Let's Play A Game!

Google your name + the words "glamour shot". Post the first image you get.

M, k. Here's me:

susan + glamour shot

And here's you, sissy.

cathy + glamour shot

HAHAHA! I swear to God, that came up. Fun game.

Hey, I didn't make the rules. I'm all about playing the game.

He Likes The Darkness

actual screenshot. yep.

I love free apps for my iPhone. There are several sites where you can get them and AppsGoneFree is one. Everyday I receive an email highlighting the new apps that you can buy for free for a limited time. Good marketing. There are games, maps, music, photos, and so on. Today I got this one. It's a game called He Likes The Darkness. Yeah. I immediately thought, this one could preach.

I'm reading the game description: "Help Paul survive by gathering all of the brightest stars in this platform game. Paul is a big fan of the darkness." Whoa. Whuh? I immediately think of Saul, the Apostle Paul before he got his new name, looking on with sinister approval at the stoning of Stephen, the first Christian martyr. Thank God I'm not sinister. I immediately check my attitude. I know what happens when I get all self-righteous. The description goes on. "You're able to help him darken his world by collecting all the bright stars in each level." OK, I don't know about you, but I don't need a rocket scientist to prove to me that the quickest way to darken a room is by unplugging the light. Spiritually speaking, it's obvious what happens when our stars are "collected" from us, yes? And, "Of course, without the light of the stars it can become difficult to navigate the various platforms...," No kidding. I picture me in my bedroom walking to the bathroom in the middle of the night in the dark. Barefoot.

Job 12:25 NIV

They grope in darkness with no light; he makes them stagger like drunkards.

me stumbling in the dark inside a zombie house

Yeah. Like drunkards they walk. Anyway... I wonder how many stars has the enemy collected from my life, my heart, my soul? Just what am I now blind to that I could once see? How serious is this, Lord? What are you telling me? Is my discernment off-kilter these days? Is your voice in me a bit more muted? I remember there being a time when the idea of glazing over the rotten lyrics in a song or the bad parts in a movie, just to hear or see the good parts wouldn't have even begun to appeal to me. I didn't spend so much time overlooking the offensive. Rather, I made choices based on how it would edify and deepen my love for God and others. How far had I gone in the dark, without even knowing it? Or did I stop noticing? How much have my eyes adjusted?

More description. "… so try to gather them (stars) in the most logical order." When we consider how brilliantly deceiving the devil is, wouldn't we be ignorant to underestimate his keen ability to form strategic plans for the collection of our lights? Our truths? Our peace? Our love? Our relationships? And he always starts with the dimmer lights, doesn't he? The ones we don't notice so much. The "peripheral" lights that don't seem all that necessary. I think to myself, I'll just lower this standard a bit if it will get me a larger dose of approval on that one. Or do I even think it through? What standard would he bait you with? Do you know? What star of righteousness (right living) does he dangle in your face falsely labeling it "pride"? This made me think some more. This stupid free iPhone app made me ask questions that needed to be asked. God can use anything. 

1 Peter 5:8 NIV

Be self-controlled and alert. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.

devouring lions are not a pretty sight

And finally, "Oh, and you're timed the whole way through. Good luck!" un-huh. Indeed. It wouldn't be fun without the pressure of being timed. In this crazy, spazzed-out world we live in it's not often that we don't feel like our lives playing beat the clock, with every minute resting on the success of the last. We can forget that slowing down to check our lights is required. This is not new insight. But we get lazy. I do. I get complacent. Sometimes I care too much about fitting in to think about tuning up. But I got reminded today. And I pray "Lord, if I don't do it, if I neglect to keep my walk with You the priority, if I fail to see the dimming light, please let me stumble a bit before I just walk blindly into a wall and really do some harm."

Ephesians 5:8 NIV

For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light.

Oh, how He loves you and me

Jesus emphasizes how cool the light is. How necessary and life-giving it is. And how darkness leads to only to death. That's all it leads to. Lose a light here and a light there. Soon enough, darkness. I remembered today that I can never underestimate the logic and skill of the "light collector", who is only out to trip me up and cause me to love the darkness more than the light. The devil wants to tell me there is only shame in the light. How wrong he is. But he says it just the same. And he does it all for free.  FREE. Just like the silly app.

And p.s. I tried the game. gah! It's infuriating.

Is it Real? Or Memorex?

I don't understand all the hoopla around getting a live Christmas tree. It's already on its way to dying by the time you get it home. My kids always wanted a real tree. I think it was so they could smell the pine, or maybe it was the traditional fun they had when we went to pick one out every year. None are bad reasons for wanting a live tree. And we indulged them every single year because it was an easy way to buy their love. But, of course, there are many reasons for not wanting a live, dying tree. I mean, come on, we all know who cleans all those needles up after Christmas and who has to properly dispose of the body by trash day. Ho, Ho, Ho. It sure isn't Santa Claus. Give me a pre-lit mostly-real-looking fake tree any day. It still screams Merry Christmas To You, if you ask me. I figured my kids would grow up with fond memories and buy their own real trees for their own real homes and sort through their own clogged vacuums in due course. Right? No, they both got fake trees this year. And they love them. LOVE them. "Who needs all that mess?", they asked me. Oh, how much they'll miss.

Hey, I think I found the Grinch.

Do You Believe in Magic?

Thanksgiving a few years back

None of my eight grandchildren believe in Santa Claus. Never have. Their parents taught them from the cradle that Santa is just a Red Cheeked Belly Full of Jelly kinda fun we pretend at Christmas-time. As children, I taught their parents the same thing. I wanted their tender hearts to focus on the real reason for the season, wanted them to be untainted by the commercialism Christmas brings and I wanted to save the postage it takes to mail letters full of hope to a non-existent fat man in the North Pole. So sue me. 

But I dearly love Christmas. I have nothing but happy memories of every Christmas I've ever had...and that's a whole lotta candy canes and mistletoe under my belt. And now that I'm an aged parent and doting gram, I find that my neck is not as stiff as it once was.  I've softened in my old age. I've mellowed. I finally believe in Tinkerbell, happily ever after and even Santa Claus. I tease the children every Christmas. " O what is Santa going to bring you? You know Santa sees you when you're sleeping, don't you?" The older ones roll their eyes at me and go back to their texting. The rest of them briefly protest, then roll on the floor laughing. 

Except for Ryan.

Ryan is eight and he puts a unique kind of sparkle in my Christmas heart. The other day I whispered in his ear "You're going to have a good Christmas this year". His eyes got big as saucers and he whispered back "how do you know." "Because" I announced to the whole room, " I was on the phone yesterday talking to Santa. I asked him if Ryan Davidson was on the Naughty list or the Nice list". Ryan patiently but rotely reminded me, "pfft! Gram, Santa's not real!" The other kids in the room shook their heads and went back to watching TV. But Rye kept his eyes on my

Ryan and Me

face, waiting for me to continue. "So I was talking to Santa, right? When I asked him about you..." I could see the skepticism behind his eyes, but I could also see a sliver of eager anticipation. A very small glimmer of excitement and hope that what I was saying could really be true. Oh how he wanted it to be true. "Yeah I could hear Santa's fingers clickety clacking on his computer keyboard, looking up your name." A quiet scoff from Ryan but I continued "At first he couldn't find you on the Nice list. "At this point my daughter looked at Ryan sideways and interrupted "Probably because of all those times he forgot to turn in his homework". Ryan was slightly worried at this and looked back to me for support. "Yeah," I said after giving his mom the stink-eye, "that homework issue came up. But I told Santa that Ryan is the nicest, sweetest, most loving boy I know and he deserves to be on the Nice List—and Santa agreed!" Ryan's face lit up like the White House Christmas tree. He did a little jig halfway across the room before Reason—that hateful Reason—got ahold of him. He stopped mid leap, turned around and looked at me with a sigh and narrowed eyes and reiterated, "Gram. Santa is NOT real". But I saw it. I saw the Christmas sparkle in his eyes before he succumbed to reality. It was fleeting but it was there. And that is all the Christmas magic I need.

Let's Play Tent!

Dear Sissy, 

Blankeez. For the whole fam damily.

Just when I thought they were done with the snuggies hoopla out pops the Family Blankeez. This "soft, warm, blue and enormous" blanket covers up to eight people and boasts ONE sleeve on each end. The only way I could have gotten Jim and the kids to share one of these with me for longer than a couple of minutes would have involved handcuffs and duct tape. Do ya think I would have been arrested? And even then, who would have turned the page in that book? Did they think about that?

Love, Squeezie

A Tree's Value

Add caption

“Do not deny a tree its right to influence a child. Who knows? That may be its singular purpose for living."


~sdelany

There's A First Time For Everything

fresh out of the oven and just look at those fingers.

Having been able to spend so many "firsts" with my grandson, Brayden, during his first year on this earth was nothing short of wonderful. I lived near by and I saw him often. Caring for him on a daily basis after my daughter, Lisa had to return to work was just one enormous blessing after the other. I soaked up every minute of every day. That year did not fly by because I would not allow it to. Year One is chock-full of "firsts". Their first smile, first tooth, the first time rolling over, crawling and, the big one, taking that amazing first unassisted step.  A baby's first year is filled with one long and continuous "Bravo!" followed by loud and glorious applause. Lots and lots of applause. "Firsts" are milestones. "Firsts" are what we remember. Shoot, Hallmark must make bank on baby journals and brag books alone that mommies and grandmas fill up with sweet memories of the very first time that perfect little person did anything. 

first Christmas

There were times, I admit, that I was scared to death I'd witness Brayden accomplishing a very significant "first" before his mommy saw it. That would have killed me. That would not have been good. I've been where my daughter is at, so I get it. But to be perfectly honest, if I had seen it, I'd never admit to it anyway, so who's to know, right?

crawling!

My point is, after waiting so very long for this perfect little miracle child rolled up into a bundle of dirt and giggles I find myself living almost 800 miles away, navigating my way through so many "firsts" I've already sailed through; like the holidays and birthdays and countdowns to nap time. And then there are the gobs of new and precious other "firsts", like learning to say "please" and "night-night". "Firsts" that melt my heart and make me get all weird and sappy and smiley while I'm in the grocery line remembering the FaceTime we shared the day before. And hearing him call me Gramma, which sounds much different to you than to me.

back pack - back pack

This has all come to mind because yesterday Lisa sent me this collage picture of Brayden. My Little Bear. He's just had his first haircut, a "first" that I was not there to see, and she and Sam  are in the process of planning a vacation that will accommodate an extremely curious and active toddler. Brayden's first vacation. Thus, the back pack, which attaches to a leash which attaches to a parent in order to prevent this bold little explorer from falling overboard from the ship they will set sail on. The back pack looks like the one owned by Dora the Explorer, his first beloved cartoon character. But look at him. He's so small. He looks like a little Kewpie doll with cool sneakers. He may be in the 99th percentile for height, but he's a baby! And I am mesmerized by his little hands. I could watch those pudgy fingers in action all day long. 

happy first birthday, little man

Well, that picture must have really touched a deep chord inside me because after I saw it I immediately wanted to call my mom and tell her to check her email for pictures I would be forwarding. I wanted to tell her all about that baby boy and his new back pack. I wanted to hear her smiling through the phone over every little detail of my brilliant grandson's expeditions. And I wanted to hear her say how big he's getting and how much he looks like my Lisa. I wanted to retell the stories with that profound pride that only a grandma can feel and not be thought guilty of being prideful. I knew she'd glow with me, and agree that something he had done was just so darling and precious and, of course, much funnier than it really was to the average person. 
Yeah, I missed my mom yesterday. Big time. I've done a lot of "firsts" without her already, but that was a "first" of a whole different genre. I wasn't just missing my mother. I was missing the one person who would gush over that little Kewpie kid with the back pack and make me feel like it was all the more real because she knew. What is it about moms that make us care like this and often cling to their hearts?

she would have loved him so much

mom and me

Love can be crazy and unpredictable. It carries a bond that, quite simply, can not be broken. No matter how old I get, there are (and will continue to be) moments and events that cause me to, without even thinking, catch a glimpse of my mom's face with a tender smile and immediately yearn to share with her the most important part of my life right now. I wonder, do you think she can she see it all from heaven? I don't know. I think she's pretty occupied with all the basking in the glory of Jesus and decorating her new home up there. But it's heartwarming to know that if she were here she'd be loving all over my grandson and gently patting his little legs and saying to anyone who could hear, "God love it!". I can see it now. And I know that sissy can too. I know this because when I tell her about my brilliant grandson, I can hear her smile coming right through the phone.  ~Susan

Totally Rad

Not Ms. Mars ©

I picked up my "charge", ten-year-old Aaron, from school yesterday. On the drive home he was telling me about his teacher Ms. Mars who is really cool and says "rad", even though she's under 40. I said, "What?! There's a "rad" rule?" He told me, "yeah. Actually you should only say "rad" if you're over 40 because you would have actually BEEN THERE - when saying 'rad' was cool." Awww, I thought. Apparently Ms. Mars is so cool she can even break the 'rad rule'. WoW. Then suddenly, I began to feel very, very... old RAD. 

~SuSanMoM©

Never Say Done

I don't need to lie down for this

Wait. Isn't this normal? 
Everything I write is a rough draft 
until I say it isn't. 

And I never say it isn't.  





~Susan

Yes, as a matter of fact, I CAN do hard things.

this is the face of a skeptic

After more than ten years I decided to brave another women's retreat. Clearly, my experience with these things has not been good and I approach all things with the word "women" in them with skepticism. In my experience, either the speaker was off the rails or the ladies I was with turned on each other. Or me. Who needs that? The word "retreat" lost its entire meaning for me long ago and I learned to sink down into my chair or skip out of church early whenever fall rolled around and the surge for women's retreat sign-ups started to recycle. Of course, not all women's retreats are horrible. Most women love them. Just not me.

Currently, I'm attending a new church in my new town which is smaller and homier and just what a church filled with imperfect Christian women should be. At least the few women that I actually know. I'm not much of a joiner and never have been. But no one at this new church has made me feel less "spiritual" for being who I am, which is a non-joiner. If there is drama going on, I don't know about it and it's wonderful. I credit the pastor's wife, Lisa, who has set the bar for genuineness and loving kindness very high. 'So goes the leader, so goes the nation', right? I think that's true. In fact, I think it's critically true. Which makes it's all the more important, if we are to do hard things. Which leads me to this...

the real lodge. in tahoe.

The theme of the retreat was, "I Do Hard Things", which was very apropos since I made myself go. That was a hard thing. I was doing it already! As it turned out the place where the retreat was held wasn't a campground with bunk beds and concrete block walls like I'd always remembered and still envisioned. No. It was an actual Lodge, in the mountains, with ceramic tile and carpeted stairs in the room. There was a flat screen TV and even a hot tub and a pool. It was the full-on, non-stop retreat scenario I've only heard about. I want you to know that I have since given back to the word "retreat" it's rightful definition, along with the sincere apology I owed it.

I was there. See? Proof.

The speaker was the kind of gal I love to hear. She spoke from her heart and her heart touched mine. Her words were practical and as deep as you cared to take them. She served us God's truths with insight and wisdom, and piled a dollop of humor on top for free. She encouraged me to suit up, and show up, and trust God in ways I'd not thought of before; to take responsibility in areas of my life that only God and I know about. My daughter-in-luv, Carissa, led worship and blessed my socks off. And she won the raffle I'd prayed for her to win; a full-on style and color hairdo day with all the trimmings. [God, did you do that on purpose? Of course You did.] 

I even made myself join in with the scrappers.
This is my first scrapper card.

We had the afternoons OFF to just mozy or cozy, or play games or do crafts. No time crunching. Somebody pinch me! The whole weekend just whispered "breathe" right into my soul. Obviously, it was nothing like I'd expected which is cool since I don't mind being wrong in this manner. I opened up and met some precious women who I can now say hello to on Sunday, and they say hello back and even use my name. It was not a mind-blowing experience, no. I think it was exactly what I needed. A gentle reintroduction to the sisterhood we have in Christ. Isn't that how our Father works things out in us? He knows perfectly well what we need. And then He provides it. And now I'm thinking, so, this is a women's retreat, hmm? Ya know, I just might even go again next year. I might even bring a swimsuit along and take a dip in the hot tub. Yeah, I'm working on that kind of faith. 

And p.s. The women's ministry had a "gently-used" accessory sale going on during the weekend where I found these. Yep, I felt like Sissy was right there with me. Isn't God awesome?

Tea with my sister? Priceless.

~Susan

House, Home, Kids, and Messheads

I used to cross stitch stuff like this
for my little countrified home.

Here is a blog that breaks all the rules about keeping "the main thing the main thing". I'm all over the place today. But it's ok. Because it's MINE. I learned that from my grandson. 

For almost two years now I have lived in someone else's home. Either my son's or my daughter's. And, because they are married, with them come another son and and another daughter. They may be in-laws by marriage, but it's just the same to me. I love them like they are my own. I love them like crazy. And I give them a lot of credit. They have opened their homes to their dad and me, and by doing that they often live their private lives in plain sight, inside the privacy of the homes they now share with the very people who raised them to be independent and responsible adults. Currently, we are living with my son. I keep forgetting that we are paying half the expenses for a while now because it feels exactly the same as when we weren't. I'd much prefer to think that they were living with us. Isn't that how it should be? I think it is. Living with my son is very different from living with my daughter. In some ways it is harder, and in others it is just... different. I am fiercely proud of them all. But inside either home, inside my laptop, tapping on these little black keys, this is where I can be me. The mom. In my own privacy, in my own writing, on my shared blog with my sister. And, by the way, living with a daughter who is only mine by marriage is not the same as living with my daughter who is mine because I pushed her out of my body in 16 delirious hours. I've grown incredibly close to her which makes it incredibly more difficult to not step on toes. But in all ways, I treasure her because she is so brave to live with her mother-in-law.

Mustache Man and Me, right?

This living with my grown children is an art that I have not quite mastered. In a house this little I'm not quite sure it's an art at all. Though I am, at most time, content and happy to live together, I know it is not the same for my children. They are young. This is their time. I like to imagine Mustache Man and me as the beloved grandparents from The Waltons. It's a quaint and sweet image I entertain until I remember the seven grandkids who are all missing. (though I do have one perfect little bundle of boy who is my grandson for real). But here there are no diversions or common denominators to put all the focus on. Plus, it's only a television show, adapted from a book, locked inside a few hundred pages of memories. The times when I think I know how to do this well, and with the least interference on the lives of others, are times that are not to be trusted. I can't turn my back on any success that I may feel in this arena, much less pat it on the back. Ever. As long as I am able to speak I'm certain I will say something wrong. I knew years ago that I would no longer instruct my children without their permission. And I don't recall having been asked in a long time. Maybe I have, but I don't remember it. And though I have learned more and have lived longer than all of them, there seems to be nothing in my own life that lends itself to their interest or needs. But ya know what? It's OK. It is what it is. God has His plan and I lean wholly on Him. These days I'm learning not to say anything that might possibly, or in any way, be misconstrued as instruction. If I am guilty of doing it anyway, I claim ignorance. Genuine ignorance. I have also learned not to comment or insert myself into any conversation that I have not initiated myself. Though this is probably the hardest thing for me, I think it's just common courtesy and respect, really. More recently I've learned that I can't expect to be invited into a conversation, so that's a good thing to know. It's tough stuff, but that's just how it works here. I want to know about their lives. I care about how each one is doing and what I could pray about for them. I care very much. But living with them, any of them, seems to ensure that I most likely won't know. Not now anyway. So I am learning to be okay with that. Yes, I find it incredibly hard not to ask questions that require more than a yes or a no answer, but that's how it is when you live with adult children who insist on having their own adult lives. And to them I say, Bravo! To me I say, this really sucks.

I sometimes wonder if this is my son's worst
nightmare. (no worries, Evan. I'll never climb
 in thru your bedroom window and freak you out.) 

I have to say that spending the day staying out of someone's life is tricky.  And to say that I feel displaced and, at times, in the way would be putting it mildly. Don't misunderstand. My kids do not make me feel like a trespasser. Or a third wheel. They never have. They come and go and carry on with their lives as they should. And so do I. But the privacy I took for granted at their age is a privilege they are denied to some extent. Unless they, or we, become prisoners to our own bedrooms out of respect for the others' privacy. I think, for me, that's the hardest to handle. It feels so very much like it did when I was a kid and my friends had secrets and left me out. Whispers and closed doors can train wreck me without warning if I don't grab ahold of those thoughts and keep them at bay. Thinking I've done something wrong is the thorn in my flesh that will someday, hopefully, ease it's way out and stop nagging me no end. But false guilt is another story for another day. Or not. Today I'm doing what I have come to do every other day in order to keep my brain busy and stay out of everyone's way. I am writing. And I'm praying. And I'm reading. And re-writing. And then writing some more. And I stop many. many times and pray about purpose and what comes next. In the past months I've fallen in love with the blogs and stories of other women who have gone through, or are, as we speak, going through yucky-tough-and-smelly stuff. Sometimes, I am even changed by them. Glennon who writes Momastery.com is my current life-changer. She is a total warrior and I am inspired to be more of a warrior myself because of her. And, more importantly, for her. My life, which I suppose deserves it's own story (someday), seems much more connected, and less alone, when I read about people in a 'real' crisis dealing with 'real' yucky-tough-and-smelly stuff. I often underestimate the smelliness of my own stuff. That's not always a good thing to do.

life is MESSY, that's a fact.

I think anyone who accepts that life can turn you into a smelly messhead should appreciate the lives of other smelly messheads too. I can't relate to all messheads at all times, but most the time? yeah. I do. I get them. And if you are a messhead right now, I feel your pain. You are in some situation you did not choose, or you're bearing the consequence of some messheaded action you did choose and now wish to God you hadn't. I know both of these situations. I know them intimately. But this living in someone else's home who is also my adult child while living with my own messheadedness? Pretty rough. It's not a consequence. It wasn't a choice. Yet, here I am. With a thankful heart. But here I am.

mum's the word

In spite of it all, I am determined that the lessons and the values I am learning will not be lost on me. I will discover some aha! truths, profound and deeply raw. This will turn me into an extremely wise and much-sought-after person because of the mere vastness of all I have learned and will I will help countless others who share a similar tough-and-smelly story. And there will be an amazing ending to my story. As God is my witness! Aight? How's that for a lofty goal? But ok, seriously, right now I just seek out more messheads by reading one more blog or post or story, wanting to know more about their messes and how in the heck they will deal with it all. And I will ask a lot of questions. I seem to always be wanting to know something. Google and I are very tight and thank God it's free. Generally,  questions drive my son crazy. And my daughter isn't too fond of them either.  I have learned this during my tenure as a live-in mom. My questions come across as invasive. So I don't ask my son about his life. And I don't ask my daughter too many questions about her plans. I respect that boundary. And I get that they don't always get how I do see them as the adults that they are and do not hold them accountable for any changes in their lives or plans. But I do ask myself a bunch of questions all day long. And it's what I do when I read about other lovely messheads and their lives. That's where having my own home comes in.

Lately, and mostly, ok always, when I read another post of another blogger I ask the same question. It never fails. Same question, different day. I ask myself, "what's her house looks like?" I wonder, “Does she have her own little corner to just “be”? Does she have her own space? How is it decorated? Do people tell her it's homey and smells of lavendar? Does she take for granted that she is the adult in her home, and can move the furniture around a million times a week and no one will care?” Well, maybe her husband will care, if she has one, but that's different. I think it's natural to assume that grown women have their own homes where they invite their friends for coffee or have their families over for dinner. It's natural because it's natural. Leave and cleave. That's how it's supposed to be. 

the perfect apartment

I can remember freshly what it felt like to get my first OWN space. I was 19 and it was an attached apartment with a tiny kitchen with no drawers in it. It came furnished and had an antique vanity. It was perfection. And I wouldn't mind at all if I could live there again, right now, alone with no one. NO one. I wouldn't ever be the mom living with the son, trying to be invisible and non-momish and a constant reminder that this grown son is not a son so much as a husband to an amazing young woman. He's the breadwinner and vacation planner. And even though I, the mom, know this very well, my very presence can sometimes present the question and that question sometimes presents the problem. That's when I would do just about anything for that super power of invisibility. If I can't have that little drawerless kitchen, I'd like invisibility. Just so I won't become the question again.

certificate for awesomeness and brilliance

Someday I may bestow a Certificate of Achievement upon myself for all this living and learning and knowing and invisibility and awesomeness that I have accumulated over the years. I'll hang it on my bedroom wall in my children's home to remind myself that I have succeeded at something monumental. Yes, it will continually remind me of the staggering skills I have gained while living with my adult children. And my kids can take all the credit for teaching me how to do this thing that I will reward myself for. I'd say that by then, they will have earned it.  But that certificate will be mine. No matter where I'm living.

~SuSanMoM©

Psycho Sisters

Susan here. I'm really into bizarre holidays. Most of these wacky days have no known origin and are quazi-celebrated without rhyme or reason. And here's one of 'em. October 9th. Face Your Fears Day. So, OK. What's your fear? spiders? heights? public speaking? My biggest fear is taking a shower in an unlocked bathroom. I guess watching "Psycho" at the tender age of eight was probably not the wisest movie choice on my part. Where in the world was my mother?? And I'll never forgive my sister for making me watch it with her. (you know who you are).

Here's One Pledge I Can Not Keep

original pledge furniture polish

Your memory's best friend is your sense of smell. You knew that, right? And every time I polish my furniture I can't escape the full-bodied reminder of the original scent of pledge furniture polish. I loved that smell. Capital L loved it. It made my heart happy when I walked through our front door after school and was greeted with the familiar scent of pledge furniture polish. I think in part  I knew my mom would be in a good mood because she’d just cleaned the house. But I'm thinking mostly it was just the smell. I sure do miss it. You can’t buy this original pledge anymore. I’ve looked everywhere. Now, everything has lemon or orange or some other fruity filling in it. They all smell the same and I'll never be convinced that it better for your wood. So, if you know how to score some of this pledge 'crack' for me, DO tell. I would probably clean my house first thing. Then I would thank you publicly. And Loudly.  It would be that cool.   ~Susan

A Dope Poem

just say when

I never see

a cup of tea

with'out thinking

uh-bout thee.

love, squeez-ee

Finding Our Own Voice

"To be nobody but yourself in a world doing its best to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle any human can ever fight and never stop fighting." 

~ e. e. cummings ~

Finding our own voice in a world that is pushing and pulling at us, and shouting loudly over us, is often like finding a rare coin at the bottom of your purse. You'll delight in its discovery, aim to keep it forever, and you will make every effort to tend carefully to its safety. And someone else will want that treasure too. If they have found it first, then it's something we believe must have ourselves. In the discovery of finding our voice comes some level of abandon, and with that we find beautiful inspiration. What do I have to say that fear denies it a voice? It's always okay to stand out in a field full of conformity. I believe it is essential to let our own color shine, and maybe even showoff a bit. If we are to live freely and on purpose, we must uncover the bonds that keep us in the stranglehold the world chooses to call average. It is more than ok to be a white tulip in a sea full of pink ones. It is our calling. It is our privilege. And in this, we give the Creator glory. Besides that, we'll be so much easier to find.  

"Before you were formed in your mother's womb, I knew you, before you were born I set you apart." ~ Jer 1:5

~Susan Renée

Hershey the Horse

Dear Sissy, 

Remember the horse that lives behind my rear fence? The brown one with the cracked hooves and the lonely look on her face. The "pet" I adopted and feed apples to. I named her Hershey because she looks like milk chocolate. But in reality, she is unkempt and in dire need of a bath. And her real name is Sugar. 

me feeding Hershey my first apple

I met her owner. He told me he had to sell her because he couldn't afford to take care of her anymore. I know that's a good decision. But she's gone now, sissy. I miss looking out the kitchen window and seeing her head reaching over the fence. Waiting for her apple. I hope the person who bought her has trimmed her hooves and has given her a bubble bath. I hope they have stocked up on apples. I'm happy for Hershey. But it's a sad day for me. I think I need to borrow Ladybug for a day. I wish you lived closer.

I love you, Squeezie

Are You A Grammar Nazi Two?

Do you mentally correct other people's grammatical errors the way I do? Is that bad? No worries. I won't email you anything but good.. ~Susan

When the Corn's Done Poppin'

After writing my last blog about my father I didn't realize how cathartic it would be. I didn't feel badly about writing it. It was factual and it was accurate. At least for me. As they say, "Feelings are neither right or wrong... they just are." But I did feel like I'd finally, truly, buried my father. Then something happened.

Some other memories started to present themselves. It was kind of like how popcorn works. Deep inside the kernel of dried corn is the slightest drop of moisture. As the heat rises the moisture begins to boil which causes it to explode, turning it inside out. A little butter and salt and you're ready for a good movie. Or, in my case, a dreary drama. But when the explosion happened for me and when all the popcorn was gone from the bowl, there were several unpopped kernels remaining, as there usually are. For me, those kernels were the good memories. The things I remember about my father that were once fond memories, but now... now they felt warm inside and tangible enough to hold. These weren't going to pop.  And I felt these good memories every bit as strongly as I felt the painful ones. So I wanted to share a few of them here.

my folks were avid  Dodger fans

Once, while watching a baseball game on TV, I was sitting right next to my dad on the couch. He suddenly, for some unknown reason, put his arm around me and gave me a big hug and squeezed me tight. Then, he went right back to the game. I remember it now as if I'm sitting next to him on that couch. I can hear the sound he made too. It was a great hug.




At dinner one evening the three of us girls, as I recall it anyway, were talking about cute boys. I think Cathy may have been teasing Sherry about having a crush on Don Grady (may he rest in peace) from My Three Sons. That sounds pretty much like how it would have gone down. But the rest of this memory is crystal clear in my head now. I piped up saying that I thought my dad was the handsomest man in the world. And I meant that. Next thing I remember is him reaching into his pocket and pulling out a quarter. He slapped it in front of me with a big grin on his face. Even now it makes me smile. Everyone immediately started back-peddling, agreeing that Dad was, indeed, the best looking man alive. Too late. He pushed back his chair and got up, still wearing that sly grin on his face, and he left the table. When I left the table I was a little richer and felt a little happier. It only cost a quarter, but that memory is priceless. 

Father's Day, and every other gift-giving holiday, was always a challenge for me with my father. I don't recall ever getting him a gift that he liked enough to comment on it besides saying "thank you". Ever. I don't know if any of us kids did. But one year, as an adult, my husband, kids and I went to see my Dad on Father's Day. He was outside walking around checking out his lawn when I walked up and handed him a small bouquet of tootsie pops saying, "Happy Father's Day, POP!" Emphasizing the POP. (guffaw) He took the candy bouquet from my hand and threw his arms around me and gave me a big warm hug. Score! That was a great day. My dad didn't care about gifts. I think he preferred to feel endeared. Cathy, btw, has an awesome story about some of my dad's old shoes. I hope she shares it sometime. It's a good story.

Over the years, these have been some childhood memories that I have recalled now and again. But they have never, ever tugged at my heart or brought tears to my eyes like they do now. I'm so grateful that God saw fit to finally allow me to bury my father, and now remember some happy times with my dad.

Dear God, Don't Let Me Miss It

Last month (August 26th) was the 21st anniversary of my father's death. He was never a protective presence in my life.  He was neither encouraging nor affectionate. As a teenager I remember well feeling so vulnerable in my relationships with boys and feeling I owed them something for giving me the simplest attention. That was always on my part, not on the boy's. As I got older I did not trust men, and knew nothing about guarding my heart or saving myself for the man who would be worthy of me, in my father's eyes. I felt ill at ease if ever a boy showed an interest in me and I think I knew I would disappoint them in some way, and that scared me. Years later I still could not identify the boundaries that could have kept me safe from too many bad choices. I felt I owed things to men in order to be noticed. And being noticed was the closest I came to knowing love. Nowadays, there's so much written about the importance of a father's role in the life of his teenaged daughter. But we didn't know that stuff back then. And I'm not so sure it would have mattered to my father even if we did. He was an amateur radio enthusiast and most of his time and attention went to complete strangers over illusive airwaves sent through larger and taller towers he kept inate of the art condition every year. My father was head smart. But his heart was a mystery.

W6CRE. We all knew his call letters early on.

So this year, when sissy tagged me in a photo of my dad to share on my Facebook wall as a remembrancer of his passing I felt, for the very first time, that I had the choice to acknowledge all the hurts and the yuckiness I have felt and mourned since he died. Sissy  has my mother's strength and her deep sense family loyalty. It is strong and rich in her blood. She wants us all to be happy, and her heart will never rest until she has done her utmost to bring peace where there is hurt or misunderstanding. I love my sister for that. It sometimes irritates me, but she's usually right so I most often defer to her in these things. But this year I declined that "tag" on Facebook. I didn't want to acknowledge the anniversary my father's death. It seemed pretentious and contradictory to me. But I couldn't tell her about it because I didn't exactly know how. I didn't have the words. And I felt badly that I couldn't explain it. All I knew was that I felt angry. After 21 years, all the stuffed feelings of neglect and abandonment I'd experienced from my father had come to a head. Out of nowhere. All I could recall was being so hurt by the man that I had, 21 years earlier, secretly prayed for God to let me be with as he withered away from the cancer that killed him. And God answered that prayer. I was with him when he died. Just him and me. Alone. I didn't plan on that. But afterward, I did think there should be some sort of special bond or some kind of a connection I'd feel between us because of my being there. It was perhaps a lofty hope. I wanted it to count for something. And I think I had convincing myself into thinking I finally did something special for him and wasn't that wonderful? 'Did I do good, dad?' I wanted an answer. Or even an acknowledgement that I'd asked the question. But he was dead now. There would be no hope of an answer or a nod. Now it was permanent. So I hadn't really done anything all that great at all.

My handsome father during WWII

Over the years I could never put my finger on what it was I felt whenever my father's name came up. I could never find the words to express what it was that I felt toward him at all. The man who was never my “daddy”, but was always my father. My mom had always taught us to accept him for who he was and not to think about the things that he wasn't. She didn't put it that clearly, but that's what we knew she was saying. I had been taught to believe that it was wrong to give room to any thought of my father that was less than the "good provider" that he was. And he was. Whatever needs I may have had beyond that simply weren't as significant as they felt to me. So that's how we lived. And as long as my mother was alive, I never let my heart even go there; to a deep hole that held the question mark to a question I dare not ask. I mustn't. I would not hurt her by suggesting that her husband was less than the wonderful man she had married. Even though she knew. She knew. 

Then about a month ago I was following a link posted by one of my favorite bloggers which led me to a post entitled, Nella Cordelia, A Birth Story. It was not what I had expected in the least. It is a precious and beautifully-written story from a mother about the birth of her daughter. It was also the most difficult thing this woman had ever had to write. I encourage you to read it with a box of tissue and a heart full of joy. You will need both. You can fink it here. The story relates the birth of what was expected to be a healthy baby girl who, right after delivery, was detected with Downs Syndrome. No one even noticed. No one. Except for the new mom. She knew something was wrong right away. And eventually they all did. But until then it was just her. Alone. Not expecting to see what she saw, or feel what she felt. And as she looked at her precious new baby and their eyes locked, she could almost hear her little girl say... "Love me. Love me. I'm not what you expected, but oh, please love me." And that is what I wish I could have said to my father years before he died. 

My siblings in 2002. L-R, Cathy, me, Tom, and Sherry.

I envisioned myself sitting next to him as he lie in the rented hospital bed that now shared space in his "ham shack" During his final hours I mentally asked him to acknowledge his children. To notice that he wasn't just leaving his wife. He was leaving four of the greatest achievements of his life. I wished I could have understood why he could only give what little he gave and understand all the excuses my mother always made for why he was the way he was. Absent and intolerant in so many ways. He detested questions. And I was a very inquisitive kid, but I learned early on not to ask questions. Why was he broken? What did we lack that he so wished for? Mostly, I felt like he'd missed the chance to fully participate in my life and he'd misspent the time he'd had with all of his kids for so many years. And now, finally, I let myself be good and angry. Why had it taken so long for me to allow myself to feel this stuff? I cried for the girl I had once been, who wanted to fill a daddy's empty lap so very badly. I embraced the teenager who needed a father's arms around her to protect her from the ugly things some young girls should never have to experience or endure or  lies that they believe about themselves. I let myself feel it all, and mourn it all, and get the poison out. And I did. Then... I was done.

My dad's last Christmas with us. He sat for the photo. Nice.

Today, I don't feel any of that pain. It's gone. It's been grieved over and worked out. I almost feel a sense of loss for my dad because he did miss so much. But the lesson I will never forget, the one truth that God has shown me in the midst of this  emotional spillage that had to happen, is this. In some way I think I see people through new eyes now. Everyone has a bit of that lovable Nella Cordelia in them. And with it comes the challenges and the heartbreak we are all destined to endure if we are to live. Mother Teresa once said, "everyone is going through something" and isn't that the truth? I see how God loves His kids and wants us desperately to love them too. So now I  wonder if my father ever thought Nella Cordelia's thoughts. "Love me. Love me. I'm not what you expected, but oh, please love me." I'll never know. But I can say with certainty that I have thought these very thoughts in my own life. And what about my kids? Do they ever think like that? It's especially important now that I don't miss the chance I do have, here and now, to love them and acknowledge them and protect them from some of the hurts that they don't need to experience. But I'm determined to not miss the chance my father did. Am I what they expected? I don't know.  I know that I am not alone is my experience. But, I don't want to miss the chance to change things. So dear Lord, please don't let me miss it.

~ Susan Renée