My junk drawer…

I needed a pair of scissors to snip off a tag. Standing in my kitchen, I reached in a drawer located right beneath my now rarely used home phone and answering machine. This is a drawer, that I hope all of you have in your home, one that is easily accessible, yet sort of tucked away, a miscellaneous drawer that stores the stuff you need right at your finger tips. Stuff that is seldom used.

I moved into this house 16 months ago and I believe I have cleaned out this mess at least three times to date. No matter how often I organize my junk drawer, it continues to fill with things I might not be quite sure where to store. These are items I think need to be held on to, lost items that I have searched my house high and low for…stuff. No matter how hard I try to keep this space organized, compartmentalized, uncluttered, it is my sundry selection, and a sure place for necessary items to become lost and forgotten.

Reaching for that pair of scissors, I opened this kitchen catch-all and found not one, but five pairs of scissors. Now these weren’t simply small unassuming scissors, nor were they a real variety of scissors. I accumulated five pairs of large scissors. Each pair had different colored handles, green for fruits and veggies, black for paper items, orange for cutting chicken…and so on. Instead of being in their proper places, they ended up in my junk drawer. I started digging a little deeper, forgetting about the tag I needed to snip. 

I found operating manuals for items I seldom use. I found receipts for things I no longer own. I dug deeper, finding scotch tape, okay, that’s appropriate, but then I found seven pairs of reading glasses, a broken plastic top to a set of small screwdrivers that I use all the time. This broken top, cracked and unusable, has never made the trash cut and has made the move into three of my four home junk drawers. I found Sharpee pens (5), ballpoint pens (7), a variety of notepads (4), sticky notes in multiple colors (8), USB cable cords (4), (I have no idea what these cords plug into, and a box of matches (I never use matches). The list grows, but I think you get the picture.

I became incredulous, unable to comprehend how this drawer magically became a magnet for so much clutter. 

So, after I took this picture, because I knew there was blog entry forming in the back of my mind, I began to clean out this poor, bulging drawer. I grabbed a trash can and threw away all the litter that had accumulated. I made a pile of things that were important enough to be stored and properly filed. I found small containers for working pens and stray rubber bands and I placed each pair of scissors in their proper drawer.

Some nagging little thought took root in my mind while looking at the mess before me. The thought grew quickly as I realized the disorderly drawer mirrored my life, my heart, my mind and my soul. 

How many times have I cleaned out the clutter that worms its way into my thoughts? How often do I collect junk that should have been tossed long ago, broken plastic tops and broken feelings and memories that no longer hold any use? When will I let go of all my accumulated scissors, the painful moments that cut into my thoughts, hurtful, stabbing situations that need to find a proper place in the closet of my heart? 

Can I choose to file away operating manuals necessary for experiences that might later instruct or help me share my life experiences with someone else? Can I sort out which pair of reading glasses help me look at life with greater perspective, a finer acuity to tolerance, to what is important, of value? Am I able to toss the stuff that has caused my life to budge unnecessarily? Matches, that fuel feelings that can only cause pain, can I toss them forever? Can I begin to compartmentalize my thoughts, desires, goals, achievements so that I am able to open the drawer of my life and easily see what is needed at a particular moment?

I believe my faith enables me to call on a God that is orderly. One who is wise, loving and understands exactly how to organize, to orchestrate, to assimilate my past, present and future. I pray that I can allow Him to clean out the clutter within me and know that with Him, because of Him, my life can have a place for everything and know that everything is in its proper place.

Two hours later, I snip off the tag, restore the scissors to their proper place and shut my drawer with a satisfaction that my junk is now in order, clean, neat and tidy. I felt a bit lighter, cleaner, more defined.

For what it’s worth, 

Janet

Psalm 51:10  “Create in me a clean heart, O God. Renew a right spirit within me.”

23 months..but who’s counting???

I swore I would no longer write about this deep sadness, this bone aching hurt, this vacant absence that is like an elephant in my life…but, never say never, right???

I have questions, many questions…Every spring, will I forever replay the beginning of the end of the life of the man who made my life so incredible? Every May, will that memory of Steve’s terrible fall in our garage replay in slow motion in my mind? Every June, will I find myself remembering so vividly Steve needing help to bathe, to dress, to walk? Every July, will I be reminded of Steve’s horrendous seizures that left him unable to walk, to talk, to move, and that inevitably lead to his death?

More questions fill my mind. Will I always doubt that I could have done more? Will I continually question that I should have been more aware? That I could have been better? The questions grow, they loom, they paralyze me.

Since May, I have been acutely aware of this wave building within me. It was this time two years ago that, although we, or maybe it was just I, that didn’t comprehend the end of Steve’s life was so near. Steve’s fall in the garage that Sunday morning in May marked the beginning of the end. I suppose his brain tumor was growing so aggressively, so quickly, so horrendously that it was unfathomable. 

I vividly remember walking down the hall of our home that Sunday morning when I heard Steve’s frantic call for help. I had begged Steve not to venture out into the yard that morning. I knew that he was too weak, that his faculties were failing, but he admonished me. He told me to stop treating him as though he were incapable, that he was still able to accomplish things. I remember being feeling ashamed, feeling mad, thinking, okay…go ahead, be hard-headed…I give up. I went do dress for church and Steve went to the back yard. My patience was growing thin. I imagine his patience was even thinner. Just minutes later, walking down the hall, dressed for church, I heard my name, being frantically called…over and over. 

Running to the garage, I found Steve on the ground in a puddle of blood, unable to get up. Will I never forget the sight of Steve? Will I always remember the fear in his eyes? The picture of my precious husband lying helpless and battered.

In the weeks that followed, Steve looked like he had taken on both Mayweather and Pacquiao. In reality, Steve had taken on the mightiest contender, cancer at it’s finest. Steve was a prize fighter, and he fought his battle fiercely. The question I now ask myself, over and over is, was I the right person to be in his corner? Did I nurse his wounds as I should have? Did I encourage him for the rounds that were yet to come? I think Steve deserved much better than what I gave him those last few months. Now, 23 months later, I am left with such great remorse and sadness.

In church this past Sunday, singing “How Great Thou Art,” the words so tugged at my heart that tears began to fall out of my eyes. It was as if someone had pricked a tiny hole in my soul and tears flowed, slowly at first, then uncontrollably. The tears were there, lying just at the surface of my emotions, and once tapped, there was no stopping the flow. 

I came home to a beautiful, crisp sunny cool morning. I sat on my back porch, underneath blue skies and blowing fans and I cried…and I cried…and I cried. The deep sadness seeped out of every corner of my being. I ached and mourned the loss of Steve as if he had left me, not almost two years, but a mere hours before.  Where did this come from? How long have I been harboring this overwhelming grief?

My day continued. I went from sad to sadder. I cried, I ached, I replayed in slow motion every frame of every tortured moment from May through July 8th, I couldn’t stop this mental reel.

It is now Monday evening and this incredible pain is hanging heavy…so I write to try to relieve this ache ingrained within me.

Last night, I turned out my lights and as I lay in my bed I took my pillows and began placing them so that I might imagine being cradled with my head in Steve’s lap. Oh how I longed to feel his cool hands on my neck. How I hoped to hear his heartbeat so that I might be lulled to sleep. Twenty-three months…will I go through this routine the rest of my life?

On a normal day, I choose joy. I have a strong faith that enables me to, “Rejoice in the Lord…” to “Consider it all joy…” to know that God is “my joy and salvation…” So I claim these promises and I know this sorrow will dissipate. In these moments that cause me such deep sadness, I ask God to walk with me, to carry me through these valleys and to know, to really know, that Steve is in “His Father’s house, where there are many mansions…” and I know that he is waiting there for me to join him…someday. 

Several days ago I ran into Walgreens to grab a diet coke. The cashier was shelving and we quickly greeted one another as I passed by. Grabbing my coke, we both headed for the cash register. A few more polite exchanges were made before handing her my money. It was then this lovely Indian woman locked eyes with me. Her accent was heavy and her English formal. She told me she sensed something deep within me. She asked if she could share this feeling with me. My heart stopped for a moment as I nodded. “I can see that you are happy on the inside and it shines through you.” I am sure my face mirrored hers as her eyes sparkled and a beautiful smile spread across her face. “I am happy on the inside!” I replied. I thanked her for her kind words and left a little lighter, a little brighter.

I believe with all my heart that God put this kind woman in my path. His way of constantly reminding me that He is with me, that his light is shining through me. I may have moments of sadness, but thanks be to God, I am truly happy on the inside. I do not walk alone.

Tomorrow, I begin a summer of traveling. Yes, I may be running, but…I’m thankful I have the ability to run. I leave for the beach with friends, I spend time at the lake with family, and the later part of the summer in the mountains with friends and family. 

I must choose joy, I must choose life, I must choose to believe “that God is my refuge and strength, an ever present help in times of trouble.”

For what it’s worth,

Janet

John 8:12 

“Then Jesus again spoke to them, saying, "I am the Light of the world; he who follows Me will not walk in the darkness, but will have the Light of life."

On being Honey...

I liken being a grandmother to participating on a relay team. Last Thursday morning, the baton was passed to me and I took my turn at a fast-paced, energy charged lap around the course…or maybe it was four laps…or maybe more like twenty.

The baton I carefully retrieved, were my youngest two grandchildren. Brooke and Jared had the chance to go to Washington D.C. for a long week-end, a business/leisure trip that was much needed.  I was grateful to be able to step into my “Honey shoes” and prepare myself for a fast-paced four days.

While we had a few must do’s, most of our long week-end was filled with, what is now known as, our routine regime. 

Silly Time, a part of all of our routines!

After attending a little soccer camp, we headed home, to Honey’s house. Here is where the steadfast, non-wavering regime begins. This little routine was never discussed, never thought out. There is no rhyme, no reason, for this set schedule, it has simply evolved into a routine that occurs every time they run through my front door.

Harper, beelining it into the house, heads for the dress-up closet. This closet is full of Brooke’s old dance recital costumes and all the tacky princess outfits I have been able to accrue. As she is racing through the house, Harper, looks back over her shoulder, “Honey will you please put on Pandora!” Harry, a.k.a Harris, immediately sheds all clothes. Down to his undies, Harry heads for the backyard. Grabbing golf clubs, baseball bats and all sorts of balls he is ready for action. Very quickly, the undies are down and Harry is finding a bush to proudly pee on. These are all hardcore, non-breakable routines that are consistent expectations when entering Honey’s house.

There are other regimes I will get to shortly, but let me pause here to dig a little deeper into the Pandora Radio thing. I know Brooke tunes into several radio stations, Disney show tunes, Christian children’s songs, Toddler Radio and Kidz Bop Radio. I quickly understood that Kidz Bop was at the top of the list. I spent four days listening to non-stop Frozen songs, lots of Taylor Swift, Katie Perry and oh so much more.

Harper, after changing into her costume of choice, heads straight for the cabinet full of colors and princess coloring books. There is usually a new book to fill, and Harper is content to color for hours. Multi-tasking is big with this little four year old. As she colors, she often pauses to become a cross between a prima ballerina and Tina the Pole Dancer (world renown Texas Tech legend). In her very own little world she transforms into Princess Elsa dancing her own choreographed version of “Let it Go” or Tina Pole Dancer comes out to dance to “Call Me Maybe” , “Hey I just met you, And this is crazy, but here's my number, So call me maybe.”

This once shy, timid child suddenly struts her stuff, twirling, arching, legs flailing, toes pointing. She is all about the dance and she knows every word to every song. Brooke, what in the world???

It isn’t long before Harry barrels through the back door. Still down to his skivvies, he leaps onto the large ottoman in the middle of my den and begins to gyrate singing at the top of his lungs, “This Girl is on Fire” or maybe even more dramatic, “Uptown Funk.” Nothing like a three year old boy singing naked, at the top of his lungs… “Girls hit your hallelujah (whoo)'Cause uptown funk gon' give it to you,” I could go on and on. After four days, I now know all of the lyrics of these entertaining songs…”Shake It Off,” Blank Space, “Hey Soul Sister”…I know every word and I’m singing them in my sleep.

Back to our routine regime. After dinner, while I clean up, Harper and Harris always play animals in the jungle. They love PBS “Wild Kratts.” Thanks to this enlightening show, they take on the persona of honey badgers, peregrine falcons, or other obscure exotic wildlife. Both children usually end up entwined between my legs/jungle vines, while I stand trying to wash dishes. 

After dinner and a trip to Africa, we are off to the bath tub. Here Harper becomes Ariel, the mermaid, or a lovely dolphin, while Harry is always a whale shark. More water ends up on the bathroom floor and on me, but hey, what are bathrooms and bathtubs for? A quick tooth brushing, flossing (Brooke I never flossed your teeth), lotion application, p.j.’s and then…the much awaited…movie time.

I have purchased a library of my favorite Disney movies and I think this time of night might be more a highlight for me than for the H’s. Movies are discussed and one is selected and a mad dash is made for my bed. Lights out, movie night begins and a crowded and cozy bed is home to three eagerly awaiting movie watchers.

This week-end our movies were, “Jungle Book” (Harry loves to be Mobley) and “101 Dalmatians.” When “The End” appears it’s off to bed…well sort of. We go to “Harry’s room” for story time, prayers and a song. It then gets a little sticky. Harper has finagled her way into sleeping with me, so sweet Harris ends up sleeping in his room and the girl, sneaks off to my bed…nightly. A footnote and after much rationalization, I decided, that in a very short time Harper will no longer want to sleep with her Honey and therefore, it is up to me to make the most of our time together. Thus, Harper sleeps with me, and soon I have no doubt, they will both be in my bed.

By the time I get Harry to sleep, Harper is sound asleep in my bed and I have some time to wind down. Before I know it 5:30 a.m. hits and Little Miss Sound Asleep starts to squirm. Harper doesn’t fully wake up at this wee hour, but suddenly I feel an elbow in my face, a knee in my back and then her leg flops down over my body. I’m wide awake, but Harper is still sound asleep. Not wanting to start my day before the sun is up, I lay wide awake and perfectly still until Harris bounds into the room announcing that he is ready for “something yummy in his tummy!” Thus our day begins…again.

Another of our routine rituals is breakfast, the same menu every morning. Oatmeal, apple juice and waffles with honey. There is something sweet about routine. There is something safe about knowing what each day holds. There is something poignant about ritual and I am thankful to be apart of their routine.

This stay I decided we would begin  reading “The Adventures of Winnie the Pooh” together. Winnie was always one of Steve’s favorites and A.A. Milne has always been a favorite of mine. Milne’s beautiful words of his beloved Winnie are so dear and precious. “Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh?" he whispered."Yes, Piglet?” "Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's hand. "I just wanted to be sure of you.” 

or 

“Some people care too much. I think it's called love.” 

Oh how I hope I can instill this gift of words to these precious children!

Our four days flew by and before we knew it the children were back home in time for their Sunday afternoon naps. Putting Harper to bed, I knelt down beside her. I told her how much I had loved being with her the past four days. I told her how much I loved her and how proud I was of her. It was then I noticed a big tear running down the side of her cheek. “Oh Harper, why the tears?”  Her reply, “Honey I wish you lived with us always.” Feeling a bit teary myself, “Oh Harps, if I lived with you always, then our times together wouldn’t be special.” She looked up at me with those big brown eyes and lovingly stated, “Oh Honey, but wouldn’t it be so special to live together always?”

I passed the baton back to Brooke and Jared soon after the children had drifted off to sleep. I came home to a house that seemed a little too quiet, a little too empty and thought of Pooh, “It's so much more friendly with two.” 

I am thankful and blessed for this time with these children, for I know that all too soon both they and I will be too old for one another.

For what it’s worth,

Honey

Proverbs 22:6 “Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.”

Walking in another’s shoes…

Every spring my mother would take me shoe shopping. We would go to the girls shoe department of Foley’s, in Houston. Spring of 1959, there we were, waiting to have my growing feet measured for a new pair of white Sunday School shoes and a pair of tie-up Keds, usually red. These shoes were to carry me through of first grade and the summer. As we sat waiting to be helped, my eyes zeroed in on the most incredible pair of tennis shoes. They weren’t lace ups, but slip ons, much like today’s Vans.

I was relentless. I begged, whined, and clung to my mother until she agreed to buy me these shoes. My mother was frugal and sensible and these slip-on tennis shoes seemed impractical, but she finally relented and I had a brand new pair of baby blue slip-on tennis shoes. I was proud. I imagined my first grade teacher, Miss McCann, who I thought looked exactly like Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy, spotting my new shoes and telling me how wonderful they were. She would point out to the whole class how I had gotten the cutest tennis shoes ever. My fantasy grew.

Why I remember this so vividly, I cannot begin to explain, but there I was on the blacktop of River Oaks Baptist Day School, feeling pleased as punch about my new shoes. Suddenly Powie James strides up beside me and my new shoe world changed in the blink of an eye.

Powie was the George Clooney of first grade. I was as madly in love with him, as “in love” as first grader could be. This day, he strutted up with his entourage. Powie always had an entourage, as he was simply Powie. He stuck his shoe right up next to my brand new baby blue Van-like shoe, and that was the moment I wanted to melt right into the blacktop. Powie was sporting his brand new pair, yep, you got it, black just like my baby blues, all boy, Van-like tennis shoes. Oh no, please God no! He then proclaimed for all the blacktop to hear, “Janet’s wearing boy shoes! Janet’s wearing BOY shoes!” Oh, I was mortified. Before I could think, I raised my brand new right Van-like shoe and kicked him with all my might, right in his shin. I courageously stated my shoes were bought in the Girl’s Department. I didn’t have the Power of Powie, so my words fell flat and the chanting and laughing began.

Tears welling, I turned and stomped off, plopping down under a tree, where I sat on my feet, so hoping my shoes would magically disappear. I remember being taunted the rest of the day by the Power of Powie. It was tough being that first grader that day.

I went home, took off those shoes and stuffed them in the back of my closet. The following morning I appeared at breakfast in my old scuffed up saddle oxfords. I got into big trouble telling my mother I had lost my brand new shoes, but I was willing to take my mother’s wrath over first grade humiliation any day. I often wondered what it would be like to walk in the shoes of someone as powerful and influential as Powie James?

The year was 1966. Fashion was Villager, Bobbie Brooks and Pappagallo shoes. I went to an affluent junior high and high school in Houston and if you didn’t own Pappagallo shoes, well, unfortunately, you didn’t exist. It was an over the top caste system. As I stated earlier, my mother was frugal, as well as practical, these pricey, poorly made shoes were not in our repertoire. 

Finally, November, well into fall of 7th grade, and my twelfth birthday, my request… simply, a pair of Pappagallos.  That was it. That was all I wanted.

Walking into The Pappagallo Shoe Store on Kirby, I was in nirvana. Oh, the colors, the loafers, vs. the tassels, it was exhilarating. I remember my mother extrapolating, much too loudly, that these shoes were flimsy, poorly made and hardly worth $12. All that mattered was that I finally had my wonderful, coveted Pappagallos, and while I can’t remember, I’m sure they were some neutral color. Christmas came, my request was again, Papppagallos. By spring, I had three pairs of the desired shoes.  

I quickly learned several important things concerning these ridiculous flats. When it rained, which was weekly in Houston, the “Italian leather” shoes turned to cardboard. The rest of their lifespan consisted of using every toe muscle to keep them attached to one’s foot. It was more like wearing a close-toed flip-flop. The second thing I learned was that you could go to the dime store and buy shoe dye. For less than $1.00 you could dye your Pappagallo’s, producing a matching pair for every outfit. The only problem being, if you died them one too many times, they began to look like dog poo.

By 8th grade, I had become best friends with, well, let’s just call her “Ellen”. Ellen’s mom was younger and much cooler than mine. Ellen’s mom wore Pappagallos, and Ellen had every shade and style available. In the fall, Ellen would come to school in olive green Pappagallos, the next day she might wear navy blue with lime green tasseled Pappagallos. Oh, to be Ellen. Ellen’s closet shelves were phenomenal!  Lining each shelf were the coveted black and turquoise signature boxes. Ellen labeled each box, in her curly script, by the color and style of the flats. “Hot Pink,” “Lemon Yellow with Orange Tassels.” “Easter Egg Blue.”  Oh, what must it have been like to have a mother that would buy you every single pair of those marvelous flats? What must it have been like to walk in Ellen’s shoes?

9th grade Birthday Party, Excuse the short skirt, but notice the lovely navy Pagallo shoe!

Every foot donned at Pappagallo shoe

I was quite a bit older when I heard my mother tell of her childhood years. Mother was a child of the depression. Her father, a poor East Texas farmer, died of tuberculosis after a lengthly illness. Their family was beyond poor, and I remember mother saying that at 13 years old, she had to borrow a pair of shoes to wear to her father’s funeral. That day, I began to have a clearer understanding of what my mother had tried to instill me during those years of silly arguments over shoes. Oh my, what must it have been like to walk in my mother’s borrowed shoes that day of her father’s funeral?  

My mother (bottom right), her sisters and cousins

In the recent past, I volunteered in a men’s clothing shelter. Homeless men, men who had just been released from prison, men down on their luck and needing a pair of shoes to apply for a job would come and request a pair of shoes. A group of us made a conscientious effort to provide new tennis shoes for these men. Nothing gave me more pleasure than to hand these humble men a pair of brand new shoes. The smiles, the gratitude, the humility that I experienced from being able to give shoes to someone who so needed them filled my heart with incredible joy. What must it be like to walk in the shoes of someone so in need?

Today, embarrassingly, I have a closet full of shoes, none expensive, but way too many. Shoes that are fun, stylish, fancy, fit for every outfit, every occasion.  What is it like to walk in my shoes? Well, sometimes, I have needed my hiking boots, and sometimes, my muck boots have been necessary, but all in all, my shoes are mine to fill. 

While each path has been different, some more rugged than others, and some glorious mountain-top experiences, my shoes, define an exquisite life. Harper Lee wrote in “To Kill a Mockingbird,  ”… you never really know a man until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them.” 

May we all take the time to consider what it means to walk in another’s shoes, and be forever grateful for the shoes we are able to fill.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Micah 6:8 “ He has shown you, O mortal, what is good.  And what does the Lord require of you?  To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”