I have the time and will to write for the first time in a long while and I've cut my finger badly tonight.  Ironic.  My children have flown the coop to see their dad suddenly, and I have the evening alone.  I have thanksgiving fixings to tend, but it's a rare thing not to have a young person about to tend these days.
   It's been a challenging day having gotten a call from the high school that one of my sons is suspended from school...third time in a year and half...for skipping class and breaking a mirror in the rest room.  I don't even know what to say except, "His dad will be at the disciplinary hearing next week."  My hands are utterly tied and my spirit hurts for my son.  Without proper support I've nowhere to mend with him.
  A friend at work asked me about divorce and children.  I told him it was the worst possible thing to do to them.  No doubt about it.  I also explained in my case that I would have to have given up personhood to stay married.  He looked at me with a question mark clearly between his eyes, but it's all I could or would muster.  My children suffer deeply. In the last year, I  nearly lost everything with another of my sons,  Thanks to an incredible family's support and loving care, the same young man smiles and enjoys life everyday now, whereas last year he spent the year in such a dark place.  I'm so very grateful to spend thanksgiving in brighter space with him.

  

Need to clear the cloudy fish tank of my mind with some writing. My blog is a place where I write lessons learned, and I'm learning some big new things about myself lately.  First of all, I figured out in the last few weeks that I'm not as healed as I thought.  In exploring friendships with men in particular, I've got a long way to go. I wouldn't allow myself male friendships to protect my marriage which I believe is appropriate, but somewhere along the line I stopped being open to any depth with the opposite sex.  Thankfully, I have a few good men around who are kind enough to work with me now.  In some ways, it's torn open some old deep wounds, and now I'm am figuring out how to stop the bleeding.  I am conflicted about how to proceed.  Last week in church, I was listening about one friendship in particular and God clearly spoke, "This is a gift for your healing."  Really?  How can this be?  I know it's stirred up a hornet's nest in me of lack I'd experienced in marriage.  I've doubted myself as a woman through heartbreaking words and actions done there.  Last week, I was told I needed to wipe that slate clean, and believe and trust in the lovely person that I am. I'm trying.  I really am.  I ask every day, "How can this be?"
   And on another subject, a while back in early April, my faith began to return.  Claire, J, and Dreamer gave a symphony of "I know you are mad at God, but it's time to get up and over."  They don't speak to one another, and I found it astounding they spoke to me in the same way in the very same week.  A voice of three had to be a Spirit thing, and I listened.  So, I dusted myself off from my four month long pity party, and stopped holding God responsible for all things hard or negative. I've sunk back into listening prayer and spiritual growth like a familiar old comfy easy chair.  It's a relief to allow myself to be a friend of God.  In hating God, I hated myself.  In loving God, I can look at my untidy self with the perspective of kindness again.

Where's the snow?  The promise of an unplanned break for tired children?
I suppose it blew all around us but not here. I hear Nashville got lucky.

I'm putting on the discipline to write, but not here. Here are my constant thought these days.

I struggle spiritually. everyday.  A friend suggested I'm joining the Saints in the
Dark Night of the Soul.  If that means the closeness I have always felt with God is gone, then it
must be so.  There wasn't a day in my life I didn't know I was God's favorite. until now.  Everyone
else seems to fit the bill. but not me.  I'm mired in the mundane without condolensces.  One day is not
better than another.  It's always the same. day after day.  The care I once felt is no longer present.

My pastor wondered in a lecture at the awe of how God holds every tiny atom together, and how if He let go, matter would simply fly into infinity.  I know he wasn't trying to suggest this, but all I could think was, "Oh, God. Please just let go of mine.  I don't mind to spread across the universe in a million little pieces."

If I have any faith, which is questionable, it is by pure force of will.

I need shelter.

I need shelter.

This home I make,
it is shelter.

But inside and outdoors noisy.
It’s beautiful,
(but or is it and?)
always  a bit imperfect.

The artistry of the saints surrounds me
in the woodwork,
silver spickets,
mosaic, paintings.
Talents shared.

I want to be swallowed up in

joy

here.

Sometimes, instead I’m tears.

My table, please
be rich,
blessed.
Each spoon prepared with love.
I don’t want to settle for bearable.

Beds bid fresh and warm as toast.
Sleep wraps my exhausted body.
My nightstand full of books,
And good intentions.
The clock reminds me to commit.

Colors whisper welcome.
Squash to greet.
A hint of lavender gravity.
Blue sky to soothe.

My children behave politely,
engaged
on good  days.  Other days,
some
Hate me.

The black wiry dog pants adorable.
I sweep mounds enough of his hair
to
Create
an entirely new creature.

My beloved
fireplace
burns peace,
A blanket for my empty arms.

Only baths and creams caress and care for my
aging skin. 

The white porch swing shivers in the
Wind.
I’ll only spend time with her
in the warm weather,
After daffodils.

Birds twitter to the feeder.  I don’t need to see them.  It makes
 My heart
Glad that they visit.
My grandmother’s spirit dwells there
as well.

Don’t ask me about
My work.
It weighs
Heavy.

I don’t share the longings of my heart
With any person
who can share them
Intimately.

I met with my spiritual adviser this afternoon. I have to force myself to believe it was a gift from God to his daughter- a daughter who feels like God shouldn't be giving her gifts.  My spiritual adviser is an old friend I've known for a hundred years, and thankfully I knew it was highly unlikely that I could offend him with the content of my current dark thoughts.  And very importantly, I knew he wouldn't care if I cried ugly.  Apparently, crying is the new important spiritual work I need to be about now.  My friend doesn't judge and condemn in these kind of matters; he's a rare gift of a person.  He can listen and hear with his heart. I explained to him the precarious state of my faith.  I spoke out loud, maybe the first time in my life, "I am angry with God. Why did He make me like this? Why can't I be a person who isn't so..."  But I am that person.  I am angry with God and the way I'm made.  And this horrible hand of cards I've been dealt.  I've never been happy to just go along with the crowd in bliss.  I'm not satisfied.  I want to

change....the....world....with who I am,

but I am not.  I've merely been surviving.  Not grieving.  Not growing.  My friend told me it was time to begin to dream again, and most of me staggered internally.  I can't live my dreams, so I've shoved them down completely.  Shut the door, put on my big girl pants, and walked away into the what-I-have-to-do-world.  The kind of atmosphere where I need to provide my own health insurance and retirement.  There's no room for theological study and contemplation or writing.  I have only time for work, menu planning, grocery shopping, laundry, times tables memorization,  cross country meets, football games, vaulting practice, teenage pep talks, reading aloud and spelling words.  Recently, I've opened my packed schedule for regular bouts of sobbing. After all that, there is no sacred space- only exhaustion. 

All I can manage now is hope deferred, and that's never a good thing. 

My assignments from this spiritual advising session seem to be meet again, read some inspiration, write and cry.  And somehow, this makes me feel a wee bit better.

Made it through the holiday season- barely.  Wise One took an emotional nose dive somewhere in November, and it has rocked, shaken, and tested my faith like never before.  It's official- not one of kids is "resilient" as they say.  Pooh Bear is the only one who hasn't gone through a time of utter hate for me and what I've done to our family.  She may some day when she is older.  It became completely overwhelming when all three boys hit that I-can't-stand-my-mom thing all at once.  I can't stand me either.  I'm emotionally and physically exhausted, and it shows in every way. 

  Wise One desperately needed an adolescent counselor, making a total of three kids in therapy with different counselors.  His counselor recommended Buck move to his own place to give Wise One a more definite sense of divorce.  Dr. G. explained kids are way more black and white, and it might help dig Wise One out the hole of depression he'd entered if he had more normalcy.  So, Buck  and Tater have moved.  Surprisingly, it has helped me enter some deeper healing I hadn't let myself do.  I can imagine it is the same for Wise One as well.  After two months of full on disgust with me, he gave me permission to clean his room tonight.  No small accomplishment, since he was sure he couldn't trust me with his stuff until now.  I spent hours weeding out clothes, sorting things, and collecting trash.  I wonder what his response will be tomorrow when he gets home from his dad's?

  Tater comes to visit a few times a week, and makes mayhem.  He spend the entire time saying, "That is stupid.  Dad lets me do that, and I don't have to do what you say anymore."  Terrific.  Hopefully, this will get better with time, since I tow the same line I always have. 

  Peace drove himself to work for the first time tonight.  He called me when he got there safely and when he left to come home.  God bless his conscientious heart!  I love his caution and carefulness.  His work is just a few miles down the road, but this is such a big accomplishment and relief to me to have another driver coming up in the ranks.  Last night, it worked out that I could take him to dinner alone, and we had the best heart to heart talk we've had in a long time.    I got to see a clear picture again that his compassion and kindness are still rooted firmly in place. 

  At times I wonder if the damage done to my children will be redeemed. Makes the gap, the chasm, in my faith more visible doesn't it?  If my children are redeemed, it obviously won't have anything to do with me- only the grace of God. Peace's conversation with me last night shined a little light on my dark heart. 

  I'm reading Angela Thomas' book My Single Mom Life  which a thoughtful friend gave to me along with a basketful of goodies for Christmas.  I am amazed at her insight and perspective.  She's spot on when it comes to feelings, and I'm trying my best to learn from her "lessons learned".  I'll pass the book on to the next single mom who asks...let me know if you think you'd like this type of good read.
 

Thinking things through lately about this different and beautiful life I'm creating and feeling like it's not where I'd like to be.  I've tied up a few loose ends this week knowing there is more end tying to come.  Still haven't sold the farm- not a great market for sellers at present.  It's a dangling bit of unfinished business I'd give anything to resolve.  Then there are the constant unraveling issues which arise with  children and their needs. 

I cannot be the mom I want to be. 

Peace needs to be looking seriously at colleges, and I don't have time to invest in that like I'd hoped.  I see him trying to be responsible for far too much, and I can't stop it.  Tater is in an okay place now but not much is being asked of  him.  He's trying on his skin and issues surrounding his race for the first time lately.  He's raised questions about having siblings he doesn't know.  Wise One shows shades of darkness I've never seen before, and I don't know where to go with that.  Pooh Bear says her stomach hurts all. the. time.  She didn't have any issues over the summer, but boy howdy, when school hit, she began hurting like the previous school year.  And it's not to get out of anything- it's her absorbing the stress and harshness of school. 

Thankfully, we have good counselors, but lately the amount feels overwhelming.  Three recent session in the last week and a half makes for other things going undone. I knew divorce would not be good for my children, and it is not. 

I want more time with my sons and daughter.

Last week, when I left work to watch Peace's last cross country race, he thanked me three. separate. times.  I eat lunch at school with Pooh Bear once a week, and that in itself breaks my heart.  We had all our meals together just last year.  If I want a conversation with Wise One, I have to ask him to remove his ipod headphones.  He's always been introverted, but I worry he's holding in too much. Tater at least needs me to give him rides to and from his plethora of sports and other activities, and he talks more than a girl to me.  However, his adoption issues get in his way daily.

 I miss the time I could devote to them, and now I have to tell myself, "God will have to take care of that" with not as much faith with which I'd like to pray.  And there is the general reduction of time for remembering my own spirit to boot.

 In so many ways, I'm blessed.  The boys are making it solidly through the teen years without hitting the big problems so far.  All are strong and decently centered people.  May God keep it so.

I didn't even know I needed to  hear them.  I didn't know how simple words could be so healing, and I didn't expect them.  In fact, I told myself that I couldn't need them, because one can't need what another might not have to offer.  But to my surprise, she gave her words away like the balm of Gilead applied to my hidden and grieving soul. 

"I'm so, so sorry." 

I would not allow myself to sink fully into that apology at the moment, because I only wanted part in it if it were true and sincere.  And after consideration and prayer, to whatever extent she could offer, the words are true and sincere.

It's enough for now.  Like daily bread.  And I'll allow myself to eat something wholesome and good for me.

Sundry Lessons Learned Lately

Squeaky toy + puppy + netflix= unsatisfying movie viewing experience.

Ipods can come back from the dead after being washed if placed in the freezer covered in dry rice.

Children are never too old to embarrass you at the store.

Fireplaces in the chill of fall are miraculous.

Brave people are rare. 

Sometimes people don't take responsibility for their own actions.

Sometimes justice isn't.

A river and a run give me peace.

Teenagers are the most hilarious inventions ever.

I wish I'd have watched LOST when it was on television. 

School can be rough on kids.

Freshmen football is kinda fun to watch, but I'm hoping for varsity games next year.

Make no bones about it, AP history is a college course even if taken in high school.

I bought a basil plant in Rugby, TN this spring and brought some inside.  I stuck it in a glass jar to use as needed in cooking, and it rooted without me asking it to or anything.  It doesn't flower, therefore it's always usable.  Who thinks it will remain alive for me all winter in my kitchen?

Tomorrow is October and I still have zinnias (and tomatoes growing madly) in my yard.

Hagrid, my very cute and precocious puppy. 

So, what's with the elderly lady who stopped Pooh Bear and I on my way out of a restaurant yesterday to ask about my GRANDDAUGHTER?  Really?  "Nope, not my granddaughter," I announced looking over my shoulder.

"A niece?", she called a bit louder.

"Unh-uh," I stopped.

"Little friend?" she ventured.

I faced the inquiring person.  "My daughter.  She's my daughter."  You can stop guessing now.  I'm insulted enough.  She looks like a mini-me, and besides, do I really look that old?  No. 

Her husband chided her while catching my eye, "That was mean. She's obviously not happy you called  her a grandma."

You got that right, old man.  I mean, I could be a grandma technically.  I'm sure there are plenty my age, right?

Pooh Bear explained to me as we exited, "When we get home you can dye your roots, Mom." 

So, it was a grooming issue after all. 

There is something so magical when a perfect stranger meets ones son and after an entire minute of talking declares something I'd already spoken.  Last night I took Peace to see Amadeus at the Clarence Brown.  A little opera, a lot of terrific acting, amazing dialogue, and a beautiful mix of the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra made up a fabulous evening to share with my son.

We were seated beside a woman we did not know.  She began to discuss texting and high school with my son.  She'd read about his school in the paper...it's getting rave reviews....She and Peace had lots to say about how he refuses to abbreviate and must use proper grammar while text messaging. She blurted out, "Do you like to write? Are you a writer?"  to which he answered, "Yes."  Then she looked straight at him and asked, "Would you think about becoming a journalist?"  I know Peace thought I'd secretly met her previously, bought her seat beside us at the play, and paid her to propose this question, because I've been talking to him about this very career for a year now.

Just last week, we talked to Barishynikov, a family friend, who has a degree in journalism.   Bary advised Peace to pursue something else as he sees the world of journalism has fallen mercilessly into the hands of blogger and other shady such characters.

I find it remarkable that Peace could get such a direct question from a stranger at a play in such a brief conversation.  I enjoy his writing.  Always have.  His depth astonishes me.  I admire who he is becoming.  I pray he finds his path, and it's straight to the heart of God and impacts humanity in the way he is made.




 And on a completely different note:  how is that this happened at the play as well?  Another woman let us pass by on the way to our assigned seats, and I bellowed a nice friendly and confident, "Hello, where do I know you from?"

She replied, "I work at St. Mary's."

"Nope, that's not it.....ummm.....did I sit by you at the circus in the winter while you took pictures for your grandkids?"

"Yes.  How on earth did you remember that?"

Long silence....

"I have no earthly idea, but nice to see you again.  I'm a little dumbfounded."

A dear friend of mine explained some things to me over dinner the other evening.  She told me she drew strength from my strength over this year.  Her being such a capable, creative and beautiful person, I took this as an amazing compliment. In our conversation, she observed how she had personally struggled with being down, and was looking for a way out to something better.  She met with a counselor who jarred her into turning from seeing the sadness and moving toward gratitude instead.

I've wondered since our conversation if I had I put this principle intentionally into practice myself during my rough patch.  After consideration, I think I have. From the start of August 23, 2009, I adopted a way to make gratitude a way of living.   I realized fearful, hopeless, or blaming thoughts could get stuck me in the mud, spinning my wheels madly over something or someone I could not change.  So, I began to take the proverb of "No one can change anyone else.  One can only change oneself." to heart.  In fact, I bought myself a ring to replace my wedding band with the Ghandi quote, "Be the change you wish to see in the world."

Here's something of the thought life plan I implemented. If I was stuck and finally realized it, I'd identify the feeling.  Next, I'd examine it (if I had the luxury of time) and allow myself to say, "Yes, this hurts.  I'm angry or incredibly sad that I'm in this position."  I understood if I ignored the feeling, that it stayed with me- stuffed waiting like a snake in the bushes to strike at the next person who irritated an already irritable me.  Next, I'd capture the thought each time it came again, and sent it away more and more quickly.  Usually, I prayed for a "what next?" step to take instead.  For example, a thought of one of the participants in the demise of my marriage would haunt and I'd find myself trapped in "what I'd tell them if..." I'd take time to get to the bottom of the feeling, sad, mad, hurt and allow myself to feel it, "Is this what you wanted for me God?  Do these people not understand what they have wrought with their hands?  I am angry for what they have done to me personally. How could..." Eventually, I'd realize how no good fruit could come of the thought, much less the action, and I'd say, "God, what should I work on next?".    The answers were simple, "True, cull your all your stuff.  Everything you keep will be something you'll have to care for besides your children.  Things all need attention and these precious people will need all you've got."  This was a big work,  a long work, consuming....daunting at times. I goodwilled a googob of boxes, bags, and sold precious books thinking of a simple life with my children in the center.  This active process took my mind quickly from revenge toward creating my own beautiful life. 

When I've found myself down, I'll journal new things I wish to make of my life, or I'll return to previous notes I've made and work toward them.  It's a way to be active for my own good.  So, in a way, I set myself toward the positive, which I believe is related toward gratitude.

I am so very grateful for all that I am and have.

Crash Course in Compassion

So, this year has put me through a crash course in compassion.

There are many reasons haven't talked or blogged at all about my divorce.  One has been simply the embarassment of it all.  I heard many a version of "I saw that comin'" which only brought me greater pain than I was already experiencing.  I needed to hear at times, because it clued me into the depth of the issues.  Other times, I took the snide remarks concerning Buck as hurtful personal insults though I kept it all to myself.  I wanted nothing to do with bitterness which is where any amount of Buck bashing would have led.  I've found myself encouraging him in genuine ways instead, because divorce is such an ugly, harsh thing.  I've found my own encouragement in my faith, and God's grace seems to have been more than sufficient for me...sustaining and ever-present better describe His many gifts to me along the way.  And then there are the precious friends who have always been right alongside me, who never wavered in giving me much needed doses of love, respect, kindness, joy.  

But I've always had a chink in my armor-  I have a big problem with pity.  I loathe self pity. Pitiful people do not bring out the best in me, and I have to work very hard internally to be kind. I suppose I define pitiful people as adults who expect someone to take care of them and all their problems without personal action.  The last thing I'd ever like to be is pitied, and divorce is a swirling cauldron of gossip, blame and worse.  Divorced stay-at-home moms are an ultimate target of pity, "Poor True!  Are you going to have to WORK now and send all those children to the INSTITUTION of school?  Are you going to have to be apart from your children?  How will you make it financially?  Won't you be very lonely?  Can you make it without a husband?  If you are a Christian, why can't you just forgive him and stay married for your children?"  Upon hearing about my news, some well intentioned women felt compelled to explain to me how divorce could never happen to them.  I suppose the women weren't thinking how this shifts blame squarely upon me, as if I'd should been a better wife like them.  I did and still do lots of listening, little talking in these circumstances.  I'd already known for nine years there was no such thing as a fireproof marriage for me.

And I did some serious soul searching, as one might suppose.  I had to find a way out from all that pity to the surface where I could breathe.  From the start, I kept much to myself to stop all the chatter and suggestion for my life. Only with three friends and Jesus could and would I explore the depths of the "why me? and how?".   It has truly been enough to show me a clear path to my very own beautiful life.  No time or room for self pity.

In my examination of pity, I stumbled upon compassion.  I wondered why compassion seemed to work for me.  It certainly did not not leave the same bitter taste in my mouth.  Was it the element of sympathy or empathy at play which makes compassion something I'll allow for myself?  One day I posed the question to God who was faithful to answer.  The root of pity is paternalistic..."I'm in a better place than you that I'll never have to visit, and I feel sorry for you".  The root of compassion is community plus passion....:"let me walk beside you in community and have the same passion for your pain".  In pity, I am the lesser.  In compassion, I am an equal.  I felt tons lighter with this revelation. I've known and still know the comfort of dear friends, especially my friendship with Jesus, walking beside me in my difficult circumstance, acknowledging the injustice done to me, encouraging me toward strength, not dehumanizing Buck or minimizing my pain to reassure themselves.  What a gift.  I strive toward this gift for others instead.  May it be the work of us all.

Mosaic

After a year of keeping things under wraps here on my blog, I wonder if it's time to be more open.  Monday was the one year anniversary of the day the wheels fell completely off the old painted wagon of my twenty-one year marriage.   That day, I had to decide between looking square at myself with dignity each morning in the mirror, or sucking it up, again, and finding a way to live without having the value of a full fledged human being.  I'd already lived through humiliation and horror for all the years before, and for me, I couldn't imagine staying with something even God Himself gave permission for me to let go.

One cannot fathom the circumstances, weeping, and counseling which would lead a woman of faith like myself to choose divorce.  I'll spare you the details; some are simply unspeakable.

Though it was right and good for me to divorce, I know the worst of it always lands smack dab on children.  My boys and girl have been no exception.  I have never bought the idea that children are resilient, and I get hoppin' mad when people suggest such a thing. Divorce is damaging every. single. time. My three young men have struggled with their idea of a biblical manhood being shoved over a  rocky cliff and shattered into a million little pieces.  I've watched my oldest change from wide-eyed and hopeful to cynical and somewhat jaded.  He's going to have to shelve all he once knew and find a faith of his very own amidst deep pain.  My middle son with attachment issues has jumped off the deep end and gone places I'd always feared.  Imagine the fragmentation of one family, and then a second. My youngest son holds it all in and explodes likes fireworks on the fourth of July on rare occasions.  My daughter desperately wants one thing- parents who genuinely love one another in every way...something she'll never have. What did any child of mine ever do to deserve having his or her world torn asunder, only to watch while the two formative adults in their lives tape broken hearts and lives into separate pieces?  It's incredibly unfair and utterly disorienting.

Of course, being who I am, I have not done things the normal way 'round in hope and prayer.  Though it sounds absurd, I was so glad to have TV Jon and Kate providing a way for me to think outside of the box.  Jon and Kate made a permanent residence for their eight kids, so the children would have a HOME while the parents moved in and out themselves for visitation.  Buck and I struck an agreement to provide something less Hollywood for our children under strict guidelines.  Buck lives in an apartment in my new house, and we share parenting as our work schedules dictate. 

I've lived in a state of grace this year.  God has faithfully whispered His Will to me as I intently listened, and  He has provided all I have needed.  Buck and I are daily respectful of one another. We seek family counseling.  The cooperation between us has lead many to question the sincerity of my divorce.  Make no mistake. Just because I will not undermine the father of my children, I am divorced and have no intention of reconciliation. If anyone besides my children hopes or thinks otherwise, it is heaping insult to injury to me, and I will have none of it.

Now that I've come out with the story behind the story of the new mosaic of my life, perhaps I'll share more.  I have walked the road less taken of kindness and compassion in a world where revenge is the well traveled lane.  Perhaps I can lead others toward a better path. Who knows?

Two Three Letter Words from a New Puppy Owner

PEE


and 


Joy!

Things I've forgotten

1.  Dogs eat poop.
2.  Puppies don't sleep through the night, just like babies.
3.  Puppies need to be taken outside a million times a day and night for potty training.
4.  Puppies don't naturally match your pace when running.  They must be trained to heel.
5. Puppies lick everything.
6.  Puppies chew everything.
7.  Puppies want constant attention.
8.  Dogs look dead when they sleep.

It's quite alright that I'd forgotten these things.  Just makes me remember baby days with my children and be thankful for the conclusion.  I'm altogether grateful for my new dog.

Hagrid is a gift.  While some dogs are hyper, this one is docile and obedient with a sweet disposition.  He's definitely not the alpha.  Hagrid is a rescue 4 or 5 month old laberdoodle- something my children insisted would never be found, "Mom, it is a designer dog.  Why would anyone abandon a laberdoodle?"  I faithfully quoted, "God will give me just the dog I need without having to buy one from a dog dealer for lots of money. I expect a dog will walk right up to our front door.  That way I'll know it's mine."  It didn't happen just like that, but he did come from a rescue.

I am already in love and won't take for granted my loyal friend.

Oh, my. I have time to sit down and blog for the first time in a long while.  What shall I say?  How about what pops into my head? 

My garden.  I have the most lovely garden beds here at Clifford.  I've harvested a blue million tomatoes and zinnias, my favorites.  I've placed vases of brightly colored flowers on every available surface and given away several boquets.  I've made fried green tomatoes approximately twenty times for whomever stops by and for a few of my children who appreciate the finer things in life.  I've cooked squash and green beans a few times. I've used my basil and oregano in homemade spaghetti sauce. I haven't needed to purchase a single bell pepper since May.  I gave away my first eggplant of the season today.  I've included a sunflower in an arrangement this week.  The only thing left is to harvest and consume some of the hot pepper Tater wanted me to plant.  Two things I planted this year have failed- lavendar and thyme.  I suppose I didn't put them in the right location and will try again next spring.  Overall, I am pleased and proud of my gardening endeavors this year since transitioning from farm life. 

My washer.  I had a snazzy Maytag Neptune for which we'd paid a pretty penny which marked my clothes with black stains and actually ripped fabric.  When we paid a repairman $100 to look at it, he gave no good advice on how to fix it and as a bonus, told us our dryer was done. Kaput. Finito.  So, I invested a ton of cash in an gorgeous LG washer.  The only it doesn't do is go to my children's room to collect the dirty laundry and load itself.  Rats! I'm still the laundry slave after all, but the results are much more promising these days than rips and streaks after washing.

My work.  I'm very much enjoying my job as a wrangler of truck drivers.  I've gotten to know many by voice and face, and I've seen them come around to actually considering hours of service instead of ignoring regulations.  Occasionally, we run into a mean old cuss, but I'm surrounded by people willing to help when I'm in over my head. It's an occupation where I really do feel like I can make a difference. 

My children.  I hit a terribly rough patch with my boys, but I'm starting to see some light.  Peace went to cross country camp and on vacation and returned a much happier human being.  I realized he'd couldn't get relief from the same issues I struggle with without just plain getting away.  I'm going to be sure to make space for that always.  He's working in a neighborhood grocery store and on pulling himself together to make Eagle in Scouts.  Wise One turned the corner back to a positive place after one night of yelling out during a family meeting, "I hate it here.  I'm going to find somewhere else to live!"  He walked out the door into the rain.   When he got tired of the rain he went to Pooh Bear's vaulting shed and went to sleep on her practice barrel for a few hours.  He came in with a sheepish grin on his face.  A few days later, he told me he was thinking of moving to Chicago when he stormed out that night, but he didn't really know anyone there.  He wasn't sure how he'd live.  I told him if he ever needed to run away, he might pick somewhere like Grandma's 'cause she'd let him sleep in a bed and feed him.  We both laughed good hard belly laughs during that conversation.  Today Wise One is rock climbing in the Obed with his best friend.  I can't begin to express how much I love that young man.  Tater is another story.  It seems everything we worked for in counseling and therapeutic parenting has vanished and for me, he's an all out kid suffering with RAD. He practically drips with anger and mistrust of me.  I'm not surprised given our circumstances, but I'd hoped and prayed for better.  My support people and my soul are telling me it's too much.  I'm looking for what might work as always, and holding on for a terribly bumpy ride.  Pooh Bear is in a very good place with me.  We are hang out buddies who cook, clean, shop, kick back, read, and play together. It's so very lovely to have a nine year old who adores me and whom I adore.

My Catechesis of the Good Shepherd.  I'm an so very happy to say the new church I'm attending is allowing me to train adults this summer to begin atrium in the fall.  I struggle with giving up teaching in Atlanta and getting together for continuing formation of my own with other catechists, but maybe these things will come again one day. I know when training adults this week, I felt that peace that comes with the prepared environment which beckons the Holy Spirit.

Highlights of late.  I held a birthday party celebration for a friend here. We shared a meal and stories in honor of Angel for an evening.  A delightful blogger whom I hope to get to know better someday attended.  Pooh Bear ate with family at my favorite restaurant on earth, swan in the ocean, visited Raymond's new diggs, and completely enjoyed the foot-stomping Flemenco dancers at Columbia in Florida.  I went shopping last weekend and found some pretties with Slesa.  Piper and a few of her children spent the night, and words can't express how much her friendship means to me.  Claire, Meredith Lee, Lizbeth, and Jo continue to be big supporters of me.  I couldn't ask for more.

There is a challenging event on queue this week, but it'll be over soon enough.  Still need to sell the farm.  Can't wait to sell the farm.  It will close some necessary doors for me.

Sometimes I sit around thinking about stars.  I  go outside at night, especially in the heat of summer just to look at the shimmery night sky.  On my farm, I'd lay on the front sidewalk after I put the kids to bed and stare up into the heavens waiting for my eyes to adjust, my vision to clear.  Haven't made the time or a way to do that here in the city, but I still walk into the night to see what I can see. What makes stars shine? Did God place those stars in order by speaking?  How can the universe have no end or beginning?  Stars make me happy.  Summer makes me happy. 

Other times I sit around and think about hands.  I ponder the work of the hand and the amazing value of all things handmade.  I consider the amazing task of the fingers.  At church this morning, my daughter held my hand today in her palm and traced the lines inside both of our palms. It seemed our lines matched and I wondered if these lines are the same among most people, or is it our shared DNA?   My mind wandered to gypsies and palm readers during Blue Bear's (she came up with this new name for herself instead of Pooh Bear) examination.  I thought of how hands may show industry or leisure.  I use my hands to drum to songs on the steering wheel and dash as I sing (loudly) in my car.  I intentionally conjure new ways to nudge, beat (nicely), shove my teenage boys to meet their mom touch quota. I rub my little girl's sore back after her long vaulting practice. I make art and write with these digits.  I madly swat mosquitoes I encounter on my evening runs.  Hands are not something to take for granted.  Hands make me happy.

So, today when I following along to a new-to-me song during liturgy: 


Come see His hands and His feet,
The scars that speak of sacrifice;

The next line I stopped singing and hung suspended in full awe.

Hand that flung stars into space


My mind's eye created a beautiful picture of The Christ laughing out loud as he pitched glowing shapes upward into the black like a frisbee or in the manner of a discus thrower.  I wish I'd been there that day!

The next words pierced my very heart.  They were quite unexpected- Happy Jesus now turned somber and willing to submit those same hands which made the beautiful sky to penetrating iron.

To cruel nails surrendered

The cross remains a scene I contemplate over and over again in my brain.  The gift for me bound up in pain.  Awe leads me easily to the place I rarely visit, humility.

Three teenage boys.  Who don't particularly like me.

I can't say I blame them.  It's not easy to live with someone who used to listen well, who used to look out for academic, spiritual and social needs.  Now I'm rushing these young men out the door or shuttling from this practice to that meeting.  And I find myself telling them to pick up, sweep up, or clean up.  I don't have time to listen closely, because I just need things done.  So, I tell them more.  Louder.  I resort the weak or non-parenting strategy of arguing.  Some years ago I realized that too doing too much contributes to an ill temper. So, I cut out the doing and began being present for my children.  Now as a working person, the "being present" has ended, and the ill temper returns.  The teen years are not the best time for a mom to become short.  Nevertheless, I'm working diligently with white knuckles to stay positive at best or at least neutral. If you're the praying kind, I'll take 'em.