Small Scribbles

Why share such a personal story ? I share it because I have talked to enough women to know that underneath the makeup and the matching outfits and the small talk that make up our exteriors, we are a broken people. To pretend otherwise creates isolation. Thoughtful honesty creates closer relationships and greater understanding. When we share the way God works in the difficult things of life it encourages first oneself and then others. For some of us, the pieces have been patched and restored and there is wholeness where there was none before. But some of us are walking wounded, barely hanging on and wondering if there is hope. We have a choice. We can either be completely shattered by bitterness, depression and anger or we can lay the fragments before the One who can take the sharp slivers and jagged pieces and create a beautiful, productive life. Here is the conclusion to John's story. When John was ten, he was sullen and moody and difficult and so was I. But I was no longer proud....

This is my one hundredth post. Blog tradition dictates that I tell you that I like soft chocolate graham crackers and hate mushrooms and was once a flute for Halloween. But enough. I will tell you John's story instead. It is a story of human frailty. Mine. For it is against the backdrop of our frailty that the God's glory shines most brightly. John adds spice, energy, and texture to our family. His innocence, quick wit, and academic mind are exceptional for a boy of twelve. His personality pours from the pages of our family journal. A few quotes from years gone by reveal his essence. "I fixed the hole in your sheet, Mama. I stapled it." (He put the hole in the sheet in the first place.) Once when instructed to finish his dinner, John responded, "But I ate forty-five minutes of it." (That would be 3/4 to the rest of us.) After I asked him to stop talking: "But I have to talk, I'm a Yak-In-The-Box." A boy with a thousand questions, "Where...

This is John. A boy who is lives outside the box. Return on Thursday to read his story. ************ Wordless Wednesday

ROAR! In my house, baking is announced with the roar of the grain mill. Pancakes for breakfast. Little feet come running. Quick as a wink, two stools are pushed up to the counter and two eager children scramble up on them. They hold their hands over their ears and then take them off again. On. Off. On. Off. What are they doing? I try it. The grain mill says “waa-waa-waa-waa” when I do. We three look at each other and grin. We look ridiculous clapping our hands on our ears. The sound from the mill goes up an octave. The wheat has become flour. I shut off the machine. Kid sounds fill the vacuum of silence. “I want to measure!” “I want to crack an egg. Can I crack an egg, Mama?” I measure out the baking power. Claire and Charlie take turns adding it to the bowl. Charlie tries to shove Claire off her stool because he wants to pour in the salt. “No, Charlie. Here. You crack this egg.” I’m brave with the eggs. My sister taught me how to scoop out shell bits with a shell half. It’s easy and s...

“Mom, Jesus is like a thread.” “What do you mean?” “Well, no matter what the Pharisees say, they leave loopholes and Jesus weaves his way through the holes and ties them up in knots.” Lauren made this observation as we inched our way through John 7-9. John wrote in pictures and the more I understand of the Jewish culture the more I feel like I watch rather than read his chapters. Come with me to Jerusalem. Leafy shelters line the side of the roads. Search for the stars in the night sky. Search but you will not find them as four brilliant candelabra burn at the temple and shower the city with their light. Give way to the torch carrying men as they dance and sing praise. Sing with them. The words you know well… The stone the builders rejected has become the capstone; the Lord has done this, and it is marvelous in our eyes. This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.* Smell the acrid smell of sacrificial blood. Follow the procession to the temple as golden pi...

“Hey look. Miss Norma’s outside. Is that her cat or one of the strays?” Miss Norma is certified card-carrying animal lover. Stray cats come from miles around to feast on the delicacies that she leaves out for them in her garage. A smoky gray cat was following behind her little Jack Russell Terrier. We watched them for a minute as they enjoyed the company of one another in the late morning sunshine. “I’m going to go ask her. Be right back.” Slam. Lauren ducked under the trees and ran over to the fence. “I want to go say hi to Miss Norma.” “No, Faith. Eat your toast.” “I’ll just be a minute.” Slam. Two empty places at the breakfast table. Two children lined the fence. Fragments of cat conversation drifted through the trees and the screens of open windows. I looked from the window to the table. Claire had sidled out the door. Three children lined the fence. Charlie and I were the only two left at the table. John had yet to make his pajama clad first appearance of the day. “I’m going to s...

"Come look, Mama! We decorated every single fence post with cicadas." And so they did. See? (This is really the cicada casing. When the cicada emerges from the casing it is green and has wings. Here's a great cicada website if you would like to know more. And there's always Wikipedia .) ********************* More Wordless Wednesday Participants