Small Scribbles

I cracked the book open to the halfway mark at the breakfast table and picked up where we left off yesterday afternoon. I intended to read a chapter or two before moving on to our school work. I read one chapter and then two. I read for an hour and then two. I read until my neck was sore, my throat was swollen and scratchy. Francis Hodgson Burnett spins a story in a way that spurs a reader on. We became Sara’s soulmates, and Becky’s, and Ermengarde’s. We were heartbroken in the sad places and as the words began to wind their way to a triumphant ending, the children burst into delighted cheers. They rolled around on the floor with glee. They squealed and chortled. They jumped up and down on the sofa. “Don’t stop reading, Mama! Read more! Read more!” The oldest two are already old friends of this tale and they were as swept along in the current of the story as the younger ones. Oh, we love a good book! If your children are sixish or beyond, run to the library, check out A Little Princess...

Over the past few weeks, our family has been watching hours of behind the scenes in The Lord of the Rings: Extended Edition . It's been interesting to get a bird's eye view into the minds of the movie makers and actors in the movies. In the spirit of The Lord of the Rings, I've decided to give you a behind the scenes look at my last post. Coping with aging has been an ongoing battle for me for the last few years and I’m sure I am not alone in this. As a Christian, I live against the backdrop of a known and secure ending. It is a comfort. But arriving at the end is something like the voyage taken in Pilgrim’s Progress . For all Christian knows where he is headed, he finds himself enticed away from the path leading to the Celestial City again and again into places where he does not belong. The Bible is my favorite book for many reasons. The one that is pertinent to this post is that all of the characters, apart from Christ, are shown as frail creatures. They are not polished...

Lauren came in from the outdoors with a handful of wildflowers. Strands of dark hair escaped her braid and curled around her rosy cheeks. Exquisite. She and the wildflowers. She found a slender vase and arranged the blossoms. They bring springtime beauty to the kitchen. I’ve arrived at the place where torch is passed from mother to daughter. Lauren grows more beautiful each day. Tall, straight and willowy. Her peaches and cream complexion and long dark lashes unspoiled by time or cosmetics. I watch her become what I have been, with wonder, and regret. The flowers on the kitchen table are lovely, but not like yesterday. They droop a bit and their colors are muted and I see myself in their fading. I look in the mirror and note the handiwork of Time, an unhurried, deliberate, cruel artist. I fight back with colors and creams and while they ease his harsh etching, they do not erase. Time is relentless and he will remain industrious until he claims the whole of me. For this I mourn. I know ...

I wanted to write a post for Stuart in September, in honor of our fifteenth anniversary, that would record how much I love him. But, he forgot about our anniversary until we had been married for fifteen years and one day and this forgetting smudged his outstanding qualities and left me without any romantic writing material. When February rolled around, I was too busy buying wine, lighting candles, cooking dinner and hanging a pink gauzy canopy over the bed to take the time to record my appreciation for my husband. Stuart is not a romantic and it’s taken me these fifteen years to figure out that it’s my job to sweep us off our feet. Once, on Valentine’s Day, when Stuart was in charge of the plans, we watched The Perfect Storm . For those of you unfamiliar with the movie, I’ll spoil the plot for you...everyone dies. One of the sorriest Valentine dates a girl has ever had. So this past Valentine’s Day was an improvement. Except for the canopy. Stuart complained that he was trapped in a pa...