I know, I’m spoiled!

I’m spoiled.  I usually get my way.  I don’t have to share very much.  Lots of mornings it’s just all about me.  I can count on having my path clear and all to myself.  Before you judge me, you must know that I’m talking about my morning commute to work.

I live in a rural area where there really isn’t much traffic.  If you travel a few miles down the highway, you will slam into the mess of big city traffic jams.

My hubby manuevers through that maze everyday, but he has a lot more patience than I do.   I don’t have to deal with traffic congestion very often, thankfully.  And that’s the way I like it.   It’s one of the countless reasons why I love living where I do.

The commute from my house to my office usually takes me a whopping 12 minutes.  I ease on down my road to the entrance ramp of a four-lane highway where I rarely have to yield to any oncoming traffic.  And then I just toodle on to work, cruise control set on 65, occasionally passing a truck or slower car, but usually I travel a good portion of the trek without sharing the road with a plethora of other drivers.

Not today, however.  My office is located on the outskirts of our small town.  From where I live, you must traverse a river to get to town by one of two means – a small bridge that leads you smack dab into town’s main street or a four-lane highway bridge (literally a “high” way since this span is elevated quite a distance above the river).  I usually travel by highway bridge; it’s faster and I don’t have to contend with any stop lights.  Told you I was spoiled!

The problem today was that everyone else out and about this morning was also utilizing the highway bridge.  Many of the local drivers use the smaller bridge in and out of town, but that bridge is closed down – not for repairs, not for road work, but for filming of a movie.  Yeah, Hollywood has found my little hometown, for some reason loves our quaint bridge for movie scenes, and this isn’t the first time.

So problem number one was that town bridge has been closed for a couple of days due to movie filming.   That meant town traffic detoured onto highway bridge.  Along comes problem number two:  highway bridge is currently undergoing construction work by our state highway department, which has transformed two lanes into one and slowed traffic speed down as well.

So more traffic today amid construction work means drivers who either aren’t paying attention to signs, are unfamiliar with the traffic pattern, or are dear little old folks who normally don’t drive on highway bridge.   All of this spells traffic jam as drivers attempt to merge into one lane.

Next came problem number three:  traffic slowed to a screeching halt and then proceeded by inches.  Really, my vehicle idles faster than we were traveling!  This was not my usual commute, people!  Where I normally sail, I crept and then I noticed that on-coming traffic was lined up like a queue at the most attractive roller coaster ride at an amusement park.

I spied the reason we had problem number three – problem number four, which was an accident in the middle of the bridge in the middle of construction and in the middle of traffic.  No injuries, but two cars definitely blocked the one lane that was open to traffic.  And even though I was not traveling that direction, my fellow drivers slowed down because of the presence of state troopers and also to gawk.

As I finally broke free of the mess, I really pitied the poor drivers coming from the other direction.  Stopped cars and trucks snaked all the way back three exits on the highway.   This was the exit to my office  – thank goodness!

My usual 12-minute commute took me a half-hour to complete today and it made me a little cranky.  I informed my co-workers that if I was forced to drive in city traffic every day, I WOULD NOT BE A VERY NICE PERSON!

I realize that many people reading this are probably incredulously laughing your heads off at my whining today because you deal with this kind of commute and worse every day.

I’m sorry.  Really I am.  But I don’t understand how you manage it every day and stay sane.

Yep, there’s a reason I live in the country…to stay relatively sane and spare my fellow man my wrath.

Nah, really I’m just a rural girl and I’m spoiled!  At least I admit it!

©2010 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Practice does make perfect

Knowing how to perform a job and striving for excellence at that job — that used to describe a typical American worker.   Lately, it seems to me, we lack both in the field of work.  I’ve had too many encounters with people who don’t seem to know how to do their jobs and those who don’t care enough to take pride in doing their work to the best of their ability.

During a phone conversation yesterday with our son, we chatted about the necessary items like important mail he received here at the homestead and how his work week progressed at his new job.  Then we shifted to topics like his first surfing lesson Saturday.

My middle aged body isn’t the least bit interested in surfing, but my middle aged mind retorts, “Oh, to be young again!” about the exciting aspects of son’s life.  Enjoying a day at the beach whenever you feel like it sounds pretty enticing to me, but forget about the surfing lesson!

As we conversed, son described new people he’s met  – one being a young family man who is employed in construction but is a trained artist.   This young man apparently owns a workshop where he “builds things” like furniture.  He invited son to come over any time, design in hand, and he would assist son in bringing his design to life.

Our son is a mechanical engineer and tools, machines, and what not really float his boat.  (Maybe he watched too many episodes of “Home Improvement” growing up! Arrr, arrr!)  Anyway, I could tell he was energized at the prospect of woodworking.

He has an artistic flair himself, likes designing,  and seeing plans become reality.  One summer he drew on paper how he would build a kind of arbor/seating area in our back yard.  Unfortunately, working a summer internship, playing his favorite sport, and spending time with friends pushed the plans onto the back burner.

Last summer, however, he did manage to construct something for the young lady he was dating at the time – a beautiful wooden jewelry box.   He found plans for crafting the box itself, which took several tries (there was a lot of power saw noises coming from the garage) until he was satisfied with the outcome.  He then developed his own design to finish it.

The young lady’s dorm room sported a beach theme, so son whitewashed the jewelry box, attached wooden trim that looked like sailing ship halyards, drew and cut out a wooden ship’s wheel, and used a wooden crafted anchor for the box lid handle.   He hand-crafted a tray for inside the box and lined both the tray and the box in blue felt.

His first attempt at building such a box turned out quite well.  The young lady was surprised and pleased.  I believe she wasn’t just impressed by the actual jewelry box, but also by the fact that son had constructed it with his own hands and devoted much time and effort into creating it.  Making the box himself instead of purchasing one at the mall demonstrated his thoughtfulness and caring.

The box wasn’t perfect, but the thought he put into it was.  Perfection comes with lots of practice and I’m confident if he continued constructing boxes, each one would have been better than the last.  Craftsmanship takes talent for certain, but it also takes practice.

This thought occurred to me while I was watching a craftsman recently.  This summer, hubby and I purchased much-needed new family room furniture.  The old furniture was simply worn out, threadbare, and actually starting to break down.

There was no shame for the old sleeper sofa, which survived two major cross country moves and 20 years worth of children’s rowdy romping, sick at home napping, slumber parties, video game parties, late night movie watching and pizza snacking, and more overnight guests than I can recall.  In the last few years, a bevy of gangly adolescent boys caught a few “zzzs” on that couch!

I surveyed the new furniture when it was delivered and did not see any apparent damage, but one night as hubby and I were camped out in front of the TV, I ran my hand over the arm of the loveseat and to my dismay discovered a small slit in the fabric.  I suspect while the deliverymen wrestled that piece of furniture through my door it caught on a hinge or something.

A call to the furniture store brought a furniture “technician” to our house.  The older gentleman, short in stature and words, examined it, reported the arm would need recovered, and he would contact us when “the piece came in.”   After he left, I was a little baffled.   I had expected the store to take the easy route,  just deliver a new loveseat, and take back the damaged one, not actually pay someone to repair it.  But it was their dime, not mine.

Furniture man, as I have taken to dubbing him, called in a week or so to make arrangements to repair the loveseat.  He arrived, still short of words, and began working diligently.  This was no easy task and required some expertise in the art of upholstery.   As I watched him, I could tell furniture man was a real craftsman.

I laughingly told him I had trouble re-covering my daughter’s dining room chair seats (basically squares) at the rounded corners, yet he positioned the pleats necessary on the rounded corners of the loveseat arm effortlessly.  He just nodded, uttered, “Takes practice,”  and continued his work.   Every so often, he stepped back, inspected his efforts, and then patted the furniture lovingly as if to say, “Yes, you’re looking good!”

Two and a half hours later, the job was finished.  He required nothing from me but a paper towel to wipe his sweating brow, even though I offered him a cool drink of water several times.  When I asked him, “So is this what you get to do every day, go around fixing people’s furniture?” he (of few words) responded,  “Yep.”

Looking carefully at my new loveseat, I defy anyone to be able to distinguish that it had been torn apart and recovered – that’s how excellently furniture man performed his job and his pride in accomplishing his task was obvious.  I thanked him, told him I appreciated the exemplary job, to which he simply replied, ”You’re welcome.”

While I observed him, I wondered  how many young people are learning to reupholster furniture or even how to repair it.   How many learn trades like plumbing, mechanics, carpentry, painting, auto body repair, wallpapering, barbering, landscaping…..?

The younger generation seems to be attracted to and obsessed with technology and careers in that field must be desirable to them.  They are constantly being told they need to have a college education to find a job.   But if everyone in the younger generation goes to college, who will learn vocational trades?

So I wonder,  who will fix their cars, unplug their drains, or build their furniture?  What will happen when furniture man and all those who labor in a trade retire?  Will those who believe practice makes perfect even exist?

©2010 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Gazing into the fire

What is it about a bonfire that is so mesmerizing?

One of the advantages of living in the country is that we can build fires right in our own back yard. 

As the hot, sultry days of summer relinquish their grasp, nights here become cooler and cooler, a sure sign that the fall season is imminent.

On a chilly late summer evening, sitting around a bonfire with family and friends does more than warm our bodies; it warms our souls as well.  In the past, many nights of fun and fellowship culminated around a blazing bonfire right here at mama’s empty nest.

Last evening, hubby and I attended a corn roast hosted by friends who live even deeper in the country than we do.  The unobstructed view of rolling hills, farmers’ fields, and woods from their home is breathtaking.  When we arrived, fresh sweet corn, grown in abundance in our area, was already roasting in its husks in the bonfire’s hot coals.

A fire-roasted cob of corn, slathered in homemade butter, is deliciously finger-licking tasty.  A smorgasbord of other homemade side dishes, salads, and casseroles; grilled hamburgers and hot dogs; and a table full of enticing desserts lavishly tempted our palates as well.  A feast, fun, and fellowship with people of all ages – toddlers to those in their golden years – provided a lovely evening.

As the sun set behind the hills and the chill in the air became more pronounced, several party-goers gravitated to the crackling fire.   Lawn chairs inched closer to the comforting warmth.  Someone broke out the marshmallows, graham crackers, and Hershey chocolate bars for s’mores.

There was teasing talk, with a hint of truth, that the marshmallows might attract the bears in the area.  More laughter and marshmallow toasting and roasting ensued.  But some of us just relaxed contentedly in our chairs, participating in quiet conversations, and gazing into the flickering flames of the alluring bonfire.

Varying shades and hues of orange, yellow, red, purple, and bluish fingers of fire flickered and flashed over the wooden logs burning so steadfastly in the flames and glowing coals.  Fiery figures danced and sashayed to their own tune, switching direction as the breeze dictated, blowing woodsy smoke in our eyes.

And still we sat, eyes fastened on the fire.  And watched… entranced.   And were captivated by the blaze.

Too soon the hour grew late and party-goers started to disperse leaving with satisfied tummies, light hearts, and the distinct smell of wood smoke lodged in their hair.  Yet hubby and I lingered, fascinated by the spellbinding flames and burning embers,  somehow hesitant to leave the glow of the firelight.

We finally gathered our belongings, not wanting to “wear out our welcome”  (as my mother would say), thanked our gracious hosts, and started homeward.   As we drove in the quietness of the inky dark countryside, dodging nocturnal critters (raccoon and opossum) right and left, a Jeremy Camp song came to my mind.

“Holy Fire burn away,
my desire for anything
that is not of you and is of me.
I want more of you and less of me.
Empty me,
Empty me.
Fill, won’t you fill me,
with you, with you, Jesus.”

Today as I ponder this on a beautifully warm, sunny Sunday afternoon, I conclude that mama’s empty nest isn’t really empty.  It’s full of love – love for my husband, love for my children, love for my family, love for friends I have and friends I haven’t met yet, love for my fellow man, but completely full of utmost love for my Savior, Jesus Christ.

Sometimes gazing into the fire reveals great truth.

“Love is the only fire that is hot enough to melt the iron obstinacy of a creature’s will.” ~ Alexander MacLaren, English minister

©2010 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Never hung out to dry

Have you ever felt like you are just hung out to dry?  Like you have no more stamina than a wet shirt hanging limply on a clothesline?

You’ve been tossed and twisted by life like dirty laundry agitating in a washing machine.  Thrown abruptly into a clothes basket with all the other drips. 

Hauled out cold, wrinkled and rumpled, hung up by your shirt tails, and now you just hang there — waiting.

Laundry hanging on a clothesline must be unsightly to some people.   I’ve read about some being fined for hanging wet, clean laundry outside because it is illegal in their neighborhoods.   Sounds ludicrous to those of us who live in the country and have the freedom to air our clean laundry outside.

Freshly washed clothes suspended on a clothesline, slowly weaving and waving back and forth in the summer breeze like a playful child enjoying a swing, is a happy sight to me.  Crisp white sheets flapping their wings like angels as they float and flit through flurries of air remind me of pleasant memories.

In my childhood days, when my mother would ask me to help hang laundry on the clothesline, I could hardly wait for the washer to finish its last spin cycle.  I admired how Mom lined up the clothes in certain order.  One’s clothesline had to look proper back then, and Mom taught me the correct way to position clothes on the line – small items gradually moving to larger, whites all together, darks on the back line. To this day, I hear my mother’s instructions when I meander out to my back yard clothesline.

Today was a perfect day for hanging out laundry.  The temperature was warm, the breeze was airy, and the sun was shining brightly.   White clothes especially yearn to be hung outside to dry.  There’s nothing like the sun to make your whites whiter than white.  No detergent or bleach, improved or not, can compete with brilliant sunshine.

As always, hanging out laundry elicits not just sweet memories of my mother, but a sweet fragrance as well.  I enjoy taking laundry down from the clothesline as much as I enjoy hanging them up with clothespins.

Clothes dried outside in the sun and fresh air have the cleanest aroma ever.   That scent invigorates me and that’s probably why I’m an easy mark for any air freshener, candle, or reed diffuser that boasts clean linen or fresh linen as its name.

Today, I got to inhale a whiff of the real thing.  And I loved it.  I wonder why more people don’t hang laundry outside to dry.  You would think in this age of “clean and green” people would take advantage of this way to save energy.  I imagine it comes down to not having time, or more likely, not wanting to wait.

We humans don’t relish waiting for anything.  We are spoiled by instant gratification in everything we do.  Computers, modern day appliances, ready to heat and eat meals, drive-through restaurants, banks, even pharmacies,  ATMs and online services,  everything we need delivered ASAP.  Why wait?

So let’s face it – hanging clothes outside on a clothesline forces you to wait.  Sometimes it takes all day for the clothes to dry and if you just popped them into your dryer, they would be ready to wear in no time.

For most of us, waiting is just plain difficult.  I’ve encountered my fair share of waiting.  There’s nothing as nerve-wracking as waiting for medical test results when you fear the worst.  I experienced that situation five years ago waiting for biopsy results.  While I found the waiting extremely difficult, even painful, I also found peace while I waited.

Cancer surgery was performed and I waited again to recover;  radiation treatments followed and I waited some more.  More tests, another biopsy required more waiting.   Once you’ve been diagnosed with cancer, even the treatable kind, you feel like you live in waiting mode for the next doctor’s appointment, the next test, the next cancer-free milestone.

Years before,  my mother whom I loved so deeply faced her own daunting trial - incurable cancer.  After exhausting treatments and much prayer, there was nothing left to do but wait for the inevitable – her journey home to Jesus.  That wait was excruciating.

As a believer in Jesus Christ,  I turned to the book of Psalms for comfort during both times.  God speaks to us about waiting in so many passages of His guidebook for life.  King David wrote “I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word, I put my hope” (emphasis mine) in Psalm 130:5.  Likewise in Psalm 27:14, he said, “Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.” (again emphasis mine)

Psalm 40 is yet another prayer for help when you are faced with trials and waiting is overwhelming.  Often we just need to wait on God’s timing or instructions.  While we are waiting, He can teach us abundantly.  While we are waiting, we can still serve Him and worship Him.

In the quietness of waiting, I personally have felt the most connected to my Savior.  Even though results weren’t what I desired, He gave me strength to face my trials.  I realized my need to rely on Him, depend on Him, trust in Him, relinquish it all to Him, and live for Him.   And I learned that while I waited.

My husband’s favorite passage of scripture is from Isaiah 40:31 ~ “Those that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles.  They shall run and not grow weary.  They shall walk and not faint.”

I think waiting on God’s timing does strengthen us, even when we’re vulnerable and weak.   Sometimes while we wait, He is silent but He’s always there.  You can sense His sweet, clean fragrance wafting over you.  And the good news is He’s coming again!  We just need to…….wait.

“So Christ was sacrificed once to take away the sins of many people; and he will appear a second time, not to bear sin, but to bring salvation to those who are waiting for Him.” ~ Hebrews 9:28

I believe God never leaves us hanging out to dry.  Do you?

©2010 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Excuse me while I go train my brain

A crossword a day keeps the memory lapse away.   That’s been my motto for the last few years.

When you’re young, you can not wait to be an adult.  The older you get, the more you longingly reflect on the “good ol’ days” when you had more energy, more hair, less weight, and a mind like a steel trap instead of a sieve.

After I passed the threshold into the big five-oh decade, I found I was becoming more and more forgetful.  It was a different kind of memory lapse than what I sometimes experienced as a young mother trying to hold down the fort while hubby was traveling away from home out on the work battlefield.

One day back then my very wise mother informed me, while I was bemoaning about my forgetfulness, that my lack of memory was because I was too stressed and my calendar was too full.  She was right, as always!

Since becoming an empty nester,  stress didn’t seem the culprit to my ongoing lack of recall.  Oldest daughter suggested I work on crossword puzzles every day because she had read that doing so benefited your memory.

Easy enough to do, every day a crossword and a word search puzzle are printed in my daily hometown newspaper.   So sharpened pencils and erasers in hand, I made crosswords a practice in my daily routine, usually every evening.

At first, being unable to complete them frustrated me.  You might say I was puzzled, perplexed, bewildered, baffled and even a little bamboozled by these brainteasers.  But I consistently improved at them and my ailing memory started recuperating.

Apparently puzzles of all kinds are good stimuli for our brains.  Whether you prefer crosswords, word searches, Sudoku, anagrams, jigsaw, riddles, or logic puzzles, you give your brain a good work-out.   Go brain!

Even the Mayo Clinic reports that crossword puzzles help you stay mentally active and keep your mind sharp.  Evidently our brains require exercise to stay fit just like the muscles in our body do.

I don’t know who said it, but I’ve read that “Unused muscles go flabby, but an unexercised brain simply goes stupid.”  I’ll second that!  On more than one occasion, my brain has rendered me stupid.

But I’m not convinced I will buy into the latest trend which is, according to a report by a New York television station,   frequenting “brain gyms.”  You can actually find a “brain trainer” and pay him/her a fee to um…train your brain.  Uh, huh.

I think I’ll just stick to my daily puzzles that my newspaper provides.  It’s cheaper,  I don’t have to take my brain to the gym, or try to find brain-sized workout clothes, and I’m not letting anyone mess with my mind.  Enough people try to do that already!

I’ve read that the famous author, mathematician, and logician Lewis Carroll, who wrote Alice in Wonderland, was fascinated by puns, acrostics, anagram, riddles, mathematical games, and puzzles.  I’m wondering if perhaps he didn’t stimulate his brain just a wee bit too much though.   He did compose such things as this in his poem “Jabberwocky:”

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Sooooooo……..I’ve persuaded myself into thinking that since I probably stimulate my brain adequately with crossword puzzles, word searches, and writing this blog, I can most likely forgo hiring a brain trainer.  My personal brain gym can be right here in the privacy of my own family room.

Now I really must go because blogging has put me behind in my other regimen of brain training – there’s a stack of crossword puzzles waiting to be solved on my coffee table.   Brain, I’m gonna pump you up!

One last thought though.  If I start blogging about the time I was  “scandufulous and jampifed” or that my cat did “flumdiferously  woobleate”  you’ll let me know,  won’t you??

Because Lewis Carroll, I am not.

©2010 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Garden Gone Wild!

The girls are busting out of their green tops.  Red polka dots are strewn all over the ground.  It’s literally a jungle out there.  Of course, I’m describing hubby’s garden, which really has gone wild!

Hubby’s been working a lot of hours lately, so his garden is starting to look neglected.  His garden plot is not large, but the weeds infiltrate it and threaten to overtake it.

This morning, I glanced out the kitchen window while I filled the tea kettle for my morning cup of hot tea.  The garden plot pleaded with me to come out and tidy up or at least pick the cheery cherry tomatoes that burden the plants to such a degree that they are leaning completely over their cages and fallen fruit dots the ground.

“We’re so tired of holding up this thriving throng of tomatoes.   Please come pick them,” the plants seemed to call to me.

But first, I wanted to attack the kids’ bathroom sink, or I should say under it.  Remember I’ve declared war on all the stuff that’s harboring in closets, cupboards, nooks and crannies.  So first thing this morning, I wanted to accomplish eradication of stuff from that bathroom sink cabinet.

Oh,  the items that were hiding in there!   Long ago used retainers; denture cleaner to clean those forgotten retainers (can’t imagine how old that is!); bottles with what I assume used to be lotion but now thickly gelled goo that doesn’t smell so nicely; remainders of mostly used toothpaste tubes; combs and brushes; hair pins and fancy hair accessories from proms; hair gel, pomade, and mousse; Sephora body polish and body butter (what?? — remember I raised two girls) still proudly packed in its original container; and the list goes on and on.

And that was just the girls’ side of the cabinet.  It was just as bad on son’s side.   Believe me.

I brought the discards downstairs to place in the garbage can and again I glanced out the windows.   It’s fairly difficult not to see outside in the kitchen and family room of our house because there are five windows and a set of French doors.   Again the garden beckoned me.

This time it was the lovely sunflower girls.   They have just started blooming out of their green pods at the top of their sturdy stalks and they do present a lovely sight with their happy yellow faces turned towards the sun.

Oldest daughter has always loved sunflowers..  Once her bedroom was totally bedecked with sunflower paraphernalia everywhere.   So naturally, I thought, “What a shame that oldest daughter who lives in that far-away state can’t see these beautiful sunflowers.”

Time to take pictures!  I’ll just slip on my sandals and run out to the garden to snap some photos of those perky plants to send to oldest daughter!

One hour later.  Although the temperature is a nice 72 degrees, it’s sunny and humid outside.  I trudge back to the house, dripping with sweat, thirsty for a Big Gulp sized glass of ice water, laden with a basket of garden bounty, back aching from all that bending over.

What a man needs in gardening is a cast-iron back, with a hinge in it. ~Charles Dudley Warner, My Summer in a Garden, 1871.  You said it, Charles!  Can’t agree with you more!

That was probably the last picking for green beans and cucumbers.  Broccoli and lettuce are already finished.  Brussels sprouts popping out along the base of the stalks will need picking later.

In the next couple weeks, it will be time to dig up the carrots and sweet potatoes.  Green peppers, banana peppers, and cherry tomatoes still produce.

And of course, the weeds complete the jungle.  They’ve gone wild.  I gave a few of them the heave-ho, but my back started protesting….and that stuff in my house still snickers at me.

©2010 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

You’ve Got Mail

Mail delights me.

I’m not talking email, but good old fashioned letters sealed in envelopes, letter or business size; addressed to me; adorned with one of a myriad of stamp designs; and delivered to my lovely white mail box at the end of my driveway by my faithful mailperson.

I’m not a particularly ardent fan of Dilbert, written by cartoonist Scott Adams.  But his comic where Dilbert announces, “I get mail; therefore I am” resonates with me.  Yes sir, Dilbert, I so get the memo on that one and totally identify with your philosophy, even if you are being sarcastic.

As long as I can remember, getting mail has been a significant aspect of my day.  I have always been enchanted by receiving mail and Christmas time, when my mailbox gets stuffed with cards from friends near and far, sends me into sheer bliss.  I actually fight with my family over who gets to open the Christmas cards each day, and I’m a little ashamed to admit I want to be first!

Getting mail is a ritual of my day that I don’t like to miss, whether it’s stopping by my mailbox on my way home from the office or walking up my long, gravel driveway on my day off to retrieve the mail.  Want to make me giddy with glee?  Send me mail!

Where did this quirky facet of my personality come from?  How did receiving mail become such a priority in my life?   I’m not certain, but I can remember as a very young child asking my parents every day if there was any mail for me.  Sadly, the answer was always no until one miraculous day.   I can honestly recall the very first time I ever received mail addressed only to my 4-year-old self.

That day was a day like no other; it was a day when the universe seemed to acknowledge that I existed.   It was such a monumental occasion that I still remember – even now –  the feeling I encountered when my mom uttered the magical words, “You’ve got mail!”

A captivating communiqué just for me! Charming correspondence addressed to me!  Exciting epistle delivered to me!  It was a phenomenal moment.

The envelope was large and my name and address were written on it in strong, sure handwriting that looked familiar – distinguished handwriting that I would discern and recognize as I got older.  On the right hand corner of the envelope was a 3-cent stamp.   (Yep, it only cost three cents to send a letter back then.)  Inside that envelope was a comical greeting card with a crazy cartoon cat.   The card was a Valentine and it was signed, “Love, Your Daddy.”

Yes, I had an amazing father, whom I loved and cherished, and he made me feel very special.  And that very first piece of mail he sent to me was, and still is, a treasure.  Over 50 years later, I still possess that piece of mail, envelope and all, preserved in my memento box.

What makes me disheartened today is that people don’t send mail like they did in the past.  Letters and cards don’t magically arrive in my mailbox on a daily basis.   Instead there are unwanted advertisements, unsolicited requests for monetary contributions for causes or political campaigns, bills (there’s always lots of those), an occasional catalog.

The crusade to perform all your communication electronically seems to have won the day for most people.  So tell me, what will a little girl save in her memory box? Will she really remember that one time her daddy sent her an email?

As often happens, my mind turns to spiritual thoughts as I write this.  Wouldn’t it be amazing, I think, to get mail from God?

You open your mail box to discover a brilliantly luminous envelope addressed in your name written in exquisite gold filigree lettering.  Turning the envelope over, you get a whiff of the most fragrant sealing wax on the back, embossed with “I  AM.”

You carefully slit open the envelope to find the most beautifully textured, lucent piece of vellum your hands have ever touched.   Unfolding it, your eyes fall upon these words, “My Dearest Daughter (or Son) …”

You can’t wait to behold what this magnificent missive, this lustrous letter has to impart to you.   Eagerly you continue reading, “I have known you and loved you even before I created you.  Why do you think I have never ‘sent’ you anything before this letter?   I sent you my love and faithfulness (Psalm 57:3).  I sent you my one and only Son,  Jesus Christ, so you may have eternal life. (John 3:16)  I sent you the Counselor, the Holy Spirit, to teach you all things and remind you of everything Jesus said. (John 14:26)  And I have sent you my living and holy Word to read for understanding and guidance.  Dear beloved one, I send you ‘mail’ every day.   All you have to do is have faith, believe in me, communicate with me in prayer and look for my daily mail.   Love beyond measure, Your Eternal Father God.”

You’ve got mail.  All you have to do is open up your mailbox (your Bible) and accept it.

©2010 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Because I’m the Mom, that’s why!

I didn’t hear Ms. Frizzle declare, “Bus, do your stuff!”  So it must not have been The Magic School Bus exploring the world that I drove past on my way home from work today.

Matter of fact, the bus I passed was empty of students, not a bus full of inquiring young minds.  No doubt this bus driver was performing a trial run since school hasn’t commenced yet in our district.   In just a few days though, that lumbering symbol of back to school will be loaded with boisterous students ready, but maybe not willing, to begin a new school year.

But that big yellow school bus, even if it wasn’t magical,  did its stuff!  The mere sight of it invoked so many memories for me – not of my school days, but those of my children and their school years.

When my oldest daughter started kindergarten, we lived within walking distance of her elementary school, and I can still recall our walk to the end of our block and up half a block on her first day.  I didn’t cry that day because she was so thrilled to be going to school and I was excited for her.  She did think buses would be fun to ride though and when we moved to another town before the start of her second grade year, she got her wish to ride a big yellow bus.

Flash forward to her first year of high school.   I stood at my kitchen window watching her join the throng of neighborhood high schoolers climbing aboard the bus.  She looked so tiny and young to me; it felt like I was sending her off to the wolves, and I cried like a baby.

Middle daughter was so charged to board the school bus when her turn for kindergarten came, I don’t even think she called out “Bye, Mom!”   She happily went to school to learn, make new friends, and just “do.” And she never looked back once.

She couldn’t wait to follow in her sister’s footsteps and she practically flew to the bus stop at the end of our cul-de-sac to hop onto that big yellow bus.  She gained more than one bus buddy during her kindergarten year as she would occasionally come home to tell me which little boy tried to kiss her on the bus.  She was so happily launching her school years and it was such an adventure for her, how could I be sad? Flash forward to leaving her alone in her dorm room at college.  I cried like a baby.

When it was time for our youngest to head off to kindergarten, we lived in a different state.  I still remember valiantly checking my emotions, which had gathered into a gargantuan lump in my throat, as I watched my youngest child climb those steps onto the school bus.  His kindergarten teacher suggested parents follow the bus to school, meet your child in the classroom, observe that your child was settled in, and leave at an appropriate time.

I arrived in his classroom, noticed that he was already busy, and waited.   I realize now that I was hesitant to leave my son, not because I feared he wouldn’t adjust, on the contrary, I wasn’t ready to let him go yet!  I still relive that moment, which literally happened within five minutes of my arrival in the classroom, when he turned to me and said, “You need to go home now, Mom.”  And it’s been that way with him ever since.  Flash forward to the day of his high school graduation as I listened to him practice his valedictorian’s speech.   I cried like a baby.

As I drove by that big yellow school bus this afternoon, all of these memories cascaded into my mind like a swollen stream of water rushing down the mountain side, crashing into rocks as it flows.  The rock of reality abruptly allowed this thought to form in my mind – for the first time in well over 20 years, I am not sending a child back to school.

Of course my rational, logical mind has known that since our youngest graduated from college way back in May.  But the emotional and sentimental “mommy” part of me cringes at this twinge of sadness, pouts at the pangs of bittersweet reality as I  actually face this fact head on.

This time of year is always hectic for moms of school-aged children and it doesn’t stop when the kids trot off to college.  The bills for back-to-school items just get more expensive!  In some ways  though I miss the busy-ness of shopping for school supplies, laundering clothes, sewing on buttons that somehow are missing from someone’s favorite shirt,  helping pack up college necessities.  I predict I’m also going to miss traveling to college sports events and recognitions for this organization or that.

Sometimes I just miss being “Mom.”  Don’t get me wrong.  My children haven’t abandoned me or disowned me as their mother.  I’m pretty sure they still love me.  And they still call for advice on life — yeah, on laundry and cooking too.  It’s just different with your grown up children.  They can handle life pretty well on their own and they really don’t need to rely on you like they did when they were young.

So before I go bury my head in a pillow and saturate it with sobs, I thought I’d remind myself of the lighter side of motherhood.

The following video’s been around for a long time, but I watch it occasionally when I need a good guffaw AND to remind myself that some things about being a Mom I am happy to shed.  These are some of them.

Watch the video and have a good guffaw with me.  Why?  Because, because, because I said so,  I said so!  I’m the Mom, the Mom, the Mom, the Mom!  Ta-da!

©2010 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

Looking through glass dimly to see the Son

I feel as though I’m looking at my surroundings today with dim eyes or through a fine mesh screen which casts a dismal view over what I see.

And there’s nothing wrong with my vision.  This view from my deck reflects what I mean.

In addition to being Monday, it’s been a slightly rainy, majorly overcast day today.  I could sing, “Rainy days and Mondays always get me down” here, but really that’s not my point.  Being a Monday is not what makes me see dimly and I’m not feeling downcast either.

Today the world just looks bleak to me, even though we are still in summer’s season.  Flowers still bloom; grass and leaves on the trees are still lushly green.

The color is still visible, but somehow muted.  It’s so overcast today that it appears like a dull gray pall covers everything.

The sun is nowhere to be seen, and in spite of the fact that I’m not much of a summer person, I am a sun person.  I love sunny days; I love to see the sun reflect off of water or anything that catches those golden rays.

The sun elicits vibrant colors of flowers in our garden, pots, and porch boxes;  the verdant green of our yard and leaves of the trees, and the blissful blue of the sky with those cotton candy clouds.  But not today.

As I write these words, God brings a scripture to my mind, “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.” ~ 1 Corinthians 13:12  (King James Version)

It does seem like I am seeing through a glass darkly today.  This scripture vividly reminds me what any day without Jesus Christ must be like, for He is the Son (sun).  Without Him in my life, things would look bleak, dark, even confused.

I grabbed my Bible to read and examine this verse the Apostle Paul wrote to the Corinthians and to us today.  I think he’s telling us, “Just wait!”  What we can’t see now, or don’t understand now, and what appears difficult to define now will be revealed in full glory for us when we, who He knows so intimately, meet our Savior face to face in heaven.

There we’ll see the “big picture,” revealed in a more vibrant, brilliantly technicolored scene than we could ever imagine here on earth.  And let’s face it, we’ve got some pretty impressive colors and scenes here on earth to behold!

When our sun, THE son Jesus Christ, shines – whether it’s when we enter glory or He returns to earth in all His glory – it will be dazzling!

The luminous light of heaven will remove all the obscuring clouds and darkness that now hides the face of God from us.  What a day that will be!

Isaiah 32:3 ~ “The eyes of those who see will not be dim, and the ears of those who hear will listen.” (King James Version)

The sun may not be shining in the sky today, but it’s shining in my heart.  Let the redeemed of the Lord say so!

©2010 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com

A Sunday Sampler

Image via rainbowgallery.com

It’s Sunday evening at our house.

Darkness has descended and the cricket chorus echoes through the little valley behind our property.

Our windows are wide open inviting the delightfully refreshing breeze to enter.

Queen kitty Callie lounges longingly at the screened French door enjoying the cool night air, occasionally popping up to jump at the screen frightening away some intruding insect.  It’s her mission to guard the house, you know.

Hubby’s just now leisurely perusing the Sunday paper.  I should be stationed in the kitchen cleaning up the last of the dinner dishes that didn’t fit into the dishwasher.  But dishes can wait.  Instead I mull over the lovely Sunday we just spent.

After church, we were graced with a visit from middle daughter.  She was in town for a high school friend’s bridal shower this afternoon and stopped by the home place afterwards.

We savored a home-cooked meal together, the three of us.   Dad made his specialty recipe that middle daughter loves.   I mixed up a raspberry buckle for dessert with fresh raspberries from our very own bushes.

We not only delighted in delicious food, but wonderful conversation as well.  We got to hear about middle daughter’s work week, complete with frustrations, and how well the apartment arranging and living was progressing.

After dinner, we watched a movie together, just the three of us.  It was a real tear-jerker, “Letters to God,”  but we enjoyed it despite a few tears.  And before I was willing,  it was time for daughter to head back to the city, with some leftover dinner, raspberry buckle, and cherry tomatoes from the garden tucked in her bag.

There’s an old proverb that states, “A Sunday well-spent brings a week of content.”

In the quiet of the evening, I say my thankful prayers for just that  — a Sunday well-spent.  By some people’s measure, our day doesn’t sound very exciting, but to me, it was precious.   And I thank my God for granting me yet another Sunday to sample.

©2010 mamasemptynest.wordpress.com