Finding Home: How Does Your House Reflect You?

I know a person’s home reflects as much about her tastes as it does her place along her journey, but I was hard-pressed to imagine the whimsy that inspired this design. 

I felt as though we had kayaked into a nursery rhyme. “There was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children she didn't know what to do. . .  Peter, Peter pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn't keep her. He put her in a pumpkin shell . . . ”  

As we paddled deeper into the cove, I imagined poking the bulging side with a paddle and watching it explode, or unseating it from its foundation and seeing it float away, or maybe bounce along the bank and bob along the water.

There’s no end to the creative endeavors people put into their homes. A quick search of unusual homes offers the following sample:

For the extreme prepper, who still wants the amenities of luxury living, there is the Zombie- proof concrete house, (complete with indoor swimming pool)that folds up into an impenetrable box, the only entrance is over a drawbridge.

For the ocean lover—a seashell house.

For the hermit—a house on a rock.

And even a home for when you feel like “climbing a wall.”

Making home digs deep into the things we value. Whether playful or peaceful, bulging at the seams with friends and family, or silent and austere with meditation, our homes, in part, enable us to use the gifts we have been given.

I've discovered being an HGTV (House Hunters International, yes!) junkie (and yes, I did enter the Dream House contest) helps me to define the things that are important to me in a house at this stage of my journey. (I know, I know. Didn't we just finish renovating a house?) But my husband and I think we have one more in us.

And so, we pack up my father-in-law and scour the countryside for properties. At the end of the day we say: “Okay, we need to eliminate one. Which one will it be?”  Our little game helps us to stay on track, to keep refining and redefining what we've come to value—peace, serenity, and beauty.

Sometimes I feel guilty about enjoying these pleasures.  But when I have guests and they are able to sit by the pool, surrounded by bird-song filled trees, shed their tensions and soak in beauty, I know it is the gift I have been given.

So come on by. Once you make it past the initial canine chaos at the front door, I guarantee a relaxing afternoon. And maybe, if that HGTV van comes along with my winnings—we’ll move on over lakeside!

How about you? What do you like in a house?  How does your home reflect the place you are in life? Do you think the different places you've lived have been representative of your journey and gifts?

And don’t you wonder just what that final place is going to look like?—the one whose architect and builder is God!

Habit or Humor?

Ever since my ninety-three-year-old father-in-law moved in with us a few months back, I've been witness to the mysteries of memory and habit.

 Although the memory of daily doings sticks to him as loosely as a dandelion puff on a breeze, once he has repeated an action several times it becomes entrenched in his mind. He even continues to do the things here at our house that he used to do when he lived on his own—like rinse out his cup as soon as he’s finished, turn off the light every time he gets up, and shut doors and drawers.

I am thankful for this power of patterned behavior. It helps him to function very well even if he doesn't remember what he had for breakfast twenty minutes earlier. The problem is—how to reprogram some of those routines that don’t work so well in my own house.

For example, I always keep open the door of my Shaker jelly cupboard where I have my random collection of family forget-me-nots.  One day, I walked by and saw it closed. I opened it.

Two days later, there it was shut up tight as Buckingham guard. I opened it.

Now the first time something unusual happens, you might think nothing of it. The second time it happens, you question yourself—am I forgetting whether or not I did this? The third time it happens you cast about for suspects. Pa was high on my list but I never caught him doing it.

Finally one night my husband saw Pa shuffle by, stop, shut the door and continue on his way to his chair.

The next time he walked by the cupboard I intercepted him. “Pa, do you see this door?”

He stared at it as though I were the peculiar one. “Yeah, what about it?”

“It’s open,” I say. “I like it open, but you keep closing it. You had me worried. I thought I had a ghost!”

“I’ll never close it again,” he declared. Smiling all the way to his chair.

Two days later. . .              

P.S. One of the ten books in my June pile was The Power of Habit by Charles Duhigg. Interesting insights on habits and how to change them. Duhigg covers a wide range of subjects as examples—from business and advertising, to addiction to football coaching techniques. He acknowledges the power of belief in changing our response to habits, albeit not necessarily a belief in God,although we know He is the One who sets the prisoners free.

Still, worth your while if interested in changing habits. (Not sure about Pa’s!)

Blessings abundant this middle week of June which includes National Hug Holiday, Loving Day, Kitchen Klutzes of American Day, Flag Day, and National Hollerin' Contest Day, among other who-would-have thought-occasions!

 Marcia

Is your dream as dried up as a "raisin in the sun'?

 My journal entry for May 2005 included this verse from Psalm 71: I will come with the mighty deeds of the Lord God. I will make mention of Thy righteousness, Thine alone. And even when I am old and gray O God, do not forsake me, until I declare Thy strength to this generation, Thy power to all who are to come.

My prayer following this entry was, “Lord, I love to speak publicly and I desire to write a book. Both require having something to say! I offer this “loaf and fish” unto you. I open my mouth and ask you to fill it.”

Today, June 2013, eight years later, I did a radio interview with Lynne Ford at WBCL Indiana about Call of a Coward-The God of Moses and the Middle-Class Housewife. The book I ended up writing years after the seed of desire was planted in my heart. Back in 2005, I was totally unaware of the path that was opening before me: a book written and published without my ever writing a book proposal. (Thank you God!)

But as I was praying before the interview, I thought of how often I’d heard Satan was the prince of the power of the air. For a fleeting moment a flicker of fear passed through me. Later, as radio host Lynne and I prayed together, I bowed in amazement at the power of the God we serve. Two Christian women, unknown to each other, but connected over the radio waves to proclaim the mighty deeds of the Lord. What had I to fear.

I look back over the past few years and wonder how I could worry my time for usefulness has passed. I marvel at the times I let hope leak out of me like air in saggy pool float, or let fear dismantle a dream.

It’s easy to feel confidence in retrospect. And yet it’s so human to lose the mountain vision down in the shadowy valley, where as the psalmist says, sadness and despair can make us think God has left us:  “it is my grief that the right hand of the Most High has changed.”—Psalm 77:10

Today as I celebrate the deeds of the unchanging Lord in my life and in the lives of his people, I think of you who feel your dreams have “dried up like a raisin in the sun,” as Langston Hughes writes.  You who are in the middle of a chapter that doesn't look as though it is going to have a good ending.

I want to encourage you with a prayer from Ephesians, but it’s hard to choose one because I have so many underlined in my Bible. Let me piece one together for you:

Father, you tell us to remember, but we forget. You tell us you are, and we worry you can’t. We don’t want to dish your word out like candy to a crying babe. We want to speak it for what it is—the word of God, which performs its work in us who believe.—1 Thess. 2:13

May we remember we are your workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which you prepared beforehand that we should walk in them. We ask to know the love of Christ, which surpasses knowledge that we may be filled up to all the fullness of God. And that the eyes of our hearts would be enlightened, so that we may know what is the hope of your calling, what are the riches of the glory of your inheritance in the saints, and what is the surpassing greatness of your power to us who believe.

(Eph 2:10, 3:19,1:18)

Blessings abundant friends. May you pick up that dream and offer it to the Lord,

Marcia

Finding Home #5: Making Friends

The lure of sunshine, adventure, or a new job can motivate you to move, but once the day clouds over, the foreign becomes the familiar, and the job routine, you realize how much you need a friend. Moving to the South, after living eleven years in Vermont, showed us just how precious true friendships are and how slowly making new friends goes. Usually friendships get formed at church or a social club (if you happen to have one)or work. But God can use any situation to provoke a friendship—even a bad case of “roots.’

     Critic John Leonard said, “It takes a long time to grow an old friend,” but Bob tried to tell me he made friends quickly because every day he ran into someone who called him “Buddy.”  My friend-making efforts weren't so productive. Although a few people had called me “Sugar,” and lots of people had “blessed my heart,” I was pretty certain the the check out woman at Home Depot had no idea she was my best friend.                                                                                                                                                                                                             

     After being buried in The Renovation for several months, I landed a temp job at a college bookstore. It was there  I met Beth and Valorie. Beth was so enthusiastic in greeting the students who came in looking for textbooks that I called her “Walmart.” She, in turn, having heard my tale about delivering telephone books, promptly dubbed me “Yellowbook.” Fitted with nicknames, we started a friendship. 

     Valorie was as soft-spoken Southern as peaches. She tried to teach me how to stretch my i’s and turn one- syllable words into two: “My-y, it’s a ni-ice ni-ight for a kni-ife  fi-ight.”

     We all shared photos of family, anecdotes of personal misadventures, and a great many laughs. One day, during a lull in business, our conversation got around to the never-ending problem for unnatural blondes—roots. I was complaining that I didn't have money to get them done but wasn't ready to see what lay beneath my Redkin.

     “Oh, I can do them,” Beth offered, full of her usual enthusiasm. Valorie, wanted hers done too, so we all agreed to meet at Beth’’s house. We each arrived around 7 p.m. toting towels and our respective boxes of color. 

     Beth had platters of smoked salmon and capers, cheese and crackers. We scooped dip into little bowl-shaped chips, told stories, and got to know each other. Time passed quickly. Around 10:00 p.m., we deliberated whether or not to go ahead with the coloring. Assured by Beth that it wasn’t too late, I wrapped the plastic cape around my shoulders and waited for her to ready the mix.

     Unsure which of the two shades we had was the closest to my own, Beth suggested we try each and see which looked better. She separated two sections of hair.  “I haven’t ever done this before,” she confessed. “But I know how.”

     I was suddenly very alert. “What?”

     “Don’t worry. Really, I know how to do it but if you’d feel more comfortable, Valorie can do it. She’s done mine before,” Beth added reassuringly.

     There she was—my new friend, holding in her hand the power to determine whether I would walk out with  properly highlighted blonde tresses or ones that looked like an orange and vanilla Dairy Queen swirl.  Granted, this wasn’t a life-threatening situation, but it was still up close and personal; women can get pretty touchy about the color of their hair. 

     Our new friendship was having its first little test. I liked Beth, and didn’t want to offend her, but, still . . . .

     Before I could say anything, Valorie slid into position behind me, dabbed some color on the applicator brush, and in her soft Southern drawl said, “I don’t mi-ind.”

     I didn’t mi-ind either. It felt good to be growing friends again.

                                      **********

 Thank you for stopping by. May you blessed with an awareness of the One who is closer than a brother, and who is aware of the widow(er), the orphan, and the lonely.

God sets the lonely in families, he leads forth the prisoners in singing--Psalm 68:6

Marcia

photo credit

He Gleaned;She Gleaned: Morning Nuggets from the Word

My husband and I usually go to our respective corners, coffee in one hand, Bible in the other, for our morning devotions. We’ll pray together at some point in the day, but we both prefer to spend the early morning hours alone with the Lord.

We've tried various ways to do devos together, but he’s slow and meditative. I'm fast and global. He’s wakes slowly and needs to sit awhile; I hit the floor wide-eyed and ready. Still, we recognize that each of us is receiving wisdom and truths from the Lord which we are not sharing. Recently, instead of trying to read the same book of the Bible or do a joint study, we've decided to share a daily nugget that each has gleaned from their reading that morning. Thought you might enjoy what we shared with each other this morning.

Bob’s Tuesday Gleaning from Jeremiah 33: 

Just as surely as there is a fixed order to the universe which man cannot change, God’s promises will prevail regardless of what Israel, or Israel’s enemies  (or, on a personal level, we,)do. “If you can break my covenant for the day, and My covenant for the night, so that day and night will not be at their appointed time, then My covenant may also be broken . . . ‘—Jer.33:20

Behold the days are coming . . .when I will fulfill the good word which I have spoken concerning the house of Israel. I will restore their fortunes and will have mercy on them.”—v. 14, 26

Bob: “How good to know God’s promises have nothing to do with us, because we screw up a lot.”                                                                                                                             (Not sliding over repentance/free will here—just enjoying the nugget that God will accomplish that which concerns his people.)

Marcia’s Tuesday Gleaning: A Metaphor Moment from 1 Samuel 25:29

Abigail to David—“And should anyone rise up to pursue you and to seek your life, then the life of my lord shall be bound in the bundle of the living with the LORD your God, but the lives of your enemies He will sling out as from the hollow of a sling.”

When we drove to Guatemala, each of us was allotted one trunk’s worth of special possessions to take. I chose some items for their usefulness, others for their beauty. In Israel’s early days, instead of a trunk, travellers would put their most precious possessions in a bundle, to be securely kept because of their special worth and useful service.

What a lovely image of security for us as God’s special possession—to be bundled in God’s care. “And they will be Mine,” says the LORD of hosts, “on the day that I prepare My own possession, and I will spare them as a man spares his own son who serves him.”—Mal.3:17

                                                   ***

I pray that if you are heavy with a burden of striving, you will meditate on the surety of God’s delight in you as His precious possession. 

Blessings abundant this last week of May.

And if anyone cares to share how you and a spouse or special one pray/study together, I’d love to know!

Marcia

When the Thrill is Gone

The Green Door

The town I grew up in outdid itself in providing wholesome opportunities for its kids. Each summer the school bus made the rounds to the major intersections (all four of them) and gathered us up for a day at the town beach where we had Red Cross swimming lessons and afternoons of free swim.

At one spot along the route was a perfectly poised hump, which if hit at the right speed would lift your butt off the vinyl seat and flip your stomach into a thrilling free float.

As soon the lumbering bus rounded the corner far enough for the driver to see the coast was clear, we’d all start chanting, “Faster! Faster!” And since this was in the Time before Nanny, the bus driver heeded the charge, stepped on the gas, launching sixty or so whooping and hollering kids into the air.

Decades later, I still remember the anticipation of that “thank-you-ma’am” (that’s what we called those road bumps) in my stomach.

It’s hard to let go of thrills, whether of a great adventure or a close encounter with God. They rouse our dispassionate spirits and electrify our dulled expectations. Like two-years-olds we cry, “Do it again!”

We say “yes!” with Isaiah when he cries, Oh that you would come down. . . as when fire kindles brushwood and the fire causes water to boil— to make your name known to your adversaries, and that the nations might tremble at your presence!

But in the daily, in the here and now, nothing-is-spectacular moments, the silence of the Presence, and even in the can-it-get-any-worse? situations, we act like a sails without a breeze. Dishes, and walking-the-dog, and making oatmeal hardly seem the stuff of great expectations.

In his short story “The Green Door,” O. Henry wrote, “The twin spirits Romance and Adventure are always abroad seeking worthy wooers.”*And I propose--so is the Spirit of God.

 In the story, Rudolf Steiner is handed a card which he supposes is for the dentistry down the street. But when he turns his card over he sees three words: The Green Door. When he inspects the cards that were discarded on the street, he sees they all have the dentist’s information.

To act upon his mystery adventure or pass it by? Rudolf makes his decision and seeks the green door. And then the O. Henry surprise.

Reminds me of God.  The unexpected. The guiding of our way. The joy set before the one who obeys. Even in the every day.

Especially in the every day.  May we set our faces on Him so that whether experiences come or go we will not only endure but "know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge, that [we] may be filled up to all the fullness of God."—E ph. 3:19

Hey! My friend Lisa Buffaloe happened to write about “Thank-you-ma’ams” in her blog this week also. What are the chances of that! Only she calls them Whee Bumps! Be encouraged and hop on over to her take on Whee Bumps.

Blessings abundant friends,

Marcia

Finding home #4--Not The Zamboni Driver Dream

“The second journey begins when we know we cannot live the afternoon of life according to the morning program.” –Brennan Manning

                “I’d like to get a job driving the zamboni up at the hockey arena, or maybe the cute little sidewalk snowplow. Something mindless—just smooth scratches in ice or cut swaths through snow,” my friend announced after retiring from her long-held position as a first-grade teacher.

                Being a teacher myself, I imagined the supposed satisfaction from doing something physical—seeing an immediate result, a beginning and an end. So when I quit my job teaching in a small Christian school to move south, I wasn’t particularly worried about what we would do for work. We had a tidy nest egg which we thought was sufficient to tie us over while we settled in our new home town.

                But, like an unmannered pooch at a chicken-laden picnic table, the Renovation gulped its allocated funds and ate its way through our savings. One of us had to get a job soon.  Although we had been cavalier about our job prospects when we were back in Vermont, we now felt intimidated about the reality of the job search. Online applications were unheard of the last time we had looked for work. And lurking beneath our bravado was the realization that we were different now—too young to retire, but too old to include dates on resumes.

               

The Yellowbook Deliverer         

                Although I met the qualifications in the newspaper ad —no experience necessary, just a car—my anxieties competed with the rain for an excuse to turn around and go home. At exit 34 I gave myself a pep talk: You can do this. You have a master’s degree, a Bible degree, and years of teaching experience, to say nothing of all the traveling you’ve done. 

                For crying out loud, you can deliver Yellowbooks.

                At exit 33, I flicked the blinker, swallowed the knot in my chest, and turned toward the warehouse.

                The rain slowed to a grey spit. I pulled into the muddy yard of the warehouse and drove around to the rear of the building where several vans were backed up to the loading dock. Synchronized teams of Latino men relayed armfuls of telephone books, stuffing them into plastic sleeves before tossing them into the empty cavern of their vans. I parked my car and got out to find the person in charge.

                You would have thought I’d just kicked open the swinging doors of the OK Saloon,  all eyes turned toward me, the only female in the place—a white, obviously middle class female, wearing diamond earrings and a black leather jacket. Although as full of uncertainty and as self conscious as a gawky girl at her first dance, I squared my shoulders, selected a route from the wall map, and then backed my car up to the dock where the fork lift was waiting to drop my pallet of books.

                The sound of grating metal stopped me. Trying to look nonplussed about the dent I had just put in my Honda CRV, which I suspected was going to cost more money to repair than I would make in days of hanging directories on doorknobs, I stuffed my car with the yellow bundles and drove off in search of an empty parking lot where I could bag books and cry.

                Three days and a hundred dollars later, I decided to try something else.

The Airport Security Screener

                  The Sunday paper was our lifeline to the world beyond the Renovation. We’d come back from our morning outing to whatever church we had targeted for that day, open containers of Chinese take-out from the nearby Dragon’s Den, and search the job ads.

                “Wow, here’s a job I wouldn’t mind,” I said. “It’s for a security screener at the little airport only ten minutes from here.”  I pictured myself scanning luggage in my blue shirt and trousers, a lanyard with my picture strung around my neck. How hard could it be? Hoping to beat the competition, I quickly scheduled an appointment for the test.

                The attendant ushered me and the one other applicant into a room lined with computers. We each chose our spot. “This is a timed test,” she said. “There are two parts, you may begin.”

                 English may not be this country’s official language but government employees still need to know it. With a smugness born out of years of teaching grammar, I clicked off one answer after another, finishing Part One with plenty of time to spare. Confident this was one of my finer moments of test-taking, I began Part Two. For a woman who could never find the baby in a sonogram, identifying dangerous items buried in x-rayed images of luggage was as incomprehensible as interpreting a painting designed by the trunk splashings of an elephant.

                 Screens flashed by. I felt as though I was in the scene from I Love Lucy where, unable to keep up with the rapidly moving candy conveyer belt, Lucy crams her mouth with the uninspected candies. I rapidly clicked, and guessed, and hoped something in the tangle of carry-on items was a knife.

                The test results almost beat me home. All I can say is that the country is probably a far safer place because I failed.

  

Chip Chick and other assorted job titles   

                Over the next few years, we stuffed vending machines, worked in bookstores, Home Depot, and numerous other minimum-wage paying jobs trying to refashion a life overturned from a chaotic economy and a backfired dream.  It wasn’t at all as romantic as the zamboni fantasy.

                 

             You would think living by faith gets easier the older you get. It’s true you have a heftier pocketful of memory stones—cool hard reminders of places and times where He met you. But each new confrontation with financial frailty, health threats, and relationship insecurities demands its own test of trust.  And sometimes, regardless of how many years you’ve walked with the Lord, your faith, like a victim of Alzheimer’s, freezes in mid air and forgets how to proceed.

            So much of our identity and sense of purpose was wrapped up in what we did, now, apart from a means of survival, so meaningless. This was especially difficult for Bob. What was a pastor without a pulpit? 

            Like the Renovation, it would take time before we would appreciate the reconstruction going on in our own hearts and the wisdom this sojourn into an unfamiliar land would produce. And at the end of the day be able to agree with Manning in saying, “None of [our] failures in faithfulness have proved terminal. Again and again, radical grace has gripped [us.]

Dwell in the land and cultivate faithfulness. Delight yourself in the LORD and He will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the LORD, Trust also in Him and He will do it.—Psalm 37:4-5

Blessings friends--especially in prayer for any of you in life-change and job hunting.

Marcia

Wild Cat Mom Reflections

Wild Mama cat's nest-she didn't oblige for the photo shoot

 Citron-colored eyes shadowed the striped face peering from under the mound of branches and leaves of summers past.

We stared at each other, this wild mom cat and I, across the thin wire fence that defined the border of feral and domestic.

Two mini-mama faces joined hers, curious, unafraid, but staying close.

A moment suspended—shared with the female feline huddled there. Survivalist. Protector. Nurturer.       

A Mother.

I wasn't going to write about mothers today, but the feral(?) kitty I found near our yard tugged on my heart (besides making me crazy with what to do for her and babes) and started me thinking mom thoughts.

My Mom

She was always Mom to me. Sometimes Ma if I wanted to tease, or, My Mother if I was talking about her. But never Mama. I never had a mama.

The only bit of advice I remember her giving was, “Marcia what you’re looking for is in your own backyard.”

But she taught me

How to build an igloo (well, I don’t think I mastered this, but she sure did.)

How to find the elusive jack-in-the-pulpit.

How to delight in violets and May flowers and fish flashing in thin streams.

How to transverse worlds and times and cultures in the pages of the Books of Knowledge and Journeys Through Bookland.

How to persevere through times of bill collectors at the door and sugar on white bread sandwiches.

How to remain loyal when loyalty wasn’t deserved.

And how stay head bowed before your God knowing He heard when no one else listened.

How about you? What bit of advice has stayed with you from your mother? What did she teach you that stays dear to your heart? I'd love to hear.

 Others' Moms--A Prayer

Whenever I think of the endurance of Motherhood, I think of women I never met—women who have suffered and sacrificed that their children might live. I think of moms who wonder how they will have the energy to finish their days because of heavy hearts from a child’s death or disappearance.

I don’t know why I always think of these nameless (to me) women who parade across my heart. But I am grateful to be able to offer a prayer to the One who does know their names. 

I ask today, Lord, to lift the face of some struggling mom and let your light and unexpected grace fall upon her, in wisdom, in survival, in peace that passes understanding.

And for you, friends, whether or not you have a mom to enjoy the day with, or whether or not you are a mom yourself, may the heart of God who loves close and the security of the shadow of his wings be rich and real in your life, especially this Mother’s Day.

For I know that the LORD is great, and that our Lord is above all gods.—Psalm 135:5

Marcia