Tammy and the Diamond Dress

 

Kim and I today

• Certain moments are so rare and special that they stick with us. Point in time, a teenage girl named Tammy. 
  
• When I first met Tammy, she had already been through many bouts of chemo. Her parents invited me for lunch and afterwards they shared their family album. I sat on the couch, carefully looking at each picture and commenting. Tammy caught a side glimpse of me lingering over her pictures riding a horse with her long blonde horse flowing down her back as she rode. 
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• Her expression seemed to say, "It's okay, I will be that girl again someday. Wait and see."
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• There was something so ethereal about Tammy. My four-year-old daughter Kim couldn't resist her and quickly became an adoring fan. 
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• One day, as I was sewing, Kim said,"I need a diamond dress to wear for special occasions. Can you make me one?"
• Since our 'special occasions' was usually a trip to the park or getting a Happy Meal, I asked, "And where would you wear this dress?"
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• "To a birthday party, or a wedding, or a funeral." Kim crossed her arms with satisfaction.
• "A funeral is a special occasion?" I carefully asked.
• "When people die they go home to heaven. I really need a dress to celebrate with them."
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• Kim and I took a trip to the fabric store. "I found it! Here is the  my diamond dress material!" she declared.
• I followed to where she stood, holding the heavy bolt in both arms.
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• I looked hard and long at the fabric. The print was colorful jelly beans on a green background. "Honey, those are jelly beans."
• "Nope. Diamonds."I looked at the material for a long time, trying to see what Kimberly saw, but finally gave up. I asked for two yards to be cut, picked out matching thread and paid my money. 
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• All week I struggled with making my daughter's diamond dress. To make it fancier, I sewed on a lace collar and dotted it with rhinestones. Kimberly was happy with the result; she saw diamonds, I saw jelly beans.
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• Christmas was festive at church with a wonderful program and platters of homemade food. Tammy admitted she felt awkward around girls her own age, as they didn't quite know how to act toward the girl who looked so different from them. As a result she remained by her little four-year-old friend and was a wonderful help in serving the food.
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• I thought I detected a little color crawling back into Tammy's wan cheeks. Surely she would recover and be just fine. I said another silent prayer for the hundredth, the thousandth, the millionth time.I watched Tammy out of the corner of my eye all evening. She checked plates and cups, making sure everyone had enough to eat and drink, and served more when needed. 
  
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• She seated the elderly in the most comfortable chairs. I saw her push back the constant fatigue she experienced in order to help turn the pages for the pianist's music. At last, she sat with the children gathered about her feet, leading them in Christmas songs, listening intently to their stories. She was a young girl who was not self-absorbed in makeup and boyfriends. She was a young girl absorbed with helping others.
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• Two days after Christmas, we received a call from Tammy's parents. She had been rushed to the hospital. Walking into her room, I noticed how small she looked among the bed sheets. Her mother rubbed her forehead and smiled into the blue eyes that were heavy with sleep. I stood by her bed, along with her parents. Although I had prayed for healing, God performed His own miracle and just before midnight took Tammy home to live with Him in heaven.
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• The members of the church dreaded the funeral of one so young. We seem to understand and accept better the death of someone elderly who has lived a long and full life. This young life slipping away from us, however, made our own mortality seem more brittle. 
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• And there were the nagging questions: Had we failed Tammy in not believing hard enough, in not praying long enough?I held my daughter's small hand as we walked up to the oak casket. Tammy appeared as if she had gotten ready for church and then simply laid down for a quick rest among her favorite toys. I squeezed Kimberly's hand tighter. If she got too close to the casket, would death snatch her too? Sensing my fears, Tammy's dad picked Kimberly up into his arms so she could clearly see Tammy.
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• "She is at peace now. See?" he said. Kimberly looked into the pain-filled father's eyes and then nodded seriously, turning her attention back to her friend."Thanks for helping me be quiet in church," my daughter whispered to her. "See, I wore my diamond dress for you today. You knew how important it was. I am so happy that you can see heaven."
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• During the service, Tammy's parents sat close, holding hands. The pastor spoke, "This is not the end but the beginning for Tammy. Let her example be a new beginning for us as well. Let's finish what she has started, and may it be a work in progress."
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• It was true. Tammy left us with so much. She set her own needs aside to help others. She cheerfully illustrated to my impressionable daughter, to children yet to be shaped, and to adults set in their ways, how to be of service to others when pain and tiredness are your greatest enemies.
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• That night I tucked my own little daughter into her bed, thinking that Tammy would never be tucked into hers again. Kim looked at me with concern. Her tiny finger brushed away one of my tears."Mommy, when I close my eyes I can see Tammy. She has her long blond hair back and wears a beautiful dress with stones all over it. I think her diamond dress is even prettier than mine," Kimberly whispered while pointing to her jelly-bean dress hanging in the closet.I closed my eyes too. Yes, I can imagine Tammy with her long hair and pink, glowing complexion. I think she is probably wearing her own diamond dress as she gallops on her horse.
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On the Street Where Mrs. Steffy Lived

 

When I am in a quiet state of mind, the past comes back on small running feet. That's what happened again this morning. This memory carried me home to the year 1956 when I was six–years–old and living on Wellington Ave in Chicago, Illinois–down from Wrigley Field and blocks from Lake Michigan.

I loved living among all the fashionable Brownstones and Greystones which were surrounded by old iron Fleur de Lis fences. Our family house stood out because it was the only tutor in the neighborhood. The other house that stood out was directly across the street.
A two story cottage with a sweeping front porch. Mrs. Steffy called it home. I watched over that place from my second story bedroom window. The late 1800s style was of great interest to me. 

I suppose Mrs. Steffy's husband had passed. He wasn't around and it didn't seem peculiar. She lived alone. On occasion one of her adult children would stop to check on her. Mrs. Steffy had long grey hair threaded with shades of brown, which she wore in braids, pinned together at the top of her head. She was a slight woman who always wore a simple cotton dress covered with a fresh apron.

Summer days, I enjoyed spending some of my time in a wicker chair, rocking away, on her front porch. I wish I could rewind time so I could listen to some of the conversations we had. Mainly, my goal was to get inside of her house to see what things looked like in there. I ached to have a look around.

On one particular occasion, Mrs. Steffy said I could come inside with her if I remained on the first floor and did not go up the steps to the second floor.

As I stepped into the dark, narrow hallway, I was charmed by the steep steps and curl of the old wood banister that led upstairs; the forbidden space. Tucked into the bend of the wall was a huge grandfather's clock. It put me in mind of the nursery rhyme, 'Hickory Dickory Dock.'

The living room was to the right, the dining room after that, followed by the kitchen. After I was shown these simple rooms, they no longer held interest for me. The upstairs was where I wanted to go next. 

After a drink of water, Mrs. Steffy beckoned me back outside. I remained in the foyer, still intrigued by the huge clock, and gazed into the abyss at the top of the steps. Mrs. Steffy was old and therefore slow. I was young and therefor faster. I dove for the stairwell. In five seconds I made it to the top. The old woman below shrieked, "I'll get your mother if you don't come down this minute." I calculated that it would be a good four minutes for her to get my mom and bring her back. It was all I needed to rummage. 

I did not reply to her threats, and walked into each of the two bedrooms. One by one, I pulled out the dresser drawers for a peek. I didn't move anything aside. I only gazed at the top layer of treasures.

Then out of nowhere, my mother appeared and yanked me from the room, down the steps and out the front porch across to the street and back home. I'm sure I was scolded. That memory isn't clear, but I do remember being happy I saw the entire house. 

Mrs. Steffy passed about the same time we moved to Delavan, Wisconsin, years later when I was thirteen. Eventually her house was knocked down in order to enlarge the street. Another historical house lost. 

On the rare occasion I get to Chicago, I take a cab and walk down Wellington Avenue. After looking at my former childhood home, I turn about to see Mrs. Steffy's house directly across. And for just a moment I am surprised to see it gone. 

Do I regret racing upstairs to Mrs. Steffy's dismay? Nah.

I only wish I remember what was in those dresser drawers.

Have you ever ventured into a place you weren't to go? Tell me about it.

It's Been A While. Welcome to My Bar

  

It's been a while. At this moment in time, writing on my blog after such a long absence, I feel like a bartender on a slow night, greeting returning guests whom I haven't see in a while. The overhead lights are dimmed, the music is the same, but the drink menu has changed. We both need something stronger these days, like a brain tune up, or a knee replacement. 

Here we are. I have changed. You have as well, although you may not readily agree. I see your clothes are newer. Your hair, a bit grayer. Your step, a bit slower, but your wisdom has deepened.

And I sit in a new place. A small room, closet sized. Actually, it was supposed to be a closet but I sparred with the builder to leave it open. I knew someday it would become something. Like me. After evolving, its become my writing room, although not much writing has taken place of late. But I hope to change that. (There's someone in my life who encourages me to return to writing, but my imagination has dried a bit.)

One of my favorite lines from a book (A Bear Named Song) is, 'We are all storytellers of one kind or another.' You might not write the stories down but you share them with friends, on Facebook, tell your spouse, and grandchildren and great grandchildren. Its posterity.

When I was in the neighborhood of a 10 year old, aspiring writer, my dad, a purple heart recipient of WW1 (you heard me right. No typo there) would regale my mother and older sister of his war stories. I was sent to bed. Too young to hear. Evidently, the ears of a fourteen year old were able to take it in without problem.

I lay in bed, frustrated. I so wanted to hear the stories my dad told. "When you are older, we will tell you." But somehow that slipped through the cracks. I cannot tell you about them, they cannot be used in my books, they are lost. A tragedy of epic proportions.

Blogging is a wild beast when, like me, its never about the same thing. I write mini stories and reflections. So, I guess I am writing by the seat of my pants and whatever walks into my life will be shared here. 

But today I encourage you to write down your stories and thoughts. Tell them to your family. Let everyone in so they know who you are. How your life path has squirreled around, or how things turned out exactly the way you knew it would. 

I have walked through spooky forests. Lost my path many times. Found new paths, some rocky. I have forged through scary times. I have walked in the sunshine, feeling love and alive. I have sat in hard places and cried. Each experience has become me and I carry that story. 

Today, I was about to make my third apple pie in my entire life, but got distracted by plants. Birds Nest, Fig Leaf tree, and Rosemary. They are well watered, in their new pots and placed where I think they will be happiest.

                                                                                 

A Bit Late, But Here's to You Ron Grenke

                     A Bit Late, But Here's to You, Ron

My adult daughter told me that I lived in a bubble. Huh? Me?

The comment felt perplexing because I regard myself as an open minded progressive. As a result of this conundrum,  I decided to spend time in self-reflection. Finally, I came to the conclusion that we all live in some sort of bubble created by our experiences, our culture, traditions, etc. As we journey through life, hopefully, we acquire new experiences, meet diverse people, listen to different points of view,  and enjoy unfamiliar food.  Our bubbles should enlarge; you've heard of paradigm shifts, right? That's it. I certainly do not want to be stuck in my 1950's perspective, not even the one from last year. I want my life to be filled with change. 

In the 1980s we moved from Illinois to Texas and was hired by the Lewisville Independent School District to teach at a middle school  in Flower Mound. What a great place to work, but also a bit problematic. I lived in Lewisville and with one family car, that was otherwise used, I found myself in need of getting to work, and my daughter needing get to elementary school. 

The first week of teacher inservice, I hung a sign on the workroom bulletin board asking if anyone in the Lewisville area could give me a ride to work. Quite a commitment for the entire year. The next day, the 8th grade science teacher sought me out, and Ron said he would be more than happy to take me to school each day.

"Ah, one more thing. Would it be too much of an imposition if we dropped my daughter at her school on the way? She starts first grade next week." (I purposefully left out this tidbit until we were solid on my ride.)

Without blinking, he answered, "Sure."

So for the entire school year, Ron Grenke picked Kimberly and I up at our house, dropped her at Timbercreek Elementary, then went onto the middle school. I must admit, my previous bubble had not known any one who was gay, and Ron was my first introduction. 

He was kind hearted. Generous, Giving. My bubble began to grow. One morning when he picked my daughter and me up for school, his car was filled with several delightful gentleman. They were talkative, joked with one another, introduced themselves to us. I looked at my six year old daughter. Her face was open and innocent. Of course, she had no idea of their life style. She was too young to be told, anyway. But here she was, thrilled to meet Ron's friends, which I knew were adding color to her life. And value to mine. 

By the next school year, I acquired a second car, so I was able to get Kimberly and myself, back and forth from our schools. 

Ron and I remained school friends. Kim no longer saw him due to the lack of need for transportation.  One afternoon, I saw Ron stumbling around in the hallways. This was at the start of the aids epidemic. A man who never missed a day from work in years of teaching, now was racking up absences. It wasn't hard for any of us  to guess what was happening to him. To this day, I regret not having the fortitude to talk to him, let him know how much I admired him. To say, I was here for him if he should need a ride to anywhere, for anything. But I didn't. I wasn't scared of catching aids. I just didn't know what to say.

And then, Ron died. It made an impact on my life and on everyone who knew him, including my daughter. Only recently did I realize how much it affected her.

When my now adult daughter returned to Dallas on a business trip not long ago, we went out for dinner, and returned to the hotel room with a bottle of wine. In the middle of a midnight heart to heart, Kimberly began to sob. "Do you remember Ron Grenke?"

"Of course I do."

"I loved him and he died." Her words were simple but impactful, as though coming directly out of the memory of a child's heart. "He was so good to me. We talked about school and he had funny stories. I loved him, " she repeated. "At the time, of his death you just told me he died and then walked away. I didn't know what to do with my pain. I didn't know how to process it and you didn't help me."

Until that moment I had no idea how much Ron meant to her. As a colleague, he meant a lot to me. Looking back, I may have wanted to shield her from the ugliness and controversy of aids so I avoided saying more when she needed to know more. 

Sadly, I could relate. I was six, her age, when my beloved Uncle Ralph died. I remember sobbing to my parents, begging to attend his funeral. But I was too young to attend, they said. All these years, I still regret the decision they made for me.

And I had inadvertently made that same decision for my daughter. Ron passed. Our life went on. Yet, this exemplary man, who taught science to hundreds and hundreds of middle schoolers, who was kind to every person he ever spoke with, who took time to help a woman with her daughter get to school each morning for a full school calendar year, and who left his entire inheritance to the educational foundation for teacher grants. 

Now, as grown women, we lifted a glass to remember him, a wonderful human being. "Sorry we are late. But, here's to you Ron Grenke. We still love you."

It's Been A While. Welcome to My Bar.

 

It's been a while. At this moment in time, writing on my blog after such a long absence, I feel like a bartender on a slow night, greeting returning guests whom I haven't see in a while. The overhead lights are dimmed, the music is the same, but the drink menu has changed. We both need something stronger these days, like a brain tune up, or a knee replacement. 

Here we are. I have changed. You have as well, although you may not readily agree. I see your clothes are newer. Your hair, a bit grayer. Your step, a bit slower, but your wisdom has deepened.

And I sit in a new place. A small room, closet sized. Actually, it was supposed to be a closet but I sparred with the builder to leave it open. I knew someday it would become something. Like me. After evolving, its become my writing room, although not much writing has taken place of late. But I hope to change that. (There's someone in my life who encourages me to return to writing, but my imagination has dried a bit.)

One of my favorite lines from a book (A Bear Named Song) is, 'We are all storytellers of one kind or another.' You might not write the stories down but you share them with friends, on Facebook, tell your spouse, and grandchildren and great grandchildren. Its posterity.

When I was in the neighborhood of a 10 year old, aspiring writer, my dad, a purple heart recipient of WW1 (you heard me right. No typo there) would regale my mother and older sister of his war stories. I was sent to bed. Too young to hear. Evidently, the ears of a fourteen year old were able to take it in without problem.

I lay in bed, frustrated. I so wanted to hear the stories my dad told. "When you are older, we will tell you." But somehow that slipped through the cracks. I cannot tell you about them, they cannot be used in my books, they are lost. A tragedy of epic proportions.

Blogging is a wild beast when, like me, its never about the same thing. I write mini stories and reflections. So, I guess I am writing by the seat of my pants and whatever walks into my life will be shared here. 

But today I encourage you to write down your stories and thoughts. Tell them to your family. Let everyone in so they know who you are. How your life path has squirreled around, or how things turned out exactly the way you knew it would. 

I have walked through spooky forests. Lost my path many times. Found new paths, some rocky. I have forged through scary times. I have walked in the sunshine, feeling love and alive. I have sat in hard places and cried. Each experience has become me and I carry that story. 

Today, I was about to make my third apple pie in my entire life, but got distracted by plants. Birds Nest, Fig Leaf tree, and Rosemary. They are well watered, in their new pots and placed where I think they will be happiest.

                                                                                 

A Season for Everything

My garden teaches me about a life embellished with journeys. Its a time table of the last 6 and a half years of living here. You've seen the pictures of my son and I planting a knee high tree that is now feet over our heads.

My garden also shows me that I don't have to leave home to be on a journey. In my wild imagination, I always considered a journey would be going somewhere else, like to the beach to scuba, or the mountains to hike. I'd have someone take my picture of these feats so I could post online. Lately, I've discovered most of my journeys I have taken in place. Inside my head and heart. My spirit. My garden. My interactions with others. I learn from it all.

Are you a person like me, worried about a situation one month and carefree the next? Perhaps, fretful over bad choices one day, while singing praises o thankfulness the next? Married for a bit, and then not? I am finding my equilibrium through these situations as I read Ecclesiastes, A Season for Everything.

A time for this and a time for that. A time to be short on cash and a time of plenty. A time to date and a time to be alone. A time to eat and a time to fast. A time to be with others and a time alone.

Seasons.

Leaves are the touchstone of seasons. In the spring, buds burst into green leaves, then in the fall the leaves turn orange, red, brown, yellow, and cascade off limbs. They change. We change. Nothing stays the same, certainly not our life pathway. We are caterpillars emerging from our cocoons and inching our way through life, until we become a butterfly and take flight.

Fall has a great affect on my mood. Summer was too long and the heat did not help, but just yesterday, the Texas air turned cool. Breezes wandered through my house windows and open doors. "Ah, I remember you. It took you a while, but here you are again." It turned my mood peaceful in the knowledge that God walks us through seasons of our life.

Nothing lasts forever. Winter teaches us that, brutally at times. But that too has its own beauty.

My apologies. I am a bad blogger. I mean to blog each week. Want to blog each week. But then the week turns into weeks, and adds up to a month, or two. And, it seems in my retirement, I cannot blog if I don't feel inspired, kinda like the feeling I get when I need to clean the house. "Oh, I think I can wait another day, or two." Its not at all like brownies that demand they be made right then and there.

Going forward, I will try to be better, but not promising a thing. There are lovely things outside that pull me to it, and my dogs need cuddling, and my hair needs combing, and my bed looks so comfortable, and there is a book that needs finishing and another book that needs starting, and there is a new program on TV that appears really interesting.

I used to be spot on with deadlines. Behold, that's when I worked, and my days were all scheduled and organized by a calendar. Since I am 'off the clock', for 5 days a week now, all that needful stuff has floated away as my mind drifts on the wings of birds and the spinning of leaves with each puff of wind. I will be better, perhaps. Maybe. Someday.

By the way. The last blog story is true, for those of you can even remember what that story was. All who guessed are one hundred percent correct.

True, or NOT True. You Decide. Story #1The Teacher Reflects

The backend of my most loved career was spent teaching 32 years for LISD. There, I spent a fair amount of time as a First Grade Reading teacher. The specialized program was designed by me and funded by my school district. CHIRP (Creekside Has Individual Reading programs) helped struggling students who academically fell between the cracks; they didn't  qualify as 504, or special ed. Fondly, I remember a particular group of  cute short legged kids. After their first lesson in my class (broom closet), they returned to their peers proudly announcing, "We are reading!"
 'I can see', 'See, I can.' Certainly it wasn't a novel, but it was a beginning.

We began with mini lessons. We sang rhyming songs while doing motions to help with motor skills. I had a pink glittery wand that I touched on student's shoulders when it was their turn to talk. Those years were enjoyable, but I did finally tire of repeating the names and sounds of letters 5 times a day.

Ten successful years later, I said goodbye to that school and my little sweethearts, when I accepted a study skills position at a low socio economic middle school. Never did I learn so much.

Through the student's eyes, I saw how utterly frightened they were at the sight of a white van slowly bumping down their neighborhood street. The rest of the day was a wash, as they cried and bit their nails, wondering if their parents would be home when they got there, and if they weren't, would they ever see them again? Comparing it to my privileged childhood, my heart broke seeing their terror, uncertainty. How could anyone learn when their existence was in jeopardy?

One of the most important workshops I attended was by noted author Ruby Payne, Understanding Poverty. "Middle-class understandings of children and adults in poverty are often ill-suited for connecting with people in poverty and helping them build up resources to see rise out of poverty and into self-sufficiency." It was life changing. Being at this school with such a dedicated staff, and teaching such vulnerable students with a principal who treated us as colleagues, was certainly the high point of my career.

But nothing stays the same. We never stay in the same place. We can never go back to another. We keep moving forward.

And I found JJAEP (Juvenile Justice Alternative Education Plan) where I spent the last 11 years teaching wayward students and while wearing many hats. Half way through those years, when I was assisting in the English high school classroom, one long legged, blond headed, young teen, looked at me and asked,"Did you used to have a pink glittery wand?"

 I hadn't gone backwards. I had moved forward. But in a moment that teen looped me back to First grade when life was simpler/safer for us all.

True? Or NOT True?
Leave a comment and find out the answer next week.

The Fairy Tale Changes

Like so many, I believed in the Happily Ever After' premise that if properly followed, surely produced a blissful life to one loving partner, forever. Amen. The Cinderella myth became my vision. My prayer. My goal. Like, who doesnt want to be loved and cared for? (I see no hands). We all need it.

 Once upon a time, at the very young age of 6, I dreamed a dream to be carried away (by horse, taxi, car, or bike) with Prince Charming. The thought of what happens after being carried away, never entered my 6 year old mind (I was too mesmerized by visions of wearing a flowing white gown, and the golden jeweled crown on my head). In fact, it didn't enter my adult mind during my engagement, when I should've known better. "I'll fix that about him," I figured, as I am sure he was figuring, "I'll fix that about her."

Backing up a few years, after high school, I thought my 'happily ever after' was at college. The scripture I hung on my dorm wall, To Thine Own Self Be True, I missed in translation. Mister Prince Charming didn't show up during college. Onto and into the workforce. I figured I'd meet him 'on the job', something like on the job training, or student teaching, but adult dating. I was headed in the direction of finding a mate but not the right direction.

There are classes for English Lit, math, science. Why not for doing taxes, balancing your budget, and how to find  mate? These are thoughts that once kept me awake at night.

As I dated, I'd study him to uncover the type of woman he wanted then twisted myself into that image. Naturally, it never worked. Not much of a surprise there, but it did always catch me off guard and each time ended tragically with me crying, or him crying. Either he decided not to date a copy of himself, or I decided I didn't like the person he was. So on I went,  just bumping along instead of seeking God's image. Don't snicker gals, I know many of you are/were like me. You guys, too.

It took years for me to come to the conclusion that I was okay. It took longer to discover how that looked.  My mother used to make me repeat these words: Who am I? Where am I going? How will I get there?

These days, I am here in my happily ever after phase of my life, no longer seeking a person to fulfill me. I seek moments. A chattering yard squirrel dubbed Chester that torments my 3 rescue dogs. Watching a seed I placed in the ground emerge into a beautiful flower. Listening to the giggles of my grandsons. Getting an unexpected phone call from my daughter. Spending time with my son on the back porch. A friend who unexpectedly calls and invites me to a movie, or dinner. Simple mundane events. And knowing myself.

My fairy tale has changed. Age and facial lines with very unattractive, drooping body parts might have helped come to this conclusion. But, I do feel peaceful about it all.

And if someone lovely comes along, he will be welcomed. But I no longer stand at the gate waiting. I am on an adventure.

"Life is Beautiful. I Just Cannot Expierence it."

The above title is a quote from my adult son Matthew who is suffering from a mental health condition along with extreme anxiety. He has been on disability for 3  years now, and is with MHMR, sees his medical doctor, psychiatrist, and counselor regularly. Although he is on meds, nothing has touched the extreme anxiety he experiences.

Matthew's place of calm and peace is, here, at home. His perfect place is on the back porch, enjoying the day and the critters that the Lord brings to the yard. It hurts to see him so isolated. Once upon a time, he was social and out with his friends, leading a very normal life. Then his neurons started misfiring in his late twenties. It changed him irrevocably.

Yesterday was the start of a 3-day vocational evaluation. Driving there, Matthew turned to me and said, "Mom, I am not even nervous." I looked at him and indeed he appeared calm. No throwing up. No red face. No sweating. Not begging me to turn the car around and go home. Not the usual panic. I watched him walk into the building and now I had butterflies, not unlike the ones I experienced on his first day of kindergarten, but he was no longer 5. He was 34. No longer I could protect him in the same ways I did back then. Now, Matthew was an adult. He had to learn to function and be brave without me.

At noon we met for lunch at Pizza Snob. I asked how things were going. With a lift of his shoulders he answered, "Great. There's two other people besides me, and the teacher. I've been taking tests all morning and I know I did really bad on math."

"I'd be bad on the math, too," I admitted.
"No, Mom. I did really bad, but that's okay. I think I did good on most of the reading. Getting the results will help me find a skill I can do. I would like a part time job to supplement my disability. I want to be around people again. I want to feel useful. Maybe I can be a janitor."

I dabbed at my eyes. My heart was full. This is a dream. A prayer answered because Matthew had hope and was ready to take risks.

Yes, he is just half way through this testing. More hurdles to go over, more challenges to meet. But he is trying.

Our backyard is a beautiful place to be, but its not out in the world living the life he needs to have.

Weeping may Endure for a Night. Let's Hope Joy Arrives Soon

As a young girl, I loved Sunday School. The stories about Jesus feeding the thousands, turning water into wine, and calling the children to come to Him, filled me with joy. However, my favorite was Jesus finding the lost sheep. The powerful image of Him returning to the flock with the errant animal carried on His shoulders took my breath away, and remains one of my favorites.

I knew I loved Jesus forever. In that pocket of my world, the world that I knew, nothing could go wrong.

And then, I began to grow up. I left the soft padded seats of a stained glass church and began attending tent meetings where fire and brimstone, along with an angry God was the theme of the day. Fear of failing God entered turned my faith inside out.

My beloved Jesus of mercy suddenly became a God of anger and judgment. To fit in, I nurtured a critical spirit. I tried to pray. Apparently there were certain words I had to use in order for God to hear me. I was told I prayed wrong. No matter how I searched for the correct phrasing, they were always wrong. I didn't learn until later, that it wasn't the words of my mouth, but the attitude of my spirit.

And then finally I could take judging people any longer. Adrift at sea, I no longer connected with God and turned inward.

On social media I read words of anger and hatred toward certain sects of faith and people. "Wait!" I wanted to scream at these church goers. "Jesus died for these people." But now the Bible was being cherry picked.

 If someone was sick, I was told it was because they had committed a sin. Or, if your faith had only been enough, if you had prayed harder, this could have been avoided. Or, if you really gave your soul to God, your life would be better.

How had I come to this moment, allowing others to define what I believed?

As Christians, aren't we to show mercy and love? And yea, where did my faith go? It was here just a moment ago. Or 5 years ago? Or, 30 years ago.

I began to change. Many said I was no longer a Christian. I spent hours wondering the same. I read and reread the New Testament. I felt life within me. The excitement of loving God and His word.

Where am I today? Rediscovering my faith. The faith and Jesus of my childhood.

I don't have all the answers, nor will I. This I do know; Jesus does feel our pain and grief.  For He has delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, and my feet from falling, even when I went away, even when I couldn't pray. I still don't use a prayer formula, I just speak from a broken spirit, one who is willing to be His servant.

In this world we have tribulation, but be of good cheer for He has overcome this world. "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."

Weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes in the morning. Hold on to Him.

Be merciful. Be kind. Forgive. God hears your prayers. Its a heart condition. Words don't matter, our love toward Him and being His feet and hands on earth do.

On the Street Where You Live & Mrs. Steffy *Chicago Life in 1950*

Maybe it comes with age. At least with my age it does.

When I am in a quiet state of mind, the past comes back on small running feet.

Thats what happened again this morning.

It was 1956 and I was 6 years old, living on Wellington Avenue, in Chicago, Illinois; just down from Wrigley Field, and blocks from Lake Michigan.

I really loved living on that street, among all the fashionable brownstones and greystones closed in by old iron Fleur de Lis fences, our house was the only tutor. We also had a backyard that was bigger than anyoe else's.

But the object of my attention was the green house with the wide front porch directly across the street. A two story cottage was the dwelling Mrs. Steffy called home.

I suppose her husband had passed. He wasn't around and it didn't seem peculair to me that he wasn't. She lived alone. On occassion one of her children would stop by for a visit.

Mainly I'd sit in a wicker rocker on her porch and we'd chat. Mrs. Steffy had long grey hair threaded with shades of brown which she wore in braids pinned together at the top of her head. She was a slight woman who always wore a simple cotton dress covered with a fresh apron.

Rarely was I granted entrance into the cottage where I ached to go to have a look around.

But on one particular occassion, Mrs. Steffy said I could come inside with her if I remained on the first floor and did not go up the steps to the second floor.

As I stepped into the dark, narrow hallway of the cottage, I was charmed by the steep steps and curve of the banister that led upstairs; the place I was forbidden to go. Tucked into the side of the stairs was a huge, old grandfather's clock. I remember reciting 'Hickory Dickery Dock' on the spot.

The living room was to the right, the dining room after that, and in back the kitchen. For some reason they held no interest for me, most likely because I had seen them before....but the upstairs was where I wanted to go. But I had agreed I wouldn't.

I knew I was faster that sweet, elderly Mrs. Steffy. And up I went on the steep steps and made it to the second floor within seconds. Mrs. Steffy ordered me back downstairs. I ignored her and opened door after door of the bedrooms to see what they looked like. I even pulled open each dresser drawer before my mother was called over to get me.

Yanked from the house by the arm, I was sent to bed soon after the dinner dishes were washed, dried, and put away.

Mrs. Steffy passed about the same time we moved to Delavan, Wisconsin, 8 years later. Sadly her house was knocked down in order to enlarge the street.

On the rare occassion I get to Chicago, I take a cab and walk down Wellington Avenue. After looking at my former childhood home, I turn about to see Mrs. Steffy's house. And for just a moment I am surprised to see it gone. I think of all the houses that are long gone along with the people we still love.

We have such treasured memories within us. In time we learn its more important what we have in our hearts than what we hold in our hands.

Do I regret racing upstairs to Mrs. Steffy's dismay?

I only wish I remember what was in those dresser drawers.

FREE BOOK GIVEAWAY!!! Meet Ane Mulligan AUTHOR!

Welcome Ane Mulligan! 

Ane is with me today and we are chatting about her latest book. In order to be entered for a FREE book or e-book (winner's choice), please leave a comment at the bottom of this blog, or in the comment section on FB to be entered. 

Before we discuss your book, Ane, there is something we must know. What is your favorite dish that you enjoying serving to your family? Recipe please. 

Shepherd’s Pie, but I don’t cook that much anymore. I have a chef for a son, and he cooks a lot. But Hubs and Chef Son love my Shepherd’s Pie. I use been shanks, cross cut, instead of hamburger. 

Mulligan’s Best Shepherd's Pie

Ane Mulligan

Serves 4-6 but can be expanded easily

3-4 cross-cut beef shanks

1 small onion (or ½ large one), diced

olive oil

1 – 4 cloves of garlic (depends on tastes. Can one have too much garlic? Nay, say I.)

1 (14 oz) can of corn, drained

8 oz fresh mushrooms, scliced

1 C frozen peas, defrosted

1 (14 oz) can of tomatoes, drained and crushed (I use my hand & squeeze 'em to death)

3 – 4 potatoes, cooked and mashed

Pre-cook the cross-cut beef shanks in a crockpot all day, covered in water with a Tbls of Better Than Bullion brand Beef Base. 

About 45 minutes before you plan to eat, remove the meat from the crockpot, break into small pieces. Set aside. Peel and cut potatoes into 2” pieces and boil. When ready, mash and set aside.

Brown the onion and garlic in some olive oil. When it's slightly caramelized (5 minutes or so) add the mushrooms and cook till brown. Add the corn , mushrooms, peas, tomatoes, and cooked beef. Cook for 5 minutes.

Put the meat mixture in a baking dish, top with the mashed potatoes and bake for 20-25 minutes at 350°

This is an old family staple, a one-dish meal. It's also cheap. Serve it with bread rolls. It's the kind of thing you simply throw together. I guessed at the amounts. You can adjust them to your tastes.

I bet Hubs love it. Ah dear 'Hubs'. How did you two meet? 

We met on a blind date, and my date was the other fellow. We switched halfway through the evening, and the rest is history. We’ve been married for 45 years. I still can’t figure out the math on that since I’m only 35.

What fun! I bet he's a romantic, am I right?

You’re kidding, right? My hubs is a Brit. They’re not notoriously romantic. Which is pretty funny if you think about it. He married a writer! Poor guy. But perhaps the special thing he has done for me is paint the artwork used for my Chapel Springs series. He had to pull an imaginary town out of my head and get it on canvas, but he did it!

Do you have a piece of jewelry that is special to you? 

I had a heart shaped locket covered in seed pearls that was my adoptive grandmother’s baby locket. When I met my sisters, one of my nieces has a daughter whose name is the same as my grandmother’s, Anna. I gave the locked to my grand-niece. I love tying the two families together like that.

I bet you have a guilty pleasure. Do tell!

M&Ms. But they’re not a guilty one. Chocolate is one of the major food groups. Chocolate, Coffee, Protein, Bread and Pasta. Those are the 5 major food groups.

Let's get to what we all want to know. Tell us about your latest book.  

This is the book of my heart. It’s about a woman who gets connected with her birth sisters. Her story doesn’t go like mine. My birth sisters welcomed me with open arms. As for Claire, she’s up to her eyeballs in a contested election for mayor and finding out who or what is haunting the old theater.

What is the take-away message?

God is faithful with out dreams. He will make them come to pass if they will bring Him glory.

Now you have me wondering: Do you ever become your heroine? 

Oh my yes. Claire is a klutz. She got that from me. Just today, I was meeting a friend for lunch. It’s been raining, and I forgot I was wearing flip flops. I entered the restaurant, moving too fast, and my left foot hit the polished concrete and zipped out from under me. Down I went. What an entrance. So now you see where Claire gets her “move without thinking” MO.

And do you write about any real life problem from your own experiences?

(We won't tell)

Absotootinglutely! Chapel Springs Revival came from an overheard conversation about marriage. (Yes, I eavesdrop, so be careful what you say). Chapel Springs Survival was inspired by our eldest son getting himself a 21^st Century mail order bride. And Home to Chapel Springs is from my own story of finding my birth sisters. Your readers can read that story on my website under My Adoption Story.

Home to Chapel Springs

A homeless author, a heartbroken daughter, and a theatre ghost. There’s trouble in Chapel Springs.

There’s always someone new in Chapel Spring, either coming home or stirring up trouble.

Bestselling author Carin Jardine’s latest book is a flop. While the reviewers are happily skewering her, her racecar-driver-husband walks out on her and she’s evicted, because he hasn’t paid the lease on their condo for the last three months. Then she discovers he also he drained their bank accounts. Homeless and broke, she and her little boy have no choice but to retreat to the house she inherited from her nana in Chapel Springs—the house that’s been gutted. Then, a stranger knocks on her door. One that will change the course of her life.

After the residents thwarted Howie Newlander’s plans for a Miami-style resort on Chapel Lake, he’s running for mayor and spreading rumors about diverted water and misused taxes. The Lakeside Players want to remodel the town’s old theater, but it’s rumored to be haunted. When Newlander and Mayor Riley go head-to-head, Claire gets caught in the middle.

Claire’s youngest daughter is in love with a young man whose daddy is none other than Mayor Felix Riley…the man who man who blames Claire for every wrong in Chapel Springs. Having him part of her family isn’t in Claire’s plan. The years of her heartache should warn her daughter off this boy. So far, her daughter’s heart isn’t hearing the warnings.

With hearts pulled in all directions, will they find a home in Chapel Springs?

Here is a lovely book review:

From Donna’s BookShelf, writer Donna Mynatt said:

“Ane Mulligan has written a book that just can’t be denied! Once you pick it up and begin to read — you’re hooked — to the very end. And it’s not because aliens are taking over the planet . . . or super heroes are saving the planet. There are no time travelers, no vampires, no diseases. What there is — is a great story about normal people!

Well, Ane did have to throw in some really cool characters, like a racecar driver and a best-selling author. But here’s the catch. They really are normal people — with normal problems. The racecar driver walks out on his wife, taking all her money — and leaves her with nothing but heartache, bills, and their son. And that’s just a small part of the book!

I love reading books by Ane Mulligan, because she writes about life — the good, the bad, and the ugly. But even when I find myself identifying with her characters, I also find myself laughing at them. And my life — my problem — seems a bit easier to bear.

Thanks, Donna! Your check’s in the mail.

While a floppy straw hat is her favorite, novelist Ane Mulligan has worn many including pro-family lobbyist, drama director, playwright, humor columnist, and novelist. She firmly believes coffee and chocolate are two of the four major food groups. Ane writes her Southern-fried fiction in Sugar Hill, GA, where she resides with her artist husband, chef son, and a dog of Biblical proportion. You can find Ane on her Southern-fried Fiction website, her Amazon author page, Google+, Facebook, Goodreads, Twitter, and Pinterest.

Meet Geneen & Her 1920s Spanish California House

Would the original owner of my home ever have guessed that this place would still be so loved eighty-seven years later?

Life in my 1929 Spanish Style Cottage is bittersweet.

I was born in Los Angeles and spent my childhood in a Spanish home a lot like this one, but built in 1928.  I feel as if I've come full circle. There's not a day that I don't drive up to the house and get a little choked up. This home is my anchor. I wish my family could see it. The home has my heart.

 I walk through the rooms and I imagine the other lives that have lived here. I think about the meals cooked in the kitchen (my first meal cooked here was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, although you cannot call it cooking. Ahem).

I think about the rockers on the porch and the people in them perhaps drinking lemonade and sharing a plate of sugar cookies as they visited. I think about the fire in the fireplace and the decorations that must have hung from it.

The original ironing board is still in the cabinet in the kitchen. I think about the families that have come through the doors. Those of us with old homes are merely caretakers until it's the next persons turn to add to the story.

Sounds romantic, eh? It is. However, there are never ending challenges that come with living in a vintage home. The plumbing, the wiring, the pipes; they are all vintage too and there is a pretty good chance at some point they will give you a nasty surprise. Last year my surprise occurred when my pipes disintegrated into the ground. My newest surprise is a gas leak. A gas leak the gas company couldn’t find which meant poking holes in the walls. So my place is in the process of having a face life for the gas leak and the electrical.

If you love perfect don't buy an old home. It's never going to be perfect. And that's OK with me. My kitchen cabinets are the original from 1929. If I had $100 for every single time someone told me that I need to redo the kitchen, I'd be on a vacation to England—maybe Paris too.  I don't have a dishwasher. I wash the dishes by hand and look out of the kitchen window and think about the children that may have played in that backyard. Was there once a swing set?

If I could live in any era it would be the 1920's and 30's. I've always been fascinated with the homes, the cars, the jewelry, and the movies. Every last bit of it. One of my brothers friends in Los Angeles and had a 1929 Roadster. I would ride in the rumble seat and eat cracker jacks. I remember our neighbor Hazel had a vanity from 1930. She would let me sit there and spray perfume on. While she told me stories of her dates and boyfriends and I use to love how they gave her boxes of chocolates. I was born in the wrong era.

I don't carry the theme with what I wear. I'm usually found in converse sneakers, jeans and a gingham blouse. But I do love vintage purses.

My favorite flower are sunflowers. I love an overgrown look. I go to roses, hydrangeas, ivy, sweat peas, lavender, Rosemary, lilacs, geranium, scented geraniums, mint, daisies, ferns, and iris. All kinds of ground cover and herbs. Lemon and orange and peach trees. I have no rhyme or reason. I plant it, cross my fingers and hope for the best.

I spend a lot of time working in my garden. It calms me and feeds my soul. I love digging in the earth and reading through garden books. Some days I drive through the country and dig up a roadside plant, or two, to bring home (Sssh. Our secret).

In my vast collections, one of my favorite objects is an autograph photo and guitar pick of Timothy B. Schmit of the Eagles. My brother Garey and I were 20 years apart. When he came home from Vietnam he bought my very first album for me. When Garey died in 2005 I sent Timothy an email and just told him what the music meant to my brother and me. About a week later a package came and there was an autograph with a message and a guitar pick taped to it. It's meant the world to me. If you walked into the antique store where my booth was located, you would know where my booth is because it looks a lot like my home...but cleaner. And more organized. And no dust bunny condos. The stuff you see here is what you would find there.

The piece that speaks to me most is the old plumbing sign in the dining room. I found it at an antique store. I bought it after begging for a really good deal because my Dad was a plumber. I trace my hands over the letters and think about the stories they could tell.

In 1997 I entered a design contest on a shopping channel and won. I designed a bracelet. I was on for several segments by phone. They showed pictures. My sketches. The making process of the piece. I don't think I told many people. Now you know.

Like this home, I am imperfect. I too have a vulnerability. Its people who are ignorant and have preconceived notions about mental disorders. What makes me vulnerable is ignorance. People and their preconceived notions.

Several times a week, I receive messages asking if I ever had a problem in my life—probably because my pictures are so light, and I act like a goof ball. 

Don’t be fooled. A lot is hidden behind a smile.

I'm an incest survivor from a very young age. We all have our issues. We all have our problems.  I'm not a victim. I'm a survivor. Each day offers a new wall to climb over, and there are times I land on my butt, but eventually I climb back up. It's the best I can do. It's all I can do.

As I work on this house, I am also working on me.

One never knows what or who is tucked behind that wall, or in that lovely garden.

In this case, it’s me, Geneen.