 says “For You are my hope; O Lord God, YOU are my trust AND the source of my confidence from youth”.

Like our son and daughter in law who have been entrusted with Mylah’s care…my Heavenly Father is over me…He surrounds me with good things. He loves me unconditionally. He has protected me in the past and I trust He will continue to do so for many more years. Even though it has been hard at times, He disciplined me…along with life lessons taught through people or scripture. I like to believe that He is well pleased with me, even on my worst days.

I wish–like little Siss–that I could lovingly pat my Father on the shoulder or sit on His lap while whispering “that’s my Daddy” as people around me gaze at us with love in their hearts, too…the same kind of love that swells inside me every single time Siss assures herself and onlookers exactly WHO her daddy and momma are….

No, I can’t physically “touch” God in a way that points or tells people who He is to me…but thankfully, with creative writing…with words and actions I CAN accomplish showing off my Daddy….giving Him praise for everything He has done for me, for my family, for friends. Like little Siss who is growing through the various stages of childhood that will usher her into being an awesome adult, I am being transformed from glory to glory as I gain deeper understanding and love for my Heavenly Father.

So, come with me to a family gathering. We are all standing around. Laughter fills the air…aromas of party food float through the room…God’s presence takes over every activity and conversation until it’s  quietly interrupted by a gentle whisper from someone in the room…”that’s my Daddy”. And we all look to see “Who” that precious person is….