Five minute Friday-If I knew I could, I would

Every Friday The Gypsy Mama gives a prompt and you are supposed to write about it in 5 minutes.  Only 5 minutes!  Also, no edits!  Just write.  So here goes . . .

If I knew I could, I would...

I would reach out across the internet and across town, and share what I have learned with women of the world, and would be so excited to learn from them as well.

I would listen with great interest to what they know and where they’ve been, and offer thoughts, information and ideas to get up and out of situations from which they can’t see a way forward, I would connect them with each other so that we could see we have so much in common, and so much to offer one another.

I would send seeds of hope, love and laughter to these women, these wives and moms, and help them find the strengths, talents, and gifts in themselves, their friendships and their marriages. I would help them to see the wonder and joy of finding their faith when they find God.

And I would be so incredibly blessed to be part of this ever-growing, ever-enriching, vibrant group, where we all help each other to grow to be the women we were designed to be.

Dandelion Wish © Lifesupercharger on Flickr.com

On baking bread and God prods

Bread, © looseends at flickr.com

Who among us can resist a warm loaf of homemade bread or a pan of soft rolls, fresh out of the oven?



Very few, I think, and yet how many of us actually bake bread from scratch? 


Not me. Both my mom and my mother-in-law do, though, and they do it beautifully, making it look like the easiest thing in the world.

I got to thinking that the process of baking bread reminds me of how God works in our lives. He has carefully chosen the ingredients, and knows the steps that will turn us into a work of wonder.

Ahh, but here we come, deciding ourselves that we know better how to craft this recipe.

We decide that the water doesn’t have to be at a particular temperature for the yeast, and are perplexed when our bread is flat and heavy.

We work the dough endlessly, assuming that the extra kneading will result in an extra tender crumb, but are surprised when the bread is actually tough.

We decide that letting the bread rise much higher than usual must result in an even better loaf (more equals better, right?), and wonder why the finished product actually decreased in quality.



And then, I imagine as I did previously, that there comes a point when God takes his measure of us, again, and determines that it is time to take that ballooning mountain of pride dough and give it a quick light punch, to take it back down to size.



Ah, yes. It’s another God prod.

The whole situation reminds me of cooking with our girls when they were toddlers. They were so excited to be up on the shelf, cooking with me, that they just wanted to dump whatever they wanted into the mixing bowl and then turn the beaters on high and watch as the batter went flying. Fun stuff, but not very productive if we wanted treats we could actually eat.



So it is with us. Sometimes we get so caught up in being independent, being so sure we know best, that we lose sight of the recipe, of the path we were equipped to take, and are disappointed in the result, but are still brushing off and ignoring those little nudges and sometimes not so gentle jabs.

Have you become over-inflated of late, only to experience a helpful God prod?


Five minute Friday-The hard love

Every Friday The Gypsy Mama gives a prompt and you are supposed to write about it in 5 minutes.  Only 5 minutes!  Also, no edits!  Just write.  So here goes . . .

Start…

Nobody ever told me, wisely, how hard parenting would be. Especially when one of your daughters is so wonderfully different from you.

The difficult toddler years, when I would have to pull her away from the stairs and other dangerous places.

The challenging elementary years, when she would get so angry with me and her dad, that once she stood at the top of the stairs, while we had company, and yelled “Swears! Swears!” with an accompanying hand gesture.

The heartbreaking teen years, when I could hear sobbing from inside her bedroom, and myself stood crying outside her door, not knowing how to help her through the tremendously difficult times of adolescence, not being able to figure out how to get her to open up the door and herself to me, and of her not willing to let go of her steely independence.

Such a hard love.

End…

Arrrrggggghhhhh! I long to be able to write a post that I can leave as is at the five minute mark.

That being said…

My story has an important lesson and a happy ending that I must share, especially for all those moms who are struggling with understanding their daughters.

I was so challenged by our youngest. She was always much more like her dad, and she still does have much more in common character wise with him. He was always more easy going and more of a risk taker than I. Where he saw opportunity for growth, I saw danger. I would be quick to rise to her bait, while he would more often see it for what it was, and either ignore the challenge or call her on it.

Now that Leslie is a young adult (yes, we both survived!) I see our relationship as one that has grown and matured to a wonderful blend of love, laughter and respect. Is it perfect? Of course not. We both still manage to irritate each other, just nowhere near as often as we used to.

We have endured tremendous pressure, and with the benefit of hindsight, I see that we have been sharpened and shined into better individuals. I wouldn’t have it any other way, or have her be anyone else but who she is.

Moms, keep the faith, stay on the path, be the mom, do what is right, not what is easy, convenient or more comfortable, and later you will be able to be the friend, and have a delightful friend in your daughters.

 I beg your indulgence for one additional note:
If you would like a grown up sisterly perspective on a similar topic, Leslie’s sister Alexis recently blogged about their adult relationship here at her site, Alexis Hall Photo.

A conductor, the internet, and a choir-oh my!

I love music.

However, I don’t play any instruments, although I took a spin at the ivories and recorder in third grade (does anybody remember that instrument?), and learned the very basics of guitar from a friend in seventh. I did take voice lessons as a young adult, and enjoyed them immensely, but my voice took a hit (little pun here) when I passed out in a hospital emergency room, and my forehead/eyebrow and my voicebox made hard contact with the edge of a metal table on my way to the floor. No, I was not the patient, at least up until that point.

But I digress.

I stand in awe of music’s ability to speak to us, to touch us in a way that often the written word cannot. The sound of a choir, their notes seamlessly blending as one, lifts us on the waves of their crescendos and gently enfolds us in their pianissimos.

To sing in a choir is a true privilege indeed. To be invited to join a group that is over 2,000 members strong-well, that just defies expression. And then there’s the mechanics: How do you conduct a 2,000 member choir, especially if the invitation is worldwide, and the members are performing from home?

Conductor and composer Eric Whitacre tackled that question.

He started small, and posted the idea of a virtual choir on his blog along with the music and a video of himself conducting “Lux Aurumque”. He invited people to record themselves singing their parts, and then upload their videos to Youtube. He then combined the videos and published the results below.



Following the success of “Lux”, Whitacre put out another invitation, this time to perform his commissioned work “Sleep”. I love the juxtaposition of the humble individual videos-over 2,000-shot at homes around the globe-in 58 countries-where you can see glimpses of personal lives in the background, against the grand landscape of the planets created as part of the final production.

So, what do you get when you combine a conductor, the internet and choirs of one? Oh, my!
 Sweet, sweet harmonic goodness to soothe your spirits. Enjoy!

Losing our way and finding our audience of One

Audience of one © K. Hall

The love of the Lord, my Lord, washes over me as I sit here in the congregation with the light of the early morning softly illuminating the sanctuary while I listen to the worship team practice their songs for the service. I am, in a very small way, their audience of one. And yet, they play as though to a full house, their rhythms, chords and voices rising in lovely harmony, punctuated by the occasional stops to direct, fine tune and to laugh about where they just lost their way.

My dear hubbie and I facilitate Financial Peace University through our church. Our goal is to help others learn that they can manage their money and-yes!-have peace of mind regarding finances in their lives. This time around, the number of new couples in class is very small-just one, in fact. We give these participants the same attention and energy we gave to our larger class. We are leading a fresh audience of one, another couple like us who had lost their way.

Every day, every move we each make is for our own audience of One.

It doesn’t matter how much we’ve messed up or how long we’ve been gone.

It doesn’t matter if we’ve walked with Christ for a very long time or if we’ve just begun to entertain the idea of inviting Him into our lives.

It doesn’t matter if we have reached for Him for the first time, in deep desperation from where we have fallen, from where we have completely lost our way.

He is our audience of One, always there, always ready to listen, patient, forgiving and full of grace for us.

No matter where you are on your walk, whether you are on the path or you’ve lost your way, play your song for Him today, your own audience of One.

Five minute Friday-On distance

Every Friday The Gypsy Mama gives a prompt and you are supposed to write about it in 5 minutes.  Only 5 minutes!  Also, no edits!  Just write.  So here goes . . .


Distance.

It always seemed so far to drive to visit my grandparents, as they lived about two hours north of us.

There was always something else pressing, another to-do on the calendar.

And then, a little over two years ago, just before Christmas, after having to move into a nursing home/rehab center with my grandfather, my grandmother passed away.

The distance is too great now to visit.

She would have been 99 years old today.

I am so very sorry I didn’t take more time to visit. She was so amazingly talented and delightfully interesting: she wrote, she crafted, she painted. As kids, we spent summers in Northern Vermont, taking turns a week at a time, just having a ball being just one or two siblings as opposed to the seven of us at home, being encouraged, treated and loved. So very loved.

I am so grateful for her inheritance of craftiness, of thrift, of sharing, of loving my family, and especially of writing.

I have no doubt that in Heaven she is still so very busy, sharing her talents with others.

Thank you Gram, love you lots, and a very happy birthday that transcends the distance from my heart to yours.

Five minutes are up.
Done.

Grampa and Gram on their 40th anniversary

But wait-I’m not really done. I know I say that to myself every week, and have to resist the mighty temptation to add and edit, but this week there is something different about that statement. I feel absolutely compelled to continue, and now that door has been opened, I humbly request your indulgence for just a few more minutes.

I did write about her here, but in honor of her birthday, I would like to share a little more about who she was and how she lived her life, and how it is all so woven into my mom, me and my two daughters.

Thrift? Gram lived through the Depression and had Scottish blood. Need I say more? I see this trait in all of us, and our youngest has recently delighted and surprised us with her ability to turn an older garment into a fresh work of wonder. Without having ever been taught how to sew. I can hear Gram chuckling over it now.

Faith? I never realized what a true servant of Christ Gram was until I attended her memorial service. She worked at walking the talk, and I just wish she could see how Keith and I are walking that same path, learning about the joy to be found in our faith.

Creativity? My mom inherited Gram's creative gene, even though she pooh-poohs her talents, and she encouraged creative pursuits in all seven of us kids. I often wonder how she kept her sanity through it all. She taught me to sew and to do so much else, for which I am eternally grateful. Thanks, Mom!

Craftiness? Gram could take most anything and make it bloom into something else. Mom once gave her a bolt of bright green wool, and Gram made ornaments (about 100 a year for her annual Christmas Cards) from it for several years in a row, crafting slippers, scarves, mittens, etc as an amusing series. Our oldest daughter took that gift of craftiness and applied it to her wedding bouquet, which she created from felt and Gram’s button collection. (Alexis' amazing pet photography and blog can be seen at her site, Alexis Hall Photo.)

Button monograms and felt flowers © Alexis Hall Photo

 Writing? Gram wrote three family histories, composed sermons when she served as a lay minister for her church, and kept family camp scrapbooks, recording memories going back about 40 years.  I have inherited her gift, and for that I am eternally grateful. After finishing a post this week titled “On being sugared off”,  I emailed the link to my mom. I noted that I thought Gram would have gotten a real charge out of how I compared us to sap of the maple tree and the process of sugaring, since she was an avid fan of real Vermont maple syrup. I said that I could hear Gram laughing over the post, and would exclaim in her inimitable way, “Oh my land!”

My land, indeed. My home, my past, present and future tied so inextricably and woven so tightly to Gram and the amazing lady she was.

Sailing away from the Island of Settle

Sailing away © K. Hall

As captains of our crafts, we have questioned our purpose, and have been curious about our destination. We have wondered-or hoped-that someone or something else was in charge, and that they would provide the direction. All we had to do was sit. And wait.

Ultimately, though, whether or not we were prepared to admit it, we have been at the wheel, and somehow, we ended up on the Island of Settle.

We may have been drifting along, concentrating more on keeping the boat upright than on moving forward, when we scraped against a beach, and decided that it would probably be fine.

We may have been piloting ourselves to the security of a harbor-any harbor-knowing we may not get to live the life of purpose that God intended for us, but at least we would be safe.

We may have spotted a pier, and thrown our rope around a support post, hoping that THIS was the place where we would find that nameless thing for which we had been searching.

The problem as I see it is that too often we are willing to disembark at this little plot of land because it appears easier, more comfortable and convenient than doing the real exploring to discover the true fit for our lives.

When we take this path of least resistance, we can sense that the match isn’t there. Our boat may not fit into the slip. The natives may not appreciate our faith, optimism, and new ideas. The general climate and nourishment may not agree with us.

In spite of those signs, the temptation is to stay. The siren voices seduce us, reminding us that there probably isn’t really anything better out there, and why go to all that trouble and expose ourselves to danger, and that we’ll get used to it, and that hope is overrated, and that we just need to stay put and make the best of it.

Well, I believe it is time for each of us to ignore the lies, provision our boat, throw off the ropes, and navigate back into the open waters with a plan and a prayer, and we will leave the Island of Settle behind, with a fresh breeze at our backs, an attitude of humble expectation, and God leading the way.