Libby's enjoying a late Christmas present...a window seat to the Bird Channel! With seven inches of snow, topped off with ice, the cardinals and finches have rediscovered our feeders. It's great entertainment for a cat-- and for us.
Watching them hurry in, so hungry.
Or just nibble quietly.
I love to see them feed each other. It reminds me what my friends (like you) do for me.
Equip me to keep going. Help me puff up my feathers against the cold, with energy in reserve to enjoy--and see--the wonders around me.
The elegance of the ordinary birds
As well as the flashier ones. We all need nourishment for the journey.
You know, all these redbirds remind me of a book I haven't reread in a while. Do you know it? It's one of my favorites. Perfect to read on a snowy afternoon like this one. Libby, I'll leave you to the window.
Don't worry about the birds, folks. Libby's an inside cat for the time being, and besides, some of those fellas look like they could take her, should she make a surprise appearance. Have a great Tuesday, y'all! Love, Becky
How did you welcome in the new year? We lit a fire and stood around it in the freezing cold, watching the flames flicker, the dog snap at flying sparks, and Sam pile on the logs. Now that he is 12, he was finally allowed to fulfill his life long ambition to swing an axe, so we had a winter's worth of kindling stacked up. (Probably three bonfires worth-- remember, this is South Carolina.)
The family loved it at first. We roasted a couple marshmallows, poked at the fire, enjoyed the smell of the smoke and the quiet of the night. But eventually the grandparents got cold, Ben and Sarah got bored, and Sam got spooked by a ghostly voice from the tree house up the hill, leaving Todd and me all by our lonesome, fireside.
It was kind of nice. We were quiet at first. In some ways, it's been a really tough year. We were glad to throw our worries of 2010 into the flames. The car accident. The health scare that turned out to be nothing, but petrified us for a while. The wandering on my part, wondering what God might hold for me in the future. What to do, where to put my energy.
We talked a little but we didn't need to say much. Each of us knew what the other was thinking, doing. Tossing into the flames all the balled up, pent up worries and struggles of 2010. Sending them into the fire, to turn to ash, then settle at the bottom or let the wind lift them into the night, away from us, into the sky.
It was a good way to start 2011. Letting go of the worries and disappointments and fears of the past, freeing my hands for whatever life gives me in this new year. I'm so thankful for new beginnings. Aren't you? And I'm thankful for dear friends like you, both online and across the street, who share this crazy, wondrous life with me.
I certainly didn't expect anything extraordinary from last week's trip to the dentist. A thorough cleaning, of course. Maybe some gentle hints about flossing more. An explanation of that new little ridge my tongue had discovered on top of one of my molars.
So I was a bit surprised to find my normally attentive hygienist, Jo Carol, staring out the window as I sat down in her chair. "Would you look at that," she whispered. I wasn't sure if she was talking to me, so I said, ""Hey Jo Carol. How are you doing today?" "Come get a look at this," she whispered again.
I put down my purse and joined her at the window. What was she staring at? The view wasn't great, just a tree and some grass and the parking lot of the orthodontist next door.
"See the birds?" she said, pointing at four or five little wrens splashing around in the water on the pavement. "It rained last night, and every time it rains, that little corner there makes a puddle that stays around for a little while. It's funny, no matter what time of year it is, as soon as that puddle appears there's a half dozen birds swooping down to play in it. Look at them splashing around. They must be babies. And look, there's their mama, the big one there."
We stood there a minute and watched the birds flicking their feathers around in the water, wading in it, drinking and splashing, stepping on the fallen leaves with their little twig legs.
"Birds know the secret," she said as I sat down in the chair and she clipped the bib around my neck. "When something good lands on your lap, you gotta put down your busyness. Enjoy it while you can."
I nodded.
"Of course, birds are better at that than we are. There's so much we think we have to do."
Amen, Jo Carol, my hygienist/sage. I needed to hear that. Don't we all, as we get ready to celebrate a day of thanks-- a day with so many To Do lists attached?
And just so you know, Jo Carol isn't just a dispenser of wisdom. That new little ridge on my molar? "It's just a broken filling, Hun. An easy fix. Happens to all of us as we get to a certain age." Great. If you need me, I'll be the old woman out shopping for a cane along with the turkey and cranberries.
Have you ever been to a Buddhist temple? I hadn't, until Saturday, but I'm so glad I went.
In sixth grade social studies class, the kids learn about world religions. Sam is planning a project in which he builds a miniature city complete with a Christian church, a Jewish temple, a mosque, and a Buddhist temple. Tall order, huh?
Sam has practically grown up inside a Christian church, but the other buildings? We're not so familiar with those. How can you build something if you don't really know what it looks like? It was a perfect excuse to do some visiting.
The Place of Peace was first on our list. It's a inter-generational temple once belonging to the Tsuzuki family in Nagoya, Japan. When the Tsuzukis donated it to Furman University, it was taken apart, piece by piece, and reassembled on the campus grounds.
I remember reading that during the temple's dedication, Seiji Tsuzuki spoke about his memories of sweeping the leaves around the temple when he was a boy.
Its craftsmanship is amazing. The temple reminds me what I appreciate and so respect about the religion of Buddhism: the importance given to mindfulness, to paying attention to ones everyday life. That's such an important part of my Christian faith--to look for God's presence around me, to find God in the normal walk of life. To find God in the details and in the big picture.
I love this simple fountain by the entrance. It reminds me of the laver we've taught our Sunday school kids about, and how the Old Testament priests would wash themselves as a purifying ritual before going into the temple to worship. See those shelve on the front porch of the temple? You take off your shoes before entering and place them there. The temple was locked so we couldn't go inside. Maybe another time.
No matter. There was plenty of God to go around just by walking across the campus.
See what I mean?
A perfect acorn, in the shade of a mighty oak. What a symbol of God's transforming power. His easy grace, dropping from the sky.
All living things seemed to pulse with God's presence that afternoon. I wanted to be like the roots of the tree, rising up, bursting out of the ground, to celebrate God's goodness.
Tanner got so excited that he baptized himself in the pond! Careful! He'll spray you with stinky pond water!
As for me, I'll just focus on this burning bush.
Excuse me while I take off my shoes and worship.
Have a wonder-full Monday, y'all! Love to you! Becky
When he was just two months old, his mother, a prostitute, took off all his clothes, laid him in his crib, and walked through her mobile home, opening each window wide enough for the bitter wind to enter. Then she shut the door behind her, leaving her child to freeze to death. If his aunt hadn't heard his screaming, the cold would have surely killed him.
This is only the beginning of Dwayne's story. His grandparents took him in, but verbally and mentally abused him. While he was still just a child, his uncle would take him on overnight fishing trips where he'd make Dwayne drink beer until he passed out. When Dwayne woke up, he'd find himself naked in the back of the truck, under a blanket.
When he was just thirteen, Dwayne met a girl who changed his life. She loved him and he loved her. They married later and had a baby, a home, a van, and each other. They had fifteen good years, but then she got sick. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and died at the age of 35.
The pain was too much to bear, and Dwayne turned to prostitutes for comfort and to drugs. He lost his child, his place, his van. He was homeless and a drug addict, living in shelters and under bridges, wrapping a towel around his head at night so that the bugs didn't crawl in his ears. He went to rehab several times, but it never lasted, and one day he decided to end it all. To walk into oncoming traffic and put a stop to the pain.
The light turned green. He waited a moment and then lunged forward, but felt something grip his shoulder so hard that he turned around, expecting, he said, to see a football player from the nearby campus. It was a tiny old woman. "You don't want to go that way, son," she said, and turned him in a different direction, down Rutherford Street, toward Triune Mercy Center.
That was the beginning of his new life. "Life is good, isn't it?" he said to the hundreds of us, the homeless and the comfortable, squeezed together in the pews of Triune. "I've got so much now. I'm clean and done with drugs. I've got an apartment with central air and heat, I got a fridge and a stove, I've got food to eat, and I've got God in my life now. And I don't have to sleep with a towel around my head no more. I really hate those bugs."
Life is good, indeed. We'd come to Triune to listen to Kyle Matthews sing, to raise money for this church to the homeless, and to show support for its ministry. I hadn't expected to worship, to hear Dwayne's amazing story of transformation, or to reconsider my notion of what church is supposed to be.
God, in the busyness of my days, help me take time to make connections with the people around me. Help us be church to each other, respecting the truth that we are all your children, vulnerable babes in an often painful world.
I hope you have a great day, y'all. Before you go, I'd love to hear what church means to you. And be sure to give a listen to Kyle's song All of Us. The lyrics follow the video. The song tells quite a story. Love, Becky
She's got a toddler and a baby, but she's just a child herself She's desperate but she's too afraid to ask for help As she wanders through our yard sale, we want to offer food But we don't want to embarrass her, we don't want to intrude Thinking, "How can we Be what she needs?"
She needs friends to be like family In the best and worst of times A job, some education, and enough cash to get by Women who will listen Men that she can trust There's still a chance she'll make it But she's gonna need...
All of us, she'll need all of us She'll need all of us
He longs to be the savior of people such as these He wants to wipe out hunger, house the homeless, cure disease He rides in on his white horse, he's noble and unbowed Til his money, optimism, and his patience have run out He thinks, "I should have known I can't do this on my own... {chorus}
She stands with all the others in a sea of caps and gowns Cheers rise from the balcony when her name is called out She says I'd like to give you all the gift that I have found A church to be there for you when others let you down ‘Cause the day is gonna come When you will be the one...
Who needs friends to be like family In the best and worst of times To celebrate your victories Cry with you when you cry A sea of faithful people So that when the trouble comes They surround you like a wave That gently lifts you up...
And that takes All of us, that takes all of us That takes all of us
Be in awe of the Blob. I know I am. I had heard of the wonders of the Blob from my older kids for years, but now that Todd brought back photographic evidence of its existence, I finally appreciate its amazing powers. Wanna see?
The Blob resides at Camp Rockmont, a non-denominational Christian camp for boys in the hills of Black Mountain, North Carolina. Every year, our church youth group spends Labor Day weekend there, and since Sam is now a middle schooler, he got to go this time. Todd went along to serve as a counselor and chaperone, and both came home gushing about the Blob.
There it is, that striped pillow floating in Lake Eden. It looks a little scary in the chilly morning mist, but believe me, it's a teen's best friend. Or even a forty-something's.
Let me explain The Procedure to Successful Blobbing. I'll try not to be too technical. Step one: Person A jumps off the board and onto the Blob, and then crawls to the other end, sits facing forward, and waits. Step two: Person B now takes a jump onto the Blob.
BOING!
Person A goes flying! Sometimes really high! Some kids really were great at sending people into the sky. Super Blobbers know the technique and have the physical heft and power to give just the right bounce. Of course, if you want to go skyward, it's also partly up to you. You can't be clinging to the Blob, holding on to its Blobby safety. You have to get ready to fly.
Of course, being the over-analyzer/ corny person that I am, the metaphor in all of this is raising its hand and jumping up and down in its seat like Arnold Horshak. I have to say that all this jumping and bouncing and sending kids flying makes me think about what friends do for each other. What you sweet people do for me. I read your comments here, or I go visit you at your blog home, or I see you on facebook, talk to you via email or on the phone, and you hop off your board and bounce me in the sky. Just by living your lives the way you do, by keeping on chugging, by being positive and funny, honest and sincere and faithful, you provide such a great example for me and everyone else. You bounce me and I keep chugging too. Thanks for the Blob, people. I love you to pieces!
It also reminds me that we really don't have an idea of the power of our words. What our encouragement can do for each other. I'm so thankful for each of you.
Have a fabulous Friday! I wish you much happy blobbing this weekend! Love, Becky
PS. Before you scatter, enjoy my friend Bootie's bounce and flip.
* The piano refused to budge. It squatted on the floor of Triune Mercy Center's chapel, anchored by its 1200 pounds. This was a problem. In just five days, people would stream into the sanctuary, ready to hear award winning singer/songwriter Kyle Matthews sing, ready to add their love offering as the plates are passed, giving what they can to benefit this church to the homeless, to the alcoholics and the drug addicted, to the mentally ill and the destitute. And to others like the rest of us, who worship here from time to time, who wear our brokenness on the inside, where it's less easy for others to see.
What was Pastor Deb going to do? It's not as if tiny Deb and the office ladies could move it. The piano had to be lifted onto the worship platform, three, maybe four feet high. If only a team of angels would materialize in the night, as all the homeless congregants scatter to the shelters and back under the bridges, and the rest of us tuck ourselves into our comfy beds and close our eyes. I could just imagine it: angels singing a heavenly heave ho, then lifting the piano into the air with just their pinky fingers, setting it gently down, and vanishing into the dark. God of all power could easily send a flock of helpers, but I didn't actually see that happening.
It was a puzzle. Oh, but that's right. Puzzles are God's specialty. He had certainly solved one for me.
I'd spent a great part of the summer puzzling out a question with my fourth grade Sunday School class. What exactly is the Kingdom of God that Jesus was always talking about? Is it on the inside or outside of us? Do we find it on earth or after we die? We'd read parables where Jesus compares it to a mustard seed or to yeast. He said it belonged to the children and the poor, and the rich have an awfully hard time getting in. What in the world was Jesus talking about?
I think I know now. You may not believe it, but yesterday, I saw the Kingdom of God for myself!
The Kingdom of God is just like Triune Mercy Center, where we line up all together, the sick and the well, and kneel at the altar for communion. Where we hold out our cupped hands and wait for bread, where we drink down every drop of juice, and remember Jesus together. Where we pray for forgiveness and thank God for a love that surpasses human understanding. Where both the stomach-hungry and the soul-hungry sing songs of praise to God. Where the broken pass the plate, each gives what she can, and Pastor Deb raises it high above the altar, thanking God, the Source of All Goodness, for each gift.
Oh, and guess what else I saw. I saw a flock of angels! I really did. I watched them rush to the front of the sanctuary after worship was over. Twenty or thirty men, some unshaven, in tattered clothes, clogging the aisles, trying to get to that piano. One man gave the signal, and in three seconds, they had lifted it together high, then moved it through the air onto the platform, setting it down as gently as a cloud.
It was a better show than the pinky finger version in my head!
Thank you God, for letting us occasionally catch sight of your kingdom here on earth. Help us bring the kingdom to each other as we lift each others burdens together.
Have you seen the kingdom lately? I'd love to hear about it! (Or anything else you'd like to say!)
Have a wonder-full Monday, y'all! If you can make it to Greenville on Friday, Sept. 10, be sure not to miss Kyle's concert at 7pm and the art show beforehand. It's going to be great! Love, Becky
The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18
It's my birthday! Care to join me in throwing the day's work to the wind? We could sit out in the sun by the grapevines and eat muscadines 'til we're sick. They're ripe now, filling our backyard with their musky, peppery scent. When my grape farmer gets back in town (he's off again, earning points for another suitcase,) it'll be time for the harvest. Time to wash the feet and start stomping. Got a kerchief for your hair and your best Italian accent? It's I Love Lucyall over again. Or, if you don't feel like wrestling, we could just hang out and watch the fruit flies. They're busy planning their annual convention in my kitchen once the brewing starts.
I can hardly believe it's been six years since the mailman brought us three tubes of sticks from Ty Ty, Georgia. I couldn't figure it out. Why in the world did my husband buy mail order twigs? "They're not twigs," he said, unwrapping them with such care you'd have thought they were artifacts from Mesopotamia. "They're grapes. Remember? I'm going to plant a few vines in the backyard.
A few vines. Right. He's a Ramsey. When it comes to the garden, there are never a few of anything. See what I mean? If you love muscadines and live nearby, come on over! We've got plenty to share.
At first I didn't get his enthusiasm for the grape, but now I do. Muscadine grapes are more than just a grape with a mucous-y texture, a fruit that rolls around in your mouth like a skin covered eyeball. Grapes are all about hope. (And no, I haven't had a little too much of the pressed grape already. Stick with me and I'll get to my point.)
Last Christmas, the kids made him a sign. The Hopeful Dog Vineyard. It's the title Todd prints on the labels for his homemade muscadine wine, named after a hopeful dog we know and love. This goofball. This dog is hopeful, if nothing else. Hopeful that we'll drop a crumb. Hopeful that he can trick three people into feeding him dinner, one after the other. Hopeful that some kid will leave the bread on the counter, so he can sneak it out the dog door, eat up every morsel, and leave the plastic bag to crop up in a photograph. (See it there on the left?)
I'm still not sure that the image a hopeful dog is appetizing enough to belong on the label, but the concept of hope definitely needs to be on there somewhere. Grapes are all about hope.
If hope really means holding to a wish for something, expecting that it will come true, grapes are the poster fruit for hope. Need an explanation? Allow me to let you peek into a conversation my husband and I had the hot, sweaty day he constructed the trellis and planted the grapes. Being my helpful self, I stayed in the air conditioning. When he was done I brought him some tea.
"Not to tell you what to do," I said, "But wouldn't it have been easier to put them where it's flat instead of going up the hill?" Todd breathed deeply, as if restraining himself from clobbering me, and wiped the sweat off his face. "You might think that," he said, "But that's what's so great about grapes. They thrive on adversity, on the water rolling down the hill in a hard storm, on the wind whipping through. Think of the vineyards back in France. Can you think of a single one that's on flat land?" "There was that one in Perignat." "Exception to the rule!" he countered. "If that farmer had had a hill, he would have planted it there. Didn't you look at the millions of vineyards we drove past? Don't you remember how the grapes were planted in the worst places possible--steep hills, the worst soil, under piles of rocks? Grapes are amazing! If they have to struggle, they bear more fruit. They just keep on doing what they do, through everything. But make them comfortable and all you get is leaves!"
Okay. So now I'm ready for Barbara Walters. If she ever asks me the question: If you were a fruit, which one would you be? I know what I'd answer. Have a grape! And a wonder-full day. Love, Becky
Look who wrote me a squiggle outside my bedroom window! Miss Writing Spider turned my thoughts to a most loved book from my girlhood. You remember Charlotte, don't you? The valiant spider who chose her words carefully and wove them into a web to save a friend's life? The spider who pondered for just the right message...
Lamb: How about "Pig Supreme"? Charlotte: No good. It sounds like a rich dessert. Goose: How about terrific, terrific, terrific? Charlotte: Cut that down to one terrific and it will do nicely. I think terrific might impress Zuckerman. Wilbur: But Charlotte, I'm not terrific. Charlotte:You're terrific as far as I am concerned.
How I love Charlotte. She and her South Carolina sister make me think of the coming fall. Of a break from the stifling heat and humidity. Of pumpkin patches and cider and spider webs on door frames. Of dew drop beads hanging between two trees in the early morning sunshine.
Charlotte also reminds me of the scripture I read yesterday, a section from Deuteronomy.
Attention, Israel! God, our God! God the one and only! Love God, your God, with your whole heart: love him with all that's in you, love him with all you've got! Write these commandments that I've given you today on your hearts. Get them inside of you and then get them inside your children. Talk about them wherever you are, sitting at home or walking in the street; talk about them from the time you get up in the morning to when you fall into bed at night. Tie them on your hands and foreheads as a reminder; inscribe them on the doorposts of your homes and on your city gates. Deuteronomy 6: 4-9, The Message
Yes God, I want to do what you ask. I want to be like Charlotte, writing the most important commandment of all, right on my heart: God, our God! I love you with all that's in me, I love you with all I've got! I want to drink those words deep inside of me, feed them to my children. Write them on my forehead, stamp them between my eyes. Inscribe them on my doorposts and gates. I want to weave the words into a spider web, stretch out my arms, and walk right into it, then spin in it, wrapping the sticky words around me, wrapping me into a silken cocoon of God words. Of love words.
God knows the power of words. Maybe that's part of why he birthed Himself to us in human form, to speak His words straight from a mouth like ours. People heard Jesus' words and wrote them down, and now we can say them to each other, teach them to our children. Celebrate them and the love breathed into them for the rest of our lives. For the rest of our lives? That reminds me of Charlotte's Web too. See what I mean...
Wilbur: Are you writers? Charlotte's daughters: No, but we will be when we grow up. Wilbur:Then write this in your webs, when you learn: This hallowed doorway was once the home of Charlotte. She was brilliant, beautiful, and loyal to the end. Her memory will be treasured forever. Charlotte's daughters: Ooh, that would take us a lifetime. Wilbur: A lifetime. That's what we have.
Thank you God, for a lifetime to wrap ourselves in your words of love. To retell the stories of your undying love for us, even as we made a mess of things. Even as we still do. When we forget your love for us, when we get consumed by our own culture, when we get low and lose sight of you, help remind us of your presence, of the love letters you have for us. However much life we have left, Lord, help us live it wrapped up in your love.
Okay, here's a goofy challenge. If you had a word or two to write in your web today, what would it be? I think mine would be...Persistence! Or Heart! Or maybe Coffee! Or just ignore the challenge and say hello!
Flickr photo by petitshoo, creative commons The granddaddy's knee was hurting him, so he stayed in the easy chair. "Don't worry, Papa," Sam said, getting up from the couch. "I know what to do." Todd and I followed him into the garage and watched as he took the Folgers jar from Papa's workbench and lifted the lid of an old trashcan. "This is where Papa keeps the fish food," Sam said, dipping the jar for a big scoop. "You gotta put the lid back on tight or bugs can get in."
Sam led us out to the small pond behind Honey and Papa's house, the one Todd and I christened The Drowning Pit back before Sam could swim. "Keep your eyes on the water," Sam said. "They know when we're coming."
Sure enough. As we padded across the grass to the edge of the water, at least a hundred brim lined up side by side, kissing rings on the water's surface, waiting. "You take handfuls and throw it out a little, not too close to the edge, so there's lots of room and everybody gets some." Sam threw an arc of fish food out. In a split second, fish lips appeared at each granule, sucking it down. Our edge of the pond became a whirling mass of fish, ready to respond to the movement of our arms as we cast the food across the water, orchestrating a fish dance.
It's a Ramsey ritual, the feeding of the five hundred. Fish, that is. Papa does it every day, cares for his pets in the giant fishbowl of his backyard. They respond to his footsteps, to his voice, just as Sam does as he takes the ritual for himself.
Unfortunately I had my own Saturday-at-the-in-laws'-ritual to perform. As we happily flung fish food, I managed to sink a bare foot into the only hill of fire ants in the entire yard. The fire ants responded as they always do, quietly climbing onto The Giant Foot Invader, waiting for Chief Fire Ant to give the signal, and then all chomping down on my flesh in one painful sting. But the ritual wasn't over yet. Then came The Hopping Around, The Slapping and The Yelling, and finally The Retreating To The House To Take A Benadryl. I don't really like this ritual of mine.
But I do like other Ramsey rituals. They usually involve amazing food. Remember this photo? I shared it in a post about the wonder of sweet tea, but it's a great illustration of the most beautiful Ramsey ritual of all: Ramsey dinner. I fell in love with this ritual early in my Ramseyhood.
Ramseys love good home cooking, and they endure a lot to prepare it. When they gather in mass, they'll pull all nighters, drinking coffee and cooking pig. They borrow tables from the church, load them with beautiful food, and then they eat and eat. And laugh and tell stories. After the meal is over, they'll squeeze in together on the huge sectional couch and talk and take naps sitting up. They look at old photo albums, and they'll tell more stories until they get hungry again. It's a nice way to spend time together.
But this Saturday I saw something new during the meal preparations. As Honey (Grandma) sat at the kitchen table, making the chicken salad for our dinner, my Sarah pulled up a chair beside her for a chicken salad lesson. I watched Honey teach Sarah how to cut the chicken meat fine with scissors, to dice the celery into teeny little cubes, to add dried cranberries and cashews and the tiniest bit of mustard.
It warmed my heart. Sarah was no longer just going along with the ritual. She was taking it as her own, just like Sam with the fish food.
Aren't family rituals wonderful? They give us a way to express love to each other. They show the world what we value, and they give us opportunities to participate in each other's lives, to build connections. Our rituals say who we are.
It's funny to me that as much as I LOVE family rituals, I've spent so much of my faith life suspicious of rituals in the church. When we do something over and over, like communion or scripted prayers, won't we forget the meaning behind it? We don't want to turn into the Pharisees, so attached to rules and practices that we forget the loving God behind them all. But gradually I changed my mind.
I now treasure the rituals we do at church, the Lord's Supper, the choruses of "Thanks be to God," the Lord's Prayer, the Baptisms, the acolytes' lighting of the candle and carrying in of the Bible. I love the way that they give us structure to be with God, to express our love for Him, to get lost in His presence, to build connections. These things that we do say who we are.
How do you feel about rituals? Do you have favorite ones at church? I'd love to hear about your most loved family rituals! Please share!
So reach out and welcome one another to God's glory. Romans 15:7, The Message
Excuse the sandy shoes and piles of dirty laundry, y'all. We're just back from a few days at the beach, and we've got the wet bathing suits and tummies full of fried shrimp to prove it. (I shall be eating lettuce and carrots for the next three weeks lest my vital organs band together and picket in protest!)
It was a wonderful trip, but it was different. It wasn't because of the oil spill. We go to the Carolina beaches, which are still clean, thank goodness. Still, every time we looked out at the horizon, we thought about areas that aren't so lucky. No, the difference was of a more personal nature.
For the last eleven years, it's been just the five of us. Me, Todd, Sarah, Ben, and Sam. Mother, father, sister, brothers.
This year we turned a new page, a page that sort of blows my mind. A page that makes me feel old and crinkly, like a dried apple doll left to rot in the sun. You know what we did? We added a boyfriend and girlfriend to our circle! Yes, to the delight of my almost 20 year old girl and almost 18 year old boy, we invited what my mother-in-law used to call their "special friends." I knew this boy and girl and enjoyed them already, so I was happy about this.
But. A small voice inside me wondered how this might change things. What if they weren't willing to stand on the porch for hours at a time, playing our hook the ring game? Or what if they thought it was weird that we park our lawn chairs under the pier with the other pale people and eat at Miss Ella's three nights in a row? What if they didn't want to see a nature movie at the IMAX theater or eat snow cones until their teeth turn blue?
No, it wasn't our usual trip. It was even better.
Because they were with us, we behaved ourselves! And we made even more of an effort to have fun. We even tried some new things and made up new traditions, though I'm not sure our trip through Ripley's Believe it or Not needs to be repeated. One tour of the shrunken body parts, the belly button lint collection, and the suit of armor for a cat may be enough to last a lifetime.
Anyway, because they were with us, we laughed harder, talked more, and listened longer than ever before.
I'm so glad that we widened our circle. It's made me think about widening the circles in other areas of my life.
Widening my circle means that I have to let go a little, and change can be scary. We wonder what changes newcomers might bring to our comfy way of life, to our traditions and habits. We worry that their presence might make things awkward, that they won't fit in, or maybe even that we won't fit in anymore, at least not in the same way.
But when we let go of fear and drop the concept of insiders and outsiders, we open ourselves for all sorts of possibilities. We get to know more unique children of God. We open ourselves to more joy. And occasionally we get to see a suit of armor for a cat.
(Be glad I didn't choose the photo of the belly button lint collection.)
Maybe God calls us to welcome each other because He knows it can make us happy. After all, God is the Great Welcomer. I want to welcome others to my circle like God does. The way He does in Psalm 5:
But you'll welcome us with open arms when we run for cover to you.Let the party last all night! Stand guard over our celebration.You are famous, God, for welcoming God-seekers, for decking us out in delight. Psalm 5: 11-12, The Message
Have a great Monday, y'all! I hope it's decked out in delight!
Before you go, I'd love to hear about the circles you run in. Do they widen easily, or does it take a crowbar? What about faith communities in general? How well does yours do at making room for others?
Isn't that a lovely hairdo? Not really, but I'm going with it because it's partly my fault. At least I allowed it. Actually I enabled it. And not just for my bald-ish boy, but for five other young men who once sported beautiful, free flowing tresses. These boys clearly enjoy their hair. (Sorry about the photo fuzziness. It's May in South Carolina and I'm already fighting the humidity condensing on my lens. Or maybe I'm just a rotten photographer.)
So why in heaven's name would they come to my house and have their handsomeness defiled? Defiled by a man whose main barbering experience comes from shearing a golden retriever? A man who once shaved a reverse Mohawk down the center of his baby's head when the baby knocked the comb off the clippers, turning it into a razor, making him appear prepped for brain surgery when he had to go to preschool the very next day?
I'll tell you why. Not only are these boys good at growing lovely hair, but they run fast. Fast enough to make it to the South Carolina championship for Track and Field tomorrow. The team decided that getting Mohawk haircuts would be a great bonding experience. And think how intimidating they'd look! I sure hope they run well, because a slow guy with a Mohawk just looks silly.
So anyway, they came, they sat, they got shaved. Todd started with our Ben, just in case he didn't really have any idea how to cut a Mohawk, which he didn't. At least if he mauled the first one, he wouldn't ruin somebody else's baby's beautiful head. And it turned out great! (See first photo.) A great time was had by all. Even sweet Mark, who was almost left with a mullet. Let me tell you, it was tempting.
Much hair was cut.
See what I mean? Ooh. They'd sort of scare me if I didn't know what sweethearts they are. Good luck, Warriors! (In case you're wondering, they run the 4 X 4. )
So, any crazy shenanigans going on at your house this week/weekend? Do tell! Have a wonder-full weekend, y'all! Love, Becky
PS. If you have younger kids and sort of fear the teenage years to come, let this weird post be a strange comfort to you. It will be tricky, with moments you want to wring their necks and kick them out the door, but it can also be the BEST TIME EVER. :)
