Once Upon a Time

Would you like to hear a story?

Yes, of course -- please!!

We all love stories. It seems that from the moment we are born, we are entertained by the telling of stories. Nursery rhymes are taught, Little Golden books are read, beautifully made animated movie classics are shared.  And then we hear stories every day of what happens during the day to the people we interact with.

I was weaned on the stories of my dad's work stories around the dinner table. He was my hero -- he swore at everyone, yelled at the idiots and said exactly what was on his mind. My mother cringed and tried to balance my dad's stories with the reality of what good manners could accomplish instead.

At every family gathering, old stories are told once more. The stories are old and cherished and sometimes met with groans and an eye roll.  As we lose one generation, the next hunger to hear the old stories. I am now the teller of those stories and I add my own to be rolled into that family history.

We learn stories in school about our world, our country and heritage, our struggles and our victories. They aren't always accurate I think, but we hold fast to them. Changing them is difficult.

Whatever it is we believe in, we have stories that shape and further inspire our faith. My foundation is Christianity and I find strength in the story of the fully told Christ event. But my faith is greater than even that, and my soul yearns to hear the stories of other ways of looking at the divine.

Many of us learn much better when we hear a story to teach us a lesson. We watch all sorts of television, and most of it -- is story. We are a people with an insatiable interest in stories. We are entertained, we learn, we laugh, we are chastised, we are heart broken and we live to tell a story another day.

I'm currently attending a Biblical Storytelling Festival in Dayton, Ohio. There's about 200 people here from all over. I had lunch with a group of people that came from Korea just for this experience.

The focus is to continue to improve in our ability to share our faith in a way that draws people in and connects with them. We tell our story, at the same time we tell a piece of God's story.  We tell God's story, we tell a piece of our story.

In effect, we are story. Story weaves us together individually -- our family history, our ancestry, our beliefs about God and ourselves. Story weaves us together as a faith community, a country, a culture. It's a good and powerful thing to pay attention to our story and to allow my story to interact with your story.

 

Release the Creativity!

I clearly remember the day I was reprimanded in class for coloring bears the wrong colors. In my defense, our elementary grade class was subject to coloring a plethora of wildlife scenes -- all in the same colors, over and over and over again. I was bored and I thought if I had to color another thing brown or black, I was going to scream. My solution, and what a beautiful one it was, was to color the bears, trees and fox such tangy colors as yellow and purple. They were vivid masterpieces. I sighed with triumph as I turned them in to the teacher. She sent me right back to my desk with the directive to color things correctly. Heartbroken, I retrieved my well-worn brown and black crayons.

Certainly, I know what colors bears really are, and the teacher was just doing her job to train me up into a rule following, responsible community member. But my soul ached to use more pink and maybe periwinkle.

We are all, each and everyone of us, born with the ability to create. Creativity is our very birthright. People need to create and not just copy the creativity of someone else. Although some of us settle for that, for fear of the power it bring to us when we let those creative muscles flex.

Once, I wrote a paper that was to communicate theological precepts in terms that all could understand. I worked for months on this paper, creating something vivid, creative and even fun. Going before the group that would evaluate me, I was excited to hear the responses. My writing was ranked the very worst among all those who were writing papers.  Why was mine so bad? I was told that I was too creative.

Too creative? How could there be such a thing? It's taken me forever to bounce back from that abhorrent critique of my work. It is in the job description of creativity to push limits, try what's far fetched.

In my experience, people don't always encourage creativity. If it rocks the status quo--that's upsetting to many, and in some places it can be inappropriate. We can't let those creativity stoppers, stop us from doing what should not be censored. And then, there are those people who are wet blankets in our lives who smother any spark of creativity we put forth.

If I've had a time of creating, whether it be working with fiber, setting a pretty table or writing my blog -- just to name a few -- my whole self feels different. There's a sense of satisfaction to my being and I delight in it.  Even if I've made a mess of my effort, I feel better for the task.

Once we've squirted the toothpaste out of the tube, there isn't anyway to get it back in there. And once we allow ourselves the abundance of creativity, we can't go back to the way we were.  Create, my friends, create.  And then create again, and just for me -- use some delicious colors while you're at it.

People are constantly stopping by the little library that sits at the end of our driveway. I've done everything I can think of to make the tiny building look warm and inviting. Numerous times each week people stop by and take a book or two, sometimes they leave one in return, occasionally a box of books will appear, and once in a while a kind soul leaves a note of appreciation. We live in a town that caters to those on vacation, coming to enjoy Lake Huron. Our road is a commonly traveled route between the two main roads to get to the very top of Michigan's Thumb. Lots of tourists make use of the colorings books, colored pencils, or bubbles we stock.

I take my responsibility seriously to keep my little library in good order. Wouldn't it be interesting to know how many people stop by in a year's time? I have no idea, but I know I'm having to restock a significant amount of books each week during the summer. Therefore, I am confident that it's presence makes a difference.

That's something we all want, isn't it? One of our basic needs by virtue of being human beings, is to make a difference, to matter, to know that we have touched a life, made someone happy, delighted a child. We don't have to do big grand gestures to be valuable, but we do have to DO SOMETHING.

I don't believe we have just one purpose, but many that change, evolve and grow in different ways as we change, evolve and grow.

Don't ever stop look for your purposes. Don't ever stop believe that you are important enough to do meaningful work.

And . . . don't stop reading and coloring and blowing bubbles along the way.

Tales of Simple Kindness

There's 14 of them all together--

• Ava in Missouri
• Kathleen in Virginia
• Jami in Texas
• Neen in Tenessee
• Marlene lives in Iowa but winters in Florida
• Bessie hales from Kentucky
• Audrey calls Georgia home
• So does Tina
• Sandi is from West Virginia
• Billie lives in Nevada
• Nancy is in Montana
• Maggie in New York
• Shirley lives in Indiana
• Angela in Mississippi

Once a month for several years I write to each of my pen pals. Most of them send me a letter just as often.  It has been quite an adventure as I've gotten to know each of them over the years. Some open up and share their stories easily and others are more guarded.  We've been through birthdays, crises of children, aging, loss of husbands, parents and friends, vacations, dreams and frustrations.

These are powerful relationships, but I've only met two of those ladies in person.

Me, Allie and Tina meeting in Georgia for the first time.

Just over a year ago, my husband, Dave and I drove down to Georgia to pick up a goat (people do that). We planned our trip so that I could meet with Tina, one of my pen pals I've gotten to know quite well. Because of our closeness, she'd shared her love and joy for her grandchildren. As a result, I fell in love with Allie, and we talk, write and text, too.

Jami and I enjoying our time together in Texas

 

The end of March,  I decided to attend a conference in Texas. I immediately wrote to my Texas pen pal, told her where and when I'd be in the state.  Hours after she received my letter, she called to tell me she had her room reservations and we would be able to meet. I was more excited to meet her and give her a huge hug than I was to go to my conference.

With both ladies, we had never met before, but we weren't strangers.

One of my pen pals, writes almost the same letter every time. At one point I was thinking I would stop writing to her as I thought maybe she was just bored with the relationship. But then she wrote and told me how I was like a sister to her and that our friendship meant a great deal to her. My heart melted.

My pen pals friendships are extremely important to me. They are truly an integral part of my life, I love them and I count on them caring for me.

I'm continually surprised at how grateful each of them are for the simple act of taking pen to paper and writing. I delight in finding little gifts to tuck into my monthly mailings, creating the Christmas gift they will each get, and choosing photographs of my life to share with them. There's lots of silliness involved as well.  One time I sent each one, a box of Junior Mints with a label on it that read, "we were mint to be pen pals."

With each letter, I hope I make as much of a difference in their lives as they do in mine.

The greatest lessons I've learned collectively from having 14 pen pals is that even the smallest act of kindness offered with a full heart, can mean something powerful to both the giver and the recipient. Please read that again. Simple acts of kindness can change your world.

The Moon and Chillicothe

My grandmother, Gummie and I posing in her dining room.

Aside from wishing for a dog, my greatest wish as a child was to spend time with my maternal grandmother. To me, she was the definition of love, a walking hug, the master giver of gifts and the one person in the world who lavishly gave me the attention and praise I so craved.

My wish was coming true in July of 1969.  Mom and Dad drove me all the way down to my Gummie's house in Chillicothe, Ohio. The drive in our 1967 blue/green station wagon seemed to take forever, but it was worth every long, boring minute. I was received like a beloved royal princess. Homesickness never ensued because being with her was like the home for my heart. It was a wonderful time of being treated to fudgsicles, playing matron of the manor in the huge dining room, and catching fireflies on the hot humid nights.

But then it ended. My Gummie got the flu and was so very sick she couldn't take care of 7 year old me. It was unfair as I was in the midst of my fairy tale summer vacation with her. Mom and Dad had to make the trip in the middle of the day and take me straight home in what seemed like the middle of the night. I didn't want to see my parents and I didn't want to go home.  But as it was, I didn't have a single thing to say in the matter.

My parents weren't too happy with the situation either. It was inconvenient. Dad was stuck driving late into the night and may have had to work the next day. Back then he was working long hours seven days a week for General Motors in Saginaw, Michigan.

What's even worse, history was being made and my parents were stuck in a car. They'd planned on witnessing the Apollo Moon Landing on television with the rest of the world, and watching Walter Cronkite explain what they were seeing. Instead, they heard it on the radio.

I didn't care what was happening on the radio. It didn't matter to me that history was being made. I was a kid. I wanted to be with my Gummie.

Since the drive took several hours, I had time to get over my temper tantrum. As I was lying in the back seat (no seat belt on of course), I watched the moon.

 I started putting pieces of information together. I realized there were some people on the moon --on the moon.  In one jolt of connection, I understood, with the brain of a seven year old, that something amazing was happening.

I spent the rest of the ride with my eyes transfixed on the moon. Studying the surface closely I tried to spot anybody walking around. Neil and Buzz must have been inside at that time, because I didn't see anyone, nor a shuttle or a flag. But that didn't discourage me.

At that moment something was born. I'd always thrived on my imagination, but men walking on the moon encouraged my impressionable mind. Imagination with the impossible can create something out of this world! Adventure and fantasy isn't just for movies and books -- it's for real life, too.

If men can walk on the moon, then  . . . . . .
. . . who knows what's next!!

A Good Balance

Look what was in the grocery bag when Dave, my husband, came home from the store. A container of prunes and a box of car wipes for his Camaro convertible. I found this combination hysterically funny.  I must have laughed for ten minutes.  I don't think Dave thought it was that funny. 

 

What can I say? I loved the blatant display of opposites right there before me. It seemed to be an object lesson about aging and hanging on to adventure." I'm getting older, but I've still got some zip in me," this duo said to me.

 

This is a great life lesson, especially for those of us who are of a certain age. I'm not going to say what that age is, but I think we know when we are there. When people would ask me how I was doing, for years I'd reply with "no bad for a middle aged woman." My daughter has now informed me that I can no longer refer to myself as "middle aged." She suggested I could use the term "elderly" instead.  I suggested to her that … well never mind what I suggested. Let's just say that I'm just not ready for "elderly" to be my classification. In fact, I may never be ready.

 

I believe I will embrace the message of the prunes and wipes! There are the everyday, responsible things we must do and take care of in life. Some of those responsibilities have to do with aging. But none of that prevents us from continuing on with living fully.

 

My mom, an amazing woman, was a beautiful example to me of this idea. At age 73, she retired from teaching at Saginaw Valley State University. Her gift from her colleagues was a certificate to go sky diving. She was thrilled and loved the experience.  Just days before having a having a stroke that would take her life, she was planning a trip, seeking new adventures. That's how I want to be. I want to continue to embrace the adventures of life until the very end.

 

 

Embracing the Gift of Imperfection

Three hens live at our house -- Cinnamon, Clove and Pepper. The first two are friendly Buff Orpingtons and the latter is a Black Maran. The buff lay the lighter brown eggs and the Maran lays what is know as chocolate eggs. Who wouldn't want a chicken that lays chocolate eggs? Now if I just had a goose that laid golden eggs, I'd be all set. Disclaimer: the shell is chocolate colored, no actual chocolate was used in the making of this egg.

 

That sad little smaller than a ping pong ball egg was Pepper's best effort. She hasn't given me another egg since then. I'm hopeful she'll lay many more and perhaps more in line of the size that the other to girls offer.

 

When my husband handed me that wee egg, I immediately felt for Pepper. I've had plenty of days when I've given everything I had but all I'd had to show for my work was something tiny and feeble. I walked over to where Pepper was nesting and patted her back. "Thank you," I told her with sincere empathy. "I appreciate your egg today." I was very careful not to make fun of her or tell her there was anything wrong with her egg.

 

I was tender with her as I would want someone to be tender with my efforts at creativity. Often, I will refrain from creating anything, because I am afraid that my results will be less than stellar, that my efforts will be puny and even comical.

 

Well, sometimes my creations are puny and comical. I've made, cooked, and written things that went right into the trash. I once spent days weaving and crocheting a blanket that turned out to be extremely out of shape and just squeehawed. But I kept it. I have it neatly folded and stored away because I learned so much in making it. "It could have been beautiful," I thought, if I'd known more. But now I see the potential behind the puny effort.

 

It's taken me a long time to boldly go and make terrible things. It's part of making excellent creations. Of course, I've had to come to terms with the concept that when I'm learning, I have to plan on making something twice. Make, tear out, repeat. Or sometimes -- make, laugh, toss and recreate.

 

I'm going to go off and making some things today. I will remind myself that I embrace the gift of imperfection. Perhaps I'll make something really grand, maybe not. And as I allow myself that adventure, I want to pass it on to those I encounter as well.

Lifted Up!

Did you see that movie "Up?" It was animated film, with Ed Asner voicing the grumpy old man. It was a cute movie, but honestly, what I remember most is the scene where tons of colorful balloon are attached to the grumpy old man's home and is lifted up and away. It was a "feel good" movie and the opportunity to suspend my disbelief at the scientific impossibility of balloons transporting a whole house was fun and fantastical -- "funtastical."

There are times when I feel that high and lifted up. Seeing my family, having a stress-free day, enjoying breath taking scenes, being creatively fed and hearing certain songs can all cause that lifted experience.

There are several hymns that have the power to elevate my being. I'm particularly fond of "Victory in Jesus" and "He Lives." Those are two great camp meeting and Easter Sunday choices. "Amazing Grace" is another old stand-by that is near and dear to many and chosen often at funerals. I've heard bag pipers play it in a way that touches me at my very foundation and leaves me shaking. But my favorite is "It Is Well With My Soul."

It takes me back to my three years as a ministry student at Asbury Theological Seminary in Wilmore, Kentucky. Chapel times were not to be missed as the singing was amazing, the preaching powerful, and the presence of God was palpable. Imagine singing "It is well with my soul" with a large group of people, the majority men, singing our hearts out, feeling and living the words, at a volume where you did not hear your own voice separate, but one with the others. 

Now, I just see the words and I am once again reminded of that presence of God, I am lifted up and I am a part of something big and amazing.