What’s Love Got To Do With It?

Does everything hinge on love?

If you have it all – a beautiful home, nice cars, fancy clothes – does it make you whole?  Complete?

Even as you secretly yearn for your neighbors new phone or the expensive boots they’re wearing, will getting them make you full?

And how about your actions?  If you force yourself to do and say the right things in and out each day, are you satisfied?  What if you go to church every Sunday and earnestly listen, claiming to be devout but still find yourself empty, what then?

What if none of it mattered?  Not the things you have or the things you do if behind it all, there’s no love or compassion?

What if everything we are is simply defined by love?

Love manifests itself in many ways – affection towards another, in our words and actions.  And if there is no love in any of our actions or any of our words, then what?

Love isn’t simply the passion between a man and a woman.  It isn’t simply the devotion between parents and their children.  Maybe it is most commonly identified in those situations but love goes way beyond the obvious.  It is in our movements when we greet strangers, in our words when we encounter people we don’t know.  It identifies us when we look at someone completely opposite than ourselves and decide whether or not to show kindness.  It shows itself through compassion, through understanding, patience, and by putting our own wants away.

What if everything we are, everything we are going to be, and what lies just beyond this realm, is all based on love?

Are you living with it,

are you giving it,

or are you simply waiting on it to find you?

To the Mountains

Well, my first travel itch has been scratched!  For the past six days, I’ve been on a long overdue vacation with my family in the Smoky Mountains.  For the first time ever, all 14 of us were under the same roof for one night.  Luckily, we were staying in a cabin large enough to house the Tennessee Titans so personal space wasn’t a problem.

Four individual families, three children, two teenagers, a twenty-six year old readying to head to Israel to enter a master’s program, two coffee pots, one tea maker, endless board games and toys, spread out through the cabin.  The writer in me studies people and how they mesh, and I must say we meshed well!  We all carved out our own little niches throughout the cabin and settled in like we’d lived their all our lives.  (And having five bathrooms helped too, I must say!)

Smoky Mountains – Wears Valley, TN

The view from our bedroom was incredible.  On the last morning, fog had settled in the valley below, and I awoke to the image above.  I’ve seen the mountains before on many occasions but never do they cease to amaze me.  Their beauty is exquisite, their charm intoxicating.  Our cabin was on the edge of the state park and behind us was nothing but hundreds of miles of wilderness.

On our third morning, a visitor from the park stopped by.

We all were talking, which couldn’t have been a quiet thing, and this bear leisurely strolled across our deck in search of a morning snack.  Glass walls separated the bear from us which gave us time to snap pictures…but still, he was a little too close for comfort!

I hope this wasn’t a once in a lifetime trip.  I hope we all do this again soon…but if it was, I’m thankful for the time we had together.  Riding through the mountains, stuffing our bellies with too much food, laughing as the children played, and simply being together was a priceless gift.  Family is a gift…one I think we all take for granted way too often.  Life spins us in many directions all at once but stopping to simply be together has to become important, too.  We may never all be together under the same roof again for longer than a few hours, but this trip pulled us together for a snatch of time.  For a few special days, we were able to simply be.

The Crew

My Daddy

Daddy and my stepmother, Ginger – 2010

Forty-three years ago, my daddy (and yes, I still call him daddy) began working for a large grocery chain.  He was very young, extremely broke, newly married with a child on the way, and just barely a high-school graduate.  Suddenly at eighteen, he was responsible for a wife and baby that would arrive come September.  The year was 1969, and gone were any chances of going to college.  Any dreams he may have had for his future were replaced by the demands of necessity.  Necessity demanded that he make enough money to support a family.  Necessity became the commander of his life.

My mother always told me that their parents had politely and succinctly told them that the day they graduated from high school, they were on their own.  The words, “you made your bed, now sleep in it,” were part of her story.  It was the time, it was simply the way it was.  It was the sixties in the south, and youthful dreams quickly took a backseat to reality.

My parents were so young but they were never young to me.  They were parents regardless of their age.  They fed, clothed, filled the den with toys on Christmas morning, disciplined when we needed it, instilled great manners, but more than anything, they loved.  My parents had abundant love for us given how very young they were.

Daddy – early 1970′s

Through moves, through divorce, through remarriage and more children, my daddy stayed on with this original company.  He worked long, hard hours every one of the forty-three years he served this business.  Knees were injured, hernias erupted, but with a tenacity many young people have never heard of or experienced, he endured.  He stayed, he worked for every cent he made, and he never lost his ability to love.

Today, my daddy is retiring.  Today is his last full day as a working man!  I guess starting out young gives one the opportunity to work for a very long time.  The true blessing is even after working for forty-three years, daddy is still young enough to enjoy a long, thriving retirement.  My celebratory wish is that he enjoys every single minute of it!  Thank you, daddy, for giving your all, for holding on even when circumstances seemed insurmountable, and for never losing your ability to love and the joy in your heart .  Those things will be your legacy to us all.

Daddy and Hunter

Allergies, Bites and Pools

Itchy eyes, itchy feet, and I can’t sleep for scratching!  Between allergies and bug bites, I am living, walking proof that the weather has changed.  Usually by the end of May, my ‘seasonal’ allergies are settling down.  I haven’t hit that milestone yet.  Here’s hoping the trees are almost finished blooming!

And even though I believed we had a cold, long winter, the myriad of insects that have been feasting on my feet and legs don’t agree.  They are thriving.  I don’t like bug spray but it’s either them or me.  Today, I choose me!

Along with the warm temperatures, comes the water.  Beautiful, glistening, cold…and maybe not for me.  I adore watching the sparkling waves on the river or the cool blue of a pool but there’s no doubt I’m a land-lubber.  Watching six children swim yesterday, I could almost remember a time when swimming was exciting and I yearned to go.  Now, it’s more of a nuisance entering the water.  Is it too cold?  What about my hair?  My bathing suit will stick to my body once it’s wet.  Yuck.

To say the least, I’m adjusting – settling into a new routine at home, re-acclimating my body to the warmth and to nature.  I’m afraid it’ll take a little getting used to.  But even as I think that, I smile.  Acclimation is good, change is wonderful at times, and being gnawed on by bugs is a simple reminder that we all have a place on this earth – even if it is part of the food chain.

Beautiful – but do you think there are any mosquitoes?

School’s Out!

Another school year has come to an end, and I can’t help but be thankful.  What a year it’s been.  Long and trying and demanding in ways teaching has never been before.  Today is my first day at home and I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.  I’m completely bushed.  But in a day or two or three, reality will set in that I’m off for several weeks and a permanent smile will cover my face.

One of my little fellows said, “Mrs. Rackley, I’m happy and sad all at the same time.”  It was our last day together, and his simple words brought tears to my eyes.  It was nothing but pure, the words that slipped from his lips, and in that moment I felt just as he did.  This little boy had become one of my children over the past 180 days.  They all do, even the ones that make you want to pull your hair out.  Somehow, they become your kids not just your students.  For eight hours a day, they become your responsibility – yours to manage, love, teach, nurse, train, coddle when necessary, discipline when needed.  It’s exhausting but it’s also fulfilling.  When God asks me one day what I did with my life, I will be able to say I tried my best to love and guide children.

While I’m waiting for reality to set in, that yes, thank you Lord, I truly am off for the summer, a little voice in the back of my brain is whispering.  It’s excited, it’s merrily jumping up and down waiting for me to acknowledge it.  The voice chants, “Write, write, write!  You’ll have more time to write.”  And another voice squirms as it beckons, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!  Let’s hit the road.  Let’s travel and see and hear and breathe in something different for just a little while!”

I plan to listen to those voices very soon – just give me a day or two impatient ones!  Soon I’ll be ready to write and dream and hit the road running.  Summer is here!

Geraniums

“Long experience has taught me that people who do not like geraniums have something morally unsound about them. Sooner or later you will find them out; you will discover that they drink, or steal books, or speak sharply to cats. Never trust a man or a woman who is not passionately devoted to geraniums.”

― Beverly Nichols

Geraniums were a staple of my youth…well, at least a staple of my youth at my grandmother’s house.  Every spring, her concrete pots would suddenly sprout a set of matching red geraniums.  They became a symbol of my grandmother…along with her fruit-filled jello salad, scrumptious vegetables she grew in her own enormous garden, and her sparkling blue eyes.  Grandmother was smart, sometimes sharp-tongued, but always nothing more, nothing less than my loving grandmother.  She passed her love of geraniums on to me, and never has there been a summer season without their blossoms gracing my yard.

Red calls to me every spring – crisp, red blooms against velvety green

Imagine the sputtering of my heart the first time I saw the porch of the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island.  Brilliant red geraniums lined the front porch, which stretches as far as the eye can see.  Geraniums echoed throughout the building, on the carpet, scattered among guest rooms.  To say the least, I was downright giddy being surrounded by the beauties.

Grand Hotel – Mackinac Island, Michigan

I fell in love with Mackinac Island the first time I saw it.  The quaint streets of town, the shuffling of horses, the never-ending smell of horse poo and fudge, the bicycles, and the beautiful homes.  But Mackinac is so much more…it’s the subtle breeze, the quiet in the forest.  It’s the beauty of nature that whispers through the flowers and the limbs of trees.  The flowers are there for only a short time and they tend to show off their beauty like waving flags.  Geraniums are there among them, scattered across the island.

Maybe it’s their heartiness – a quality we all strive for, or maybe it’s their unique fragrance – different from so many others, which echoes my very being.  Whatever the reason, I adore them.

Geraniums have arrived on my back porch.  I will smile each time I see them, thinking of my grandmother, thinking of Mackinac.  Isn’t it amazing the power of a single flower and the memories they can evoke?

Grace

Where do you find grace?  Do you ever really look for it?

Grace tapped me on the shoulder this morning during church.  Sitting on a pew in the eighty-year old building, I glanced over to one of the towering stained-glass windows just as a beam of sunlight speared through.  After a long, rainy day yesterday, the arrival of sun shining through the brightly colored glass was enough to bring a sudden smile to my face.

It was enough to feel the whispers of grace.

Grace, to me, is that gentle reminder, that knowing tug that says hope is never lost.  No matter what, it never really is gone.  Grace is always waiting for you.  You only have to open your eyes and see it.  Grace is forgiveness, is love, is hope.

I’m working, slowly but surely, on my current book.  My current character, Maggie, is discovering grace after losing her memories and beginning again.  Amnesia has stolen every memory, every detail of her life beyond the past several months.  She’s on a journey of self-discovery, and often trips over her own feet trying to figure out life.

 

    The wedding feast was grand.  Grand in love, in joy, in smiles.  Tables covered portions of the backyard, draped in lacy pink cloths.  Candles flickered across the yard as yellow roses, purple phlox and white daisies filled vase after vase. 

    The bride and groom shined as devotion bloomed between them.  The children ran giddily among the tables, their laughter echoing into the warm night air, blending into the tilt of voices as stories were told, one after the other.

    People gathered throughout the yard, enjoying the summer feast of chicken and pork, fruits and pies, vegetables, fresh and stewed.  It was a night of celebration, a night of promise.

    Soaking it all in from her perch on the porch, Maggie let each scent, each whisper of noise, each sensation fill her soul.  In that moment, she knew gratitude, understood the enormity of thankfulness.  Her body was full.  Smiling into the night, she knew she’d been given the gift of life.  A second chance.  A new beginning.  And for the first time since awakening months before, she felt a warm rush flush her body.  A rush of love, of knowledge.  Something much bigger than anything she knew had blessed her.  Something she at last could identify as grace. 

Changing of the Seasons

The older I get, the more I dislike winter.  I’m a lover of seasons…truly.  Each is so unique and breathtaking in its own special way.  Living in the south, we are blessed with four very distinct seasons.  Some years, summer strangles us with thick humidity, some springs are wet and muddy, most falls are crisp and dry, but winter was never-ending this year.  It hung on and hung on and hung on….

Even though I adore a roaring fire and a warm blanket on cold nights, I know winter can zap me.  Snow rarely occurs in our nook of the world so I stay inside watching the cold, gray scenery.  I read profusely.  I write when I can.  Still, it’s blah…it’s winter.  The winter blues come to visit and tend to stay way too long.

But…the world has blossomed again.  Thick, robust green covers the ground and fills out the trees.  Spring has saved me!

Spring reminds me that everything is new again.  What has withered away, returns.  What seems so out of reach during the drab of winter, is once again at my fingertips.

I found the ivy cross below growing on the side of an out-building.  With absolutely no training from me, it’s growing in this shape.  The first time I saw it, it took my breath away.

Which season do you savor?  Which season causes you to smile at the mention of its name?

Tests

I’m preparing my room at school for achievement tests.  Keep in mind I teach first grade so we’re talking about six and seven-year olds here.  Everything must be covered in the room, the alphabet, numbers, the days of the week.  All that I get.  It’s not even the rigid rules and structure that bother me.  What kills me about all of this is that the moment the test begins, our children are expected to turn into little robotic machines.  No longer are they allowed to ask questions, to think aloud, to ask for guidance if they lose their place on the test.  In an instant, they are expected to act older, be older, seem older.  That bothers me.  I guess as a mother and a teacher, I’ll never love the idea of standardized tests.  I’ll never be able to accept a test that inhibits what I’ve taught them all year-long to do – ask, question, explore, search, think aloud, share.  Again, they’re only six and seven.  Phew…

Perhaps my anxiety comes from the fact that I was never a good test taker.  I was one of those kids…you know, one of the average kids who always wished they could do just a little bit better.  It wasn’t until college that all the puzzle pieces that make me who I am, came together, snapping into place.  Like a switch, my grades shot up, my confidence grew, my brain expanded.  I don’t believe any achievement test I ever took had anything to do with it.

Apparently there are great minds (hmm) working together somewhere – where classroom teachers aren’t allowed – deciding what should be done to children.  And testing is one of those things.  It’s been around for decades and most surely will continue.  All any teacher can do is hold their head up high, knowing they’ve taught all they can in nine months.  Whether the students can regurgitate it or not…well, I guess that one is up to the cosmic…and whether or not they need to pee in that moment, or had breakfast that day, or witnessed their parents fighting the night before, or how their kittens are doing at home, or any other countless thing that fills the mind of children.

Bless the little children and their sweet hearts.  Bless the people with hearts big enough to guide and love them every day.

The Carpet

Just read the best book – Saving CeeCee Honeycutt, by Beth Hoffman.  I know, I know…it’s been out for a few years but I’m just now getting to it.  The written word in this book is awesome.  The detail, the flawless blending of thoughts, the punch of emotion…loved it.  My partner in crime from work (and life) read it and told me that there were parts in the beginning that reminded her of my relationship with my mother.  My relationship with momma was never that severe but my answer to her was simple – I had my sister.  When life was crazy around us, we always had each other.  Somehow, we were two ‘normal’ girls surviving in a sometimes wacky world.  My sister is my rock, my foundation, and I love her dearly.  Life is very unpredictable and things are going to happen…they just do…but having someone in your life (and if you’re lucky maybe several someones) to pull you through is an undescribable gift.  My sister is one of those people, and I am blessed.

Happy birthday (tomorrow), sissy!!

My sister and I – early 70′s

When life has been crazy, I write.  When I’m sad or lonely, I write.  When I’m happy and feeling fine, I write.  I have lots of little snippets in my computer that really don’t connect to anything else.  They’re just parts of my mind I transfer to paper.  Here’s a small one I found recently.

  Her life spun around her, a kaleidoscope of colors, all interwoven like an exquisite oriental rug.  The colors were breathtaking, the pattern intricate.  Vivid splashes of red, showing the love in her life, followed closely by variations of emeralds and sunset yellows.  Deep ocean blue, scarlet, and subtle tawny browns mixed in to contrast each area of her life.  Each pattern symbolized her friends, her job, her richly hued life; a life that stretched before her, endless and unbreakable.  The cords were woven too tightly for anything to damage their strength, and with no one there to stand in the way, the future seemed stable and rich.

     Until the moment came.  The moment no one expected, no one ever dared dream would happen.  And then as sudden as an explosion, her stable carpet was destroyed.  In an instant, the fibers were shattered, ripped to shreds, and each part of her life became a muddle of mixed, dark colors with frayed edges.  There was no longer a distinct hue left to be found.  All that remained were smeared splotches of indistinct patterns.  A thin, thread-bare piece of material that threatened to simply give way at any moment.

     Her life as she’d known it was shattered and forever gone.