Monthly Archives: October 2016

Seasons

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My Wednesday night women’s group never fails to be enlightening.  Something about the class makes me think deeper, and this past Wednesday night was no different.  In our discussion, a young mother said ‘the season of my life’. Someone had told this woman that she was in the season of raising children. And she is…three of them, and she’s in so deep that a life without chaos seems unfathomable to her.

On the way home, her words washed back through me.  Her life season is surely summer. No longer a baby in spring, living without the burdens of life, she’s now in the full throes of summer. This is her growing season – filled with abundant life, filled with buds and blooms.  And even though it may feel too hot at times, it’s the most bountiful time she’ll ever have.

But then I realized…my summer season is ending. I’m certainly past the years of producing babies, and most assuredly no longer thirty. My season is fall. Something about that realization brought a sudden rush of tears to my eyes. It’s more than the realization that my children are no longer babies. It’s more than the graceless steps of aging.  Maybe it’s knowing life is progressing steadily along, sometimes vanishing in big sections of time, while I work on hanging on to what’s left.

Still, fall has always been my favorite season. The colors, the refreshing feel of the air after a long hot summer.  If this is the season of my life, I will embrace it. I’m more secure in my skin than I’ve ever been, more independent, more sure of what I want and don’t want. It’s really an incredible feeling. Simple joy in nature, kindness and laughter feel so much better than ever before. My dreams continue to grow in this season…things I want to do, places I want to see.  And even though my landscape has changed, I know I’m still me…just in a slightly different light.

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What the Heck is Fwight Night?

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Y’all…I’m still shaking my head, still trying to decipher what I heard today. I was across the table from two little people…real little people. These little people have severe speech impedements (according to me anyway), and they were both talking at the same time. Their little shoulders were touching as they gabbed and gabbed, and even as I tried to intervene, they couldn’t find the period at the end of their sentences. Our topic was math – matching dots to numbers – easy, right? But no…somehow we ended up talking about Fright Night (I’m still not real sure what that is). Remember the speech issue I mentioned – fright night becomes fwight night.  Anyway, apparently this stuff is scary so I proceeded to tell them they didn’t need to watch scary things. They shook their heads and said they watch scary stuff “all da time”. 

Y’all…I’m 47. I wasn’t allowed to watch scary movies when I was little. When I spent the night with a friend at 13 and saw my first one, the original Jason, it traumatized me so bad I was sick all night long – in the dark, where Jason lives, All Night Long.

So, these kiddos were comparing war stories about their scary shows. One looked at me and said, “You wealy don’t need to watch Fwight Night…it’s bad, so bad.”  The other jumped in, “I have scawy dreams after that show.”

Well duh…they’re five. 

Even though I was honestly fascinated by their conversation, I declared total silence until they finished their work. It about killed them to be quiet but they survived the torturous five minutes. 

Is it just me? Am I the only person in the world who believes Chucky should be off limits for children? Like for real. No scary shows = no bad dreams. Back to simple math. 

Y’all…these kids. My days are never boring.

Kid friendly Halloween!

My idea of a scary movie.

The Little Old Man

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There once was this little old man, his body frail and hunched and confined to a wheelchair. He no longer spoke, only listened. His body no longer cooperated, but his eyes still sparkled from time to time. His body had not always been this way. He’d once been tall and lean, spry and brilliant. Time had played the dirtiest of tricks on him, forcing him into a life he would have never chosen for himself.

The little old man often visited nursing homes, slipping in and out according to his health that week or month. No one paid him much attention as he inched down the hall in his wheelchair. There was very little eye contact between he and the others…only a few could read his thoughts when no words were spoken. He crept along, his feet slowly pulling him towards his goal. And then, when he was sure no one was looking, because no one bothered him much anyway, he would reach up and pull the fire alarm.

On more than one occasion, his shaky fingers reached for the shiny red handle. On more than one occasion, he succeeded. Even though his body no longer worked, even though he couldn’t speak his feelings or needs or wants, and even though most thought he was no longer able to make and then carry out a plan, this man knew better. His mind still looked for the mischievous, and only he knew for a very long time that he was the reason for the scrambling of workers. Inside he chuckled, knowing that he’d still been able to stir the pot of life in his own way. It wasn’t meanness that made him stir…perhaps only a wish to be more than an old man in a chair.

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That’s a true story about a man I knew. A man who hadn’t always been old. I think young people look at the elderly and think it’ll never happen to them, but those of us who have lived a little longer, know that it’s only a matter of time before we follow in their footsteps.

This story affected me deeply. It sounds like a tale about an impish person…but really it’s so much more. It’s a person still trying to live his life in his own way. Instead of giving up, he found a means, even when every odd was against him. He found a way to still live, make decisions and be in charge of his situation if only for a moment. It’s a tale about the mind, of how it can work even when the body shuts down. It’s a story about enduring until the end. It’s a tale about finding the joy in life even when life is at its worst.

This man’s spirit and mischievousness have been passed down through the blood lines. Two others have inherited every bit of his charm and spunk and wittiness. Ask me how I know…I know because I knew the little old man in the wheelchair. I know the nephew and great-nephew who inherited his fire. I knew this man, and his name was Bill.

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‘The Little Old Man’ was written from my mind’s eye…I wasn’t there when any of this happened. It was how I saw the story unfold. Still, I know this for sure…the old can become new again. I’m sure Bill’s having fun sailing on the waters of Heaven.