Plate Spinning...

You’ve seen them, I know you have, variety television shows where the guy comes on stage with ten poles and one by one places a plate on top of each and the spinning begins. Soon, one plate begins to wobble, you think it will surely topple off the stick. The performer swoops in giving the plate a deft twirl and sends it back in gyroscopic motion. This wizard of mastery somehow keeps all ten plates spinning until the audience explodes with applause.

Welcome to my Plate Spinning Show. Hold your applause, please. Allow me to present my first spinning plate; the purchase of a cute little 1938 bungalow style cottage just a block away from Brooke and Jared. No, this was not my intention to live just 9 doors down from my children, but, after seeing the house, we all agreed it was a perfect fit for all of us.

Offer accepted, I present to you my second rotating plate, putting my existing home on the market. Frantically, I clean out closets and shelves. How had they so quickly filled during the three short years I’ve lived in this house? In the blink of an eye, my house is on the market. A week later, it is under contract.

Multiple plates begin spinning. I perfect my juggling act. I realize I am putting the Reverse Matryoshka Principle (RMP) in place. I have serious work to do. 

Matryoshka Principle? You know this term, even if you don’t think you do. Named after the Russian Matryoshka nesting dolls; one little wooden doll nestles into a larger doll and so on and so forth until you wind up with a family of stair step dolls that can all be housed in one large doll. 

My RMP starts out with one large home. I’ve spoken of it often, the home Steve and I built that held not only precious memories, but a myriad of stuff. When I say stuff, I mean stuff. Not only did this wonderful home hold rooms full of furniture, but it also held closets full of our children’s things. When you add up the “things” that four children possess but have not taken, you wind up with not only overstocked closets, but an entire floor of a walk-in attic exploding with extra treasures, unused furniture and absolute junk that simply couldn’t be thrown away. 

My #1 RMP downsize left me feeling I had handed off most of the children’s treasured possessions: a box full of Lynn’s favorite camp rocks, David’s Star Wars collection, Brent’s baseball cards and Brooke’s antique hat collection, yearbooks, dolls, camp memorabilia. 

My largest Matryoshka house was soon to be replaced by one almost half its size. How on earth I would fit all of my things into this new home? The fact was, I couldn’t, so the kids took not only their designated stuff, but also carted off left over furniture, lamps, art, kitchen items and garage equipment. All of this enabled me to have room in my middle sized Matryoshka home.

It was when I began to rattle around in this now, too-large-for-one-person-home, the RMP began again, and I’m once again cleaning out, throwing away, purging and simplifying. My Plate Spinning Show is reaching a crescendo, plates are whirling. 

This new tiny home is half the size of my current home, I love it. It will in no way hold most of what I’m currently boxing, but until I’m in and busting at the seams, my stuff is going with me, at which time I will do my final purge. 

Did I mention that the wizard of mastery spun ten plates at once? Yep, so to prove my juggling skills, more plates need be put into motion. The plate of having additional work done on the tiny home has started its spin. Then there’s the spinning plate of the Meabon family moving in with me for an undetermined time while they remodel their home. This is my favorite spinning plate, and one that I must run back to frequently to keep it from toppling off its stick.

My last plate to spin finds me on a plane headed home. I have just spent this past week attending a writing seminar at Princeton Theological Seminary. How cool is that.

It was quite serendipitous that I had lunch early in the year with a group childhood friends. One of them was Jane Pettit who, among other things, writes a beautiful blog, https://isplainasjane.com (don’t miss the chance to read her pieces, they are insightful and inspiring). Jane invited me to join her on this Princeton writing escapade and plans were quickly made. 

Little did I know in February, that by June, I would have bought one house, selling another, and have plates spinning wildly while running back and forth like a chicken with my head cut off trying to keep them all in motion. I thought of backing out of our Princeton adventure more than once, but I felt a real nudge to attend and it proved to exceed my expectations.

I struggle with what, if anything, I should do with my writing. This craft is new to me and one where I feel very ill-equipped. I pray often asking God what it is He wants me to write. I feel strongly that this gift of writing is just that, a gift, and I I’m trying to be a good steward. I was in hopes that this seminar would give me tools, a map, a route to show me what my next steps should be in going forward with my writing. 

Time will tell as I begin to assimilate all that I learned during my time at Princeton. If nothing else, it has enabled me to renew a lovely friendship with a precious friend that I will have for the rest of my life. Thank you Jane for our great adventure and may we hear God’s voice as He creates new paths for us to follow.

So thank you ladies and gentlemen for taking a moment to attend my Plate Spinning Show. You can find me spinning my plates throughout the next few months. No applause  necessary.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Mark 4:24  And he said to them, “Pay attention to what you hear: with the measure you use, it will be measured to you, and still more will be added to you.” 

A daughter's perspective of "If Walls Could Talk"...

Brooke is on her way to Guatemala. She is working with City's Mom Blog to help stop poverty.  She wrote her recent thoughts on the plane this morning and sent this to me. Tears seeped out of my heart, into my eyes and ran down my face as I read her words. So poignant, so true that I wanted to share her thoughts with you.

These walls. It was only two and a half short years ago that you settled into your new house, ready to start life in a way that none of us knew what to quite expect. These walls were walls that had, three years earlier, heard us - the nervous talk of two expectant parents about to welcome their first, a high risk pregnancy. A young couple who had settled into our home not knowing what to expect or what was to come. These walls heard my silent sobs, the sobs of a mother ready to give birth but scared out of her mind. They bore the brunt of those 3am panic stricken nights when fear gripped it’s tightest on my heart. These walls heard the anxiety that reverberated off of them as well lead up to August 4. And then they heard relief, followed by the joy and laughter as our baby girl was born and her health improved.

These walls would welcome not one, but two precious babies into the world. They heard the happy coos and midnight mews of newborn babies, giggles, patters of footsteps as those babies turned toddlers. They heard excited visits of grandparents, and family members in and out, friendships formed, and lives started new. 

And then they heard worry as sickness returned and uncertainty once again took hold. One night, these walls heard the midnight phone call, the gasp of breath, the understanding that a precious life had ended as quickly as the lives it had seen begin. These walls saw transition as our young family moved out, and you got ready to move in.

These walls. For you, they were different than they were for us. You might now be questioning why this move was ever made, why only two and half short years in a home that never really felt like a home. But I know and I see so clearly. These walls were so very necessary. 

A big project was a necessity. It was a step that needed to be made to fill the void of this huge loss. These walls were a place to rip down, start fresh, create new. They needed to support the spinning energy of a long-time care taker who suddenly found herself without a spouse, without a husband, without a best friend. They became a place to dive into, an all-consuming step of taking your mind off of loss. 

They were a reason to simplify, a cause to purge, to scale down years and collections of a life together into the parts that were most memorable. Cleaning out those closets, that attic, that space was good for the soul. It your way of processing 20+ years of happiness, of purging the sickness that had crept in and the hard memories that had started to form like unwelcome calluses. That purge cleared the cobwebs of those last years where cancer had take over, and let you remember all of the good, so much good. 

These walls. They are walls that could hold the grief that you brought along, perhaps even heavier than the furniture that came with you. You settled into this new home, finding a place for each memorable piece but I watched as your grief moved in right beside you, taking up residence in this home. These walls heard aching once again. They saw your pain as you mourned. You mourned for the loss man you loved and the life you had. They saw you run away and they understood your need to run because these walls felt empty, hollow, lonesome, quiet. 

But they saw hope spring where you couldn’t yet see it at all. They saw you learning how to live life as one, when for so long you had known life as two. These walls watched you become strong, become not someone new, but someone with a better understanding of how to look back on a life that was so good and smile. Someone stronger They saw you start to take joy again in your surroundings. They became filled with the barks of a senior citizen dog, and once again welcomed the laughter and patters of feet of your grandchildren. These walls saw you delight in their little personalities taking shape. These walls watched as you thought, “Oh, if he could see them now!” They watched you become self-sufficient where you had so doubted yourself and your ability just two short years earlier. They watched as you learned to be content in life as it is now. And they watched as you came to understand your need to move on, but this time taking the furniture but leaving the grief behind. 

So no, these walls weren’t unnecessary. They were part of the process, part of the plan, part of the transition into the person you are today. They’ve been good walls, strong walls. They’ve seen us all through big change of the past six years, and now it’s time for them to welcome in someone new and lend their strength yet again.

Love you Mom and excited for this new step in your life and to have you so close. How sweet and special for these babies to have their Honey so near. 

Love, 
Brooke

Psalm 30:5 "Weeping my last through the night, but joy comes in the morning."

Listen to Your Mother...

There has been a great deal of Facebook publicity the past few weeks about the Listen to Your Mother show that was presented for the first time in San Antonio this past Saturday.

I was coerced by Brooke and Lynn to audition for LTYM months ago and was privileged to have been chosen, along with Brooke to read for this audience.

I was certainly the "seasoned member" of this cast of thirteen women and was honored to be included in this talented group of writers.

I loved sharing this experience with Brooke. I continue to be amazed by my daughter's abilities and talents, she never fails to blow me away.  For those of you asking to read Brooke's piece, she will publish it the week of  Mother's Day on Alamo City Mom's Blog. 

I was thankful to so many of you dear and precious friends for coming to the production and supporting this well deserving cast of moms. I was even more thankful to have Brent, Jared and Jennifer in the audience to lend their support and encouragement.

While I continue to say I'm only a writer by the grace of God, I will continue to state that I am not, nor ever will be a public speaker.

This said, I'm so thankful for this opportunity to leave my comfort zone and share the sweet love I will always have for my Minnie Mama.

This post will be followed by my repeated post from 2013.

For what it's worth,

Janet

My Grandmother's Hands...

Forward:  Some of you have asked me to repost the piece that I read on Saturday at 
Listen to Your Mother. I posted this in 2013 and it is one of my all time favorite posts about my precious grandmother, Minnie Mama. 

For what it's worth...one more time...

A few evenings ago, I was reading to my granddaughter, Harper.  As she sat in my lap, my hands laid on top of the oversized book I read to her.  My concentration was in the words of the book. Trying to allow my voice to emote the feelings of the characters, I wanted the book's story come to life for Harper, as it had for me so long ago. 

It was a few minutes into reading that I felt Harper’s small, delicate fingers softly outlining the tops of my hands.  No longer was she as interested in what I was reading as she was in studying my hands...her grandmother’s hands. 

Harper’s fragile little fingers traced my thin skin, the veins that I suddenly noticed, caught the attention of her tiny fingertips. The wrinkles and age spots, that appeared overnight, were circled by her sweet touch.

She was gentle, curious, memorizing these hands that she loved so much,  hands that were so different from her own, so different from her younger mother’s.  She said nothing, I kept reading but in that moment, in that scenario, I was poignantly and vividly swept back to my own childhood.

I loved my grandmother dearly.  If she were still alive today Minnie Mama would be around 145 years old, but I always thought of her as old, and old was a good thing in my child's mind.

Minnie was a woman of meager means, who had nor needed much.  She grew up a country girl, in the piney woods of  East Texas in the late 1800's. Minnie was well acquainted with hardship, sorrow and loss. Her own mother died when Minnie was 8 years old. Her husband died of tuberculosis at age 42, and only ten short years later my grandmother lost her eldest daughter to the same disease that had taken her husband's life.  

Minnie had a tough life. As a young woman, she was forced to managed a failing family farm and provide for her two surviving, younger daughters. Life finally proved too difficult on the farm and the family moved to Houston, where a living could be made.  

Minnie never drove a car, never painted her nails and she never wore a bra... a full slip under her dress was ample for Minnie. She was soft spoken and kind, a woman of strong faith, yet she had her had her opinions and she would speak her mind when the time was right and we listened.

As a small child, I would spend a week at a time with Minnie Mama in her small unassuming home.  Oh how I loved it there.  She had no air conditioning. Open windows framed in crisp white crisscross organza curtains, coupled with box fans blew warm humid Houston air through her little home.

Living right by railroad tracks, the sounds of slow moving trains with their long whistles would sing us nighttime lullabies.

Mrs. Baird's Bread operated a large factory only blocks from her home and that distinct aroma of baking bread drifting through her open windows still wraps my senses likes a child's favorite, warm security blanket.

I loved sitting in my grandmother’s lap, snuggled beside her in her oversized rocker.  She would sing hymns, read to me and we would quietly talk to one another..  I have a strong picture in my mind of her holding her hands in mine as we sad so still. 

I remember her hands...her thin fragile skin, almost translucent.  I remember thinking how different, how special they were from anyone else’s hands. The tips of her fingers, soft and pillowy and when I pressed their tips they would stay indented for just a moment too long.    

She wore two small diamond rings that hung loose on her slim finger. She had a habit of twirling them unconsciously between her small delicate thumb and ring finger.  Even today, I can close my eyes and see us sitting together, the warm air blowing through those wispy white curtains, the long, lone train whistle, the smell of freshly baked bread and my grandmother's hands.

When I think back and picture myself as that small little girl sitting in my beloved grandmother’s lap, her voice has fallen silent in my mind and her face has become dim over the years, but it’s her hands that are so vivid to me. I can see and feel Minnie Mama smoothing out my dress, running her soft gentle fingers through my hair, ever so gently caressing my shoulders, my back and holding my hands in hers.  

It was here, between her loving hands, that I was confident that she would always do everything possible to protect and encourage me.  I will never forget my grandmother’s hands, they taught me much.  

I am a far cry from the humble, unassuming woman that Minnie Mama was, but I pray that in my own way my grand children may find the same legacy she left me.  I pray that as Harper looks at my aging grandmother’s hands, she feels all the love that I have in my heart for her.  

I know that as she grows older she will no longer have the desire she does now to crawl up in my lap and allow me to hold her, to run my fingers through her curls, pass my hand up and down her little back. Nor will she want to sit and play with my hands as she does now.  

Perhaps someday, in the far distant future, as she is holding one of her little grandchildren in her own lap, she too will find the legacy that lies in the amazing warm and tender touch of a grandmother’s hands.

“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.” Henri Nouwen

Psalm 90:17 “May the favor of the Lord our God rest on us;

    establish the work of our hands for us—yes, establish the work of our hands.”