Recently, Peter offered me a handful of dandelions (dado-errs in Peter speak) from the yard. He smiled so big and said “For you, Ma.”
He had no doubt I would accept and love them. And I did. His smile brightened even more as he watched me later put them in water and place them on our counter.
It brought to mind an encounter from 2018. That was a big year for me and Steven. In July I broke my leg in three places. In August we found out we were pregnant for the third time. In September we found out we had lost our third pregnancy.
Two days after our third loss we decided to go to a Greek Orthodox festival. We visited the sanctuary of the church while there. The priest shared how communion was done and other traditions of the Greek Orthodox. Then he offered a prayer.
I cried.
He walked over to us and placed a hand on my shoulder. He told us that we are like little children when we offer our gifts to God. If our young child brought us dandelions in grubby hands, we would accept them joyfully.
The priest had no idea what we had experienced that week. He had no idea the heartbreak. But in his attempt to comfort he planted this idea.
The life I offer to God is offered with grubby hands, but He smiles upon me. And I smile back, brightening as I see Him put my offering to use on the counter of His world.
A poor quality pic of our chicken crossing the road.
Yep. The answer to the age old question is that simple. Perhaps we’ve made that joke a little too difficult. Home is a beacon that calls to all creatures it seems.
So, how did I finally land on the answer to this generation stumping riddle?
We had a chicken massacre. It sounds horrible. It was. A few weeks ago our three girls got out of their pen when Steven went to feed them. It was raining, he had to go to work, so we left them out to free range. I checked on them once that day and accounted for all three under our back porch.
Then, much to our chagrin, we kind of forgot about them. Until two days later when we saw one of our twins by herself. The twins are NEVER by themselves. Investigation ensued.
Sadly, we found the mutilated body of Roslyn, our little white chicken in the coop and a load of black and white feathers leading around the back. We searched but never found Dupont’s body. Lincoln appeared to be the only survivor.
We decided to rehome her as a single chicken is a sad, lonely existence. Plus, she was terrified of the coop. She sat in the nesting box frozen in fear. She was delivered to her new home.
And we became a chicken-less suburban home.
Dupont eyeing some cat food after coming home.
Then, much to my surprise, eight days later I looked out the front door and there was Dupont in our neighbor’s yard! She trotted across the road, went between the houses, and I found her at the coop looking around appearing slightly confused. She was hungry (ate a whole apple, a bowl of cat food, and some chicken food that was left in the coop) but otherwise in perfect health. Not a scratch on her.
She survived eight days in the “wild”–we have coyotes, free roaming dogs, construction traffic, traffic in general, it was the week it was bitterly cold. I am amazed at her survival skills and her apparent determination to be home.
Luckily, the friend who took Lincoln into her flock agreed to take Dupont as well. The sisters were reunited and at last report were reigning supreme together.
Home. It calls to us all. We cross the road for its familiarity and welcome.
For this post, social media is defined as Facebook, Instagram, X (Twitter), Threads, Pinterest. Not blogging, as it was excluded as social media at my conference.
I mentioned several months ago that I had attended a writing conference. I went having no idea what to expect, but the information advertised promised it was helpful for people at all stages of writing their Great American Novel (ok, they didn’t use that phrasing, but the sentiment is the same).
I have also shared here in the past that I have finished writing a children’s chapter book and have no idea what to do with it now. So, attending this conference was something I was doing with the hopes of knowing what my next step is.
In the first twenty-four hours of the conference, I cried a lot.
That first day focused on marketing. And, apparently, in today’s world marketing is an individual’s job and is largely based in social media. It was presented something like this: don’t use your social media to sell your book–for example, don’t ask your followers to buy your stuff, BUT you can’t sell yourself to an agent without a substantial social media following. And when I say substantial, I mean BIG—two thousand followers on two separate platforms not run by the same company (so, not Facebook and Instagram). You have to prove to the agent that you have enough following that your product will sell.
I struggle with this on several levels. First, I find it paradoxical. And when I tried to point this out to one of the conference instructors, her response was also frustrating. She pointed out that I wouldn’t make friends to sell them something. . .of course not. . .and social media is the same thing. But she’s wrong. I am trying to get 2000 followers to sell them something. I would never make 2000 friends in real life. Having five can be exhausting. And when I tried to have this conversation, her response was “I’m going to pray for you.” Um, ok, but that’s a little condescending. Feel free to pray for me, I take all the prayer I can get. But your delivery of the statement indicates that you’re unwilling to engage in this conversation and want to shut it down.
Another instructor used the phrase that social media is “necessary evil.” Perhaps I should mention here that the conference was a Christian based conference. I’m really not trying to call out the conference. There were many things about craft shared after the first 24 hours that were very helpful. My issue lies with the idea that Christians are embracing a “necessary evil.” The only reason that this concept of social media is necessary is because the people in charge of publishing have allowed it. And if they are claiming a Christian worldview then perhaps they should reevaluate that phrase. Evil isn’t necessary. It’s here. It exists. But it isn’t necessary. Christian businesses could choose to not require social media craziness. And if they do, are they subscribing to the ways of the world?
Page 1 of a 25 year project.
And, finally, I don’t want social media in that form. Me, personally. I left the Facebook world in 2018 for very specific reasons. And I haven’t missed it.
So, will Paper Wrappers be seen in a published format without engaging in “necessary evil.” I have no idea. I do know that the vast majority of the books I read aren’t because of what I see on my limited social media interaction.
And that gives me hope for Paper Wrappers and her heroine, Milly.
Footnote: even though I excluded blogs as social media at the beginning of this post, I want to thank all of you who read my thoughts. Those I have met in real life and those I only know in this format. I appreciate everyone’s input and encouragement over the years.
That is all. That is my confession. Also, for reference, we have tried training underwear, the three day method, a potty watch timer (Peter’s special timer), a new potty, bribes, a potty chart, singing, dancing, (we can’t stand on our heads). . . .
The Polar Express, or “black train” as it’s dubbed in our home, has been on repeat the last several days. I remember being a child when my mom read us the book by Chris van Allsburg. A beautiful book–not just the story but the rich pictures.
Years later my dad gifted me with a book, Santa My Life & Times, that was the autobiography of Santa Claus. It was my first year out on my own for reals. . .graduated from college, in my own home, with a big girl job. In the front Daddy wrote, among other things, “I hope you enjoy his story, for I know that in your heart you believe.”
I don’t remember being a Santa literalist. I recall Christmas Eves at my grandparents and the television program interrupted by the Santa tracker letting us know where he was in his journey around the world. I don’t know if my cousins were believers or not. I can’t recall a single conversation with anyone about Santa’s legitimacy. I knew where my presents came from.
But I love the idea of Santa. I love the spirit of Santa.
What’s all this have to do with “black train”? Well, the movie has some interesting additional characters, my favorites being the engineers, but they don’t really help me with my point. . .if I do have one. Steven’s favorite is the hobo, a curmudgeon of a man who Hero Boy encounters on the top of the train. At one point the hobo asks Hero Boy, “Do you believe in ghosts?” He answers with a no and hobo responds with “Interesting.”
We’re left to infer that the hobo is a ghost, an implication confirmed with his disappearing acts. Hero Boy’s disbelief in ghosts doesn’t make the hobo’s existence illegitimate. He’s still there. Hero Boy still interacts with him. The disbelief also doesn’t keep the hobo from helping the boy. The hobo gets the boy to the engine and keeps the boy, the girl, and the conductor from falling off the train.
The other interesting addition for me is Billy. The little boy who says Christmas just doesn’t work out for him. Billy-who has Christmas wishes and maybe this year they will come true. His short life experience seems to have taught him to not get his hopes up. Don’t believe in the improbable because it is most likely impossible.
Me and Santa 2023
But, he hears the bells. Despite it all, in his heart, he believes.
Belief, it seems, has little to do with what happens. Not believing doesn’t change existence and believing doesn’t change circumstances.
Belief has to do with the heart.
And maybe it has something to do with enriching the experience. It’s the Hero Girl of the movie with whom I most closely identify. It’s her love of the lights and the mystery and the joy and the gifts and the companionship.
It’s her belief in all that is good about Christmas.
Recently, Peter’s swing set cried out to me for some TLC.
Peter received this hand-me-down before he was one (he’s three now) and it needed a paint/seal then. But I put it off.
While Peter played around a month ago, I contemplated the structure and thought under the slide platform was a lot of wasted space. How could I makeover the space and it be play worthy? A kitchen space started to form in my head. Peter loves to play kitchen and food truck.
I also wanted to DIY the project with things that I had readily available.
The first step was a power wash and some scrubbing of the peeling paint. I didn’t do a super awesome job of that as I’m not trying to win any awards–just giving my child a place to have fun. I let Peter pick the color of paint from what was stored in the garage. He chose the yellow (not really a surprise). I chose to do the “foundation” and ladder in a red that was available. Honestly, the painting was probably the hardest and most time consuming, and as of this writing, I do still need to put a sealant on the yellow.
I had a piece of lumber sitting around doing nothing, so I notched it to fit on the cross brace. I painted it with some ivory spray paint also stored in the garage and then used some of my craft paints to add a stove top. The food basket is an old window flower basket that, you guessed it, was stored in the garage. I shined it up with a coat of silver spray paint.
Peter has had the play sink for about a year, I was gifted the chalkboard, the chalk basket has been in the kitchen doing nothing, and the “light” fixture is broken bird feeder my grandmother gave to me (to be clear, the bird feeder wasn’t broken when she gave it to me). We went on an “adventure” to find him some plastic food and pots (I wanted plastic as it’s outdoors) and Ta-Da!
A useless space is now a “food truck” and Peter cheerfully cooks me strawberries and broccoli and hot dogs.
I’d like to add a few more things at some point, like an “oven”, extend the food counter for more space for the sink, and some kind of cabinet/refrigerator. But I think I’m out of things just lying around doing nothing. And Peter doesn’t seem to mind not having those things.
Do you have ideas of how to add those renovations with things that might be lying about a lived in house? Or maybe you have a different idea of how to use the space? Let me know!
It appears I haven’t seasoned anything since May. That is mighty unacceptable! It’s not that I don’t have things to say. I have plenty on my mind these days.
The last six months provide much fodder for fruitful writing. But who has the energy when focused on the needs of a three year old? I can tell you much about Chase, Sky, Rubble, and Marshall. Or maybe you would rather hear of Blaze, Crusher, and Pickle. Honestly, my big question is where are AJ’s and Ryder’s parents?
I did manage to go to a writer’s retreat during this hiatus. My brain busily sifts through the information when I’m not called to “play in room” or “play trains in garage”. Some of it I found very helpful and encouraging. Some, not so much. Perhaps I will delve into that more in a later more focused post. Social media seems to be a vital element to traditional publishing these days, and frankly, my feelings on that are incredibly conflicted.
So, egads! I never meant to go quite so long without posting something. . .anything. I do hope to re-purpose/refocus my blog in the near future. I don’t exactly know what that means.
But, plan to be seasoned more in 2024. (hmm. . .that’s catchy)
Yesterday, I had a banana and mayo sandwich. I haven’t done that in ages. But what it brought to mind was the way I have to make said sandwich.
There are appropriate ways to make different banana sandwiches. I bet you didn’t know that.
A banana mayo sandwich, you have to slice the banana long-ways. It takes half a banana, sliced in three.
My husband makes peanut butter and banana sandwiches often. But he does it wrong. He slices the banana in rounds. For a truly delicious PB banana sandwich you have to mash the banana up in the peanut butter.
Quite frankly, there’s never an appropriate time to slice a banana in rounds for a sandwich. Banana pudding, yes.
Now, my granddaddy doesn’t go to all this fuss for a banana sandwich. He just peels the banana and wraps a piece of bread around it, hot dog style. Efficient, but not flavorful in my opinion.
Do I have a point? I don’t know. I had a conversation with my daddy a while back about how we eat banana sandwiches. Where did my strong feelings about how to build them come from? It seems they came from him. You slice the banana long so pieces don’t fall off the sandwich. And mashing it…well, it really is better.
I hope to teach these ways to Peter. Also, mayo on fries (though right now he’s a ketchup fan). And I’m drawing a blank on other little things like this that he needs to know. Yes, needs.
It’s how we keep memories alive. It’s how the generations before us live on.
My offering for sermon this morning, March 5, second Sunday of Lent.
I have come to realize that it is almost impossible to separate ourselves from what I will call core memories. I define those as the events in our lives that shape how we begin to talk about our lives and how we begin to respond to things that happen. They are the things that add to our definition of ourselves. The events that cause the twists and turns in the journey. My own, forgive the former English teacher, plot twists are my parents’ divorce, my decision to be a teacher, fasting from dating, eloping with Steven, pregnancy loss, and Peter. I’m sure there are smaller little hills and curves that provide sub-plots to the story of Season, but these are the ones that I find influence my conversation and my faith.
Faith…that’s the point of the above. It seems I can not talk about faith without talking about miscarriage. On January 27, 2020 Steven and I found out we were pregnant for the fifth time. It was exciting and terrifying. After much prayer and discussion, we chose not to have the every other day blood tests to determine HCG levels in that first week. In the past it caused immense anxiety. We did schedule the early ultrasound at six weeks, though we were apprehensive about that as well. By that point we had experienced six ultrasounds–two cautioning us about the heartbeat and size of the baby, three confirming the loss of the baby, and one confirming my endangered life {as an aside, if you’re reading, we didn’t have an ultrasound with baby four}. February 11, 2020 we would once again hold our breaths in an ultrasound room. Somewhere between January 27 and February 11, I bought a baby clothes pattern for onesies and pants.
Faith. I committed to that pregnancy, to that baby, despite the evidence stacked against it. And I wanted to mark that commitment with something tangible.
In our scriptures today, we are pointed to faith. Abram steps out on faith and leaves his home. He commits to the promise God has given him. Paul uses that story to help us see that Abraham could not boast in his own works. He was not blessed because of what he did, but because of that in which he had faith. And sweet, muddled Nicodemus. I choose to believe he just needed a little extra wait time to mull these things over.
We have the benefit of the wait time that is not recorded for Nicodemus.
One of the most well-known verses in scripture is in our readings today. It is probably one of the first five verses I committed to memory. John 3:16. Steven and I spent some time researching the word “believes” that is used in that verse. We both appreciate a good word study when discerning what God is trying to tell us. Here’s what we found. The Greek form of the word, which I won’t attempt to pronounce, is rooted in ‘commit to one’s trust’, ‘faith’, or ‘fidelity’. It is possible to translate the verse “that everyone who has faith in him may not perish.” It is our faith in who Jesus says he is that brings us to him. It is being committed to the promises we know he has given us through Abraham, through scripture, and in our own prayers.
I imagine Nicodemus was confused. A man who spent his life following law and being told that law saved. This would have been a very different promise for him to wrap his mind around. I imagine that Nicodemus was a man of action. I imagine him thinking, but what do I do? Law is about action. Faith, well, it’s a gift. It is something that grows through those bumps and curves and twists on your journey. It doesn’t seem as solid a ground as law. And that can be scary.
You don’t have to DO anything except have faith. I don’t mean to imply that this is easy. Fidelity and commitment are often quite difficult. We can’t do it without grace from God and grace from others. And, honestly, as Jesus illustrates with his wind analogy, I don’t really know where faith comes from. I see its impact and its power–in my life, in others–and in that way I am refreshed and empowered to renew my own commitment. Much like my purchase of a pattern, I find that when I mark my faith with an action, I feel that I am showing God how much I commit to what He has promised to me. I show Him not only my faith in Him, but my love for Him.
It is faith that brings us to the table. It is with faith that we accept these promises from God the Father, through Christ His Son, with the help of the Holy Spirit.
It’s another one of my tools to encourage writing. I used it the other day. One page can have several prompts, so I chose a page with three. Generally, I’m trying to go in order because otherwise I get hung up on picking something I “think” I can write.
The page had the following prompts: Something you had that was stolen; The long-lost roommate; What a character holding a blue object is thinking right now.
I share my response to the last one:
I probably shouldn’t marry him.
I’m pretty sure there’s a story there. I haven’t written it yet. But it’s percolating.
Seasoned 