I sat myself down

and said, “That thought is a lie.”

I moved to my knees and said, “That thought is a lie.”

I slid further to the floor and said, ‘That thought is true, but my God is handling it.”

And I got up, and the thing I was trying to do all week that did not work no matter how hard I tried, went through without a problem. And the schedule conflict that would not move, moved without a whisper. And the future looked like a brighter place.

It is amazing what the right mindset will do.

A blessed Good Friday and a peace revealing Easter Sunday to you,

Anne

It was time to patch up the holes in the wall

 

Perhaps I should likewise, patch my attitude.

In Huckleberry Finn Mark Twain had Colonel Sherburn say that the man ‘in the north lets any man walk over him that wants to, and goes home and prays for a humble spirit to bear it.’

I am from the north. I am in it, too. 

Walk on, my dear good people. Walk on.

Some kids

who do not know the Word of God, whose parents step into a church only to see someone married or buried, who have explicit music on their mp3 players, and who are not pretending to fit a very narrow, very high bar  set of false behaviors, are more mature, more tolerant, better friends and around better companions than many who do.

That’s all.

Like daughter like mother

There is a woman I volunteer with. We are not friends. We would not choose to be friends if given the chance. We are simply involved in the same activity at the same time and see each other every week.

And I suspect she finds that rather troubling. For in idle moments she can sometimes be found delicately snorting at my worn out jeans. Her eyes will linger in disgust on my too old shoes. She will examine my top with distain. In general, yet very discretely, she appears to regard me as something the cat dragged in.

Her opinion is not far off the mark. I wear my jeans until they cannot be worn anymore. The shoes she is snorting at are 11 years old. My shirts are way past prime, and the coat I wear is 15 years old plus. I am its second owner. So her point of view is understandable, and she is discreet and polite to my face.

Her mother joined us yesterday. I noticed her first while she was looking me over across a crowded foyer. Her eyes started on my out of date top. They moved down to my worn out jeans. They lingered a while on my old shoes. Then they moved back up through the mess to closely examine my frizzy hair. Her scowl deepened with each change in sight.

Did I mention I can't afford the hair conditioner I use right now? I'm keeping my hair bound and pulled back until I can.

Finally, her eyes moved to my face and I smiled at her. She stared right through me then turned away.

Well, that stung.

Maybe if she saw me more often she would realize my stellar personality and over look the rest. Maybe she strongly, strongly disapproves of old clothes. Maybe she was having a bad day.

It was my second day in those jeans. Maybe that was what scandalized her past politeness.

To each his own standard that others cannot meet.

“Where is Tom going?”

“He has to go home and clean before we can come over.” Son Middle tossed his swim bag and plopped down beside me to wait. "I told his mom I’d help. She says he has to sweep and fold laundry and he has to do it himself.

He sighed. "I thought we were the only ones who had to clean before someone came over.”

Passive Aggression

I would like to respond to it by saying:

My dear good woman, I have no idea what your relatively good husband has been telling you, but as long as he keeps getting tangled in doorways with nicely shaped women he is going to keep saying it. You can ask yourself why nicely shaped women in his area despise him, or you can keep hating us, but do both elsewhere. We are tired of elbowing the person you chose as a man. Thank you.

But that isn’t a good idea. I’ll pray instead.

No, It Is Not Free

Veterans Day, 2011

It snuck up on me

It is October 31st and there is not one single pumpkin in the house.

Not one.

The falling ice sounds like crinkling paper

and gives me time to stay home and write to you.
The idea that we make time for what we love, coupled with the realization that I have no time for what I don't love, like cooking and cleaning, has me wondering if I can free up some time somewhere.

(Yes, I know my writing style is rusty. It will shine up as we go along.)

I cannot count on the weather to keep me home every Sunday. I do not want to do without church, anyway. The worship team has developed past making my ears screech, and a permanent pastor has arrived. It is a peaceful place again. It is a place of anticipation, too, but that is another story.

What can I stop doing? Nothing. Schooling is required. Swimming is required. Study is required. Prayer is required. I don't do much more than that.

Can I streamline something? School is DVD based this year; our first time doing that. I can get the boys to move faster through each class. Sons Middle and Oldest can be responsible for more of their own work, too. But, they giggle like school girls when left alone. Son on Youngest joins in when he can. Then I begin to laugh. We can't help it; we are fun people.

No, I will not take their joy in learning by forcing their noses to a grindstone. I can speed them up a bit though.

What about swimming? Missing one practice has them behind and hurting after the next practice every single time. Nothing can change there.

Prayer is non-negotiable.

That leaves my study time. It is negotiable, but my family has just returned from their snow excursion, and I must go manage the Mud Room.

Till I have more time,
Anne

We make time for what we love to do

Someone said that to me the other day. And I found myself thinking, ‘We do? We make time for what we love to do?’

Well, what did I love to do?

I love to write. I really love to write. In fact, I love to write so much, and the good woman was so sure of herself, I decided to make time, in my homeschooling mother's life, to write.

The first time I made time was the next morning. My husband was making breakfast; the boys were packing a picnic lunch right beside him. We were going on a day trip, you see, and did not want to be hungry on the way. I did not want us to be hungry once we got there, either. I wrote down the title then got up to save lunch.

The next time I made time we were newly home from the trip. It was after 10 o'clock. I had moved the sleeping ones from the car, to the house to the bed, unpacked what was left of the picnic lunch, put the day trip paraphernalia away, fed the dogs, let them out, sat down to write and fell asleep over the keyboard.

I was back at it the next morning. Breakfast was going on again. I kept working. Things quickly became problematic, though. Not only does the keyboard not like jelly, I discovered I cannot write and talk at the same time, and everyone wanted to talk to me.

I got one paragraph in, then cleaned up the kitchen, got the boys going on their chores, saw that the animals were fed, set up the school day and started teaching.

I did some mental paragraph planning while doing that, and moving clothes through the washing machine, administering tests, helping the one who bombed the test to see how the questions had tripped him up, gathering supplies, and setting up and running through a high school level biology lab lesson, cleaning up after the lesson, and making sure everyone kept all their tasks moving forward at the same steady pace, but I never did get a chance to write them down.

Lunchtime came and I got one of them down. Then the unavoidable phone calls started. Oversight papers had to be gathered, or I would forget where they were. Appointments had to be made. The dogs wanted out. I had lunch while the boys did math.

The four of us kept working until swim team practice time then shot out the door. Not a lot of keyboarding can be done while driving, but I had a plan. There was a small recorder in my purse and a headset hooked to my ear. I could dictate while driving- if the kids would stop talking.

We had quality time in the car and I dropped them off on time.

Quiet, the car was quiet. I could begin dictating.

No, I could not. The briefcase in the backseat was full of papers to be graded, books to pre-read, the next day's lesson plans to tweak and a spiral notebook that could be used for writing but instead was full of several projects already underway.
The kids came out before I was done and we got home late. 

My husband had been there for hours. He had moved clothes through the dryer, prepared a meal, let the dogs out, straightened up the house, written the few bills I did not get to and rested for a while. He even had the nerve to look neat and refreshed.

Once dinner was over, and prayers were said, and we caught up on what had to be discussed being the two adults in change of the joint, and the kids were in bed, and I got my hair washed, and the keyboard was there, and my fingers started to move, I fell asleep over the dang thing again.

Determined, I got up the next day and did it again. And I did it again the next day and the next. And by and by, between dentist appointments, field trips, necessary shopping, off sight classes, plus the occasional moment to stare at the wall to remember what I was doing, I got this entry through the keyboard, onto the screen and posted here for you to read. 

We make time for what we love to do, don't we?

She died last night

Mom did.

For the first time in my cooking life,

And that has not been very long, seeing that I am just barely this side of 21, I had to use baking soda to put out a fire.

I’ll have to talk with one of the children I am too young to have about their stovetop cleaning methods.

You called me

There is a situation and you will be in town on short notice. You plan to stay with me.

I am surprised but happy to be called. I change some things around and prepare to make your stay pleasant. I call to find confirm when you will arrive.

Oh, you meant to call me. Someone has offered you a place to stay. You are changing your arrival date to take advantage of that place. My offer had been very generous and kind, but this other place is going to work much better. You hope I understand. It really is best if you stay at that place. And no, it would not be a good idea for me to visit you there.

Sigh.

It reads

One of the serious problems in planning the fight against American doctrine, is that the Americans do not read their manuals, nor do they feel any obligation to follow their doctrine...
- From a Soviet Junior Lt's Notebook

But what if it read,

One of the serious problems in planning the advancement of Christianity is that Christians' do not read their bibles, nor do they feel any obligation to follow their doctrine. . .

Just a thought.

While recovering from a painful flashback this morning,

picking up pieces, closing my eyes to prevent further input, calming myself back from the shattering within I heard, "You're tough to break."

I continued breathing and asked, "Does that mean I need breaking?"

“No,” came the quiet reply. “It means you are so toughened by experience that you are ready to work with the people in my church."

Somehow, that comforts.