f i s h e r' s f e a s t

Awaiting her music...

2010-09-04T03:41:00.000-07:00

A big metal stork is delivering a baby to us today and I feel dizzy.

Dizzy...

Vertigo...

A baby girl! She is eighteen and is coming from a distant country where Frank's father once camped in some distant war.

Father...

Korea...

War...

Her name is Jee Young. She plays guitar and we await to hear melodies, strummed notes whose origins are from a foreign land.

Only a six day pregnancy. I heard of Jee Young only six days ago. A voice on the phone said there were girls that needed a home. "Would you like to be a Welcome Host Family?" Just for two to six weeks she said. Until we can find a permanent home for them.

As phone nestles in cradle, thoughts are being birthed.

Birthed...

Pregnancy Center...

No. We can abort this idea. Frank feels ill-prepared. The news is jarring to the eldest and the youngest is quiet.

Too much, too soon.

We are really not ready. The air conditioning is going out. Money is tight. There is no room prepared for her. How can we squeeze in anymore time?

Dizzy...

Vertigo...

Then the discussion is hushed by a son's sweet voice. "Aren't we suppose to help someone who needs a home?"

Silence.

His little heart echo's words that rumble the inner workings of Christ's love in the midst of me.

...

Did I mention her name is Jee Young?
She strums sweet music on her guitar.

I am the door. If anyone enters by Me, he will be saved, and will go in and out and find pasture. The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly. I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd gives His life for the sheep.~~John 10.7-11

Life more abundantly...

~~~~

kayla graduation pics

2010-05-14T22:04:00.000-07:00

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~Learn to fly

2010-05-09T03:38:00.000-07:00

She graduates in six days and my melancholy is overwhelming me now.

Labor pains started early; four days early and the moment had arrived. My womb had become too small. She was ready as was I, but sixteen hours later she was taken. My 'pelvic inlet was too small.' Surgery had not been in the plans but all turned out well. My body wanted to house this vernix-covered babe forever. And I find myself still wanting to house her forever. In the womb of my home I want her to stay.

She is going to China. Who is this child, so unlike her mother?

The umbilical cord stretches beyond its capacity and I want to tug. No! Not yet. I am not ready. God! My pelvic inlet is too small! She is not done yet. Here she needs to stay. But the Master Surgeon is reaching in my womb, ripping flesh, and I am raw. He knows my nature will not want to release this precious child. I am left void.

Eighteen years have gone too fast. She crawled, toddled and ran through stages and milestones quickly... and joyfully. I want to linger in her presence. Bring her in close and nuzzle my nose to her locks of hair. I still do and momentarily catch the sweet smell of her skin and shampooed tendrils---pure and sweet nostalgia. Not too far from the outer layer of a now young lady I can smell my babe. The intoxicating smell of a newborn babe.

As I peruse photographs, I catch glimpses of young girl and her amazing sense of wonder. I can see through her beautiful brown eyes.

'I want to learn to fly Mom!' Of course you do sweetheart. You can get lessons someday and your Dad can take you up on a plane and you can learn to fly. Clueless was I that a metal airplane with wings was not the kind of flying she was talking about. Her five year old neighborhood friend came rushing in screaming one afternoon, 'Mrs. Fisher! Mrs. Fisher!(pant) Kayla got hurt! She was running down the street, (pant-pant) She was going to show us how to fly. She almost made it!' Mending skinned knees, hands and nose I explain that people can't fly that way.
'But why not Mom?'
Just because Kayla.

She wants to fly. I'm scared.
Will I be mending a skinned heart, skinned knees of emotions or worse? My mind can't go there.

Relinquishment is so hard. A small voice beckons me to believe and trust. Hand over the gift. Give it back to her Creator. He knows where he wants to take her. So I let go of the fear somewhat and rest in faith.

Graduating in six days.

At times I feel I am ready and at others I just want to pull her in to my chest.
Something tells me that this milestone will be the hardest of all.

She Looks Good

2009-09-05T06:33:00.000-07:00

She looks good.
She receives us at the corner of her paved driveway and she looks good.
She wears a smile and embraces familial genes as brother inches his way out of the tired truck that has just trekked miles of highway.

Sixteen months ago, death bore a gaping wound oozing life from a body that I was unsure would recover. 'I don't want to live without him. I want to go too.' Whimpers...sobs...cries and I am left speechless. Words cannot be formed in moments like these. It's as if silence forces itself to the surface, through the chaos of scrambled words trying to assemble at the gates of a muttering mouth. The thud of her grief still reverberates at the center of my hollowed chest.

She walks with a lilt in her step and the loss of a couple of dozen pounds are evident in her small frame. She is living without him, a soul-mate that will never be replaced. The hole now covered by keloidal tissue of woven skin, inching itself over serious injury, is obviously apparent yet awkwardly reassuring. She wants to go, but she waits. It is not her turn. She knows this. Peace placates her now as she waits.

The house beams with life as growing kids turn to adolescents and nephews come and go amidst skateboards, rails and bikes that can do stunts never before imagined. And of course the occasional visits of grand kids. Who could live without those? She has put together the pieces and glued them into a re-invented form, resembling nothing of the original . And it is good. And as I look around and chaos has now collected itself into order, I realize... No... God is good.
God is good.

Holy, Holy, Holy...

2009-08-07T06:27:00.000-07:00

It is calm now. The week so long dreaded has now been swallowed up by time. A few days have passed and I am left with the raw emotions of a mother after giving birth. Trauma, anxiety and palpitations slow into the ease of a quiet life...the movement of a house that ticks to the time of routine, traditions and rituals. For this, I am thankful.

My sister's stay is always emotional. Too emotional. Uncomfortably emotional. In the midst of madness, instability I try hard to find equilibrium, balance. My feet feel the rope wobble beneath the grips of my toes. I walk a tight rope hundreds of feet from the ground, all the while fighting her demons, keeping them from becoming mine.

Her eyes are deep pools of void...and in them I search for the smile, for the soul, for the familiar look of the one of my childhood. Where are you dear sister? I need to find you. In her eyes I see only sickness,madness, pain and a heart wrenching confusion.

She hears them.

Voices only known to her.

Who is it, sweet sister? Who do you hear?

She hears them. Taunting her... making her feel unworthy, unloved.

I want at them. I want to do things to them that would not become, a woman of Christ. But I am angry! Leave her alone! Stop telling her lies!

I pray. And I pray some more. I search for the Voice. The One of truth.

I hear Him. He gives me a song.

'Holy, Holy, Holy...is the Lord Almighty!'

How Lord? Where is the holiness in the midst of a loved one who is tortured by unholy voices, and spitting out unholy words.

'Holy, Holy, Holy...is the Lord Almighty...who Was and Is and Is to come...' His voice keeps singing in my ear. How Lord? How? How do I love the unlovely. Where do I find the holiness in the wickedness and vileness of her absurd disease?

'HOLY, HOLY, HOLY! Is the Lord Almighty!' I know that! My mind tries to know that. No. No... I don't know that. I cannot begin to know that.

I'm left to just know that He Was...and Is... and Is to come.

Still I cannot comprehend. I have a brain with limits, bound in a continuum of space, and trapped in a universe bound by time. Bound by time.

He Was and Is and Is to come.

You live in a Holy realm Lord. It is not fair. How do I find your Holiness here, in my reality, my realm, my existence. How do I find you in the lunacy, in her mind.

Time is ticking. Time.

He Was and Is and Is to come....Your Holiness transcends all time...Your Holiness transcends all time....

Your Holiness transcends all space...is that what you are trying to tell me?
What space...YOUR space. My space?... my space... my space.

Holy, Holy, Holy...

Holy, Holy, Holy...

I find my footing...balance.

Holy, Holy, Holy...

Yes Lord, you are.

'I AM'

You Are...who WAS, and IS and IS TO COME...

Wilted

2009-07-23T03:57:00.000-07:00

Standing in my daddy's garden while the breeze of coastal winds rustle the leaves of the palms, I realize how roots of green thumbs are developed. Courtyard under towering ficus trees, amidst elephant ears, ferns, coleus, ivy, philodendrons and other greens of which I do not know names, surround me, and in it, I am still. Beauty abounds, all created by my daddy's hands. Trail leads to orange and papaya trees. A wooden bench exhibits a bowl of the last of orange citrus; fruit of a nearby tree, almost bare now, its growing season over. Yet another leads to a fruit-laden lime tree, branches breaking under the weight of acrid balls of green. A tree started by my mother years ago; a tree in full bloom. And then in the distance, I see a bush. My mind wanders. Just a couple of rose bushes lining a plain wooden fence...and still ...my mind wanders.

A hospital room...feelings of pain rip at my chest as memories push through neurons buried by seven years of life. It gets hard to swallow. I sit at a bench yet the memories still flood. I.V poles, Foley catheters and a weak, exhausted, and yes, a bitter woman lay in a bed. A bed familiar to a sick body, silhouetted... imprinted by the form of a frail lady who had overstayed her welcome long ago.

This day had been a hard one. News of a delayed release had dampened scant spirits and the thought of being poked even just one more time on arms and fingers already purple and bruised from CBC's, cultures,and glucose sticks became too much to bear.
She spit venom. It had become harder to care for her. Yet, as a family we scrambled, struggled to keep it together as she wasted. Overriding her now was an altered hostile personality due to daily doses of steroids; futile attempts to keep a fourteen-year old's organ in a fifty-six year old body. The softer disposition of a once strong lady was becoming harder to remember. Bitterness emerged through retinas worn by disease. Half-seeing eyes stared into space, effects of lost sight from years of diabetes. And anger. Much anger, from having life ripped away from her, robbing her of the productive and successful lifestyle she had become known for.

The relationship between them bore evidence of strain. My father bitter as well, from having lost the vibrancy of a wife of his youth and managing the changes of the foreigner that had taken over her body. It had been too long since a kind word had been spoken between them. In her neurosis and loss of esteem she had become suspicious, paranoid and he brunted the blows of her fury. Nights in contorted positions in recliner beds, fitful and interrupted winks had worn away patience, empathy and heart in his resolve. A good man had become weary.

I used to call it reverse CPR. 'She is sucking the life out of me,' I would tell my husband after my week of caring for her through restless nights. I could see myself bend over her and begin to breathe life into her mouth and nostrils as she clutched her hands around my shoulders and inhaled deeply the air from my lungs, choking me of the little I had.

She didn't mean to. Most times she suffered silently; she suffered long . At others, she tried desperately to cling to life, taking others to the edges of her death.

This day I had had enough. My father had gone to work after a horrible exchange of words. I needed to do something. I couldn't bear to see a beautiful marriage, which was all I knew before her disease, be ripped apart. --Lord! Help me--silent pleas only spoken through a groaning heart.-- Give me wisdom-- I prayed after another lunch at the hospital's cafeteria. Then I saw the rose bushes through a paned glass, beyond an atrium, as beams of light washed over the salad bar. That's it. I didn't know what it would take but my mother needed to go to this garden. She needed oxygen and no longer from a tube coming from tanks in a wall.

After much opposition from nurses and patient alike, I did it. After disconnecting IVs and hooking a Foley at chair-side, I rolled her into a clear blue day at an atrium surrounded by beds of roses, no doubt provided by a wealthy donor to a small, community hospital.
'Do you see them, Mama?' 'No puedo,' she uttered as I found a bench to settle in. I knew she couldn't see them...she could barely see me sitting two feet in front of her eyes, but I was hopeful. She could at least see the colors and their forms. Couldn't she? I told her to stand still as I would go to prune stalks and bring them to her. ' No me dejes,' she cried. I'm only leaving you for a few seconds. I return placing a bright yellow and a melon-colored rose in the palm of her hand. She leans her head back and breathes deep, their fragrance wafting up nostrils dried from weeks of nasal cannulas. The wrinkle of her brow disappeared. Silence. Then more silence. A tear drops from her face.

'A tu papa le encanta el jardin. Todo le crece.' Yes mom, he sure does love the garden and he can make anything grow. For the first time in many months, I hear an accolade to a man who was not present to hear it. The next hour was filled with glorious conversation, about everything and nothing at all. Our hearts connected as we basked in a wedge of nature in the middle of infirmity, an unlikely place.

As I glanced at the wilting flowers clutched in her hands, I realized it was now time to return for her afternoon meds. We need to head back mom. 'No! No quiero volver a ese infierno.' I knew what she meant. That inferno was the last place I wanted to take her. But your flowers are wilting. We need to put them in some water. She placed her gaze upon them and choked out through lumps in her throat, 'Como la duena.' The words cut through my soul...yes, just as it's owner. She sat up and said she would like to take her cuttings and place them in some water to give to Dad. He would make them grow in a corner of the yard. Somewhere.

That evening my daddy returned, ever so faithful. I reached for the Ziploc with the cuttings of the rose bush and I said. 'Papa, mama te tiene un regalo.' Confused he picked up his gift. I told him what had transpired in his absence. The blooms had wilted, I told him, 'Mama dice, -Como la duena.' His eyes welled with tears. He bends over her bed and hugs her. My mother encourages him to plant them somewhere because he is a great gardener. He could make anything grow.

The next morning, as I go to leave after a long night in a most wretched chair, dad walks in with a huge bouquet of sweet-smelling roses. Mother lit up brighter than the blooms set before her. I pick out the prefab card snuggled among the thorns and I read it to her. Scribbled in his writing were these words: 'Estas flores tambien pronto se marchitaran, pero mi amor por ti nunca se marchitara.' --- These flowers will soon also wilt, but my love for you will never wilt.---

Mother died a couple of months later. And dad was true to his word.
~~~He keeps loving her even still.~~~

I look at the rose bushes and wonder if any of them come from those clippings, planted in that Somewhere. I think of asking dad. Then...I think again. What is there left to ask?

Praise, Praise, Praise...

2009-07-18T08:39:00.000-07:00

Grateful for:

* reminders of this years VBS...

*dryer that works; fresh, warm clothes

that smell like fresh linen...

* morning sprinklers hydrating

grass and flower beds

with life-giving water...

* tomato seedlings

reaching for the sun...

* beautiful sweet cherries

filling our bowl...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* wonderful husband

who can fix things ...

* diligent dad who is involved

in boy scout activities

with his son ...

* sisters who

are being blessed...

* giggling boys

making 'club houses'

under blanket tents...

* adorable nephews

coming to visit...

* adorble nephews

celebrating their first year of life

in a couple of weeks...

* wonderful husband

who accompanies me to

dreaded chore of grocery shopping

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

***May we always be mindful of abundance in our lives...***

She Thanks Me

2009-07-13T05:10:00.000-07:00

She thanks me. As I step out into the darkness on a Sunday evening after a week of preparations for vacation bible school, she thanks me.

No. Thank you my sweet pastor's wife. Thank you...for the opportunity to plant seeds in fields yet unknown. Thank you for the relationships I am building with fellow believers, as our hands work together in the fields where little souls will take seed. Thank you for the opportunity to be used in ever so small ways. Thank you for the gift of giving and be given so much more in return.

Thank you my Heavenly Father in whom all blessings flow. Thank you that you placed a great loss of a dear friend in the midst of boundless joys. You truly are a God of love, of mercy, and of gifts. My eyes will keep hungering to see you throughout this blessed week.

J.D. Ritchey

2009-07-11T06:24:00.000-07:00

He stood as a cornerstone guarding the door to our church. He wore stories on his face that were known only to a few, and others, known to none. His body told stories of a life spent in a distant war and only gave minimal and brief insight to what happened to a missing leg.

"I was not a good man," he would say, speaking of younger years. Unknown are those years to me. My heart saw only a man of great strength; a man with a heart for the sick, a man who lived in community with every member of a small body of believers, each missing 'legs' of their own. The man stood taller than most while sitting in a wheelchair, in a corner, as a soldier guarding a little church. A man made 'good' by the redeeming blood of Christ. A man made 'good' by a transforming Spirit.

He will now gather to his people; be in the presence of a girl of his youth.
Virginia, here he comes. He will stand next to you once more...on limbs fully restored; a new body made whole by Him. And here we will sit, in our little church, stare at a vacant corner with eyes that will see J.D. Ritchey holding up that corner stronger ever still.

For A Little While

2009-07-09T19:23:00.000-07:00

Paint and glitter scatters the floor. Paper, markers, glue and snippets of tape are trampled under shoes. Messes abound and in it we joyfully create what will become a place where many children will hear the gospel message through the course of five days.

Each year we dread it; each year we rejoice in it. For we know. We know that children from all walks of life will be immersed for a little while into a place where love envelopes them, Standing for a little while in a place that little shoes may trample, sing, create and explore. Meanwhile dedicated grown children will talk to them of a God whose love is boundless. They will hear of a God that is Holy, beyond that they will ever understand. A God merciful and compassionate that cares enough to bring them back to Himself at a very great cost. This is what will go on in a little church, in a small city at the edge of the bay. Lord, may this Vacation Bible School be filled with your Spirit and Glorify your name.

Your Holy Name.~~~

Reframe

2009-07-08T06:25:00.000-07:00

Some people posses the uncanny ability to always see the silver lining to every cloud. How do you rejoice in rain when you are doused and chilled to the core? How do you find warmth when your home is being consumed in flames? How do you find beauty in the midst of ashes?

The last couple of years have been a discipline in dousing the spirit of despair in dire circumstances. In the beginning, my mind only knew one pathway; a pathway that led to pessimism, pity, and pathos. Why did my soul seek panic instead of seeking passion, possibilities and promise? Why did darkness and demons deviously snake to tree tops to shadow the Spirit implanted in a happy heart long ago.

At some point I had enough. I knew that in order to conquer this enemy, sacrifice would have to take place. Conquering the remnants of an old self that refused to die would involve bloodshed. I knew it would involve pain. In order to gain victory, bucking horns with the monster would be inevitable. The thought of it made me weak.

Be Strong and Courageous Joshua.

Learned, is that people who experience joy in any situation are just choosing to reframe; reframe thinking; looking through retinas of His eyes. Their problems are no easier or no worse. They are people, who are living life with their own storms, fires, and grief. The Hiding Place, a book that transformed my thinking, emerges every time hardships threaten my horizon. Thanking God for the hideous infestation of fleas in their inhumane living quarters only because God commanded thankfulness in all circumstances is not a natural, human response. Appalling was the thought of being thankful for fleas and lice. Corrie could not fathom doing such a thing. Betsie faithfully reminded her to be thankful in all circumstances; not just the good ones. Revealed to them later, was that Barrack 28 was known for the flea infestation and soldiers greatly avoided it.

Thank you for the fleas.

Through infestation of fleas in the barracks, on their bodies and those of bunk mates during their Holocaust encampment, Betsie recognized God's protection from harassment and victimization that would have been suffered by guards through physical and sexual abuse.

Thank you for the fleas.

Indeed beauty in the ashes; a reframe of enviable proportions.
Keeping a gratitude journal has been a a medium forcing me to think outside of the Dark. Walking each step in thankfulness and praise has been vital to railing my mind from a previous path to a God-led path of peace, hope.

Derailing happens. Familiar trails so routed sometimes thwart greatest of efforts. Catching self, screeching to a halt and backtracking, reroutes my thinking. What lies ahead now is the hope that the new path will become so grooved; imprinted, that the old pathways become overgrown leaving no trace to their previous existence.

Lord....help me reframe thinking. Help me be thankful for the fleas, the infestations, because you call us to be thankful in all circumstances. Shed your light on each and help us see You; You in the burning bush, You in the cloud, You through torrential rivers.

I choose to see YOU.

Soul Spaces

2009-07-01T09:17:00.000-07:00

Somewhere to place life; somewhere to pen possibilities, problems, praise...this is my reason to journal. Whether in the fibers of a spiral notebook or in digitized spaces on blank screens; they all are begging to be filled with scribbles about everything or nothing at all. Soul spaces is what they are called. Spaces to pour out what's been bubbling inside; where it can be viewed, dissected, digested. Places never void of the workings of God, in an insignificant life, made only significant by Him.

Carving out time for this soul space is in most times, difficult; at others, nearly impossible. The yearning always exists. Still time is taken, letters forming words and words forming thoughts. At times thoughts shape the words penned, at others, words shape thoughts formed. But they are all a form of existence, tangibility. Putting the formless out there to be shaped into something.

Tactility. Malleability.

Clay. Potter.

Could it be that each one of us are God's penned words in the making of His poetry? Each word becoming matter, clay. Each lump of clay being kneaded, coming together to make a body of something bigger and more beautiful than its individual parts. Maybe we are all words, making a community of sentences, creating poetry in God's soul space called Earth. The notebook of His Life.

Icons and Idols

2009-06-26T07:57:00.000-07:00

Death is no discriminator...How many times have we heard this? Today I reflected on this so much more severely in light of the loss of some great media-culture icons. Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson have been ripped out of the pages of our pop culture books by the common denominator; Death.

Amazing, that three of America's icons representing wealth, beauty and fame have died in a matter of a week. Vanished...no long with us. Who hasn't dreamt of Ed coming up the porch steps of our homes presenting us with a magnanimous check stamped with a number followed by many zeros? In the seventies, what teen did not aspire to have Farrah's hair, winsome smile and knock-out body? If my hairdresser mother were alive today, she could attest to the number of tresses cut into the 'Farrah hair.' And of course...the eighties. Oh yes. Michael's Thriller album was selling millions. Doing the famous dance in the hallway's of my high school is a memory still quite vivid and nesting in the mass of neurons in my brain. All of these icons represented to America a dream; a dream of success, making it, being there.
All vanished.
Gone.

Yes...it confirms to me that instead of chasing after the next get-rich scheme, I need to start thinking of storing up riches in heaven. That instead of slabbing on the lip gloss, and tousling the hair, I need to remember that 'charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting'. Fearing the Lord is definitely something to be praised. And the next time I spend any more time seeking old music on YouTube, or as Michael so avidly sought, the fountain of youth, I need to seek His Kingdom; the real Neverland where true youth, love, happiness and melodic music abound.

Let us ever be mindful Lord, especially in the tragic losses of idols, we hold today; whether it be wealth, beauty or fame, that You are the Everlasting. That you are the Rock to which we hold on to. All other is sinking sand.

His Entombed DNA

2009-06-22T03:03:00.000-07:00

"He'll never read! I know. He's going to be twenty and we will still be having this conversation." The harrowing words echoed in my head and into the air even before I spoke them. " I'll pretend you didn't even say that." Precious friend turns away from me, incredulous and hurting at the state of my hopelessness.

How could I have spoken such faithless words. How long had I been walking with the Lord? How many times had I witnessed the power of his life breathing in me? Yet all the frustration, hard work and scanty results drowned, choked the vision...the hope.

Sunday school's lesson was a familiar one to me; one easily identified. One I had forgotten.

The Mustard seed...yes that is what I needed...faith of a mustard seed. Yet I didn't even have that on that bright clear afternoon. The disciples had been powerless, hopeless as well. Their failed attempt left them facing a boy still tortured by demonic forces, taunting their failure. Futility invaded their spirit. Why then, they asked. Why could we not do it?

Jesus takes them aside. The master teacher would speak. All that was needed was the faith of a mustard seed. Couldn't they recognize that it was not to be done by their own power? Did they still not get it? My thoughts exploded in my head. Did I not even have that small of faith? Could my faith all gathered be less than that of a mustard seed? My faithlessness embarrassed me. How could I be so weak?

Yet... if my deepest desire was not His own, I faced the possibility that my son would remain illiterate. My spirit hurts at the thought, yet I feel Him lift up my chin. His eyes speak wisdom. I know this full well. I am left to say, 'It is well with my soul'. My love for you will not falter, waiver, or grow cold. A Mighty Loving God ...who can deny.

I will continue to dance...

You will dance with me...

Meanwhile...

A mustard seed-like faith Lord is all I need. Not the faith of a towering tree lest I boast but that of a mustard seed. Lacking is the DNA of your spirit entombed inside a teeny mustard seed. DNA that can grow towering trees, move mountains, and achieve all and any reading victory.
As you plant this seed in my garden I will envision my son's tree....a tree towering; birds perched on its limbs. With this vision I'll go forth in the faith of a hope still unseen.

'The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field. Though it is the smallest of your seeds, yet when it grows it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and perch on its branches.' ----Matthew 13: 31-32

My Daddy's Dance

2009-06-19T05:14:00.000-07:00

Never Fails...

In the corner of my mail box, Mother's Day card, Birthday Card, Christmas Card,
Easter card awaits always,...carefully chosen, whispering love in the creases of the cardstock. This time I would reciprocate his love language. In the isle of a supermarket I began my search for the perfect card. A Spanish one would be great, yet this store was void of such thing. Searching... searching....picking up sappy, sweet ones, authors knowing my daddy not; humorous ones, lacking depth of love pooled in me over the last forty years. And always the one with an image of a tie. Oh yes... the tie. But then,
there sticking up behind the tie, a glimpse of the card that would make it to my shopping cart.

It's face projected the legs and shoes of a man, and on them the little stockinged feet of a
girl ... grinning as she danced to the movement of her daddy's shoes. Immediately I was
transfixed...transposed, to moments long ago. Cans of corn, frozen foods, overhead speakers, diminished. Faded. Entangled in the dimension of another time, music filled my ears and I began to sway to sounds, audible only in the recesses of my mind.

How can I capture love in the fibers of a 4X6 space. You have been in this world for seventy years and deeper I could not love you. How can I pen that because of you, I am me. You shaped me, protected me, and valued me then as you do still. And in your passion for dance, you taught me to listen...listen to the tones of the music... and move... move to tempos and cadences of art in sound. We have danced and dance still. We dance together to the music of our lives. The salsas and mambos of the births of grandbabies and the boleros of the passing of parents, brothers and a sweet wife, my mother.

Yet...we dance.

Now I dance with my Heavenly Father. He dances with me through the music of my life. He spins me, leads me, and weaves me through notes of triumph, sorrow and pain.

All a dance.

Gratitude overflows for giving me an earthly father who set the pace, the cadence to follow my Abba Father. Rhythmically I dance, until the sweet melody of this life fades into the sway of a music beyond. Thank you daddy.

Thank you for teaching me to dance...

for the music...

for the love....

Template Change

2009-06-15T15:40:00.000-07:00

I certainly would love to do this in my life. Template Change. I would not want to change the core of me, but maybe just create a new template.

Simple Success

2006-04-05T01:00:00.000-07:00

Whoa! January was my last post and here we are in April. How will I ever become a "successful blogger" at this rate. What is successful anyway? Why is this term so unnerving to me. Maybe it is because of pressures I felt in adolescence to be , need I say,"successful."

Yes, I am a child of the eighties. Materialism, wealth, success......as I look now at how my life keeps evolving, God seems to be pruning the parts of me that I thought were my most seemingly successful. The amazing thing is that I feel more satisfied... happier... I guess what I have learned through my walk with the Creator is that true success is measured by Him. When we allow Him, he shapes and molds us into His creation. Ahhhh! True success. How blissful a thought.

I really need to carry this thought into my homeschooling endeavors. OOOh.. How my mind can carry me into a whirlpool of insecurities in doing school successfully. I acknowledge that this is another area where God is asking me to submit to Him. He knows what this area in our lives need to look like for my family. I'm tempted to get caught up in doing things just like my Homeschooling counterparts. If I did, I'd still fall short because our family is not them an they are not us. God designed my children for my family...we are His unique creation. How could I even begin to think that we would fit any other mold. Ingrained in my subconscious is the 'one size fits all' model of public education. At some point you would think I would shake it off. Yes, true education does not come from any textbook, workbook or 'How to' book...I know it has been said before. I can use these to fit my family somehow but I should always be mindful of God's plan for our Homeschool. God has called me to the true book of education in which I will achieve all true success. Joshua 1:8 says "This book of the law shall not depart from your mouth, but you shall meditate on it day and night, so that you may be careful to do according to all that is written in it; for then you will make your way prosperous, and then you will have success." Simple. Perfect. Success.....

Invisible enemies

2006-01-05T04:01:00.000-08:00

A new year has started and again I am forced to renew some of my plans and thinking. Often times though, I get so wrapped-up in self, thinking of my own plans, desires and ambitions that existence around me diminishes. My personal mission takes over every recess of my mind and Nazi Mom surfaces... getting everything in line, as it should be.

Busy as I was, organizing (one of my biggest new year's goals) and carrying my most ambitious plans to keep a tidier home, I caught a glimpse of my son. A second glance gave me enough time to watch him intently sitting on our wood floor looking out the front storm door. He was playing with a plastic alligator and a park ranger figure, making up some make-believe jungle adventure as boys are so skilled in doing. Our dog Roxy, lay still beside him, content to share in some of his space, just being.
At this moment, I was prompted to sit as Roxy did, next to my son and say nothing. My son looked at me...a few moments of silence ensued. I was blessed as he let me into his make-believe world, explaining that Alligator and Park Ranger were actually friends fighting invisible enemies in very dangerous jungles. Finally, his gaze fell upon my face his eyes moved to my front temple. I was reminded that my hair needs a dye-job and he was looking at the gray working itself out of my scalp. "Are you looking at my gray hair?" I smiled as he reached up to touch. "Momma's getting old." I said. "one day I will be a grandma like Abuelita (spanish for Grandma, my mother no longer with us). I wondered if this thread of thinking was leading him to think that if one day, if I too was going to be a grandma, then I too would die as Abuelita did. Heading off his thought process, I told him that one day I too would die and before I could finish my sentence, He said, " and you will be in Heaven with Jesus." A smile spread across his face, without any sense of loss or sadness. How beautiful... I thought... was his response to what most of us fear. His statement was so sure, without the slightest expression of doubt to my plight into the next existence. I hugged him as he hugged me back and told him that it would be a short while and I would see him too when he died and I would be waiting for him. I told him that I would be the one waving at him and jumping up and down to see him. "I love you Mom" he said.

Park Ranger and Alligator were glad to continue in their adventure against the invisble enemies of the jungle and I thought...Thank you God that you fight those invisible enemies that plague our time, drawing us away from what is real. Thank you that you gave me that snippet of time to share a 'real' moment with my 'real' son. Thank you Everett for that most precious moment.

Christmas Cheer

2005-12-22T22:19:00.000-08:00

Three days till Christmas... It's a mad house out there. I love the Christmas season though. We went Christmas carolling yesterday and it was wonderful. We had about 20 young girls, my 8 years old son, and three moms split into two big vehicles searching for places to give some Christmas Cheer. What were we thinking? The best response we got were at some retirement apartments in town and the older people there were absolutely overjoyed. It warmed my heart to see people in their older years sing with the group with the love of Christ upon their lips. There is something magical when Christians gather to sing praises unto Him. For just a moment, time stands still and there is nothing but His love in each heart and mind as melodic voices harmonize and rise above to serenade Him. Okay, maybe they weren't quite so melodic or harmonic, however, they were joyful and that is all that matters.

2005-12-16T18:32:00.000-08:00

O.K. I think I'm Blogging now. How does one come to this point anyway?
My wonderful husband does not understand why I would want to do this but he does not understand why I do the many things I do. He supports whatever I do and I am grateful for that.

We had our Homeschool Christmas Play yesterday and it made for a very long day. I have to admit, that through the grueling hours of rehearsals in the last six weeks, the product was well worth it. As I saw my 13 year old, budding artist, I couldn't help but think what a beautiful young lady she is becoming. I saw someone who wants to be known, but all in the same breath, wants anonymity. Adolescence...how do we ever get through it. Come to think of it, at 37 I am not 'through it.' May explain the reason for my blog. Hmmm.. O.K. I admit... I'm still a teenager, but to my dismay, with ever less than supple skin and the creeping of graying hair. There is your answer dear husband. Look at it this way. You have your teenage wife all over again.:)