Sometimes the melancholy moments of life make me pause and consider.
Today is one such day. If you’re looking for a laugh – you probably won’t find it here unless you’re one sick puppy.
A friend of a friend lies dying. One of those long drawn-out, pain-infused deaths. Adding to the angst is the huge hole she’ll leave behind in the lives that will continue beyond her passing, two children who’ve barely reached adulthood, a grandchild, a husband and countless friends and family members.
Why am I haunted by the fact that hospice is delivering a bigger bed so that her husband can sleep with her? Tears scald my eyes when my friend describes the tender actions of the seventeen-year-old son who realizes that he will graduate, and marry, and raise his children – without his mom. Her bravery in calling friends and relatives inviting them to come and say good-bye leaves me with a lump in my throat that no amount of swallowing minimizes.
Wars, tragedies, disease – this is so not what life is supposed to be.
We’ve been praying for this family even though that seems so cheap and easy. After all, I’m not holding her head while she vomits or watching the rise and fall of her chest, waiting for it to cease. This dying woman who is reaching out to loved ones has asked my friend to come. My friend wants to make sure that this dear woman who faces eternity within hours, knows where she’s going to spend it, and that she’s not only leaving a place where she is loved, but could choose to go to a place where she is loved.
Last month, a delightful friend of my family died. She was talented and beautiful, exotic and intelligent. She, too, fought cancer and lost. Death claims us all, doesn’t it?
I shared my testimony of faith with her, as did my parents, and aunts and uncle. My family is unable to spend much time together without talking about what God has done in our lives. Of course, we also get a little goofy -- we’re great that way – zooming from profound depth to the depths of poor taste -- but I digress. Several family members get together and pray regularly, and tears fall as our hearts and concerns are taken to the throne of the Creator of the Universe. This woman spent many months in our prayers.
She said she could not believe in a God as close minded as ours.
I wonder if my pain and my sorrow are just a hint of what God must feel when someone enters eternity without entering into Jesus.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Friday, May 12, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat and the Thanksgiving ABC's - Part 2
Did I mention Mom has a touch of Irish?
Cleaning the pantry cupboard was not okay with her. Pat proceeded to unload the cupboard contents onto the kitchen table that was being used for Thanksgiving preparation.
Did I mention Pat has a penchant for danger?
Most of the interaction between the two that morning has blurred into fuzzy, amusing memories, though I do remember seeing several lightning bolts shoot from Mom’s eyes.
Thanksgiving set-up took twice as long. We either had to wait until a can laden Pat scurried out of closet toward the table, or we went the back way around. I stopped asking “what?” when I realized Mom’s mutterings were probably best left as mutters.
The pantry cupboard sure started looking nice. Pat’s running commentary was unnecessary, though, except for his personal danger/adrenaline factor. He felt the need to point out odd or out-dated things, often with a laugh or wisecrack. To this day, I am impressed that Pat doesn’t walk with a permanent limp.
As was usual, the project got a little more involved. Apparently, Pat was inspired by the pristine shelves. He disappeared. Mom and I took advantage of the lull in cross traffic and rushed to the china cabinet to retrieve the serving dishes. Pat returned with an El Marko.
“What are you doing now?” Her knuckles clenched white around the turkey baster.
“Organizing.”
Mom’s mutterings increased in quantity and volume. I hummed happy songs and looked nervously between the two of them.
Pat grinned, turned around and got to work.
He finished about the same time the little temperature button popped on the turkey. And brandishing his victorious El Marko, he disappeared into the bathroom.
Mom’s pantry cupboard is alphabetized and organized. A shrine to her husband’s near loss of limb or life.
The woman deserves a great Mother’s Day.
Happy Mother's Day to all...
Cleaning the pantry cupboard was not okay with her. Pat proceeded to unload the cupboard contents onto the kitchen table that was being used for Thanksgiving preparation.
Did I mention Pat has a penchant for danger?
Most of the interaction between the two that morning has blurred into fuzzy, amusing memories, though I do remember seeing several lightning bolts shoot from Mom’s eyes.
Thanksgiving set-up took twice as long. We either had to wait until a can laden Pat scurried out of closet toward the table, or we went the back way around. I stopped asking “what?” when I realized Mom’s mutterings were probably best left as mutters.
The pantry cupboard sure started looking nice. Pat’s running commentary was unnecessary, though, except for his personal danger/adrenaline factor. He felt the need to point out odd or out-dated things, often with a laugh or wisecrack. To this day, I am impressed that Pat doesn’t walk with a permanent limp.
As was usual, the project got a little more involved. Apparently, Pat was inspired by the pristine shelves. He disappeared. Mom and I took advantage of the lull in cross traffic and rushed to the china cabinet to retrieve the serving dishes. Pat returned with an El Marko.
“What are you doing now?” Her knuckles clenched white around the turkey baster.
“Organizing.”
Mom’s mutterings increased in quantity and volume. I hummed happy songs and looked nervously between the two of them.
Pat grinned, turned around and got to work.
He finished about the same time the little temperature button popped on the turkey. And brandishing his victorious El Marko, he disappeared into the bathroom.
Mom’s pantry cupboard is alphabetized and organized. A shrine to her husband’s near loss of limb or life.
The woman deserves a great Mother’s Day.
Happy Mother's Day to all...
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat and the Thanksgiving ABC's
In honor of Mother’s Day, I’d like to share another Pat story.
This one is about a special holiday. Not the one we are celebrating this weekend, but the warm and wonderful family Thanksgiving.
Procrastination, in Pat’s hands, is an art form. The closer the deadline, the more exciting the prize. Like some who keep scrapbooks of amazing accomplishments, Pat has a mental scrapbook of white-knuckled near misses.
All of my memories of events include stealth Pat as he runs up the stairs to the shower as the first guest arrives. Pat is fashionably late to all the parties at his house, because he begins party hygiene as he hears the crunch of gravel signifying the impending visitors arrivals.
Kind of like an elusive woodland creature, Pat skulks around cleaning, repairing, painting – whatever needs to be done – while the rest of the party planners lay out the final touches. I liken him to a woodland creature because his hair worried and teased by his frantic deadline angst, looks a bit like a black and silver poofy skunk pompadour.
“Where’s Pat?” is a common first question after the friends and family members arrive.
The answer, “in the shower.” Sometimes the project du jour warrants further explanation, followed by shaking heads, laughter and comments by all.
Thanksgiving is at Mom and Dad’s. The dining room and kitchen adjoin and we use both rooms to seat twenty plus people. In between the dining room and kitchen is a small pantry closet. With the door open, it blocks the passageway between rooms. Thanksgiving for twenty plus requires all the china, which lives in the dining room, and requires two fully set tables, and serving dishes for each table.
One Thanksgiving morning while Mom basted and stuffed and I chopped and washed, Dad decided to clean out the pantry cupboard. This is where Dad’s penchant for danger becomes crystal clear. Did I mention my mom has a touch of Irish?
Mom stood with hands on hips. “You’re cleaning what?”
Dad ran a hand through his bristly, perky hair. “It won’t take long.”
to be continued.........
This one is about a special holiday. Not the one we are celebrating this weekend, but the warm and wonderful family Thanksgiving.
Procrastination, in Pat’s hands, is an art form. The closer the deadline, the more exciting the prize. Like some who keep scrapbooks of amazing accomplishments, Pat has a mental scrapbook of white-knuckled near misses.
All of my memories of events include stealth Pat as he runs up the stairs to the shower as the first guest arrives. Pat is fashionably late to all the parties at his house, because he begins party hygiene as he hears the crunch of gravel signifying the impending visitors arrivals.
Kind of like an elusive woodland creature, Pat skulks around cleaning, repairing, painting – whatever needs to be done – while the rest of the party planners lay out the final touches. I liken him to a woodland creature because his hair worried and teased by his frantic deadline angst, looks a bit like a black and silver poofy skunk pompadour.
“Where’s Pat?” is a common first question after the friends and family members arrive.
The answer, “in the shower.” Sometimes the project du jour warrants further explanation, followed by shaking heads, laughter and comments by all.
Thanksgiving is at Mom and Dad’s. The dining room and kitchen adjoin and we use both rooms to seat twenty plus people. In between the dining room and kitchen is a small pantry closet. With the door open, it blocks the passageway between rooms. Thanksgiving for twenty plus requires all the china, which lives in the dining room, and requires two fully set tables, and serving dishes for each table.
One Thanksgiving morning while Mom basted and stuffed and I chopped and washed, Dad decided to clean out the pantry cupboard. This is where Dad’s penchant for danger becomes crystal clear. Did I mention my mom has a touch of Irish?
Mom stood with hands on hips. “You’re cleaning what?”
Dad ran a hand through his bristly, perky hair. “It won’t take long.”
to be continued.........
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Serials and Scenarios - Comma(on) Rituals -Day 3 - Deb Raney & Susan Meissner
Though Susan is admittedly aided by caffeine -- I doubt that either of these women put teacups on their heads.
Some out there in writing land have strange rituals. Share yours.
Oh, definitely rituals... Before I can start writing for the day, the bed has to be made, dishes have to be done and house has to be at least straightened up, if not spotless. (Just don’t look in my closets!) Then, I select music for the CD player based on what type of scene I’ll be writing that day (I usually write to movie soundtracks or classical music.) Then I light some scented candles. Then I brew a nice pot of coffee. Then I clear off my desk. THEN I can start writing—unless it’s lunchtime by the time I get all that accomplished! ; )
Deborah Raney Newly updated reissue of A VOW TO CHERISH coming in JUNEOVER THE WATERS, Steeple Hill, RT BOOKclub Reviewers’ Choice Award nominee From WaterBrook Press, HOLT Medallion Winner A NEST OF SPARROWShttp://www.deborahraney.com
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0373785623/sr=8-3/qid=1144348398/ref=pd_bbs_3/102-7286102-5764904?%5Fencoding=UTF8
Some out there in writing land have strange rituals. Share yours.
I need to have all my ducks in a row before I begin a new writing project. The plot, the chapter outlines, the research, the character sketches — that all has to be done before I begin. I’m a lost puppy without them. A Diet Coke with Lime is also required. And an occasional handful of Jelly Bellies.
BIO:
Susan Meissner is the author of four contemporary fiction titles, including "A Window to the World," named to Booklist's Top Teen Fiction for 2005. Her fifth novel, "A Seahorse in the Thames," will release in July 2006, followed by "Widows and Orphans," the first of three mystery novels, in October. Her current release is "In All Deep Places," now on bookstore shelves. She lives with her family in rural Minnesota and enjoys good coffee, real cheese and the occasional malt ball.
I'll see what I can scare up for tomorrow.
I have a deadline looming, and it's sapping my creativity.
Maybe something will knock loose, you never know what will trip into your path and crack you on the funny bone.
Some out there in writing land have strange rituals. Share yours.
Oh, definitely rituals... Before I can start writing for the day, the bed has to be made, dishes have to be done and house has to be at least straightened up, if not spotless. (Just don’t look in my closets!) Then, I select music for the CD player based on what type of scene I’ll be writing that day (I usually write to movie soundtracks or classical music.) Then I light some scented candles. Then I brew a nice pot of coffee. Then I clear off my desk. THEN I can start writing—unless it’s lunchtime by the time I get all that accomplished! ; )
Deborah Raney Newly updated reissue of A VOW TO CHERISH coming in JUNEOVER THE WATERS, Steeple Hill, RT BOOKclub Reviewers’ Choice Award nominee From WaterBrook Press, HOLT Medallion Winner A NEST OF SPARROWShttp://www.deborahraney.com
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0373785623/sr=8-3/qid=1144348398/ref=pd_bbs_3/102-7286102-5764904?%5Fencoding=UTF8
Some out there in writing land have strange rituals. Share yours.
I need to have all my ducks in a row before I begin a new writing project. The plot, the chapter outlines, the research, the character sketches — that all has to be done before I begin. I’m a lost puppy without them. A Diet Coke with Lime is also required. And an occasional handful of Jelly Bellies.
BIO:
Susan Meissner is the author of four contemporary fiction titles, including "A Window to the World," named to Booklist's Top Teen Fiction for 2005. Her fifth novel, "A Seahorse in the Thames," will release in July 2006, followed by "Widows and Orphans," the first of three mystery novels, in October. Her current release is "In All Deep Places," now on bookstore shelves. She lives with her family in rural Minnesota and enjoys good coffee, real cheese and the occasional malt ball.
I'll see what I can scare up for tomorrow.
I have a deadline looming, and it's sapping my creativity.
Maybe something will knock loose, you never know what will trip into your path and crack you on the funny bone.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Serials and Scenarios - Comma(on) Rituals - Gina Holmes
Some out there in writing land have strange rituals. Share yours.
I sometimes clap for myself when I write something well or my characters surprise me. Not like a 'bravo' clap but like a happy, yey clap. And sometimes I get caught acting out the action scenes. (Nothing like having an audience when your pretending to kick in an imaginary door.)
Gina Holmes runs the popular fiction writer's blog, Novel Journey and assists with sister site, Novel Reviews. She has interviewed many of today's greatest authors from Ted Dekker to Karen Kingsbury to Walter Wangerin Jr. She is wife, mother, writer, blogger and Registered Nurse. She is currently working on her third suspense novel. www.noveljourney.blogspot.com www.novelreviews.blogspot.com
If this seems odd to you. Check out the following question and answer. I think it will put a whole new slant on things.
I also asked Gina the following question....
If you could ask any person, living or dead, a random question -- what question would you ask of whom?
I'd ask Ane Mulligan why she puts tea cups on her head.
I sometimes clap for myself when I write something well or my characters surprise me. Not like a 'bravo' clap but like a happy, yey clap. And sometimes I get caught acting out the action scenes. (Nothing like having an audience when your pretending to kick in an imaginary door.)
Gina Holmes runs the popular fiction writer's blog, Novel Journey and assists with sister site, Novel Reviews. She has interviewed many of today's greatest authors from Ted Dekker to Karen Kingsbury to Walter Wangerin Jr. She is wife, mother, writer, blogger and Registered Nurse. She is currently working on her third suspense novel. www.noveljourney.blogspot.com www.novelreviews.blogspot.com
If this seems odd to you. Check out the following question and answer. I think it will put a whole new slant on things.
I also asked Gina the following question....
If you could ask any person, living or dead, a random question -- what question would you ask of whom?
I'd ask Ane Mulligan why she puts tea cups on her head.
Being a curious individual - I sought out Ane and posed this strange question.
She provided the following answer....
LOL – well my brain needs caffeine for creativity. The closer the source, the quicker the fix … right?
Ane Mulligan www.anemulligan.com Book Reviews: www.novelreviews.blogspot.com
Alrighty then, see you tomorrow.......
Monday, May 08, 2006
Serials and Scenarios – Comma(on) Rituals - Part !
I propose a charming new ritual – let’s delete Mondays. The extra hours could be turned into Saturday Jr.
Someone who’s really good with legalese or political double talk needs to draft a petition. I’ll sign it.
It should be a ritual to post on Monday, but I’m not quite ready to commit to the requirements of ritual as described below.
Rituals are defined as - A ritual is a formalised, predetermined set of symbolic actions generally performed in a particular environment at a regular, recurring interval. The set of actions that comprise a ritual often include, but are not limited to, such things as recitation, singing, group processions, repetitive dance, manipulation of sacred objects, etc. ...en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rituals
This explains Cheeseheads and half-naked, brightly painted, screaming men at sporting events.
And I’d paint my torso and wear dairy products on my head and dance if we could really and truly delete Mondays.
I’ve asked some writing buddies for their rituals. I’ll post a few over the next few days.
Though I’m not organized enough to have developed rituals, I’d venture a guess that cleaning out my e-mail files before writing would count as a not-so-productive one.
I suppose I should develop a happy comma success dance. I have trouble with commas. It may come from my less than positive experience with snakes, and what does a comma resemble, I ask you. So, pumped full of adrenaline at the sight of a snakelike comma, I often don’t know what to do with them, and I’ll admit I kind of lose it. Either I use commas as liberally as some use a pepper grinder, or completely randomly.
Fortunately, I have gotten better with careful teaching. Michelle, my first line go to ego stomper (technical term – critique partner) tells me my comma cancer might be in remission.
The best comma rule ever, came from Steve. He stated that words beginning with the same letter as the current month all received a comma at the end. I suppose it’s a reward thing -- good prose gets rewarded with happy little snakes. Kind of like stickers in Kindergarten – maybe.
I think Steve may smoke peppercorns, but it was amusing – don’t try this with editors!
Come back tomorrow for Comma(on) Rituals. : )
Someone who’s really good with legalese or political double talk needs to draft a petition. I’ll sign it.
It should be a ritual to post on Monday, but I’m not quite ready to commit to the requirements of ritual as described below.
Rituals are defined as - A ritual is a formalised, predetermined set of symbolic actions generally performed in a particular environment at a regular, recurring interval. The set of actions that comprise a ritual often include, but are not limited to, such things as recitation, singing, group processions, repetitive dance, manipulation of sacred objects, etc. ...en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rituals
This explains Cheeseheads and half-naked, brightly painted, screaming men at sporting events.
And I’d paint my torso and wear dairy products on my head and dance if we could really and truly delete Mondays.
I’ve asked some writing buddies for their rituals. I’ll post a few over the next few days.
Though I’m not organized enough to have developed rituals, I’d venture a guess that cleaning out my e-mail files before writing would count as a not-so-productive one.
I suppose I should develop a happy comma success dance. I have trouble with commas. It may come from my less than positive experience with snakes, and what does a comma resemble, I ask you. So, pumped full of adrenaline at the sight of a snakelike comma, I often don’t know what to do with them, and I’ll admit I kind of lose it. Either I use commas as liberally as some use a pepper grinder, or completely randomly.
Fortunately, I have gotten better with careful teaching. Michelle, my first line go to ego stomper (technical term – critique partner) tells me my comma cancer might be in remission.
The best comma rule ever, came from Steve. He stated that words beginning with the same letter as the current month all received a comma at the end. I suppose it’s a reward thing -- good prose gets rewarded with happy little snakes. Kind of like stickers in Kindergarten – maybe.
I think Steve may smoke peppercorns, but it was amusing – don’t try this with editors!
Come back tomorrow for Comma(on) Rituals. : )
Friday, May 05, 2006
Scribbles and Scrambles - Scenes From My Life - Seussian Mom Moment
Now that you’ve read some of my formative events, I’ll share just a few scenes from the lives of my children.
In our home, terms of endearment are creative. And pretty much any word can become one.
When our middle daughter was at that excellent stage where babies laugh at anything and find delight in the strangest things, she did something silly and I called her a little geek. Our son, who was four at the time, burst into tears.
“What’s the matter?”
“You didn’t call me a geek.” So I did, and then he was fine.
Several years later, when said cute baby had grown into a middle schooler, (I refuse to make any statements that could incriminate me about this particular stage in life) she went to a football game with a group of friends.
Drama often accompanies hormonal surges in adolescence. The football game outing sparked and flared with melodrama like the pictures of the surface of the sun.
Said daughter returned home, disgust dripping off her facial features. A few well-aimed questions opened up the happenings of the evening. Apparently, a classmate, juiced on caffeine, sugar and aforementioned hormones, bothered the gaggle of girls all night.
While they watched the game, talked, ate – he was there – tormenting and teasing.
“Mom I was so mad.” She explained in great detail and ended with these lines.
“He ripped off my hat, and pulled out my hair,
And made me spill my chips everywhere!”
This undid me. The sing-song delivery, the cadence, the beauty of the rhyme, the visuals -- I dissolved in laughter. She, not knowing what I was laughing at, stomped her foot. Oh, that settled me right down. Ha.
I laughed myself sick while she gathered the rest of the family who then looked on like helpless, untrained monkeys.
For days, weeks even, I tried to tell this amusing anecdote but couldn’t. Occasionally puffs of airborne words filtered out of the full blown ha, har, ha, hee’s. Never enough for someone to actually understand the story. I could get two to three words out, but then I’d melt into a puddle of glee. The family member who was assigned to accompany me in public would try to tell the story. I heard several versions. Ah, but mine is the best. Wish you could hear it.
Years later, the perfect Seussian delivery still brings a chuckle, and a bubble of hysterical laughter lies just below the surface.
I suppose I should seek professional help…… but how would I ever explain my symptoms?
In our home, terms of endearment are creative. And pretty much any word can become one.
When our middle daughter was at that excellent stage where babies laugh at anything and find delight in the strangest things, she did something silly and I called her a little geek. Our son, who was four at the time, burst into tears.
“What’s the matter?”
“You didn’t call me a geek.” So I did, and then he was fine.
Several years later, when said cute baby had grown into a middle schooler, (I refuse to make any statements that could incriminate me about this particular stage in life) she went to a football game with a group of friends.
Drama often accompanies hormonal surges in adolescence. The football game outing sparked and flared with melodrama like the pictures of the surface of the sun.
Said daughter returned home, disgust dripping off her facial features. A few well-aimed questions opened up the happenings of the evening. Apparently, a classmate, juiced on caffeine, sugar and aforementioned hormones, bothered the gaggle of girls all night.
While they watched the game, talked, ate – he was there – tormenting and teasing.
“Mom I was so mad.” She explained in great detail and ended with these lines.
“He ripped off my hat, and pulled out my hair,
And made me spill my chips everywhere!”
This undid me. The sing-song delivery, the cadence, the beauty of the rhyme, the visuals -- I dissolved in laughter. She, not knowing what I was laughing at, stomped her foot. Oh, that settled me right down. Ha.
I laughed myself sick while she gathered the rest of the family who then looked on like helpless, untrained monkeys.
For days, weeks even, I tried to tell this amusing anecdote but couldn’t. Occasionally puffs of airborne words filtered out of the full blown ha, har, ha, hee’s. Never enough for someone to actually understand the story. I could get two to three words out, but then I’d melt into a puddle of glee. The family member who was assigned to accompany me in public would try to tell the story. I heard several versions. Ah, but mine is the best. Wish you could hear it.
Years later, the perfect Seussian delivery still brings a chuckle, and a bubble of hysterical laughter lies just below the surface.
I suppose I should seek professional help…… but how would I ever explain my symptoms?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)