SelahV Today by hariette petersen

Worth Remembering, Are You?

SHE WROTE:

"Unless you are famous and put into the history books, it doesn't matter at all how awesome you are or aren't. You have at best 2-3 generations who will remember you. It just is a fact. So spend a good part of your life living for you. You get but one life."

HOWEVER, as I see it, when you are a Christian...you don't need to be famous. Nor do you need to be archived in a history book to be remembered.

For whatsoever you do or say in life is eternally saved by God and stored in His memory bank to be rewarded and kept forever.

Every smile expressed.

Every kindness shared.

Every gift given.

Every encouragement rendered.

Every blessing offered.

Every moment sacrificed.

 

All the lives of every person you've ever touched is celebrated and cradled with all the love you intended it to have in another's life.

 

I do not count all I have done for others as wasted moments;

nor any prayer I've prayed in the middle of the night for friends, family and strangers as time misspent. I don't even expect to be acknowledged this side of heaven.

 

I give because God first gave to me.

He gave me life. He blessed me with time. He trusts me to share the love of His only begotten Son through word, deed, and witness. Sometimes I fail Him, but those times will be forgiven and forgotten.

 

AND SOMEDAY... when I take my last breath on earth, the Lord will meet me and reveal to me that which He counted important--that which He saw that "mattered" to others. And to Him. And life will have been worth living, just for that. ~selahV4today

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THORNS of Remembrance

I'm rather nostalgic at the moment as I begin to downsize six decades of accumulated junk and whittle away at what is worth hanging onto.  I find that I can be happy to live with much less today than I thought necessary yesterday. It is a good place to be.  Of course when I set aside the items to sell in a yardsale or estate sale (not sure which I will do yet), memories flood my mind.  I'm guessing that is why I've kept so many silly things.  As time goes by, we tend to forget the sweeter times that made us giggle, laugh out loud, or smile.  I think taking photos of some things may very well be the answer for me as I price a twenty-dollar item for five dollars and then take two or one when offered.  That way, I'll still have the item to jog my memory but not shelves upon shelves, and boxes upon boxes to sit wrapped up in some storage spot.

I've had a lot in life. Many blessings. Many heartaches. But through it all, I've come to a place wherein I am content to "go with the flow" and rest in God's grace. He is enough.

At the end of each day I am satisfied to know I have the love of God, the love of family, the love of friends. The rest is what allows me to live to give and honor God and show my love to others for the remainder of my time in this world.

Otis Redding's hit song, "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay" in which he was sitting on a dock, watching tides roll in and out--"wasting time", brought back memories when a Facebook friend posted it on her status yesterday. It called back calming memories of a Rhode Island beach I once enjoyed visiting.  Yet, today, his words make me think how much time we waste doing nothing but watching life pass us by when there is so much more to life than wasting it.

Life is so very short on this earth. God has blessed us with life and it is too precious to waste watching others live it. I still want to jump in with both feet, marvel at the intricate shells, and feel ocean waves steal the sand beneath me.  As my son use to say, "Count every moment and make every moment count."

Praying you have a bunch of moments today to capture snapshots of joy and goodness.  I pray as you read this, you find yourself ready to gather a few rose buds and breathe in their sweet fragrance as they open in all their fullness.  Just remember the thorns as simply part of the sacrifice to own Life's true Spirit and Glory.

"He himself is the sacrifice that atones for our sins--and not only our sins but the sins of all the world." 1 John 2:2

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For another thought on letting go and holding on:  Clinging...may interest you.

LIFE OF A HAMMOCK

Shredded gaps, like a balding head, expose its age.  Strands of rope fall loosely from the wooden bar that once held the netting securely in place.  No longer can one lie in its cradle and gaze at the season's changing pecan limbs.  It's finished its course, its race is over.  Three years of swinging, swaying and hanging beneath the shade, the sun, ice, snow, and rain has taken its toll.

It's been more than rope macramed together to form a hammock.  It's been a nest of memories...joy, laughter, fun, and meditation.

It now reveals the test of time.  It's a bit sad...especially on a December day like today.  It's 74 degrees.  Instead of last year's blizzard, it feels like Spring.  Good old Oklahoma.  I just never know what weather I'll experience on any given day.  That's why I left the hammock up year-round.  I didn't have the heart to take it down and place it in hibernation.

Do you think Santa has any hammocks in his sack?

If not, I suppose memories must suffice.  selahV    

May 8th, Five Years Later

I am no longer a puddle on the floor.  I no longer feel tortured by each breath, nor cry with each thought of him.  I am no longer angered that others pass by, and live life--as if his life had no meaning.  I still swell with pride at the sound of his name, and slow down at the memory of his words, "chill out".  I continue "to stop and smell the roses", and pick wildflowers by the side of the road.  I try to "count every moment special, and make every moment count".  I still remember his warm for-nothing bear-hugs, and miss his just-because phone calls.  I still long to hear his voice and see the brilliance of his smile.  I wish we could still hang-out while he runs errands, and share stories of God's intervention in our lives.  I doubt that will ever change.

Time is a strange commodity these days.  It no longer feels like it is standing still, yet it never seems to fly by either.

Whenever heartache comes my way, I "remember the good times".  Sometimes I still cry.  Sometimes I still get angry.  Occasionally I wonder "why".

I've let go of the dreams I once had for him and am resting in the reality of what is left in the wake of his life.  Brooklyn.  Abby.  Love.  Sunshine.  Flowers.  Soccer games. Softball.  Playing hard, and living each moment as if there is no tomorrow.  Sharing my heart as if I will not have a chance to say all I have to say after the sun sets today.  Treating each person I love in light of that May 8th five years ago; a call to go to our heavenly home could be here for any of us--at any time.  So take no one for granted.  Forget the small stuff.  Forgive quickly.  Seize the day.  Make time to say you care.  Live with all your heart--for your family.  For friends, and strangers.  And most of all--for Christ.  

[Remembering your life, my son.  Rejoicing that you are in the arms of the Lord.  I love you, Momma]

MOTHER'S DAY MAGNETS, 4 Easy Steps

So I had the girls over and we made "mommy" magnets.  Below are photos of materials needed and step by step assembly by none other than Miss Haylee and Miss Kinsey.  They were very diligent in following directions and it was one of the simplest crafts I ever put together for them.

I used plastic bottle caps.  Stuck a round magnet on the back.  Filled the cap with Elmer's glue.  Then added the inside decorations.  *DRIED* rice, beans, split peas.

I had all the items laid out on the table before I brought in the girls.  Then I sat down in front of them and guided them through each step.  Have a damp washcloth handy to wipe those sticky fingers.

STEP 1) Remove the paper sticker off the self-stick magnet.

STEP 2) Push the sticky side of magnet onto the topside (outer side) of the bottle cap.

"Haylee; did you know that God makes beans, and peas and rice?"  (A time to teach about God's provision.)

STEP 3) Squeeze Elmer's glue into the center of the inside of the bottle cap about half-full.

 
STEP 4) Generously drop your beans, rice, and peas into the cap and press down.  Haylee got creative and added a few grains of rice to her beans and peas.  I always let them individualize their creations.  Whatever they choose to do within the bounds of the tiny space in front of them, I say "Go for it!"

"Why beans and rice, Grama?"

"Because we're making magnets for the kitchen.  And Mommy cooks with beans, and rice and peas."

"That's a good idea!"  Whew!  I'm sure glad it was a good idea.  If not, Haylee might have taken her magnets apart and began sticking in fresh daisies.

Hope you enjoy this little craft.  It's great for Sunday School craft.  It took all of 10 minutes for us to put these together. 

One bit of advice:  Have a little plastic plate beneath the space where they actually assemble their magnets.  I usually do this.  Duh, didn't this time and you can see the clean-up I had all over the table and onto the floor.  Not bad, just had to sweep.  But could be avoided with plates or trays under their bottle caps.  selahV   

[CLICK ON ANY PHOTO FOR AN ENLARGEMENT]

[Check out my KIDS' MATTERS Blog for Insights and Hindsights]

BEFORE THE DAY WAS OVER

It was suppose to be the warmest day of the week.  But we woke to a clouded, chilly day.  I'd promised the girls a picnic trip to Wichita Mountains.  We layered ourselves in sweatshirts, hoodies, sock caps and scarves.  We didn't pack a real picnic lunch--just crackers, water, and cantaloupe slices.

Riverview Restaurant fed us loaded potatoes, popcorn shrimp and salad.  As we sat at the window seat, overlooking the stream, the sun finally popped through the heavy cover of clouds.

We got excited.  We finished our meal and headed down to the stream to feed the geese and take pictures.  The longer we stayed at the stream, the warmer it got.  But the time we got to Mt. Scott, temperatures were a brisk 60.

Before the day was over, we'd been thoroughly blessed by the creation of God.

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IT'S STILL HARD

I didn't have to call.  There was no need for a card.  I didn't have to shop for a gift or wrap a present.  I didn't have to change my schedule or routine.  I didn't have to worry about eating calorie-laden cake to celebrate.  He would have been 38 years old today.

It's been nearly 5 years since that fateful Mother's Day that claimed his 33-plus years of life.  And it's still hard.  It's hard to imagine he's not around.  It's still hard to think I'll never hear his voice on the other end of the phone.  He had an unusual way of interrupting my day at the busiest of times--sometimes he had a problem; most times a joy to share.  It's hard to listen to others complain about all the things they must to do ready themselves for a birthday, the expense, the inconvenience.  I guess what I'm trying to say is be grateful for the moment you have today with a loved one.  A child.  Don't take for granted you will always have tomorrow to celebrate.  You just never know.  Cherish the conversations.  Savor the time with one another.  Let those little aggravations slide for awhile.  And just be happy.  selahV

GRATEFUL FOR GOOGLE AND ZABASEARCH.COM

Jimmy contacted me today.  Out of the blue.  He simply Googled my name and up came my website.  He posted a comment on my profile blog and told me that a dear friend from my church in East Hartford, Connecticut (from nearly 29 years ago) wanted to get in touch with me.  A flurry of memories rushed through my mind.

Jimmy.  That darling darked-eyed boy who volunteered to lie on the floor in the fellowship hall with a styrofoam cup to his forehead.  He let the youth members crack eggs and try to get them to land in the cup.  What fun I recall with him.  He use to be an absolute whiz with New England tag-sales (yardsales for the folks down here).  His dad took him on scavenger hunts for all kinds of treasures to resell for profit.  He was a great kid.  He was sensitive, kind and just plain nice.  I'm betting he has only gotten nicer.

Jimmy made sugar cookies for our fellowships and he gave me his recipe.   I put it on an index card, entitled it, "Jimmy's Sugar Cookies" and used it again and again and again.  Through the years, each time I took out that card it was a reminder to pray for Jimmy wherever he was.  As I made those cookies I'd remember to pray for several others from that youth group.  Florence, Stu, Debbie, Tim, Diane, Diana and more.  During one of our moves, I lost Jimmy's recipe card.  I tried dozens of recipes after that one.  But they just never measured up to Jimmy's.  It's funny though.  Every time I'd eat another sugar cookie, purchase a sugar cookie, or see a sugar-cookie recipe in a magazine, I thought of Jimmy.

I'm grateful today that Jimmy contacted me.  I'm grateful for Google and the internet.  I'm glad I have a blog.  I'm thrilled that I got to talk to my sister and friend, Sharon who'd asked Jimmy to see if he could find me.  I zabasearched for her name and up came her address and phone number.

Amazing how connected we are in a world of disconnections, isn't it?  I had a sweet walk down memory lane.  A lane I hope to walk upon many times in the future.  I'll tell you about Sharon another day.  What a dear friend in Christ she is.  And an artist, too.  selahV   

FORTY-THREE YEARS LATER

No one gave them much chance of success.  More educated, older and prominent people warned of impending difficulty and trials before them.  Fear of the unknown challenged their every decision.  History charted stormy seas to come.  Every year had its own set of unforeseen troubles.  Goals met, goals unmet.  Love gained, love lost.  Trust forged, trust broken.  Joys shared, joys spoiled.

In the past forty-three years, we've called ourselves husband and wife.  It was not a picnic every day but who has a picnic every day without having it rained out occasionally?  A rainbow did not follow every storm, but neither did a storm produce every rainbow.

We have endured more than most couples and less than others.  There were times when we saw the flaws in one another more than the perfections.  We've understood one another most of the time and when we didn't, we still loved one another.  We each revelled in the other's happiness and were never jealous of one another's individual abilities or talents.  We appreciated the best in one another, and forgave the worst.  I suppose that is why we've really lasted forty-three years.

I'm grateful for all the times I've been forgiven and experienced the unconditional love of my husband.  He's far more than I deserve and I am far less than he deserves.  Still....

Today I came to my computer.  Sitting before me was a white envelope with these words: "Loved you that day and every day."

There's a lot to be said for the words written inside a card.  Especially when the card is chosen by a husband who reads every card on a rack till he finds just the one to express his heart.  I'll spare you the mush and simply share how he signed it: "Love, your happy, happy husband."  Isn't that sweet?  I think so, and really?....after forty-three years of marriage, I have learned that to my husband, that's all that matters anyway.  selahV

[© SelahV Today, 2008]

   

NAVIGATING DALLAS, TEXAS

Just before we got to Dallas, we pulled over to gas up my little Malibu.  My plan was for me to drive through the spiderweb of the city.  But my bold grandson says, "I got it, Grama."  And I took him at his word.

I got out my map, the Mapquest directions, and we forged ahead.  It was his first time in traffic like this.  But I was as confident that he would do just fine.  I read him directions and we both honed in on the signs.  The maze of SUVs, eighteen-wheelers, and pick-up trucks sped by and stood still.  Traffic moved at a snail's pace and trucks blocked our view ahead.  But we navigated the lanes, the exits and poorly marked areas with the expertise of pros.  They tried to squeeze the life out of us.  But we were a team.  Ryan, 17, drove over 12 hours.  I took the first hour and a half of nearly 13 and a half.  I told him what exit to expect and I slept without a moment's hesitation in between.  It's so great to have someone you can trust in.

Ryan is one in whom I can trust to drive because he says I can trust him.  His dad has taken him through several towns and told him to watch the signs and be aware of his surroundings.  He has confidence in what he is doing. 

I know people were praying for us as we traveled.  They said they were.  As we navigate through life our God is Whom we trust to see us through the maze, the poorly marked lanes, and unexpected stops.  He is in all the details.  And it's good to have a few navigating angels to make smooth the roads through the prayers of His saints.

Thanks everyone.  I still hate Dallas, trucks and nasty coffee, though.  selahV       

SIDEWALK NOTES

Ever taken chalk and wrote notes on the sidewalk?  Drawn pictures or played games like hangman, hopscotch or tic-tac-toe?

Just before Christmas, I had my granddaughters for a weekend visit.  I was feeling rough because of my back and had taken a pain pill that knocked me out for about an hour.  While I was sleeping, my husband did watch-duty.  The girls played quietly and went outside to draw pictures on the sidewalk and porch with chalk.  Later that evening we took them home and I was feeling blue because they couldn't be with us through Christmas.  When we returned my husband told me to read the notes on the sidewalk.   My heart filled with an abundance of joy at the words I read.

There was one huge sign that said, STOP!

The next said, "This house is the Petersens."

The next said, "Only come in here if you love MY-MY!"  (mimi....that's me)

The last said, "This is the love house!"

I'm so grateful that at my house my granddaughters know they are loved.  I'm so glad that they would think about that when they are writing sidewalk notes.  They could have played tic-tac-toe, or drawn hopscotch squares; instead they paid tribute to the love they found when they are in our home.  What joy it is to have this to cling to throughout the days ahead.  What a challenge to live up to!  selahV

TWENTY-FIVE POUND TURKEY AND MORE

My daughter bought a 25-pound turkey for our family's Thanksgiving dinner today.  I can't help but remember a much larger turkey from my childhood.  His name was Tom.

Tom was white (Just like the turkey President Bush pardoned this year).  He strutted around our farm like he owned the place.  And I rode around on his back like he was my pony.  He didn't like it all that much, but for a few wild moments, he humored me.  One year we were preparing for Thanksgiving dinner and I heard my father and my stepmother discussing the main entree` on the menu.  I begged my father, "Not Tom!"

    

Well, daddy honored my wails of protest and we didn't have him for dinner.  Instead, he chose from among Tom's many wives.  The next week I came home from school and discovered that Tom wasn't anywhere to be found.  I asked about him and my stepmother told me that my father gave him to my Uncle Milton.  It was almost as bad as if we'd eaten Tom for dinner.  After all, the whole point in saving him was so I could have him around to pet, pamper and pester.

I began to beg daddy to go visit Uncle Milton so I could visit Tom.  It just never was a "good time"---either Uncle Milton wasn't home, or daddy was too busy that day.  It was years before I ever got to go to Uncle Milton's.  It wasn't till I was grown with children of my own, and had roasted many turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners that I thought of asking my father what happened to Tom.  As I recall, I was visiting daddy in the nursing home when I popped the question.  "Daddy, do you remember that old white turkey I use to ride on when we lived at Porter's Inn?"

"Sure do."  He smiled as if he recalled the fun we had with him, then he frowned.  "It's a wonder he didn't flog you with his claws."

"Do you remember giving him to Uncle Milton?"  He nodded.  "I never really understood why you gave him to Uncle Milton."

"You kids weren't about to let me kill him.  So I gave him to Milton and they ate him for Christmas dinner that year."

With all the adult rationale I could muster, I sat reasoning that this is what one does with a turkey.  You don't breed turkeys, raise turkeys and then keep them as pets.  There is a purpose for turkeys.  They are to be killed, plucked, cleaned, stuffed and roasted.  That is the way of things in the life of a turkey.

Yet, with all that rationale percolating within my forehead, I still couldn't escape the stupor of mourning within my heart.  All those years, I figured my cousins were playing with Tom and at some point Tom had died a natural death.  I was a bit ashamed of the annoyance and grudges I'd held against my cousins during my childhood for the fun they had with Tom, that I'd been denied.

Today, I realize that daddy gave old Tom away rather than break our hearts and kill him for Thanksgiving dinner.  He gave Tom away to protect us from the very probable flogging we might get from taunting and playing with Tom.  We were children.  We could not see what Daddy could see as an adult.

Today as I sit down to enjoy our Thanksgiving meal, I cannot help but recall the heartaches my Father in heaven has tried to protect me from facing.  I cannot begin to count the times I've been protected from a probable disaster in my life.  Even after nearly 60 years of adult experiences and wisdom beneath my grey-haired scalp, my Father in heaven sees what I cannot see as His child.  And what I don't understand today, I can trust in Him to control--even when I don't like what unfolds in my present situation.  For if my earthly father cares enough to give me bread instead of stones, wouldn't my heavenly Father care far more?  I think so.  In fact, I know so.  selahV

FOR MORE OF MY THANKSGIVING THOUGHTS GO HERE AND HERE.

[copyrighted, SelahV Today, 2007] 

   

THE VALUE OF A MOUSE

Today I went blog-surfing and dropped in on Bernard Shuford who took me on a trip down memory lane with his post about a mouse in his house.

When I was about 10 years old, I caught a tiny grey mouse and put him in a mason jar with airholes in the lid.  I loved that little mouse.  He had the cutest round pink ears that popped up and down like a puppy's ears in anticipation of something good or bad.  My little mouse would scratch the sides of the jar with its teensey little nails every time I came near it...like he knew I was there just to visit him.

As I contemplate this mouse (which I had all but forgotten till I read Bernard's post), I think, in reality, that my mouse was actually hoping the little girl in the gingham dress would just let him out of his glass house.

But I was a very lonely child.  Most of my time I spent in solitude, writing letters I would never send to a mother I would never see.  Some of the time I spent following after brothers who didn't like "girls" hanging around.  That may account for my fondness towards this little mouse.  I don't know.

Anyway, one day my stepmother discovered that mouse in my room and it was made quite clear that it was no place to keep a mouse and the mouse must be set free.  So I took him out to our previously harvested cornfield and gave him freedom.  After that the mason jar looked so empty sitting on my dresser.  It was a cold winter as I recall.  Wonder if that little mouse survived and went on to marry and raise a family.  Or if one of the multitude of cats we had around the farm had him for lunch one day.

There's an up side to my empty mason jar.  The next summer I filled it full of lightning bugs and watched them flicker each night until I went to sleep.  I let them go the next morning.  And caught more the next night.

Today as I take my mouse in hand and click, copy and capture images and words on my monitor screen, I think of all those which do not belong in the house.  Those that bring me comfort.  Those I write to comfort others.  Those that flicker in the night of loneliness or fear.  And then those I must set free.  In all of it, I think best to remember those which bring me comfort and release those which imprison me, then bring into captivity those which only Christ can tend.  selahV

Thanks Bernard for this trip down memory lane.  [copyrighted, hariette petersen, 2007]

OCTOBER MAGIC!

My husband and the Boston Red Sox have been synonymous from the first time I met him over 43 years ago.   Year after year, he has rooted for the Sox.  Year after year, day after day, the cap he has worn was the Boston Red Sox cap.  His father before him was also a fan.  From the time my son, Chad, donned his first ballcap, it was always a blue cap with a red B that dressed his head.

Never ever did they switch teams.  Never ever did they care who else won.  They were forever loyal to their team.  I don't know how many Red Sox caps my husband has been through.  Every year Chad bought his dad a new cap for his birthday.  He bought one in 2004 when Boston won their first World Series in my husband's lifetime.  That was the last year Chad got his dad a cap.  My son's were so aged by constant wearing that each dark blue cap faded into a salty-grey and was tattered and torn.   They bespoke his love for the team he finally got to see win the World Series the year before he died.

Tonite the Red Sox won the pennant and will play in the 2007 World Series.  It is so exciting to see this happen again--to hope, to dream, to remember the joy these two men shared in this New England team.  This year my husband will share in the joy with his sixteen-year-old grandson, Ryan, who also wears the beloved cap.  Ryan is always hiding his from his mom, so she can't wash it.  What is it about a dirty cap that is so special?  Whatever it is, I think it is something all women everywhere should honor.

I don't know exactly what it is about a baseball team, men, and ballcaps that creates such a bond.   The loyalty they own even when their team is not on top is something akin to a mother's heart for a child--whether they behave or misbehave.  There is something beyond cohesive about it.  It's October magic to be sure.   And worth a million exclamation points!!! selahV

AS TUMBLEWEED BLOWS

BLOW WIND, BLOW.

TAKE ME AWAY 

BREATHE ON MY HEART

THE BREATH OF YOUR WAY.

Uprooted weeds blow and tumble across the plains of life.   So is my emptiness and fruitless devotion.  Separate now the chaff from the wheat and sow the seeds of Your mercy and grace.

"Thus says the Lord God: come from the four winds, O breath and spirit, and breathe upon these slain that they may live." {Ez.37:9.

So much of what I do in any given day means so little in the realm of purpose and meaning.  So much gives back nothing to the furtherance of the gospel of Jesus Christ.  I toy with moments and waste time every hour in the day.   

I shop for beans and bread and consider which is a better value for the money.  I organize clothes in a closet I will probably never wear.  I purchase a vase to hold the daisies growing in my yard, when a mason jar would do just as well.  I watch the current bad news on television when I could be reading more of the Good News in God's inspired Word. 

My pleasure is not pleasure at day's end~~what purpose did my words serve?  What fruit is harvested from the seeds of my thoughts?  What gain is met by time I've spent?

I sow the wind and reap the whirlwind. {Hosea 8:7.  The four winds blow to breathe upon my dead works and uselessness.  What seeds can grow in the wastelands of my thoughts when all I cultivate is pessimism and negativity in the garden of my mind?

Blow Wind blow...bring upon my mind tornadic spirals of turbulence and rip the things I cling to from my grasp.  Take from me all unnecessary treasures that will only burn away.  Bring with Your cleansing Wind the Spirit of Your will and plant within me the seeds of faith, hope and love.  selahV [copyrighted, SelahV Today, 2007]     

WHEN LIFE WAS SIMPLE

"Of all created comforts, God is the lender; you are the borrower, not the owner."  Rutherford.

Pinches of yellow fashioned for me.  Dandelions.  Between my birth and age seventeen, our family moved six times.  Each uprooting took with it a memory.  Some good--some not so good.  One thing that stands out in my mind is the stability of the dandelion.  The flowers I gathered by the handfuls at every place I lived.  I'd bring them in and put them in a mason jar and fill it up with water. 

Flowers.  For the most part, they're considered a nuisance.  And for folks who prefer a pristene green lawn, they are burdensome to control once they sprout--dandelions are weeds.  Others make salads with the leaves.  Actually, they are pretty tasty to add to a bowl of lettuce. But whenever I see one, as I did yesterday, I think of the simple things of life.  I think of exactly what I did yesterday, I picked it and gave it to my two year-old granddaughter, HayJae. Just passing along one of life's simple pleasures.  It doesn't belong to me; but surely I can share it as long as I'm here. 

The reason we moved so many times when I was young is due, in part, to the instability of my dysfunctional childhood.  But no matter where we moved, the dandelion seemed to move with us.  I recall so many times I'd play with those soft-petaled flowers.  They were jewels in my treasure box, veggies in my pots, and even necklaces strung on a string.  A child sees beauty and value in what others may view as ugly and worthless.  A child finds love in the fields of life when love gets lost in the mundane tasks of life. 

Dandelions.  Golden gifts from earth burst forth from green fields.  Created to dot our landscapes with pleasure.  I found another huge dandelion and also gave it to HayJae.   She immediately took it and blew.  Tiny black seeds flew from a cotton-puff cluster and danced in the breeze like tiny ballerinas.  I managed to snap a few pictures before the seeds disappeared from the stem she held in her hand.  She giggled and said, "I want another one."   I searched but found none around.  I laughed to myself, as I thought of all the seeds she'd sown in the wind and I knew we'd have plenty come Spring.

Yes, God is the lender, I am the borrower.  And what He's created rests in my memory with peace beyond measure and I'll own it till He calls me home. [copyrighted, selahVtoday, 2007]

TIES THAT BIND

GRANDMA.  On my daddy's side--his mother.

Pictured here, she's standing at the wood cookstove outside.  It's propped up on cinderblocks.  It is summer time.  By the time I post this photo to my blog, Grandma will probably fade into obscurity behind this brightly colored Blue-willow china cup of coffee.  Obscurity--much like my memories of her.

I was just thirteen when she died.  She was the first person in my life that I saw dead in a casket.  The first cold body I touched and found wooden beneath my fingertips.  Forever etched in my mind is how I felt at the moment I touched what I thought would be her soft wrinkled hand.

No longer would she make fried chicken and white gravy on Sunday afternoons.  No longer would I see her canning fresh peaches or succulent tomatoes on this old cookstove outside the screened-in front porch.  No longer would I watch her hands in motion as she crocheted a lace scarf for the dresser in the guest room.  Grandma was gone.  Dead.  Where did she go?  I wondered. No one told me comforting thoughts like, "she's in Heaven with God or she's now an angel watching over you".   Nope.  Grandma was simply gone.  The only way I'd ever be able to see her again was by looking at pictures of the past.  The way we'd remember her was by going to the cemetery and laying out flowers at her grave.

Years ago, my dad made up an 8 X 10 black and white photograph of Grandma.  It's the one pictured here.  She had two daughters and five sons.  All her sons joined the Navy and served during World War II.  Her youngest, Daniel, was blown off his ship by a Japanese suicide bomber.  There is my greatest connection with Grandma.

I never realized Grandma grieved. I was so busy laughing, playing hide and seek in the woodsheds, picking strawberries in the patches out back, or eating beechnuts off the ground.  Grandma lost her youngest child, a son.  Years after Grandma lost her son, my Daddy lost his oldest son, Daniel--named after my uncle.  Odd how the ties that bind us can often be painful, but also sweet memories.  I never knew my uncle.  But now I can recall the memory of him etched on my dear grandmother's face.   Years and years later, I would lose my first born son, Paul, named after my dad.  Then over forty years later, I would lose my youngest child, a man of thirty-three years.

Loss.  Loss can bind.

As we move into the future, I find we as Christians are bound by many losses. The loss of virtue to society's whims.  The loss of sin's blackness to society's brushstrokes of tolerance and acceptance.  The loss of integrity to the rungs of positional posturing.  The loss of dignity to the exploits of greed.  The loss of humility to the towers of pride.  The loss of our laws to the impotency of just courts.  The loss of our liberty to the enslavement of some's freedoms.  The loss of life to the choices of others.  The loss of innocence to perverted predators.

So many losses.  Losses that bind.  Gains that separate.  If for not the Blood-Tie Who binds us, we'd be left drifting in a perpetual blazing abyss without Water to quench our thirst, and our only companion?  A worm that dieth not but feeding off the souls of our hearts.  Praise God for His perfect Attonement for our depraved indifference to His precepts, His will and His gifts of love.  SelahV  [copyrighted,selahVtoday,2007]