I was a very naive child. I wasn’t really stupid, just sheltered and trusting. My mother always made me play outside while she watched her soaps, read Harlequin romances, and talked on the party line. My sister Rhonda was four years older than me and was usually off playing with friends, leaving me alone to entertain myself. I talked and sang to myself, explored my back yard as if it were uncharted territory, and had funerals for dead grasshoppers in little matchbox coffins lined with clover. And when someone told me something I believed it was truth. If my sister told me to eat the mud pie she’d made or she’d tell Mom and I’d get a whippin’, I ate the mud pie. I ate a bunch of mud pies when I was young. But I must confess that selling birds’ nests was an idea all of my own.
I used the finest dried grass clippings blown from the lawnmower and the mud I’d come to know so well. I formed the nests with the utmost care to make them just like the birds did. I figured everyone would want to buy a nest - maybe even two or three - for the birds that came to their yards. I would make a killing! I carefully placed them all along the branches of the elm tree in our front yard, right by the road where everyone could see them as they drove by. I even made a “Birds’ Nests for Sale” sign.
After a while, my best friend Sara, who lived a few doors down, came over and saw my display all nicely arranged. She then proceeded to bust my sweet, innocent bubble. Sara was actually a year younger than I was, but her parents taught her the ways of the world. My parents let me find out about the world all on my own, just for the laughs, I think. Thankfully, Sara wasn’t afraid to clue me in. “People won’t buy birds’ nests that you make”, she said matter-of-factly. With my innocent look of bewilderment I asked, “Why not?” She said, “Because birds make their own nests and they don’t need nests from people.” Let me tell you, I was shocked and totally disheartened. All that work! My heart and soul was in every single one of those nests I’d made. And now they were good for nothing. My hope of fortune was gone!
Sara and I are both grown now. The elm tree and party lines are things of the past. And only Harlequin romances and birds have stood the test of time. But, in my usual Pollyanna way, I’m thankful for the education, thankful for friends who aren’t afraid to tell you the truth, and glad birds don’t laugh at me and fly the other way.
You know those times when you’re listening to praise and worship music and you get so moved by the Spirit that you get carried away and seem to forget where you are? Well, I had one of those times the other day.
In my mind, I was singing beautifully, stretching my arms toward heaven while turning circles in a sunny meadow full of wildflowers.
In reality, I was sitting in my car in the parking lot of my daughter’s college campus, waiting for her to return from meeting with a teacher. Sleet began to fall, the beginning of what was to become the worst ice storm we’ve had in years. My daughter’s peers and even worse, some of her teachers, were filtering by my window every few minutes, oblivious to what was going on inside the car.
Inside, the stereo was blaring and I was belting it out with all of the talent of some of American Idol’s most… interesting contestants, to put it nicely. I clapped my hands and swayed back and forth to the beat; intermittently tapping my air drums (which I don’t even know how to play). I’m sure the scene played out a little stranger than my usual public silliness, me having a total disregard for what people were thinking as they witnessed my automobile audition. But right then, right there, none of that mattered. I was praising God and wishing that the passers-by could share the peace and joy that I was feeling.
And I have to believe that somehow, by the time my voice reached God, it had been transformed into something beautiful, something perfect for my God. And, at the very least, He sees my heart and my desire for this time to be all about Him - for my praises to echo the same gladsome tidings that even the mountains couldn’t contain at His birth.
“Gloria in excelsis deo! Gloria in excelsis deo!
How could heaven’s heart not break…on the day…the day that You came?
Salvation’s reason to celebrate…on the day…the day that You came!
Gloria in excelsis deo! Gloria in excelsis deo! Gloria! Gloria! Gloria-a-a-yeah-yeah-yeahhh! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah-yeah-yeah-yeahhh!!”
(Words and music by MercyMe. Lyrical interpretation is my own.)
You’d never know it by looking at my blog, but I really do have lots to say. I just never find the time to put everything on virtual paper in neat little, creative paragraphs.
My mind is continuously cluttered with lists of things to buy and even more things to do. I even have a big spiral notebook to compile the many Post-it notes that are lying on almost every flat surface I own.
In the back of the notebook there are about seven pages of tiny notes haphazardly scribbled in every direction, some in shorthand known only to me. These notes are in the back of the book because they are not as important as the list of current needs, or the ones prioritizing what needs to be done. They are there to remind me of what I want to write about when I get that magical time when nothing urgent demands my attention, when a migraine isn’t robbing me of my concentration, and when my creative urges are just as strong as my cravings for chocolate.
In reality, I know the day will come when I have more time to write than I’d care for - days when I’d give anything to have errands to run, or a child to chauffeur around town. For that reason, I try to be patient in wanting quiet time to develop my inspirations. On the other hand, I know not to take tomorrow for granted and that notebooks are corruptible, not unlike my memory.
So, I find myself searching for balance and entertaining the notion that writing for myself now is just as important as running errands, or doing house work. And to be successful at it, I will have to sacrifice my own perfectionism to stave off procrastination.
Don’t expect me to come up with any huge revelations, though. Those are usually only in my mind and are not as profound when uttered to someone else (kind of like that big dream from the night before that didn’t seem nearly as interesting when saying it out loud the next day). I write with the same, often dry, humor as I live my life with. You may not get my jokes and that’s okay. But I’ll have fun in the sharing and I’ll keep it to myself when that confused look on your face gives me a twinge of satisfaction.
My New Year’s wish is best said in a song by Rascal Flatts.
I hope the days come easy and the moments pass slow
And each road leads you where you want to go
And if you’re faced with the choice and you have to choose
I hope you choose the one that means the most to you
And if one door opens to another door closed
I hope you keep on walkin’ ‘til you find the window
If it’s cold outside, show the world the warmth of your smile
But more than anything, more than anything
Chorus
My wish for you
Is that this life becomes all that you want it to
Your dreams stay big, your worries stay small
You never need to carry more than you can hold
And while you’re out there gettin’ where you’re gettin’ to
I hope you know somebody loves you
And wants the same things too
Yeah, this is my wish
I hope you never look back but you never forget
All the ones who love you
And the place you left
I hope you always forgive and you never regret
And you help somebody every chance you get
Oh, you find God’s grace in every mistake
And always give more than you take
But more than anything, yeah more than anything
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