I like telling stories. I'm going to do more of it. Starting with this happy and strange memory.
I must have been in about the second grade. If you've been reading, you know that at this time in my young life, my family was living in Melbourne, Florida.
You don't know that my mother is native to those lands, and much of her family lives in Tampa. It is only about a two and a halfish hour drive from Melbourne, but as a kid I remember that drive feeling like forever.
My family of six, two boys, two girls, a mom and a dad, would cram into our Ford LTD, which was the same blue as the night sky in Summer, to make the drive. The routine was pretty much always the same. My three older siblings sat in a row in the back. I, being the youngest and littlest and most oppressed (I hope my family is laughing at that one), had to sit right smack dab between my mom and dad. And the worst part: no one in the car permitted me to sing. Even though every song that came on the radio was my favorite, and I absolutely love(d) to sing.
Any who, second grade...we were driving home from Aunt Sharyll and Uncle Charlie's house. If my memory serves me correctly, we were there for Uncle Charlie's 50th birthday bash. Quite the party took place on their carport. And I loved having a go on their old tire swing, despite the fact that it never failed to give me motion sickness.
The party ran late into the evening, so it was approaching midnight when we were heading down the highway and our car broke down, leaving us stranded on the side of the road. Now, I'm not that old but this was definitely a different time than we live in, even now. So this scenario, some fifteen years later, could have ended quite tragically.
Not long after my dad and eldest brother began tinkering under the hood, a man pulled over to offer assistance.
My memories after this are somewhat vague. He told us that he and his family lived on a farm not far down the road, and before I knew it he was driving my mom, myself, my sister, and the younger of my two brothers home to meet his wife.
I remember his wife taking us out on their horses to tour their farm...in the middle of the night. Our way was lit with flashlights. We saw pigs. Huge pigs.
Last I remember the farmer's wife doting on us, and allowing the younger of us to take naps on their couch while we waited to find out about the car. I think my Uncle came from Tampa to offer assistance.
Before I knew it, we were back on the road, mulling over the strange events that had taken place that night.
I was not very interested in the things of the Lord at this point in my life, but I recall I was very affected by a realization my brother came to when we were back in the car.
"You know," he said, "I prayed for an angel of the Lord to come and help us when our car started having trouble. And I think the Lord provided in sending that man."
23 February 2012
20 February 2012
if all we have is Jesus
If all we have is Jesus, then [hope in Jesus] becomes that much more real.
That's what my heart ate up during yesterday morning's helping of preaching. And boy am I ready for seconds. As Pollyanna would say, "He sure sermonizes something fierce!" The Apostle Paul, that is.
Revelation is hard. Our church has been in Revelation for one year now. So far, I've learned that Revelation is hard. And it is a letter to suffering and persecuted saints.
I'd say that's relevant. Not that my present sufferings compare with that of the early church. Or even many of today's foreign churches. Never the less, I am gently reminded this morning that we can cast ALL our cares upon Jesus, because he cares for us. And for me. And for the saints across the globe who are suffering for His name's sake. And for an acquaintance of mine who, in her early twenties, is grieving for her baby girl born at eighteen weeks into the arms of Jesus.
Nothing like reality to make a girl weep as she looks at her healthy, and beautiful little girl. Kicking and cooing and eating her fingers. Lord, please save her.
And lastly, Lord, help me to place my hope in you. Because it certainly is true that when we are stripped of all our worldly desires and wants, then our hope in Christ becomes the only thing we can cling to. I would prefer not to learn that lesson the hard way.
I set out to write something different this morning, but I can't quite remember what it was.
sag
That's what my heart ate up during yesterday morning's helping of preaching. And boy am I ready for seconds. As Pollyanna would say, "He sure sermonizes something fierce!" The Apostle Paul, that is.
Revelation is hard. Our church has been in Revelation for one year now. So far, I've learned that Revelation is hard. And it is a letter to suffering and persecuted saints.
I'd say that's relevant. Not that my present sufferings compare with that of the early church. Or even many of today's foreign churches. Never the less, I am gently reminded this morning that we can cast ALL our cares upon Jesus, because he cares for us. And for me. And for the saints across the globe who are suffering for His name's sake. And for an acquaintance of mine who, in her early twenties, is grieving for her baby girl born at eighteen weeks into the arms of Jesus.
Nothing like reality to make a girl weep as she looks at her healthy, and beautiful little girl. Kicking and cooing and eating her fingers. Lord, please save her.
I set out to write something different this morning, but I can't quite remember what it was.
sag
17 February 2012
as for my week long hiatus
I wish I could tell you of great adventures that we've had over the past seven days. How we fought great battles, with dragons, and sailed the high seas, and encountered pirates,....or even went to the grocery store.
I wish. You see, we were busy all last weekend doing absolutely nothing. It was glorious.
And then Monday morning came, and I was flat on my back with a stomach virus. Rather inglorious.
I left the house only to visit the doctor, so she could tell us what we already knew. After no less than ninety minutes of waiting, she sat us down in a room and in a very grim voice said, "I'm sorry to tell you this. But you have a common stomach virus. And the only cure is fluids and saltines. Which you have already been doing. That will be twenty-five greenbacks."
Yesterday afternoon, as quickly as it had come, the virus wrapped her icky, pukey belongings in a handkerchief, which she then hung on a stick, and took off down the railroad tracks to find her next unknowing victim. Bless his or her poor soul.
I'll tell you one thing. I feel like Rumplestiltkin over here. I fell asleep Sunday night. I woke up this morning. With a four day old beard and no recollection. Kidding.
If it's Zach and Sweet P you're worried about, never fear. Apparently they have iron-clad immune systems. Honestly, that little one amazes me. I can think of no less than three times where she has been around someone, and the very next day they fell ill. She herself has yet to catch a thing, except many admirers with her sweet smile.
So can we get back to talking about me? I missed Valentines Day, people. And Whitney Houston's funeral. Zach was planning to cook dinner. He did, in fact, cook dinner. But chicken noodles soup and saltines and cherry 7UP does not exactly go great with candlelight. Woe is me.
I'm done complaining. And we are all crossing our fingers that I'm back on my feet for good. Zach doesn't seem to mind soup for dinner every night, but I, quite frankly, am sick of it.
I wish. You see, we were busy all last weekend doing absolutely nothing. It was glorious.
And then Monday morning came, and I was flat on my back with a stomach virus. Rather inglorious.
I left the house only to visit the doctor, so she could tell us what we already knew. After no less than ninety minutes of waiting, she sat us down in a room and in a very grim voice said, "I'm sorry to tell you this. But you have a common stomach virus. And the only cure is fluids and saltines. Which you have already been doing. That will be twenty-five greenbacks."
Yesterday afternoon, as quickly as it had come, the virus wrapped her icky, pukey belongings in a handkerchief, which she then hung on a stick, and took off down the railroad tracks to find her next unknowing victim. Bless his or her poor soul.
I'll tell you one thing. I feel like Rumplestiltkin over here. I fell asleep Sunday night. I woke up this morning. With a four day old beard and no recollection. Kidding.
If it's Zach and Sweet P you're worried about, never fear. Apparently they have iron-clad immune systems. Honestly, that little one amazes me. I can think of no less than three times where she has been around someone, and the very next day they fell ill. She herself has yet to catch a thing, except many admirers with her sweet smile.
So can we get back to talking about me? I missed Valentines Day, people. And Whitney Houston's funeral. Zach was planning to cook dinner. He did, in fact, cook dinner. But chicken noodles soup and saltines and cherry 7UP does not exactly go great with candlelight. Woe is me.
I'm done complaining. And we are all crossing our fingers that I'm back on my feet for good. Zach doesn't seem to mind soup for dinner every night, but I, quite frankly, am sick of it.
09 February 2012
perspectives
My family moved to South Carolina from Melbourne, Florida in June of 1997. I remember two things. A family friend wagered five bucks that I would have a thick, southern drawl by the next time she saw me, a bet I was determined to win. And during the nine hour drive to our new home, I sang Jewel's "You Were Meant for Me" no less that one thousand times at the top of my lungs.
The following August, I started the fourth grade at Simpsonville's Morton Elementary School. The bus picked me up from our apartment complex each morning at quarter 'til seven, which is ridiculously early now that I think about it, and we headed towards the rather run down school, with one classroom for each grade.
After the kids from our side of town piled onto the bus, the route took us to this intersection. The bus driver, I think her name was Michelle, would stop and open the door for a few more passengers.
At that time there was no stop sign. The stop sign was added when I was in college. In fact, one weekend when I was home from North Greenville, I was driving to my parents house at around ten o'clock one evening. When I turned onto this road, a police officer turned behind me and I got really nervous. So nervous, that I blew through this stop sign because I forgot they had added it and couldn't see it that well in the dark. I threw myself on the mercy of the courts, and the sympathy that these big, brown eyes draw when they well with tears, and was only given a warning. I digress, though.
Fast forward almost fifteen years. If your travels took you down this sidewalk, I'd say about a quarter of a mile, you would arrive at that front porch. And the recliner. Hard to say, but that may actually be the same exact recliner that was there when I was nine.
Or, you could just cross the street and stop in at our little house for a glass of sweet tea and something to eat. I guess I did eventually become a southerner, meaning I owe someone some money.
Isn't it funny how even when things change, they somehow stay the same. It was on that bus that I became shy, awkward, and introverted. I remember sitting as low in the seat as my knobby knees would allow and dreading having to say "here" when the teacher called roll. I remember being scared to open my mouth when the boy across aisle asked me "to go steady". Actually, his seat buddy asked on his behalf, but none the less, I choked on my "no".
Little did I know, that over a decade later I would be living on that same street with that same recliner, my husband, our boxer mutt, and a little girl that takes our breath away.
Even as a painfully shy fourth grader, a heavenly Father was beginning to sanctify me. But I still could not have imagined the beauty the Lord had in store for me.
The way I see it, I am still shy and awkward. But this street has transformed from a fading childhood memory, into a ripe mission field where the Lord has called our family to serve faithfully, until He calls us to something else.
sag
The following August, I started the fourth grade at Simpsonville's Morton Elementary School. The bus picked me up from our apartment complex each morning at quarter 'til seven, which is ridiculously early now that I think about it, and we headed towards the rather run down school, with one classroom for each grade.
After the kids from our side of town piled onto the bus, the route took us to this intersection. The bus driver, I think her name was Michelle, would stop and open the door for a few more passengers.
At that time there was no stop sign. The stop sign was added when I was in college. In fact, one weekend when I was home from North Greenville, I was driving to my parents house at around ten o'clock one evening. When I turned onto this road, a police officer turned behind me and I got really nervous. So nervous, that I blew through this stop sign because I forgot they had added it and couldn't see it that well in the dark. I threw myself on the mercy of the courts, and the sympathy that these big, brown eyes draw when they well with tears, and was only given a warning. I digress, though.
Every morning Michelle picked up two children, a boy and his step-sister, from this street. If I remember correctly, they would sit and wait on this front porch, in that recliner for the school bus to collect them.
Fast forward almost fifteen years. If your travels took you down this sidewalk, I'd say about a quarter of a mile, you would arrive at that front porch. And the recliner. Hard to say, but that may actually be the same exact recliner that was there when I was nine.
Or, you could just cross the street and stop in at our little house for a glass of sweet tea and something to eat. I guess I did eventually become a southerner, meaning I owe someone some money.
Isn't it funny how even when things change, they somehow stay the same. It was on that bus that I became shy, awkward, and introverted. I remember sitting as low in the seat as my knobby knees would allow and dreading having to say "here" when the teacher called roll. I remember being scared to open my mouth when the boy across aisle asked me "to go steady". Actually, his seat buddy asked on his behalf, but none the less, I choked on my "no".
Little did I know, that over a decade later I would be living on that same street with that same recliner, my husband, our boxer mutt, and a little girl that takes our breath away.
Even as a painfully shy fourth grader, a heavenly Father was beginning to sanctify me. But I still could not have imagined the beauty the Lord had in store for me.
The way I see it, I am still shy and awkward. But this street has transformed from a fading childhood memory, into a ripe mission field where the Lord has called our family to serve faithfully, until He calls us to something else.
sag
05 February 2012
creative endeavors
I was recently reading a rather hateful article from a photographer who was defending her prices. I can sympathize with her frustrations, as she included numerous accounts of people blasting her for charging too much as well as a break-down of the expenses and profit involved in running a photography business. The truth is, it's understandable.
However, in her frustrations, she began to rant about other artists. Specifically, "stay at home moms who are gifted an expensive camera and suddenly decide they are professional photographers". She criticized women who are trying to make a little extra money on the side by "handing out 100-print discs for sixty dollars because they don't respect themselves or the craft".
I began to feel a little foolish. I'm a stay at home mom (for now). I was given an expensive camera as a gracious gift from my family. I recently found a most gorgeous, and willing model who works for just room and board. And I have discovered that I enjoy taking photos of Sweet P (aforementioned model) and other things.
I should clarify. By no means do I intend to start a business at this point. I don't claim to possess any real talent. I simply want to freeze time and store precious memories.
But I am discouraged, because creativity of any sort often results in vulnerability. Sharing photos seemed to lose it's appeal. I suddenly didn't feel that my hands were skilled enough to create. And even putting samples of my writing on this blog feels more like baring my soul in front of a large audience of my biggest critics.
When creative endeavors are shared with others, the others have the power to steal the joy involved in creating. Or, they can encourage a craft and the use of God's gifts to us.
As a believer, it is my responsibility to encourage and lift others up. That doesn't mean flowery language about something that just isn't my style. To me, it means building relationships with people's "inner artist" (for lack of less cheesy phraseology), discovering their intent, and glorying in the fact that God created billions of unique people with different abilities and style and taste.
So to you, photographer lady who's doing your thing, I understand your frustrations. But your methods of communication are not edifying.
sag
However, in her frustrations, she began to rant about other artists. Specifically, "stay at home moms who are gifted an expensive camera and suddenly decide they are professional photographers". She criticized women who are trying to make a little extra money on the side by "handing out 100-print discs for sixty dollars because they don't respect themselves or the craft".
I began to feel a little foolish. I'm a stay at home mom (for now). I was given an expensive camera as a gracious gift from my family. I recently found a most gorgeous, and willing model who works for just room and board. And I have discovered that I enjoy taking photos of Sweet P (aforementioned model) and other things.
I should clarify. By no means do I intend to start a business at this point. I don't claim to possess any real talent. I simply want to freeze time and store precious memories.
But I am discouraged, because creativity of any sort often results in vulnerability. Sharing photos seemed to lose it's appeal. I suddenly didn't feel that my hands were skilled enough to create. And even putting samples of my writing on this blog feels more like baring my soul in front of a large audience of my biggest critics.
When creative endeavors are shared with others, the others have the power to steal the joy involved in creating. Or, they can encourage a craft and the use of God's gifts to us.
As a believer, it is my responsibility to encourage and lift others up. That doesn't mean flowery language about something that just isn't my style. To me, it means building relationships with people's "inner artist" (for lack of less cheesy phraseology), discovering their intent, and glorying in the fact that God created billions of unique people with different abilities and style and taste.
So to you, photographer lady who's doing your thing, I understand your frustrations. But your methods of communication are not edifying.
sag
02 February 2012
keeping my thoughts to myself
Why is it that despite living in this great big house, with three whole bedrooms, I would have nothing else than to cram myself, my husband, our Sweet P, and our puppy all into one room. Sometimes, if we're being completely honest, one bed.
I still find myself amazed at the goodness of God in my life, each and every day. There isn't a single day that goes by where I don't find myself falling in love with Zach all over again, or wishing that I could freeze time with my little one; and maybe, just maybe, I sometimes can't help but smile at Ike's quirks.
I'm the only one awake, sitting here staring at mytwo three loves dozing. And the Lord has seized the opportunity to take hold of my heart and remind me of His great love for us. Oh, that He would keep us and shine His face upon us. Oh, that He would save our little girl at a young age, and through her, bring about revival for His name's sake.
Did I mention she is starting to grow out of her newborn outfits. Did I mention I cried a little when I first began to notice.
Here's to being one day older and one day wiser.
sag
I still find myself amazed at the goodness of God in my life, each and every day. There isn't a single day that goes by where I don't find myself falling in love with Zach all over again, or wishing that I could freeze time with my little one; and maybe, just maybe, I sometimes can't help but smile at Ike's quirks.
I'm the only one awake, sitting here staring at my
Did I mention she is starting to grow out of her newborn outfits. Did I mention I cried a little when I first began to notice.
Here's to being one day older and one day wiser.
sag
01 February 2012
wistful wednesday
Sweet P and I have been taking advantage of this awesome weather by going on walks around Simpsonville. And despite the fact that we pretty much walk the same parts of Main Street each day, I can't help but noticing something new on each adventure.
I must have walked past this treasure a hundred times. But for some
reason the other day, I became completely taken with it. Some part of me must
own this house some day.
I love green in all shades. Even the old, rusted shed shades.
My heart aches for this poor, departed tree. But, wouldn't it make such a wonderful seat for a young vendor with their first lemonade stand?
But you better believe that these shaded rockers would get some use out of them. Morning coffee. Lunch time chats. And bedtime stories with our shorty. I would say those traditions are primarily reserved for the Summer months, but apparently Summer begins in January when you live down South.
Maybe I love this house because it bares the same street number as my childhood home, just a few miles from here.
Or maybe it's just the olive that has stolen my heart. What would Behr call that paint color? Artichokie Asparagus. Fern Gully. Sophisticated Ivy. Scotland's Fields of Summer.
Of course, no blog post would be complete without a shot of Sweet P. And she is the one who yanks me back to reality with this look that says, "time to go home and feed me." Even her disapproving looks are adorable.
sag
UPDATE: Since posting this, my loving husband (who I discovered actually reads my blog) shattered my dreams. The conversation went something like this.
z: Where is this house?
s: Down the street.
z: Where down the street? When you go to the end of our street and turn right is it the first house?
s: Yeah...
z: Babe, we will never live in that house. That is the house where the two guys got into a fight in the front yard while I was running by. That is the house that was busted for the meth lab that one day a couple months ago. We could not ever live there.
s: [single tear rolls down cheek]
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