Feeling Thank Full

Thanksgiving Day at our house, full of family, friends, food and fun. Meeting, greeting, eating. Lots of laughter, lots of hugs, lots of love.

Helping hands, cooking, carving, serving, cleaning up hands. Young hands, older hands, big hands, small hands, male and female hands, all working together to make a special day.

A day to give thanks to the Lord, the giver of all good gifts. A day to be grateful for the bountiful blessings we enjoy. A day to be thank full !

Nothing better than returning to the table year after year, continuing the traditions played out in the feasting and festivities, and remembering all the Thanksgivings from when we were young. Missing those who made our early Thanksgivings special and wishing they were still at the table.

Knitted together. Feeling the warmth that comes from sitting and catching up, watching football together, playing with the little ones (who seem to grow and change from holiday to holiday), and feeling full, not from the table, but from joy!

Finally, at days end, finding time to reflect on all the wonderful events of the day. Enjoying the quiet, yet missing the celebration that seemed to come and go so quickly.

Undeserving of so much blessing, yet so thankful for all of it. Praying we’ll be generous in sharing the abundance, looking for opportunities to bless those around us.

Leaving the day with a heart full of wonderful memories until November comes again and we enjoy the feast once more.

Hoping you had a wonderful Thanksgiving at your house!!!!

Never Too Late

Sometimes it seems like millions of moments ago since I was a young mom and wife raising three little girls. It actually has been a while, but some of the lessons I tried to impart are still a large part of who my daughters are. I can’t say my daughters are perfect, because they were raised by two imperfect parents. But I can say they are women who know what it means to speak kindly, respect others, compromise when necessary, share their blessings, live their faith, think critically, and serve those around them. I’m proud of them. These lessons weren’t learned in a day, or even a week, but they were learned day after day, week after week, year after year until they became a part of what defined our girls.

Now that I’m a grandmother my daughters are continuing the tradition. It is my granddaughters who must now learn these important lessons. I know our family isn’t the only one training up their children and their children’s children to live with integrity and compassion in their homes and communities and the world at large. I am, however, puzzled by how these very basic lessons somehow have failed to commute to the politicians, media, and others who share their opinions and lives so openly in various forums.

Perhaps fewer people than I realize are taught that name calling and belittling is at best unacceptable (at least it was in our home) and unbecoming at the very least. I am amazed at the insults hurled between political parties, individuals, liberals and conservatives, media personalities and the list goes on. I can’t see that it serves any purpose and, as we teach our little ones, words should be thought about and used carefully. I’ve had to eat some of mine over the years and have found words spoken in haste or anger aren’t a very tasty dish.

Our family increased rapidly once we decided to bring on the babies. In less than four years Bob and I went from the two of us to a family of five. It was fun, crazy at times, loud, and loving, and very quickly our little ones learned what it meant to compromise. Five people can’t each have their own way all of the time, neither can each member of a community or state or country, it creates chaos. So we tried to teach them to talk (not whine, I never could stand whining, still can’t), reason, work at agreement, and come up with a compromise that was as good as it could be for everyone. Sometimes it worked better than other times; sometimes everyone seemed satisfied, sometimes one or more left the bargaining table less than happy. In the process they learned that life went on and next time chances were things would swing their way. Give and take, it worked for us. Somehow everyone on Capitol Hill has forgotten compromise and how it works, and that worries me for my children and grandchildren.

Toys, games, craft supplies, and playmates were never in short supply in our house. As a matter of fact they were quite abundant, and those things that Bob and I provided for entertainment and learning and fun were meant to be shared. I must say, when two little girls both wanted the pink crayon things could get nasty, so sometimes NO ONE got the pink crayon. But the real breakthrough came when my girls learned that sharing the rainbow of colors in the box blessed them and those around them; the finished picture was so much nicer when they pooled their energy, talent, and resources. I’d like my granddaughters to live in a world where the movers and shakers have learned that lesson as well.

Since my grandchildren seem to have learned lessons on sharing and compromise better than some in the adult world, I’m praying their moms and dads will also see the importance of teaching them to be critical thinkers. I want them to be fact seekers, to make good deductions, to uncover the truth, and ultimately to make healthy, good decisions. I hope that their critical thinking skill set will include the ability to give the benefit of the doubt to those whose opinions differ from theirs, to seek advice from those more experienced, and to use the filters of their faith, compassion, and love when they weigh and balance the knowledge they amass.

I interact with lots of people, people with all kinds of walks, experiences, and leanings, and somehow it works. I’m friends with folks on the left and the right, folks with a lot and folks with a little, folks here and folks there. I don’t agree with all of them, sometimes I don’t even like what they have to say; but I still work to keep the dialogue open, I still seek the common ground we can find, and I still love them, because if I can’t do it on a grassroots level how will it ever be achieved on higher levels. I want to do it in order to share my world, my faith, and my hope for the future. I know I have to listen if I want to be heard. Most of all, I need to do it so my grandchildren can know it is possible, because right now, it’s a lesson I fear many people have forgotten.

An Insightful Moment

I stared intently as the doctor shined a piercing light into my husband's dilated eyes this afternoon. For weeks Bob has been experiencing flashes of light followed by large and annoying floaters, black blobs that distract and sometimes obscured his vision. The doctor was methodical, checking the retina from every angle. Bob sat tensely, his fists clenched. Except for the doctor’s instructions to look left or right the room was quiet. I realized I was holding my breath. Finally, the examination was over. Good news, no tear in the retina. I exhaled, flooded with relief.

“Posterior vitreous detachment” was the “good news” diagnosis we received this afternoon. This is a condition that occurs when the vitreous, the clear fluid that fills the eye, pulls away from the retina. According to the doctor, almost everyone will experience posterior vitreous detachment by the age of 80, it’s common. Aside from being annoying, it’s benign. I have to say it doesn’t seem common when it’s you or a loved one experiencing the flashes and floaters; but annoying we can live with.

Bob’s father was not so blessed. He lived many years with a detached retina, a very different condition that left him with limited eyesight and vastly reduced his quality of life. We watched him deal with the limitations that dogged him day after day. As Bob experienced the physical symptoms and anxiously waited for today’s appointment, it was the memory of his father’s struggle that caused Bob AND me the most distress. Amazing how paralyzing the unknown effects of heredity can be.

Now that we know Bob has inherited his father’s love of good food and not his weak retinas, we are breathing much easier. We are both seeing some things more clearly now that the anxiety and distress of the past week or two has ended on a happy note. Some things that wouldn’t have seemed “common” when were younger we will have to see as “common” now that we are nearly sixty. Just writing that seems strange, but it’s real, it’s now, and we have to accept it. Certainly we see our parents in a new light, now that we are experiencing some of the physical and emotional changes they went through. And, despite the fact they have been gone many years, we feel a new connection to them. Finally, it’s good to know that we can see our way through the changes and challenges still to come—together.

Most people know about Helen Keller and the amazing life she lived despite her blindness. I am sure she “saw” more than most people. She once said, “It gives me a deep, comforting sense that things seen are temporal and things unseen are eternal.” I’m thinking how true those words are, and how sometimes, despite the floaters, or maybe because of the floaters, we can actually see things more clearly.

Shattered!

Bob with the broom, ready to start the clean up!


I wanted to start this entry out with, “It was a dark and stormy night,” but that would be a lie. This past Friday was actually a beautiful, clear, moonlit autumn night, with a little chill in the air, and the smell of wood smoke drifting through the neighborhood. I was sitting in my favorite chair, knitting and listening to a relaxing CD, fire in the fireplace. Bob was snoozing on the couch near me. It was about midnight. BAM! BAM! I raised my head; my knitting needles went still, no longer clicking rhythmically in my hands. What in the world had made that huge sound outside? It sounded like a car accident, but we live on a quiet street. I heard nothing more out of the ordinary, just the soft final notes of the CD and then silence. I waited, strained to hear any unusual noise, and then chalked the earlier sounds up to a neighbor putting out late night trash. I finished the row I was knitting and headed up to bed.

Teeth brushed, face washed, and into those cold sheets. This time of year it’s always a little jolting getting nestled in for the night, but it was only a few minutes before I had drifted off to sleep. DING DONG! Was that the door bell? I glanced toward the bedside alarm clock, the numerals glowed 1:00AM. DING DONG! Bob was getting out of the bed; I was getting an adrenalin rush. Who would be at the door this time of night? I held my breath.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s a cop,” said Bob.

I heard him put the key in the door and greet the officer. I grabbed my bathrobe and headed downstairs just in time to hear him tell Bob that someone had bashed the driver’s side window out of our daughter’s and son-in-law’s car in front of our house. I thought back to the loud noise I had heard just before midnight. Now we were all up, coats and sweaters over pajamas, and out to survey the damage. The glass on the road shimmered in the officers flashlight, the window was gone, completely shattered! The only thing missing was Jean’s prescription sunglasses; they were in a case that looked somewhat like a wallet. What a disappointment for those responsible to open the case and not find the valuables they had hoped for. The good news was, another victim in the neighborhood had seen them breaking and entering his car, had called the police with the vehicle description, and they had been caught.

So much for a quiet, restful night, the window wasn’t the only thing that was shattered. We swept up glass, listened while Jean and Josh talked to the officer and called their insurance company, and had a soothing cup of hot chocolate. One by one everyone drifted back to bed; everything done that could be done until morning. I sat, wide awake in my chair. It was quiet again. My mind was filled with the events of the last hour. First of all I was struck by how something like this could happen in our safe little corner of the world. My sense of security wasn’t quite the same as it had been an hour ago. The officer had been wonderful and reassuring, but he had come after the fact. I was also indignant, and surprised at how annoyed and irritated I was by the whole incident. I wanted to tell the perpetrators how many ways something like this impacts a person’s life: the time lost on phone calls and clean up, the temporary loss of a vehicle and all the adjustments necessary to manage without it, and the loss of security all swirled around in my head. Add loss of sleep to the list and I wasn’t a very happy camper!

Now that we are two days out from that eventful night I’m a bit more rested. I realize it could have been worse—it was a window, not a loved one. I realize there really isn’t anywhere 100% safe in the world, and our little corner still has a pretty good track record. Most of all I realize my security comes from a higher authority than the Rockville City Police, as fine as they are! As I get into bed tonight I’m going to remember these words from Psalm 4:8, “I will lie down and sleep in peace, for you alone, O LORD, make me dwell in safety.” I’m feeling better having had a perspective reality check and I’m wishing all of us sweet dreams . . . just as soon as the sheets warm up!!!!!

City of Rockville's finest to the rescue!

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

This is the final test of a gentleman: his respect for those who can be of no possible service to him.
William Lyon Phelps

The other day I was in the grocery store checkout line. I watched as the customer two in front of me stood by while the checker scanned and bagged her groceries. There was no eye contact, no exchange of words, as a matter of fact, the customer was chatting away on her cell phone. The cashier did her work well and efficiently, the customer ran her credit card quickly through the card machine, pocketed her receipt, grabbed her groceries and walked away still on her phone, not even a thank you. The gentleman in front of me stepped up to checkout and I watched as the scenario repeated itself, although he was making notes on his iPhone, not actually chatting on it. He did manage to mumble a thank you as he turned and walked away. It was as if the cashier had become part of the machinery instead of a living, breathing human being.

My turn came to checkout. I looked across the counter. My cashier’s nametag read “Earlene” in big red letters.

“Hi Earlene” I said.

Our eyes met.

“Hi”.

“Is that a picture of your little one on the charm on your bracelet?” I asked.

Bingo, the “machine” turned human. A smile that went ear to ear lit up her beautiful face.

“Why yes it is!”

Those words started an amazing conversation that included child-rearing, crazy parents at little league games, the problems with the economy, and how to turn the Redskins’ losing streak around. If it had taken a few more minutes to finish ringing up my grocery order, I think we might have been able to straighten out the problems up on Capitol Hill.

Earlene bagged the last few items and came around the end of the counter with my receipt and cart. I smiled and put up my hand to high five her. Our hands smacked.

“Thanks Earlene, not only have I finished my grocery shopping, but we’ve also solved most of the world’s problems.” I laughed.

“See you soon, have a great day,” she said as she waved and returned to her station.

The next customer was too busy with her baby to notice the busy hands scanning and bagging her order or even acknowledge the smile Earlene had flashed her. Earlene’s smile dissipated and the machine-like, efficient, faceless cashier returned. It made me realize how little it takes to make a moment matter for someone. It also made me realize how easy it is to live in a bubble, to not connect with those around me.

It takes a lot of people to make my world “work”. There’s my mail carrier, Henry (yes, I know his name and I know he likes to travel with two of his nephews since he doesn’t have kids of his own). There’s my UPS guy—love when the brown truck pulls up with a package! I don’t know his name, but when we see each other at the neighborhood Starbucks he always says, “Hey there 1808 (my address number)” and we chat a minute. When I visit my bank, my teller and I manage, even through the glass window and car exhaust at the drive-thru, to smile and catch up for a few seconds. I try to thank my garbage collectors, the people who service my lawn, and the “angels” who clean my house once a month. It’s called respect. It’s called decency. It’s called community. But, perhaps most importantly, it’s called loving your neighbor.

I know that I can get caught up in my own little world. It’s easy to forget how many people make my life easier, and how blessed I am by many people in many places. Many of these people I don’t know personally, some I’m starting to know little by little as I pass through their checkout line or collect my mail. They are not just part of the machinery, they are not faceless, nor are their lives meaningless. Each one of them has a story, each one of them is part of my story. I think living in community makes life so much nicer, and honestly there are some amazing people out there. Take Earlene, she’s got a winning smile, can-do spirit, great ideas, and an admirable work ethic; sounds perfect, I’m thinking someone like her could shake things up a bit in 2012. Earlene for President, it’s got a nice ring to it! You never know who’s bagging your groceries!

It's A Small World

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." Margaret Mead


Me and my beautiful Zimbabwean friend, Chrissy!

I don’t like to fly! Those words are no surprise to anyone who knows me well. I have flown, I can fly, but I don’t enjoy it. I’m not afraid of losing my life in a plane crash, as a matter of fact, I love take offs and landings, the most dangerous times of any flight I’ve been told. It doesn’t bother me to go through all the security or run to catch a connecting flight. What I don’t like is the feeling of being trapped in a small space with no means of escape until the pilot leaves the clouds behind and returns his “ship” to earth. I am very claustrophobic.

Living in the Washington, D.C. area has opened doors to the world for me. We have close friends on several continents and as much as I don’t like getting on a plane, I LOVE greeting friends who are getting off of them. Over the years we have hosted friends from all over the globe, Australia, Malaysia, Latvia, Switzerland, France, Germany, China, and more. Currently, our dear friends from Zimbabwe are visiting us. Unlike our local friends, the visits from our international guests are less frequent, and therefore, to a certain extent, life as we know it is temporarily suspended. These are very special times for us as we share meals, enjoy local attractions, and talk late into the night. Every moment spent with these friends is precious, like sighting a comet that only passes close enough to earth for viewing once or twice in a lifetime. As thankful as we are for modern technology that allows us to “visit” via Skype or e-mail, there is nothing like face to face conversation and breaking bread together at our kitchen table.

Having international friends has taught me some important truths. The world doesn’t seem nearly as big when one has friends encircling it. Connecting faces and conversations with countries around the world draws the circle closer. Discussing and sharing political view points, government policies, leaders, and various customs with foreign friends is fascinating and enlightening, and makes me proud to be an American more often than not. I’ve learned that there are good and bad people no matter where you live or visit. Sadly I’ve discovered that American media is not as interested in world news as they are in news about the U.S., we are a very inwardly focused country by in large. It makes it harder to keep up with the day to day happenings of my friends across the pond. I am, however, thankful for the opportunities I’ve been given to expand my view of the world, it’s taught me to appreciate and understand my brothers and sisters here and abroad more deeply.

As I write this my Zimbabwean friends are sitting across the room from me. We haven’t seen them for 18 years, yet when we reunited it was as if no time had passed. We have a lot in common, our faith and commitment to family just to name a couple. We also are aware of our differences; we live in a Democracy whereas they live under the rule of a very vile dictator, despite our depressed economy it’s better than theirs, we live with abundance on every front while they often visit stores with empty shelves. I’m already dreading the goodbyes coming up when we drop them at the airport early next week. I will shed more than a few tears, chances are we will not see them again, face to face, this side of heaven. And there’s the rub, the door to the world swings both ways, the goodbyes always come. These are the times when I remind myself the world isn’t all that big, I know because little by little, person by person it has passed through my door. I know because we have friends in Australia who raise cattle, they have named one after me, somewhere on a hillside in Australia, there is a cow named Roberta, and somehow that makes that pasture seem just a little closer!

Me with the Eddens

Here is a picture of Minto Roberta with her newest calf!