Disappointment

What?  A Halloween blog starting with disappointment?  Yep. 

There he stood, a little kindergartener, tears pooling in his eyes, as he tried to explain to his teacher that his mom was coming with his zombie costume.  No, he didn't want to line up for the parade.  His costume wasn't here yet.

I watched as his tenderhearted teacher stooped down to look into his eyes, "No, honey.  We can't wait.  Now is the time for the parade.  We have to go."

His lips quivered and he slowly shook his head back and forth, more tears pooling in his eyes, threatening to spill over.

"Why don't you get a drink of water at the drinking fountain?  Then come back in.  You'll feel better."

He quickly exitted.  When he came back in, he did look better.  It had helped....somewhat. 

He quickly lined up in line-order and looked up at me.  Being "an extra" at classroom party time, I can fill in where needed.

I found my need.

I got in line beside him.  As we walked down the school steps and out into the radiant sun, I glanced over at him. 

He looked up at me and began, "Maybe my mom will be here.  Maybe she is watching the parade and has my zombie costume with her." 

I smiled back.  "Maybe."

We walked all the way around the block.  No mom.  No costume. 

Disappointment.

I watched a brave five  year old deal with it. 

Disappointment.

God has watched a "not so brave forty-five year old" deal with it.  I hate disappointment.  Of all the emotions I most hate, disappointment is at the top. 

I get excited by the little things.  I anticipate even the smallest of things...Thursdays lunch with my man at Jimmy Johns, a Starbucks run with my girls, a phone conversation with my son.  I look forward to them.  I plan on them.  I think of them when I get up in the morning. 

Disappointment.  It has flattened me, angered me, pestered me and left me alone to wrestle through my hurt.  Some disappointments are accidents. I'm so sorry.  I just forgot.  Please forgive me.

Some disappointments are unavoidable.  There was just no way out.  I had to help them.

Some disappointments are not accidents.  They are planned, not by the seen but the unseen.  They are planned by a loving God that knows I need a balance of experiences in my life in order to be the best me I can be...and perhaps so I can lovingly cast a glance, give a hug or a heart-felt smile to someone who is now there.

Constipated to God

Yes, it was one of those rare evenings.  My husband was gone.  Two of my daughters were gone.  It was just Michaela and I.  I was worn out.  I had a root canal the day before and was given a prednazone pill for pain and soreness. 

Dr. Wagner warned, "Usually we tell patients to take this in the morning.  It's hard to sleep when it's in your system."

"I'm not worried about that," I said smiling.  "I can sleep anywhere!"

I popped it in my mouth and swallowed it down with a gulp of water. 

I woke up and rubbed my eyes.  Three?  Why am I up at three?  Oh, I'm hungry.  Yeah, I was hungry when I went to bed but thought I should wait until morning.  I must really have been hungry.

I got up and poured a small bowl of Special K Red Berries and ate them.  I did not feel tired in the least.

Then it hit me.  It's that pill! 

Thankfully I was in the middle of a great book, so I indulged.  I was lovin' every minute until I glanced up and it was five. 

I'm gonna be dead for work.  I made myself go back to bed.  After laying there for twenty minutes, I decided to get back up and keep reading.  All day at work I marveled at my energy and stamina.  Woo Hoo!

The next day I was sure it would hit me.  It did.  I made it through school but on the way home I was feelin exhausted. 

Thankfully Bobby had a full evening ahead of him, my girls were going to a cousin's sleepover party and it'd just be me and Michaela (because she had a 6am tournament to leave for in the morning.)

I was so tired I didn't fully think through how awesome my time with Michaela could be.  I put on my pj's and laid on the couch. 

"Come lay by Mama," I told Michaela.  Yes, my Michaela, she is usually about as huggable as a porcupine.  It was worth a try.

She must've been tired, too.  She obliged.  As she stretched out beside me, I started rubbing her back. 

"Mom, what's that?"

Michaela pointed to the art above the couch. 

I smiled tiredly, She knows what that is.  I made it when she was a baby.  I've explained it plenty of times.

Yes, she was pointing to the old window frame that I had whitewashed and put in symbols of each of our names.  For non-creative me, it had actually turned out o.k.

"So mom, my name means "Who is like the Lord."  Matt means "God's gift."  Madison means "God's light."  Meredith means "Virtuous Woman."  Dad means "Ruler."  Your name means...What is that again, Constipated to God?"

Feet

"I...I broke my foot," Matt stammered to his dad over the phone.

Matt broke his foot!  How many times can a person break his foot?  Is Matt not taking care of himself?  Well, he actually is a pretty careful eater.  Sleep!  That's it!  He always sounds tired when I talk to him.  Clearly he's not getting his rest. 

"I bet he's worn down," I declared emphatically to his dad.  "Matt sounds tired alot.  Could that make him more susceptible to breaking bones?"

Bobby flashed a sad smile, "Probably not so much as playing soccer every day of his life."

"Oh yah...yah right...Is he sure it's broken?"

"He'll go to the doctor on Monday, but he said it popped just like it did the other two times."

He still had a whole month of soccer games left!  These were the ones we'd be able to go to.  Stink! 

As the next couple of days passed I thought of it all the time.  I prayed for Matt.  I fondly remembered his little baby feet...not the thick calloused adult feet he now has.  Memories of Sandy Patti's song "Beautiful Feet, Cutiful Feet, Beautiful, Cutiful Feet!"  I could just see his soft, little piggytoes, and feel them as I kissed those little piggys and sang away.  It seems that song must've always been playin while I was changing his diaper.  I'd immediately finish fastening the diaper and grab those piggytoes.  As Sandi sang "Beautiful Feet" I'd be swaying Matt's precious feet back and forth to the music.  Yes, my son was surely going to have beautiful feet, "the feet of those who bring good news of Jesus to others" I thought as I prayed and sang to my little guy.

Now his beautiful feet are once again broken. 

Just today I got a text from Matt.  I had texted him this morning to say, "I love you Hookey, son of my heart." 

O.K. so Hookey is yes, another crazy nickname of one of my kids.   But wait, this one Matt made up.  Not me!  One time when I was lovin on "my little Mattie" he said, "I'm not Mattie, I'm Hookey."  It stuck.

So back to the story - he texted saying, "My favorite mommy that will always get my kicky feet no matter how much you love me."

As a little duffer he used to sleep in our bed.  He liked to lay across the top of our bed on our pillows, with his sweet little face by his daddy's face and you guessed it...his kicky feet at my head.

Memories of my little boy, Matt, are larger than life.  I can't remember what I cooked for supper the night before but I can remember back twenty years ago to the soft, sweet scent of his baby toes as I kissed them until he giggled while Sandy sang on "Beautiful, Cutiful Feet." 

Matt's foot is broken. 

Again.

God's Plan.

God's Perfect Plan.

The Plan that is Perfectly tailored for Matt to have the most beautiful, cutiful feet ever to share the good news of Jesus...and it's broken.

Feeding Many?

I typically feed 5.  Yep, we usually have supper around 6, unless there is a soccer game, soccer practice, dance practice or meeting at school.  Hm...what we usually have is cheeseburgers, tacos, spaghetti, chicken dish, crockpot dish or main salad dish. Yes, feeding many is what I do.  No, I suppose 5 is not that many, it's more like feeding a handful many times.  Yes...that is what it is.  When Matt's not in college, it's like feeding many and feeding many times.  You just never know who Matt's going to invite over.

The other day someone fed me.  I liked it.  As much as I absolutely love food, I absolutely love words of encouragement even more.  Yes, even more than Pizza Hut's Pan Pizza Supreme or chicken alfredo.  Someone gave me the gift of words.  As she began talking I felt myself leaning in.  I felt like the baby bird with wide open mouth receiving nourishment from the mommy bird.  I gulped in the nourishing words, mentally fixating on them so I could bring them to rememberance at will.  It was almost like saving the last square of chocolate or frosted brownie in a baggie for later.

Words...they are the best!  I knew I liked words when as a third or fourth grader I played school and created my own attendance list to call.  I have never forgotten one of the names on the list - Dee Ereatameme.  Impressed?  Maybe not.  But I remember wanting to play with the long e sound and create a name that did that.  Dee Ereatameme!  Yep, gotta love the long e sound.

Words...I also remember seeing a sign once while on vacation.  It said "Womphoppers."  Now remember, I was young.  Anyhow, I remember saying that word over and over again with my little sister, Jewel, as we thought of all the ways it could be pronounced.  We giggled so hard our stomachs hurt. And just when we thought we had exhausted the humor in that word, one of us would say it again and we'd both burst out laughing once more.

I should have known then that I had a fascination with words, their meanings and the way they sounded as they rolled off my tongue.

The other day I was reminded of that.  Only this time it wasn't the way they rolled off someone's tongue as much as the way they reached down deeply, flooding me with warmth, coziness and light in every part. 

"The lips of the righteous feed many" and that moment I was given a smorgasboard.  Thanks Vicky!



 

911

My husband says I shouldn't blog on this.  "It's all that's been on the news this week," he said. 

Yet, it just seems right.  Today is a day to remember. 

Where were you on 911? 

I was at home.  I had just driven Matt to school.  I came home and Bobby had the t.v. on.  For the first time I could ever remember I felt afraid living in the United States of America. 

How could that happen here?  The thought was incomprehensible, like reading Greek backwards with the hiccups while on a roller coaster.

I remember feeling gripped by fear for Matt.  He was the only one not home with us.  I remember wanting to get in my van and drive back to Pleasant Elementary to pick him up from Mr. Moore's 5th grade class. He should be home.

Logically, I knew Matt was safe.  He was not in New York City.  He was not in the Twin Towers.  He was in Norwalk.  He was in school.  He was safe.  But I wanted to see him, feel him, know he was safe.

All morning the t.v. was on.  Eventually Bobby went to work at the church.  I was on overload from all the information being repeated over and over with many speculations.  I clicked off the t.v. What else could I do on this day?  What would be soothing?  The library!  I packed up the girls.  Of course, the library!  It's always been one of my favorite places.

That would feel normal.  That would be right.  As we walked down the stairs into the children's room, a large t.v. stood blaring in the center.  Librarians stood, eyes glued to the screen. 

So much for normal.  The library wasn't the only place that wasn't normal.  The first time we went to Cedar Point, we couldn't get in without having my purse and diaper bag searched.  The next time I got on a plane I had to arrive an extra hour early and get clear little bottles with my toiletries in it.  I soon discovered a new system, on t.v. I'd hear what color the level of alert was. 

There was no normal.  It was the new normal...and it was about as comfortable as wearing the outfit your 80-year-old grandma bought you for your birthday. 

Ten years have gone...

The fear is gone.  The changes are no longer noticeable.  The sting of 911 is gone.  Yet annually...we remember.  It's a time to remember we're Americans.    A time to sing "Star Spangled Banner" outloud when everyone else isn't.  It's a time to say that even though much was lost, it wasn't forgotten.  They were not forgotten.  It's a time to say that even though America is not perfect, there's no other place we'd rather live.  We are Americans.  God has blessed us! So thank you servicemen and first responders!  We give thanks.  We remember! 

Fruit Flies

Michaela and I just discovered a new sport we like.  No, it's not soccer - that's an old sport.  No, it's not wrestling.  No, it's not jogging.  It's more in the line of  hunting.  Sort of-

It started when I let bananas get too old.  I'll make a banana cake tomorrow, I kept telling myself.  Tomorrow never came, but the fruit flies sure did.

So back to our sport.  I made a banana cake and banana nut muffins.  I took the disgusting black banana peels straight to the dumpster.  I then drove to K-Mart to look for help.

Rave - for flying insects!

I didn't even check the price.  No amount could have been too much.

I zipped into the driveway, anxious to tackle the fruit fly dilemna. 

I stormed into the kitchen armed with my Rave.  Spray!  Fall!  Smash with my finger...1!   Spray!  Fall!  Smash with my finger...2!  Spray!  Fall!  Smash with my finger 3!

It didn't take long for Michaela to meander in.  Spray!  Fall!  Smash with my finger...4!

"Hey, that looks like fun.  Let me try that!"

Michaela picked up the Rave can and scanned the kitchen, "There!"  She cried aiming the Rave over the sink.  Spray!  Fall!  Michaela kept spraying on top of the fruit fly which now looked as though he were tunneling up through the snow.

"Smash him" I cried.

"What?"  Michaela asked.

"Smash him with your finger."

Michaela looked at me questioningly.

"This'll do it, won't it?"

"Well yah, but you're gonna use half the bottle on one!  We got lots and only one can.  Now smash with your finger."

Michaela reached into the sink and squashed.  "That was kinda fun."  She scanned until she saw one fly up toward the ceiling.  "Spray" "Shoot, where'd it go?" she asked looking around on the floor.  "I don't think I hit it."  She continued to scan until she was once again successful. 

Fifteen minutes later we were at 27 and running out of fruit flies. 

"I'm gonna get ready for bed," Michaela told me, walking towards the bathroom.  "Mom, mom...in here!  Bring the spray!" she called running back into the kitchen.  Scooping up the spray she ran back to the bathroom.  Scanning above the sink, she spotted and sprayed.  A pool of white foam clung to the mirror.

"Smash it," I called. 

Michaela reached out and smashed it.  "Spray!"  "Fall!"  "Smash with her finger...29."
"This was pretty fun, mom," Michaela said while handing me the Rave.

"Yah, it can be our new sport!"  I said smiling.  "What other sport can you have such a success rate on the first try?" 

I went back out to the kitchen and put the Rave on the counter.  Too soon to put it away.  It needed to be handy just in case-  I yawned and grabbed my glass of ice tea, while heading into the livingroom.  Time to relax.  As I plopped into my recliner and pulled up the foot rest, I raised my tea for a refreshing swig...

floating on top were 3. 

The war wasn't over!

Me...on the Trap Set?

 

   "So I heard you played the drum in highschool," Deb said with a smile.  "Why don't you play for our Ladies Prayer and Worship Night?"

     "I did...but that was 25 years ago.  I-"

     Allison cut in, "Can you just keep the beat?  That's really all we'd need.  It would be better than nothing."

     "Well, yah...I'm sure I can keep the beat...but I never played the trapset.  I'm not that coordinated.  I- Why don't we just let a guy play the drums?"

     "It's a girls event. Nah...nope, it just wouldn't be the same.  Can you do it?"

     "Well, I s'pose, but-"

     "That'll be great.  We'll let you know when we practice."

      I came home from that meeting feeling uneasy. No wonder.  They simply think I'm a little rusty.  That's not it!  I never, ever played the trapset.  I played one thing at a time, whether a snare drum, a cymbal, the bells, whatever...but I only played one thing.   They think I'm being modest.  They think I can do alot more than I can.  Shoot I'm a horrible multi-tasker.  My brain does only one thing at a time.  I know.  I've lived with this brain a long time.  Shoot I can't even cough and walk at the same time.  I have to stop and cross my legs.  But then, that's another issue.

     So Deb called several days later to see if we could practice on Saturday morning.  We did. 

     "Just pretend you're a kid in the water."

     Kid in the water?  Thoughts of being a 6th grader and standing on a diving board for 45 minutes, asking again and again, "how do I come back up after I  jump in?"  Somehow the answer, "you just will" wasn't working for me.  I felt more nervous than ever.

     Deb continued, "Splash around.  Have fun."

     Have fun?  Who was she kidding?  This will be about as fun as the day the doctor pulled my fungus laiden toe-nail off. 

     "Let's start with an easy song.  How about "I'm Counting on God ?"

     "Do we have sheet music," I asked timidly.

     Deb smiled, "No drummers ever asked me that before."

     "I'm not really a drummer.  Trust me.  In highschool every other drummer was irresponsible, did not know what they were supposed to be playing and didn't listen to the band director but boy could they improvise.  Deb, that's not me.  I read the music.  I don't know how to improvise.  Can you tell me what to play?"

     I immediately felt that the little chicken in the Foghorn Leghorn Cartoon.  Deb was being so amazingly patient, but I couldn't help but think that to a natural musician like she was, I must be really irritating.

    "O.k.  just start with the kick and then add the ti.i.i.-ti-ti-ti.i.i-ti-ti-ti?"

     "Um...what do you mean by kick?"

      Deb started tapping her foot, "You know the kick?"

     "The base?" I asked.

      Deb nodded.

      I looked at the array of choices in front of me.  I felt like I was at Best Buffet and I only got to pick two choices.  Um.m.m. I had 1,2,3,4,5 cymbals and 1,2,3,4,5 types of drums. 

      "What exactly am I hitting when I do the "ti.i.i.-ti-ti-ti.i.i.-ti-ti-ti?"

      Deb hesitated,"The hi-hat and the snare."

      I looked at all of the cymbals surrounding me.  I looked at all of the five drums, too. "Is a hi-hat a cymbal?"

    Deb nodded.  Quickly she left her spot and came over to me.  "This one," she said, tapping the first cymbal.

     "Which ti in ti.i.i-ti-ti-ti.i.i.-ti-ti-ti.i.i is the hi hat?
    
     "All of the them.  But you should throw a snare beat in there, too."

      I no doubt had the 'No speaka Espanol" look, because patient Deb, said "Here let me show you."

      I jumped up.  She sat down.  Immediately she ti.i.i-ti-ti-ti.i.i-ti-ti-ti.i.i.ed.  She looked like a natural.  Too bad she can't play the drum and the lead guitar part.  As I watched her continue to play, I began thinking, Shoot.  I bet she can play both parts.  Look at her!

     "Got the idea?" she asked.

     I nodded.  It looked easy now.

     Deb jumped back to her spot and started the song.  She looked at me to begin.  I started with my base.  Boom, boom, boom, boom.  I added my ti.i.i-ti-ti-ti.i.i-ti-ti-ti.i.i. for a measure or two.  I knew I needed to add my snare, I did, and my boom, boom got off.  I shook my head.  I glanced up at Deb.

     She smiled.

     I tried again.  I did it....I did it!  I glanced back down at my foot tapping the base, cute toenails I thought.  (It's the first time they'd been painted in 3 months.)  Oops, I lost my beat. 

     I glanced back to my foot and got back on beat. 

     Well, practice pretty much went like that x 90 minutes. 

     "It must feel great for you to be back on the drums?" Deb asked as we were turning the church lights off.

     I smiled.  "Did it look like I felt great?"  Actually I felt more like I do when I come home from work and find dog vomit on the living room carpet. 

     When I told my husband I had to be ready to play for Thursday's Praise and Prayer Service, his eyes grew big.  "You on the trap set - for this Thursday?"

     "You better practice every day."

     I nodded, getting that sick feeling again.  The next evening at 8:00, I asked my girls if one of them could go to the church with me to practice. 

     "What do you need us to do?" Madison asked.

     "Sing the song so I know where I'm at.  I can't sing and play with two hands and one foot at the same time."

     "Oh, o.k., I'll go," she said. 

     I turned on Deb's taped background music she had made for me to practice with.  Madison started singing.  I was doing mostly o.k., until I had to switch from the snare to the tom-toms and lost a few beats.  I got back on beat and-

     "Hey, can I try it?" Madison asked.

     "Seriously?" I asked.

     "Yah, that looks kind of fun."

     Hope filled my heart as I slid out of the seat and Madison immediately started banging around.  She looked like a typical irresponsible drummer, just beatin' around and trying out all the different options.  Yes!  Could it be?  Was this the 'splashin' around in the water' that Deb was talking about?  The thing that structured, do one-thing-at-a-time me, could not even attempt to do?
 
     You can guess the rest of the story.  'I'll do it, mom," Madison said nonchalantly. 

Jehovah Jireh...God provides!  I was willing but I was certainly not the best man for the job. 

     "Wait," Madison said, "when is this thing?"

     I held my breath, "Thursday night at 7.  Why?" 

     "Phew!  We were supposed to have soccer practice then, but coach changed practice to 4:00.

     Jehovah Jireh - God did provide tonight.  And no one is happier than I am!  No doubt we will have many ladies praising and worshiping God on Thursday night, but I'm guessing no one will be praising and worshiping more than me!