celebrations

My one and only

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Quite out of the blue, whilst sitting in my car in the Albertsons parking lot, I casually mentioned to God that I would like to meet my husband at church.

It’s not as if I had been pining away for marriage, mind you. As a matter of fact, I had quite made peace with the fact I’d never marry. And church? For years I scoffed at the thought of meeting a guy at church. We’re small in number and eclectic in personality. There’s no way.

Little did I know . . .

A few months earlier a fellow started attending our church, simply because it shared the name of his hometown congregation. Of course, I paid him no mind until he stood directly in my line of sight, playing the guitar. Even then, my thoughts did not stray from the strength of his talent.

Even when my mom, ever hopeful, suggested he was kinda cute–I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. “He’s much too serious,” I said.

And when he called a few weeks later, asking if I’d be interested in joining him for dinner, I agreed–fully expecting to chalk it up as yet another first date on my ever expanding list.

Then I sat next to him, and everything changed.

We chatted about a myriad of things: how we come from vastly different backgrounds (he was the jock in high school, I was the nerd; he played in a rock band in his twenties, I toyed with the idea of becoming an ordained minister); how we share a love of books and travel; how we don’t have it all figured out, but we’d certainly like to try.

Now here we are, husband and wife. His presence is as natural as breath. His touch is soothing. His insatiable curiosity, inspires me. He makes me laugh, everyday; he displays his love in a thousand little ways.

And he’s my first (and only) sweetheart for Valentine’s Day.

Forty-three years I celebrated with nary a date. I may have called it quits with a fellow right before, or started dating him right after, but I never managed to have one around for the actual day. It served as annoyance in my younger years; now I see it as perfection for my sentimental heart.

So you see, sometimes you think you’re offering God a brilliant idea; when really, He’s had it planned all along. Sometimes He pens a love story greater than anything you could have hoped or imagined; and sometimes, the one you love, proves worth the wait . . .


It’s Friday, but Sunday’s on the way

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The week began as a celebration. Their King, the chosen one of Israel, had arrived to make all wrongs right. They laid a path of palm branches before him; they laughed, and danced, and sang.

Then Friday arrived.

Suddenly, their savior seemed nothing of the sort. Arrested, taking the place of a vicious criminal, he was mocked and scorned; scourged and crowned with thorns. He made no attempt to fight back.  They watched in horror as he struggled to carry a wooden cross to Golgotha, Skull Hill . . . as the soldiers hammered nails into his hands . . . as the cross was put in the ground . . .

To those who had believed in his physical power, it was humiliating; to those who had walked with him–who loved him as a son and brother, friend and mentor–it was heartbreaking. The boy they watched grow up; the teenager they watched learn his father’s trade; the man they watched heal the sick, feed the hungry, love the unlovable was being tortured right before their eyes. And there was not a thing they could do about it.

When he spoke out in pain and anguish, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?”–“My God, my God, why have You forsaken Me?”–it was nearly more than they could bare.

When he said, “It is finished” no doubt they thought he meant their hope.

Good Friday.

We tend to gloss right over the fact that it was a dreadful day, full of unspeakable misery and despair. It’s only good because of what happened on the third day. On the third day, that borrowed tomb was empty. Death no longer held sway.

Because of that fact, no matter how dark the day, how hopeless the situation, there is, indeed, hope.

It may be Friday, my friends, but Sunday’s on the way . . .

xo

Party on!

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fun_print2

First of all, let me just say: I am completely smitten with the illustrations of Tracey Long. If you click the photo, above, you can see more at her shop, ChasingtheCrayon. And I love the story behind her work . . .

It was while eating a very large cream cake and deciding what to do with the rest of my life that the idea for ChasingtheCrayon was born. ‘What people really need,’ I told my companion, unaware of the large blob of cream on the end of my nose, ‘is frivolousness for walls!’

Speaking of frivolity, our family is well into our month of festivity. We’ve two birthdays and one anniversary down, six birthdays and one anniversary to go.

We’ll be celebrating my grand-ma-ma Sunday. She’ll be eighty-five. We’re afraid she’s expecting a big to-do, when really it will be small {albeit festive} affair. Here’s hoping for the best . . .

Sunday also happens to be ‘It’s my party day.’ (No, I did not make that up; someone did, but twasn’t me.)

So even if October is not your month to party, you still have reason to party. And given that it’s your party, you can do whatever you please.

With that, a lovely weekend to you.

xo

Land that I love

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As I write this note, it’s July 4th–Independence Day, for those of us who call the U.S. home.

In celebration, I like to listen to John Wayne recite “America, Why I Love Her.” Written by another actor, John Mitchum, the year I was born, it’s a good reminder of what makes this land we call home so great.

And let’s face it, sometimes we need reminding.

One look at the news and we seem something of a hot mess. But dig a bit deeper, and you’ll find perseverance, you’ll find hope. As a matter of fact, you just might find the fires that burned Carolina churches, end up being the very thing to light our way out of complacency.

You see, we’re still a relatively new country; and our peoples are as varied as the landscape. We can’t expect to have an easy go of it. We’ve got to mess up a time or two, we’ve got to learn from our mistakes. But I’ve seen enough posts and articles in the last few weeks to believe we’ll do it.

I’m confident there will be a day we put aside our differences and our offenses, and start having honest conversations–a day we truly come together. A day we can sing with conviction: “America! America! God shed His grace on thee, and crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea . . .”

Christmas Festivity #1

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Saturday, the sky spent the majority of its time brooding. Grey and weepy, it seemed rather intent on being antisocial.

Then, just like that, the rain dried up and the clouds parted. We even caught sight of a streak of blue. Since I had no plans and my mom had no plans, we decided to trek to Caldwell for the Treasure Valley night light parade—two miles, seventy floats, countless twinkling lights.

Sounds delightful, no?

Granted, if you happen to be a native of these parts, the mere mention of “Caldwell” may be enough for you to think the idea ill-advised. Nonetheless, I’m all for a community that strives to better itself. Not to mention, I’ve seen their regular light display, and it’s altogether lovely.

With that in mind, we set off for grand adventure.

We arrived early; we ate pizza; we perused the Winter Wonderland light display . . .

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Then we found a place along the parade route and we waited . . .

And waited . . .

And waited . . .

And waited . . .

We waited in front of a toothless wonder who loudly exclaimed to an adorable young girl with her, “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot, you don’t say ‘crap.’ But you take one every day. Every day you take a crap.” Thank you for the clarification, because we would have been so lost without it.

We waited behind squat cowboy who thought himself all that and a can of Copenhagen. I’ll tell you now, nothing says ‘Merry Christmas’ quite like a fellow spitting his chaw every few minutes, right on the sidewalk in front of you.

The parade was set to begin at 6:00 p.m. Since there were no maps available, I can only assume we planted ourselves at the end of the route. By 6:30, regular vehicles continued down the parade route; we saw nary a glimpse of festivity.

Right about the fifth time Mr. Cowboy Cool spit (dangerously close to my shoe)—shortly after he called a young boy a name I shan’t repeat—I decided to bid the adventure adieu. I’d quite enough of those shenanigans; also, I was slightly afraid I might pick a fight with Mr. Smalls and get arrested . . . at a family friendly event . . . in the most wonderful time of the year.

So there you have it. My first attempt at holiday festivity all my own, outside parties and official to-dos—so far, not so great.

Then again, Christmas is about a certain baby boy, born amid crazy circumstances, so he might grow up to save a fallen world. In that, I may have happened upon the perfect start to a holy season.