Simply Thankful.

I am simply thankful, for mornings like these where I snuggle beneath blankets and tea and sit with the Lord and rest and be.

I am simply thankful, for nights like the last, where our friends come and collect with pizza or coffee or dressed for Halloween. Where Marks house fills with their laughter, and our talk, and the sport on TV. Where we fellowship and mingle and I simply can't help but look around, and be simply thankful.

I am simply thankful, for cell phones and friends. For calls from Mark and texts from Trish and pictures from Kelsey. For that connection to community that crosses miles or context.

I am simply thankful, for students who make me laugh, who bring me McDonalds, who tell stories, who are Country.

I am simply thankful, for the accessibility to The Word. To it on my iphone, or in my prayer chair, or cupped in my hand. For its easy application, its strength, its encouragement, its ability to deliver hope and light and peace and Truth.

I am simply thankful, for childish moments at the circus and movies like Footloose.

I am simply thankful, for Mark's mom who studies the Truth. And his family that loves Jesus and the fact that mine does too.

I am simply thankful, for my mantle softly spoken. Poked with flowers up from vases and the ceramics of Aunt Ruth.

I am simply thankful, for Trish and Linds and bread baskets too. For their thoughts on Wednesday, and the reminder to be: Simply Thankful.

Weekends Are For...

Weekends are for...

Giddiness.

And Girlyness

And Dangling Curls

And Dresses.

For wine.

Toasted to salmon

And partnered with veal.

And small corner booths

And lighting kept low.

For beignets.

Doused cinnamon

Dapped in glaze

And cripsed into coffee ice cream.

For dessert melting

And Mark melting

And me melting.

And us.

Weekends are for

Quiet mornings

And fences

And neighbors.

For smiles with Tate

And sarcasm with Sam and Wes.

For watching my backyard

Gather neighbors

And gift home.

Weekends are for Gardens

And hoping

And roaming

And dreaming.

For peaceful, delight, love;

That intimate place.

Weekends are for

Mornings that linger with coffee

Kitchens that sparkle with clean

Services that fill with worship

And the man that holds my hand.

Make Plans.

"I don't want to 'not make plans with you' -- I want to make plans with you."

~ Declan, in Leap Year.

I posted this quote May 15, 2011 on my original blog; rarely allowing rom-com quotes. But, it fit. And for some reason it has resolved to stay in my mind... So alas, I cave and let it be shared and posted again.

Boots and Bras: I Dig Holes.

One of my dad's favorite things about my mom was that she would work in the yard or put on waiters for the dock or drive trucks during the day, but at night put on a long black fur coat or yellow silk skirt or diamond flower ring and dine in the most expensive restaurants. She was a woman, in all senses of the word - tough and strong and courageous and sensitive and nurturing and genteel.

I was raised that way. I was raised to cut six acres of grass, two ways so it was checkered in the end; to scrub algae off boat lifts; to drive quads and stick shifts and snowmobiles and Sea Doos.

I don't blink at eye at grabbing the shovel, I own my own tool kit (its pink!) and level, and have an assortment of tasks I am able and willing to do around the house. (Though admittidly, I won't touch worns or fish, won't even aim at skeet, and have no idea how to change a tire.)

I'm tough and rough and dirty and proud of it. I planted my flowers, used a powerwasher, stood on a ladder, pounded my nails, and worked at my place. It's love, working the hours and heart at home.

I dug holes today, two feet deep in red clay. Went to Home Depot Saturday twice and once today, and Lowes four times over the weekend too. I walked around with a tape measure in my purse, bought supplies, and screwed hinges. I can tell you the difference between vinyl and wood and lattice and bushes and blinds and every other type of concoction one could come up with for privacy in my backyard.

I worked in hiking capris and brown hiking boots, with flowers decorating my top. A ponytail of curls, with pearls, and leather gardener gloves with a red shovel in my hand. I like it -- the feeling of adventure; the grinding of the dirt, the knowing it's mine, the risk in figuring it out.

Today, I wear boots and bras. Today, I dig holes.

Life at Porter Ridge.

A few pics of life at school...

My first block class -- US History Honors. Love them!

One girl brings me an egg mcmuffin at least twice a week! :)

Every year, J.D. Lawson brings his Vietnam helicopter.

Presentations on the Reform movements.

Encouraging college applications (go USC!) as well as friendships. :)

Friday night lights.

ROTC.

Interact kids at Walter Bickett Elementary school delivering Christmas gifts.

Special Olympics. Interact kids run the county-wide event at our school.

Band performances.

And yes, teaching....

Surrender Your Reputation.

The greatest advice I ever received as a teacher was: "When you surrender your life to Christ, you also surrender your reputation." It was from my supervising teacher at Eastbrook Public High School, Roberta Kroll. We were talking about our jobs and the professional and the pressure to be the "cool" teacher and the implications that has on ones relationship with ones students as well as the work one does in the classroom. And her words struck me, freed me, and desperately stuck with me.

I forgot about them the last couple of weeks, but was reminded tonight when I was thinking over the day. I stepped down from several of my leadership responsibilities with Interact today. And in doing so, I surrendered some of the perceptions of me. I allowed others to see my breaking point, to label my failure, to mark my limits. But I also allowed myself to be finite. To stop and rest. To reconfigure what is important. To do less, well. And mark my purpose in the classroom.

My job is to educate. To love on kids. To be available to them. To listen to their stories and share in their exclamations and hold their tears. To hear the girl yesterday crying about the death of her mom, three years ago this weekend. To listen to the boy who dreams of the girl a year his senior. To congratulate the sixteen year old on her birthday. To cheer with the coaches at the football game. My job is to open their minds, to ask them to go farther, to push them, teach them, to think.

This is why I'm there. This is why I am called.

So today, I fell back on wisdom from a sage teacher. I surrendered my life to Christ again, by surrendering my reputation. I backed away from Interact, from the craziness of meetings and questions and emails and receipts and purchase orders and politics. To step aside from the pressures, the complications, the craziness. And to instead, be finite, but infinitely called. Called to Christ. To my classroom.

~

Just an additional note: Yesterday, after the day wound down and students were dispersed among homes and friends and families, I felt at rest in my classroom for the first time this year. This my friends, is a blessing, a relief, an affirmation. Thank you Lord, for giving me a place there and redeeming its purposes with you in this day.

Real Mail.

Trish would say, "Did you pray for that?"

And again, I would answer "Yes."

To anyone who knows me, this post does not come as unusual. You know I am obsessed with mail. Yes: mail, mail, mail. Snail mail. The kind that comes with frabic paper, or imprinted symbols, or textured letters. The envelopes with return addresses or Halmark seals or out-of-state postmarks. The scrawlings of real penmanship, friendship words, heart in script. Mail. Real mail.

I got home today, and walked to the pile of mail on the counter. It was 9:50pm and I left the house at 6:41am. And the mail gleaned at me. I literally prayed, "Please Lord, let there be some encouragement in this."

And surely, a card from my friend Amy brought such relief and love to the day. The cover portrays a young girl pursing for lipstick, dressed like the 195s0s Hollywood star; captivating. But inside, all the more, were her words of encouragement and giftings over me. I want to hug it and sleep with it held to my chest.

Today, I prayed for encouragement. Today I prayed for it in mail. Today, the Postman heard my cry.

~~~

P.S. Thanks to everyone who sends me mail. You make my day! :)

Stories Worn Like Songs.

I dressed tonight for my Women's Ministry meeting, carefully eyeing over my thoughts of pink and pastel and feeling beautiful and feminine. From my closet I pulled a precious sweater, ivory buttons sewed into soft cloth, a fabric bouquet of pink floral at the chest. But then I swirled over to my jewelry orchestra, a display of stories worn like songs. And tonight I wore:

~ Pearls. Because I'm a Southern women, a feminine aristocrat at times. Donning dresses and and pearls and breathing in air like a women of the South, a longing to feel the belle of the antebellum.

~ Cuffed wristlet engraved with "Put On Love," given to me after my story was shared to through the women's ministry a few weeks ago. It already has a special place in my heart.

~ Silver watch. Bought with Mark's mom our first shopping day. A day of special memories laughter, and Charming Charlies. Being girly, giggling, and loved.

~ Pink ring. I only wear it on days that matter. On moments I want to remember, need to capture, or desire to embrace. Its the first thing I bought after my mom died. From my sister. Its presence reminds me of that time, of those days, of her. It feels like such a special gift, precious treasure.

I love that the adornment is an art, sharing stories worn like songs.

Inklings in the Corner.

Laughing in the corner booth, rounded granite centered by leathered green chairs. Wine resting beside me, blog in front of me, and low-lit lamp hovering over me.

Trish sips peppermint tea while lingering over her sketching journal, colour pencils resting at her reach and thoughts pouring like intricate work from her hand. She is pensive, quiet, but rested and real. Her true self.

Deb sits across from me, stirring her lemoned water with a straw, then swirling Merlot and enscripting words and thoughts onto her peacock journal, the pages like fabric, textured thick. Her words come in pulse, a mixed of rushed squiggles broken like breathes by the sipping of water or wine.

We are The Inklings.

C.S. Lewis, JRR Tolkien, and other Oxford Associates coined the phrase. A group of writers, philosophers, thinkers, critiquers, kindred spirits, they met Thursday evenings in Lewis' dorm, and Tuesdays midday for decades to follow at The Eagle and the Child in a corner dulled by pub light and puffed with circles of tobacco, embracing the minds of the analytical and imaginative genius'. They drunk beer and discussed ideas and knit camaraderie and penned prose in that little pub corner, creating works such as Lord of the Rings and Out of the Silent Planet, criticism and encouragement given alike.

I feel a little bit like this, cornered at Nova's Bakery or Amelies or Smelly Cat or Crisp. My coffee or wine sipped slowly and my eyes slitted with thought, my hands plucking at keys. Trish and Deb lean forward and backward, an exchange of scrawling across papers. We smile, relax, write. Then we converse, commune, care. For we are philosophers, kindred spirits, careful writers, crafters at work. We are The Inklings.

~~~~

I found an old blog post, and wanted to hear Trish say in reflection to it: Did You Pray For That? Because, yes, my Inkling friends, I did.... And he heard:

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 2009

Inklings.

I've been reading and drinking in Sheldon VanAuken's book, A Severe Mercy, and this afternoon, and craving the beauty of his pen pal relationship with C.S. Lewis, writing each other letters of deep self and thought, though they had never met, and keeping each other then, persistent in prayer. The character of C.S. Lewis comes through and is astounding to me, as it was to VanAuken, as he is a busy professor and acclaimed writer already at that point, mirrored and quoted by numerous theologians as the most influential contemporary of the time. But yet, Lewis writes these incredible, almost in a romantic sense, poetic narratives to VanAuken, offering open discourse regarding the Christian faith, or furthermore, the essence of belief. It is beautiful, the display of discovery woven through an intellectual literaturistic style in these letters.

As the book sat coddled on my chest, myself wrapped in blankets and nuzzled in this cold, wet afternoon with tea, admiration and desire wells with in me for friendships as such. To sit with Lewis' companions, the Inklings, and discuss theology and terms amongst a stirring glass of wine or simmering tea. Or to read such personal,provocative, and honest letters regarding the search for belief and faith from another.

There are some where I have this now, this stirring shared through in qualms by email or blog space, but a returned desire for the essence of this intellectual, bookish, theological community is awakened and drawn. It begins with Lewis and VanAuken and a realism in pen pals, and comes to fruition in what clever antidotes I can conjure up in my daily communities.

Let God Use Me.

He's teaching me. Breaking me. Bending me. Molding me. He's teaching me, to surrender.

He's teaching me, to let God use me.

I lay in bed, the ten o'clock hour well-past, and my mind settled and nested like the form underneath the covers in the quiet of night. She had asked, twice. They had asked, twice...

Yet I was... seeing my schedule, marking my time, watching my energy, protecting my heart, concerned for others.

Yet, He was speaking to me.

They had asked me to share. To share of my life-blood, my soul, my heart. To allow others to view-in, perceive my experience, my heartbreak, my vulnerability, from afar.

I wasn't ready. I wasn't perfect. I wasn't rehearsed. I wasn't over it.

But they were asking.

I said "No." But God said "Yes."

I lay there, in my darkened room, wrestling with His desire from me. Working through heartache, data, story.

I wasn't able. But He was. And he was asking my heart, to be willing. Willing to let God use me.

So I surrendered. Heart, soul, experience, life. The personal, the intimate, the loss, the hurt. As much, in bits and pieces, that was required, or asked, or pursued, or needed, or desired.

I surrendered. Video-taped the story, released the emotions, gave of myself. And let 250 women in. To me.

Because I desired, to Let God Use Me.

Neat of Tornado.

My day:

Splattered papers, students staring, mind scrambled.

Its ironic that coffee spilled all over my desk...

Just to add metaphor to the distress in my head...

At least I'm ending it,

Trying to make neat of tornado

At Crisp.

Life Is Wrinkled.

If everything stayed packaged from the dry cleaners, or ironed crisp from Grandma, it would be perfect. But, instead, it gets wrinkled. It gets life.

It gets hot sunny days with my niece on my lap. It gets cold autumn nights with Mark pressed beside. It gets Thursdays downtown Holland, boating days at Barlow, quads on the Ponderosa. It gets long walks amongst Pikes Place, trekking in Colorado, tea days in Indy. It gets movie nights at home, craziness in the classroom, community at church. It gets parties with friends and dancing galore. It gets Saturdays sunny, with USC scoring. It gets vacations in Spain and caring in Kenya. It gets morning at my table.

Nothing worth wearing stays packaged from the dry cleaners, or ironed crisp from Grandma. No life worth living stays pressed and crisp and lined and perfect.

A life worth living is wrinkled. It's full of the joy and and exasperation of every day living: It's full of squishy hugs from friends and curling up on couches. It's full of conversations that explode and hearts that implode. It's full of lingering and laughter, pensive and pursuing. It's full of spots and stains, jarring and jaded. It's full of release and rest, bliss and being. It's full of adventure and awe, compassion and character. It's full of all the moments motioned against the fabric that makes it... life.

Life is wrinkled. Wear it well.